“Listen to you,” replied the queen gently. “Why ever not? Garran is married now. Sybil is his queen. The baroness is spending the winter here helping Sybil settle in and begin her reign.”
Mérian’s horrified gaze swung from the baroness to the slender young queen standing mute and concerned beside her. Garran moved to take Sybil’s hand, and she leaned toward him. “It is true, Mérian,” said Garran. “We were married four months ago. I’m sorry if we failed to seek your approval,” he added, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“My lord,” said Anora, her tone sharp. “That was not worthy of you.”
“Forgive me, Mother,” Garran said, inclining his head. “I think the excitement of this meeting has put us all a little out of humour. Come, Mérian, you are distraught. Be at peace, you are among friends now.”
“Friends, is it?” scoffed Mérian. “Some friends. The last time we met they tried to kill me!”
CHAPTER 16
On your mettle, my lords,” said Alan a’Dale, glancing over Bran’s shoulder across the yard, where the earl of Cestre had just appeared at the stable door.
“Everyone ready?” asked Bran. Ifor and Brocmael nodded, their brows lowered with the weight of responsibility that had been laid upon them. “When we get into the forest,” Bran continued, “find your place and mark it well. If we should become separated, go back to the head of the run and wait for us there. Whatever happens, don’t linger in the run waiting for one of Hugh’s men to see you.”
“We know what to do,” said Ifor, speaking up for the first time since entering the Ffreinc stronghold.
“Count on us,” added Brocmael, finding his voice at last. “We won’t fail.”
“Just you and Alan keep the earl busy, my lord,” the friar said. “Let Tuck and his young friends here worry about the rest. If any of the earl’s men come looking for us, I’ll make sure they don’t twig to the lads’ doings here, never fear.”
Bran nodded and drew a deep breath. He arranged his features into the curiously empty-eyed, slightly bored guise of Count Rexindo, then turned to greet the earl with his customary short bow and, “Pax vobiscum.”
Earl Hugh, waddling like a barnyard sow, came puffing up already red faced and sweating with the exertion of walking across the courtyard. Accompanying him were two of his men: rough fellows in once-fine tunics spattered with wine stains and grease spots, each with a large dagger thrust into his leather belt—nasty brutes by both look and smell. Behind these two trailed three more stout Ffreinc in leather jerkins and short trows with high leather leggings; they wore soft leather caps on their heads and leather gauntlets on their hands with which they grasped the leashes of three hunting hounds. The dogs were grey, long-legged beasts with narrow heads and chests and powerful haunches; each looked fully capable of bringing down a stag or boar all on its own strength.
“Pax! Pax!” said Hugh as Bran stepped to meet him. “Good day for a chase, eh?”
“Indeed,” replied Bran, speaking directly through Alan now. “I am keen to see if the trails of England can match those of Spain.”
“Ho!” cried the earl in joyous derision. “My hunting runs are second to none—better even than Angevin, which are renowned the world over.”
Count Rexindo sniffed, unimpressed when the earl’s boast was relayed to him. He turned his attention to the dogs, walking to the animals and wading in amongst them, his hands outstretched to let them get his scent. It did not hurt that he had rubbed his palms and fingers with the meat he had filched from the supper platter the previous night. The hounds nuzzled his hands with ravenous enthusiasm, licking his fingers and jostling one another to get a taste. Bran smiled and stroked their sleek heads and silken muzzles, letting the animals mark and befriend him.
“Very unusual, these dogs,” he said through Alan. “What breed are they?”
“Ah, yes,” said Hugh, rubbing his plump palms together. “These are my boys—a breed of my own devising,” he declared proudly. “There are none like them in all England. Not even King William has hounds as fine as these.”
This required a small conference, whereupon the count replied through his translator. “No doubt your king must spare a thought for more important matters,” allowed Count Rexindo with a lazy smile. “But never fear, my lord earl. If your dogs are even half as good as you say, I will not hold your boast against you.”
The earl flinched at the slight. “You will not be disappointed, Count,” replied Hugh. He called for the horses to be brought out—large, well-muscled beasts, heavy through the chest and haunches. Hugh’s own mount was a veritable mountain of horseflesh, with a powerful neck and thick, solid legs. With the help of a specially made mounting stool and the ready arms of his two noblemen, Fat Hugh hefted himself into the saddle. But when the earl saw Bishop Balthus likewise struggling to mount, he called out in Ffreinc, “You there! Priest.” Tuck paused and regarded him with benign curiosity. “This hunt is not for you. You stay here.”
Although Tuck understood well enough what was said, he appealed to Alan, giving himself time to think and alerting Bran to the problem. Once it was explained to him, Bran reacted quickly. “My lord Balthus rides today, or I do not,” he informed the earl through Alan; he tossed aside the reins and made as if preparing to dismount.
Alan softened this blunt declaration by adding, “Pray allow me to explain, my lord.”
The earl, frowning mightily now, gave his permission with an irritated flick of his hand.
“You see,” Alan continued, “it seems Count Rexindo’s father required Bishop Balthus to make a sacred vow never to allow the count out of his sight during his sojourn in England.”
“Eh?” wondered the earl at this odd revelation.
“Truly, my lord,” confessed Alan. He leaned forward in the saddle and confided, “I think my lord the duke believes his son a little too . . . ah, spirited for his own good. He is the duke’s only heir, you understand. It is the bishop’s head if anything ill should befall the count.”
Earl Hugh’s glower lightened somewhat as he considered the implications of what he had just been told. “Let him come, then,” said the earl, changing his mind. “So long as he can keep his saddle—the same as goes for anyone who rides with me.”
Alan explained this to Count Rexindo, who picked up the reins once more. “Gracias, señor,” he said.
The dog handlers departed from the castle first, and after a few rounds of the saddle cup, the riders followed. Hugh and Count Rexindo led the way, followed by the earl’s two knights; the two young Spanish lords, Ramiero and Galindo, followed them, and Bishop Balthus fell into line behind the others, thinking that if he was last from the start no one would mark him dawdling along behind. “Wish us God’s speed, Alan,” he said as he kicked his mount to life.
“Godspeed you, my lord,” replied Alan, raising his hand in farewell, “and send you his own good luck.”
Out through the castle’s rear gate they rode. A fair number of the earl’s vassals were at work in his fields, and from his vantage point at the rear of the procession, Tuck could not help noticing the looks they got from the folk they passed: some glared and others spat; one or two thumbed the nose or made other rude gestures behind the backs of the earl and his men. It was sobering to see the naked hostility flickering in those pinched faces, and Tuck, mindful of his bishop’s robes, smiled and raised his hand, blessing those few who seemed to expect it.
Once beyond the castle fields, the hunting party entered a rough countryside of small holdings and grazing lands, hedged about by dense woodland through which wide trails had been clear cut—Earl Hugh’s vaunted hunting runs. Wide enough to let a horse run at full gallop without getting slapped by branches either side, they pursued a lazy curving pattern into the close-grown wood; a few hundred paces inside the entrance the dense foliage closed in, cutting off all sight and sound of the wider world. This, Tuck considered, would serve their purpose right fair—if Ifor and Brocmael could keep their wits about th
em in the tangle of bramble thickets and scrub wood brush that cloaked the edges of the run.
The party rode deeper into the wood, and Tuck listened to the soft plod of the horses’ hooves on the damp turf and breathed the warm air deep. As the sun rose and the greenwood warmed, he began to sweat in his heavy robes. He allowed himself to drop a little farther behind the others, and noticed that the two young Welshmen had likewise fallen behind the leaders.
The search has begun, thought Tuck.
Soon the others were some distance ahead. Tuck picked up a little speed and drew up even with the Welshmen. “Be about your business, lads,” he said as he passed by them. “I’ll go ahead and keep watch and give a shout if Hugh or his men come back this way.”
Ifor and Brocmael stopped then, and Tuck rode on, still taking his time, keeping his eye on Bran and Earl Hugh and the others now fading into the dappled shadow of the trail far ahead. When he had put enough distance between himself and the two behind him, the friar reined his mount to a stop and waited, listening. He heard only the light flutter of the breeze lifting the leaves of the upper branches and the tiny tick and click of beetles in the long grass.
He had almost decided that Hugh and the others had forgotten about them when he heard the sound of returning hoofbeats. In a moment, he saw two horses emerge from the shadowed pathway ahead. The earl had sent his knights back to see what had happened to the stragglers.
Glancing quickly behind him, Tuck searched for a sign of his two young comrades, but saw nothing. “Hurry, lads,” he muttered between his teeth. “The wolf ’s pups are nosing about.”
Then, as the two Ffreinc knights neared, Tuck squirmed ungracefully from the saddle and, stooping to the right foreleg of his mount, lifted the animal’s leg and began examining the hoof. There was nothing wrong with it, of course, but he made as if the beast might have picked up a stone or a thorn. As the two hailed him in French, he let them see him digging at the underside of the hoof with his fingers. One of the knights directed a question at him as much as to say, “What goes here?”
“Mon cheval est . . .” Tuck began. He pretended not to know the word for lame, or limping either, so just shrugged and indicated the hoof. The two exchanged a word, and then the second knight dismounted and crossed to where he stood. He bent and raised the hoof to examine it. Tuck stole a quick glance behind; the two tardy Welshmen were nowhere in sight. Sending up a prayer for them to hurry, he cleared his throat and laid his finger to the hoof in the huntsman’s hand, pointing to a place where he had been digging with his finger. “Une pierre,” he said. That the animal had picked up a pebble was perhaps the most likely explanation, and the knight seemed happy with that.
“Boiteux?” he asked.
Tuck shrugged and smiled his incomprehension. The knight released the hoof and took hold of the bridle, and walked the animal in a circle around him, studying the leg all the while. Finally, satisfied that whatever had been wrong was no longer troubling the beast, he handed the reins back to Tuck, saying, “Pendre seile.”
Tuck took his time gathering his bishop’s skirts and, with the help of the knight to boost him, fought his way back onto the high horse. Taking up the reins once more, he heard the sound of hoof-beats thudding on the trail behind. He turned in the saddle to see Ifor and Brocmael trotting towards them. Tuck hailed them and, satisfied now that the stragglers were all together once more, the Ffreinc knights led them up the game run to rejoin the others.
They soon came to a small clearing where Count Rexindo and Earl Hugh were waiting. At that moment, the hounds gave voice. “La chasse commence!” cried the earl and, lashing his horse, galloped away, followed by his knights.
Bran wheeled his mount but lingered a moment to ask, “Success?”
“Just as we planned, my lord,” replied Ifor.
Brocmael made a furtive gesture, indicating the empty lance holder attached to his saddle, and said, “Never fear; we were not seen.”
“Well done,” said Bran. “Now we hunt, and pray we sight the game before our beefy host. Nothing would please me more than to steal the prize from under Hugh’s long Ffreinc nose.”
CHAPTER 17
Three days of hunting from earliest daylight to evening dusk, and each day Bran, having taken a great interest in the earl’s hounds, greeted the dogs with morsels of food he had saved from the previous night’s supper board—gobbets of meat he kept in a little bag. Tuck watched the process with fascination and admiring approval as Earl Hugh swallowed the bait in a manner not at all unlike his hounds: and all because Count Rexindo let it be known that he wanted to buy three or four of the animals to take back to Spain as a gift for his father, the duke. The ever-greedy earl welcomed the sale, of course, fixing the price at a princely thirty marks—a price that made Tuck’s eyes water. He could never have brought himself to buy three smelly hounds when he might have built an entire church—altar to steeple and everything in between—and had money left over.
Having favoured the hounds, they mounted their horses and all rode out to spend the day working the runs—to be followed by a night’s drinking and roister in the hall. By the fourth day, Earl Hugh’s nightly feasting began to tell on them all—everyone except Bran. Somehow Bran seemed to bear up under the strain of these all-night revels, awaking the next morning none the worse for his excesses. Indeed, Tuck began to think him blessed with the fortitude of Samson himself until he noticed the trick. Friar Tuck—himself an enthusiastic consumer of the earl’s good wine and fortifying meat—happened to discover Bran’s secret the second night. Bran quaffed as readily as the next man; however, the instant their host’s attention wandered elsewhere, quick as a blink Bran’s cup dipped below the board and the contents were dashed onto the soiled rushes under their feet. Thereafter, he drank from an empty vessel until it was filled again, and the process was repeated.
From then on, Tuck did the same himself even though it pained him to throw away good drink.
Wolf Hugh himself was ragged and mean of a morning, soreheaded, stinking of stale wine and urine, his eyes red and his nose running as he shuffled from his chambers bellowing for food and drink to drive the demons from head and belly. Still he seemed to possess unusual powers of recovery, and by the time the sun had breached the castle walls, the earl was ready to ride to his hounds once more, steady as a stone and keen for the chase. On the third day, Tuck freely complained that the nightly debauch was too much for him, and begged Bran to let him observe the hunt from the rails of his bed; but Bran insisted that they must go on as they had started. Ifor and Brocmael had youth on their side, and tolerated the revelry, but were increasingly reticent participants. Alan a’Dale fared less well and was laid low of a morning.
On the fourth day, the earl decided to rest the horses and hounds. He had business to attend to with some of his nobles, leaving his guests free to take their ease and amuse themselves as they would. Bran let it be known that he wanted to go into the town and attend the market, and so they did. A hundred paces beyond sight of the castle gate, he gathered his crew around him and said, “You are doing very well, lads. I beg but a little more patience and we are done. We will not abide here much longer.”
“How much longer?” asked Alan a’Dale.
“Next time we ride.”
“That might be tomorrow,” Brocmael pointed out.
Bran nodded. “Then we best make certain everything is ready today.”
The two young men glanced at one another. “Do you think the earl will tumble?” Ifor wondered.
“Why not?” replied Bran. “He suspects nothing. If all goes well, we should be far away from here before he learns what has happened . . .” Regarding the solemn expressions on the faces of his two young comrades, he gave them his slightly twisted smile. “. . . if he ever learns—and I strongly suspect he never will.”
Bran resumed his stroll into the town with Alan at his side, leaving Tuck and the two young lords to reckon what had just been said. “Don’t you worry, lads,” T
uck said, trying to bank their courage a little higher. “By tomorrow night we’ll be well on our way back to Wales with our prize, and beyond the claws and teeth of Wolf d’Avranches.”
A short while later they entered a fair-sized market in full cry; merchants shouting for custom, animals bawling, dogs barking. Bran paused and surveyed the comely chaos for a moment. “Good,” he said, “there are enough people about that we should not draw undue attention to ourselves. You all know what to do?”
Brocmael and Ifor nodded grimly. Bran opened his purse and fished out a few pennies. “This should be enough,” he told them. “We are not clothing him for his coronation, mind.”
“We know what to do,” said Ifor.
“Then off you go. Return here when you are finished and wait for us.”
When they had gone, Bran, Tuck, and Alan commenced their own particular quest. “Have you given any thought to my idea?” asked Bran as they began to stroll among the stalls and booths of the busy market.
“That I have,” Tuck replied.
“And?”
“Oh, I think it should work—although I am no dog-handler. It seems a simple enough matter, does it not? We will require a little oil and perhaps an herb or two to mix with it—something strong, but not too offensive. No doubt if Angharad were here she would know better.”
“But she is not here, so we look to you now,” Bran said. “What do you suggest?”
“Essence of angelica for the oil,” Tuck answered after a moment’s consideration. “It is light, yet easily stains a cloth. Get it on your skin and it lingers long, even after you wash.”
“Excellent! Just the thing,” said Bran. He gazed around at the seething crowd of people and animals. “What do you say, Alan? Will we find what we need here?”
“I expect so, my lord. I know of a ’pothecary who comes to market most days.”
“And the herbs?” he asked. “What are we looking for?”