Tuck

CHAPTER 7

Coed Cadw

With the approach of dawn, the forest awakened around the hidden soldiers-first with birdsong, and then with the furtive twitching and scratching of squirrels and mice and other small creatures. A light mist rose in the low places of the valley, pale and silvery in the early-morning light; it vanished as the sun warmed the ground, leaving a spray of glistening dew on the deep green grass. A family of wild pigs-a sow and six yearling piglets under the watchful eye of a hulking great boar-appeared at the margin of the trees to snuffle along the streambed and dig among the roots. The world began another day while the hidden soldiers dozed with their weapons in their hands. Slowly, the sun climbed higher in a cloud-ruffled sky.

And they waited.

Some little while before midday, there came a sound of movement further back in the forest-the rustling of leaves where there was no breeze, the slight creak of low branches, a sudden flight of sitting birds-and the soldiers who were awake clutched their weapons and nudged those still sleeping beside them. The ghosts of the greenwood were coming. King Raven would soon appear.

But the sounds died away. Nothing happened.

The sun continued its climb until it soared directly overhead. The soldiers, awake now and ready, strained their ears in the drowsy quiet of the wood as, above the whir and buzz of insects, the first faint chimes of a church bell sounded across the valley-far off, but distinct: three peals.

Then silence.

They listened, and they heard the signal repeated. After another lengthy pause, the sequence of three peals sounded for the third and last time.

After the second sequence had sounded, Marshal Gysburne, pressing himself to the ground, craned his neck from his hiding place behind an ash tree and looked down the long slope and into the bowl of the valley, where he saw a faint glimmering: Abbot Hugo and his white-robed monks making their way toward the forest. They came on, slow as snails it seemed to an increasingly impatient Gysburne, who like the other knights was sweating and stiff inside his armour. He inched back behind the tree and listened to the greenwood, hoping to catch any telltale sign of the outlaws' presence.

When at last the abbot's party came within arrow-flight of the edge of the wood, a call like that of a raven sounded from the upper branches of a massive elm tree. The party of white-robed monks surrounding the abbot heard it, too, and as if acting upon a previously agreed signal, stopped at once.

The raucous croak sounded twice more-not quite a bird's cry, Gysburne thought, but certainly not human, either. He scanned the upper branches for the source of the sound, and when he looked back, there, poised at the edge of the tree line, stood the slender young man known as Bran ap Brychan.

"Ah!" gasped Gysburne in surprise.

"Where the devil did he come from?" muttered Sergeant Jeremias from his place on the other side of the ash tree.

Dressed all in black, his dark hair lifting in the breeze, for an instant it seemed to the soldiers that he might indeed have been a raven dropped out of the sky to assume the form of a man. He stood motionless, clutching a longbow in his left hand; at his belt hung a bag of dark arrows.

"Had I one of those bows," Jeremias whispered, "I'd take him now, and save us all a load of bother."

"Shh!" hissed Gysburne in a tense whisper. "He'll hear you."

When the outlaw made no move to approach the group of monks, the abbot called out, "M'entendre! Nous avons fait comme vous avez ordonne. Quel est pour arriver maintenant?"

Marshal Gysburne heard this with a sinking heart. You old fool! he thought, the outlaws don't speak French. He'll have no idea what you're saying.

But to the marshal's surprise, the young man answered, "Attente!Un moment!"

He turned and gestured toward the wood behind him, and there was a rustling of leaves in the brush like a bear waking up; and out from the greenwood stepped the slump-shouldered Norman scribe-the one called Odo.

The two advanced a few more paces into the open, and then halted. At a nod from Bran, the scribe called out, "Have you come to swear peace?"

"I have come as requested," replied Abbot Hugo, "to hear what this man has proposed." Regarding the young scribe, he said, "Greetings, Odo. I suppose I should not be surprised to see you here-traitors and thieves flock together, eh?"

Odo cringed at his former master's abuse, but turned and explained to Bran what the abbot had said, received his lord's answer, and replied, "The proposal is simple. Lord Bran says that you will agree to the terms put to you, or he will pursue the war he has begun."

"Even if I were to agree," replied the abbot, "we must still discuss how the rule of Elfael is to be divided, and how we are to conduct the peace. Come, let us sit down together and talk as men."

Odo and Bran exchanged a quick word, then Odo replied, "First, my lord would have you swear a truce. You must promise to cease all aggression against himself and his people. Then he will parlera with you."

The abbot and his monks held a quick consultation, and the abbot replied, "Come closer, if you please. My throat grows raw shouting like this."

"I am close enough," Bran replied. "Swear to the truce."

Abbot Hugo took a step forward, spreading his arms wide. "Come," he said, "let us be reasonable. Let us sit down together like reasonable men and discuss how best to fulfil your demands."

"First you must swear to the truce," answered Bran through Odo. "There will be no peace unless you pledge a sacred vow to uphold the truce."

Frowning, the abbot drew himself up and said, "In the name of Our Lord, I swear to uphold the truce, ceasing all aggression against the people of Elfael from this day hence."

"Then it is done," said Bran through Odo. "You may come forward-alone. Your monks are to stay where they are."

"A moment, pray," called the abbot. "There is more… I wish to-"

Bran halted. One of the monks behind Hugo dropped his hand to his side, and Bran caught the movement and glimpsed a solid shape beneath the folds of the monk's robe. Grabbing Odo by the arm, Bran whispered something, and the two began backing away.

"He's onto them!" whispered Sergeant Jeremias from his hiding place among the roots.

"I see that!" spat Gysburne. "What do you expect me to do?"

"Stop him!" urged the sergeant. "Stop him now before he reaches the wood."

"Wait!" cried Abbot Hugo from the clearing. "We need safe conduct back to the village. Send some of your men to guard us."

When Odo had relayed these words to Bran, the young man called over his shoulder and said, "You came here under guard-you can leave the same way. There is no truce."

The two outlaws started for the wood again, and again Hugo called out, but Bran took no further notice of him.

"Blast his cursed bones!" muttered Gysburne.

"Stop him!" urged Jeremias with a nudge in the marshal's ribs.

With a growl between his teeth, Guy rose from his hiding place and, stepping out from behind the ash tree, called out, "Halt! We would speak to you!"

At the sudden appearance of the marshal, Bran shoved Odo toward the nearest tree. Dropping to one knee, he raised his bow, the arrow already on the string. Gysburne had time but to throw himself to the ground as the missile streaked toward him. In the same moment, the nine knights hidden since midnight in anticipation of this moment rose with a shout, charging up out of the undergrowth. Odo gave out a yelp of fright and stumbled backwards to where Bran was drawing aim on the wriggling figure of Gysburne as he snaked through the grass toward the safety of the bracken.

Swinging away from the marshal, Bran drew and let fly at the soldiers just then bolting from the wood to his left. His single arrow was miraculously multiplied as five more joined his single shaft in flight. Hidden since dawn in the upper branches of the great oaks and elms, the Grellon took aim and released a rain of whistling death on the knights scrambling below. Shields before them, the Ffreinc soldiers tried to keep themselves protected from the falling shafts. One knight stumbled, momentarily dropping his guard. An arrow flashed and the knight slewed wildly sideways, as if swatted down by a giant, unseen hand. A second arrow found its mark before the wounded man stopped rolling on the ground.

Three more knights were down just that quick, and the five remaining soldiers moved surprisingly fast in their mail and padded leather tunics. Ten running paces carried them across the open ground between the wood and the lone kneeling archer. Swords drawn, they roared their vengeance and fell upon him.

In the instant the soldiers raised their arms to strike, there came a sound like that of a hard slap of a gauntleted fist smashing into a leather saddle. Arrows streaked down from the upper branches of the surrounding trees, and the cracking thump was repeated so quickly the individual sounds merged to become one. The foremost knight seemed to rise and dangle on his tiptoes, as if jerked upright by a rope, only to crumple when his feet touched earth again. He collapsed in the grass, three arrows in his back.

A second knight threw his arms wide, his sword spinning from his grasp as he crashed to his knees and flopped face-first to the ground. A third knight paused in midstroke and glanced down at his chest, where he saw a rose-coloured stain spreading across his pale tunic; in the centre of the crimson stain, the steel tip of an arrowhead protruded. With a cry of pain and disbelief, he threw down his sword, grabbed at the lethal missile, and tried to pull it free even as he toppled.

The fourth knight took an arrow on his shield and was thrown onto his back as two more arrows ripped the autumn air, one of them striking the soldier a step or two ahead of him. The knight faltered, his legs tangling in midstep as the missile jolted into him, twisting his shoulders awkwardly. His shield banged against his knees, and he plunged onto his side at Bran's feet.

The sole remaining knight, still on the ground, covered his helmeted head with his shield and lay unmoving as the dead around him. Nocking another arrow to the string, Bran surveyed the battleground with a rapid sweep to the right and left. Several of the monks with Abbot Hugo had thrown off their robes to reveal mail shirts and swords, and others-five mounted soldiers including Sheriff Richard de Glanville-charged out from the nearest trees.

Stooping swiftly, Bran picked up Odo, dragging the frightened monk to his feet and driving him headlong into the safety of the greenwood. There came the sound of leaves rustling and branches thrashing in the forest nearby, and they were gone.

The mounted knights galloped to the edge of the wood and halted, listening.

All that could be heard were the groans of the wounded and dying. The marshal and Sergeant Jeremias ventured slowly out from behind their shields. "See to those men, Sergeant," ordered Gysburne. To the knight who lay unharmed among the bodies, he called, "Get up and find the horses."

"Are we going after the outlaws, Sire?" inquired the knight.

"Why, by the bloody rood?" cried the marshal. "To let them continue to practice their cursed archery on us? Think, man! They're hiding in the trees!"

"But I thought the abbot said-" began the knight.

"Obey your orders, de Tourneau!" snapped the marshal irritably. "Forget what the abbot said. Just do as you're told-and take Racienne with you."

The two knights clumped off together, and Gysburne turned to see Sheriff de Glanville and his bailiff turning back from the edge of the wood. "Have no fear," called the marshal. "The outlaws have gone. You are safe now."

The sheriff stiffened at the insinuation. "It was not for fear that we held back."

"No," granted the marshal, "of course not. Why would I think that? You merely mislaid your sword, perhaps, or I am certain you would have been in the fore rank, leading the charge."

"Enough, Gysburne," snarled the sheriff. "The last time I looked, you were crawling on your hands and knees like a baby."

The abbot shouted from the clearing, cutting short what promised to be a lively discussion. "De Glanville! Gysburne! Did you get him? Is he dead?"

"No," answered the marshal, "he got away." He promptly amended this, adding, "They got away. It was a trap; they were waiting for us."

Abbot Hugo turned his gaze to the bodies lying in the long grass. His face darkened. "Are you telling me you've lost four men and the outlaws have escaped again?" He swung around to face the marshal. "How did this happen?" he shouted.

"You ask the wrong man, Abbot," replied Gysburne coolly. "We did our part. It was the sheriff who failed to attack."

"You were supposed to draw them from hiding, Abbot, remember?" said the sheriff darkly. "Since you failed in the first order, no good purpose would be served by pursuing the second." He pointed to the bodies on the ground. "You can see what that accomplished.

If I had attacked, it would have been at the cost of more men, and more lives wasted."

"If you had attacked as planned," the marshal said, his voice rising, "we could have taken him and we'd not be standing here now heaping blame on each other."

"There is plenty of blame to go around, it seems to me," retorted de Glanville angrily. "But I'll not own more than my share. The plan was flawed from the beginning. We should have anticipated that they would not be drawn out so easily. And now they know we have no intention of accepting their ridiculous peace offer. We've gained nothing." Turning away from the other two, he shouted for his men to load the bodies of the dead onto the backs of their horses and return to Saint Martin's. He climbed into the saddle, then called, "Gysburne! I turn my duties over to you while I am away. Bailiff will assist you."

De Glanville wheeled his horse.

"Where are you going?" demanded the marshal.

"To Londein," came the answer. "I am the king's man, and I require soldiers and supplies to deal with these outlaws."

"We should discuss this," Gysburne objected.

"There is nothing to discuss. We need more soldiers, and I'm going to get them. I should return within the fortnight."

Marshal Guy looked to the abbot. "Let him go," said Hugo. "He is right."

"I would not linger here any longer if I were you," called the sheriff. "We are finished, and it is not safe." He snapped the reins, and the big horse bounded off.

"Do not underestimate me, Sheriff," muttered Abbot Hugo, watching him go. "I am far from finished… very far from finished."

Marshal Guy de Gysburne walked over to where a knight had been slain; there was blood in the grass. He picked up the dead man's sword and stuck it in his belt. "You can stay if you like, Abbot, but they are probably watching from the forest."

Casting a hasty glance over his shoulder, the abbot hurried to rejoin his bodyguard and scuttled back to the abbey in undignified retreat.