They worked deeper into the wood and heard, briefly, shouts echoing from the direction of the hunting run, and horses thrashing into the close-grown bushes and branches. There was a crash—as if a horse or its rider had fallen into a hedge—and then a cry of alarm, followed by other shouts and the frenzied barking of the hounds sighting their quarry. Then, slowly, the sounds of the chase began to dwindle as the pursuit moved off in another direction.
The riders continued on, eventually working back to the head of the hunting run. By this time Gruffydd was able to sit up in the saddle, so they lashed their horses to speed and made quick work of the remaining distance, keeping out of sight of the castle until they reached the track leading to Caer Cestre. Alan was there on the wharf, waiting where they’d left him. He waved as Tuck and the others came in sight—a quick, furtive flick of his hand. Tuck then saw why Alan was trying to warn them. His heart sank. For between Alan and the dock stood two of the Ffreinc noblemen they had been hunting with the day before, and there was no ship in sight.
CHAPTER 22
Leaping, ducking, dodging through the thick-grown woodland tangle like a wild bird, Bran flew towards the sound of the baying hounds. In a little while, he reached the edge of the hunting run and burst out onto open ground—not more than a few hundred paces from the hunting party: four men on horseback, lances ready. They were standing at the edge of the run, watching the wood and waiting for the dogs and their handler to flush the quarry into the open so they could ride it down.
It was their usual way of hunting. Only, this time, their quarry was Bran.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Bran put his head down and ran for the opposite side of the wide grassy corridor. He had made it but halfway across when there arose a shout behind him. “Arrêt! Arrêt!”
He ran even faster and reached the far side of the hunting run and flashed into the undergrowth with the riders right behind. There was more shouting behind him and the sound of ringing steel as the four knights began hacking their way into the wood. Bran found a big elm tree and paused to catch his breath. He waited until he heard the hounds again and then darted off once more, this time working his way back through the woods in the direction of the earl’s castle.
The chase was breathless and frantic. The hounds were quick on his scent, and as fast as Bran hurtled through the brake, the dogs were faster still. It was only a matter of time before he would be caught and brought to bay. He ran on, trying his best to put some distance between himself and the hunters. He heard the slavering growls as the beasts closed on him. He was searching for a heavy branch to wield as a club when the first hound finally reached him.
The dog bounded over a fallen limb, and Bran turned meet it. The animal—a great, long-legged rangy grey beast—howled once and leaped for him. Bran, standing still in the path, made no move to flee. Instead, he held out his hands. “Here! Come, old friend. Come to Count Rexindo.”
The dog, confused now, hesitated. Then, identifying the man who had fed him and befriended him, it gave a yelp of recognition and ran to Bran, put his paws on his chest, and began licking Bran’s face. “Good fella,” said Bran. “That’s right, we’re friends. Here, come with me. Let’s run.”
Bran started off again with the dog loping easily beside him. They were joined by a second dog and, within another dozen running steps, the third hound came alongside. The four of them, dogs and man, flowed through the forest with the ease and grace of creatures born to the greenwood, quickly outdistancing the handler and the hunters still sitting on their horses in the hunting run.
They came onto a path lying roughly parallel to the hunting run; a few flying steps farther and it began sloping down towards a stream which would, Bran guessed, lead to the river and the river to the town. “This way, boys,” called Bran, hurtling down towards the water. They splashed into the stream and continued on at a slower pace. After a time, Bran paused to listen.
He heard nothing—no crack and swish of branches, no shouts of hunters keen on the trail, no sounds of pursuit at all. He had outstripped the chase, and without the constant howling of the dogs to lead them, the hunters were floundering far, far behind and likely on a different path altogether.
He paused in the stream, then stooped and cupped water to his mouth and swallowed down a few gulps. Then stood, sunlight splashing down from a gap in the branches overhead, and drew the moist air deep into his lungs. The sky was clear and blue, the day stretching out fine before him. “Come on, lads,” said Bran. “Let’s go home.”
They resumed their long walk, splashing downstream, sometimes in it, more often on the wide, muddy bank. The dogs did not follow so much as accompany him—now running ahead, now lagging behind as they sniffed the air for scent of errant game. Bran kept up a steady pace, pausing to listen every now and then, but heard nothing save the sounds of the forest. Some little time later, the woodland began to thin and he glimpsed cultivated fields through the trees. He stepped out to find himself at the edge of a settlement—a few low houses, a barn, and a scattering of outbuildings with a small pen for pigs. He watched the place for a moment, but saw no one about, so quickly moved on, working his way towards the track he knew he would find eventually—the path that connected the settlement to the town.
Once on the road, he made good time. Reaching Caer Cestre after midday, he hurried down the narrow streets and proceeded directly to the wharf, alert to any threat of discovery. At the lower town, he made for the dockyard and was still a little way off when he saw the mast of a moored ship: a small coast-crawling cog with a single low central mast and broad tiller. Closer, he saw a clump of men standing on the dock, and picked out the plump form of Tuck and, with him, four of Earl Hugh’s soldiers. They seemed to be arguing.
He halted, thinking what to do.
There was no sign of the other Welshmen, so Bran resumed his walk down to the dock, picking up his speed as he went until, with a sudden furious rush, he closed on the group of men. He was on them before they knew he was there. Seizing the nearest soldier by the arm, he marched the surprised knight to the edge of the jetty and, with a mighty heave, vaulted him into the river. The body hit with a loud thwack, and the resulting splash showered the dock with water.
Bran dropped lightly down into a small fishing boat moored to the pier below and, seizing an oar from the oarlock, fended off the flailing knight. The soldier’s companions stared in slack-jawed astonishment at this audacious attack. One of them dashed to the end of the dock and extended his hand to his comrade. Bran dropped the oar, grabbed the hand, and pulled for all he was worth. The knight gave out a whoop as he toppled over the edge and into the water as well.
The two remaining knights backed away from the edge of the dock and drew their swords. One of them raised the point of his blade to Tuck’s throat, while the other waved his weapon impotently at Bran, who remained out of reach in the boat. Both were shouting in French and gesturing for the two Welshmen to surrender. “Tuck!” cried Bran, lofting the other oar. “Catch!”
Up came the oar. The friar snatched it from the air and, gathering his strength behind it, drove the blade into the soldier’s chest, propelling him backward and over the edge of the dock to join his two companions in the water. The last knight standing swung towards Tuck, his blade a bright arc in the air.
Tuck was quicker than he knew. Sliding his hands along the shaft of the oar, he deftly spun it up into the man’s face. The knight stumbled backwards, retreating step by step. Bran, meanwhile, scrambled back onto the dock. “Now, Tuck!”
Tuck drove forward with the oar, and the knight fell back a step, tripping over Bran’s outstretched foot. The knight lurched awkwardly, trying to keep his feet under him. He swung the blade wildly at Tuck, who easily parried the stroke, knocking it wide. Another thrust with the oar sent the soldier sprawling onto his backside, and before he could recover, Bran had grabbed his legs, pulled them up over his head, and pitched the knight heels first off the dock and into the river.
&nbs
p; Bran and Tuck paused to look at their handiwork: four soldiers thrashing in the water and crying for help. Owing to the weight of their padded jerkins and mail shirts, they were unable to clamber out of the river; it was all they could do to keep their heads above water. Their cries had begun to draw would-be rescuers to the waterfront.
“Where are Gruffydd and the others?” asked Bran.
“They’re hiding across the way,” Tuck said, waving vaguely behind him. “I told Alan to keep them out of sight until the ship was ready. It has only just arrived.”
Bran glanced around. Two boys stood on deck, laughing at the spectacle played out on the dock. Their shipmates had gone ashore, leaving the youngest crew members to watch the vessel. “Go get them,” ordered Bran. “Get everyone aboard the ship and cast off!”
“But the captain and crew are not here,” replied Tuck. “They’ve gone up to the town.”
“Just go,” Bran urged, picking up the oar. “I’ll keep the soldiers busy.”
Tuck dashed away, returning as fast as his stubby legs allowed with Alan, Gruffydd, and the two young Welshmen trailing in his wake. They arrived on the dock to find Bran swinging the oar and shouting, keeping the water-logged Ffreinc in the water and the gathering crowd of onlookers at bay. Truth be told, Bran found preventing the rescue far easier than he imagined. Most of the townsfolk seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of the earl’s thugs at such an embarrassing disadvantage. Several boys were throwing stones at the knights, who singed the air with curses and obscenities.
“Get aboard!” cried Bran. “Cast off!”
Tuck turned on the others. “You heard him! Get aboard and cast off.”
While Ifor and Brocmael untied the mooring ropes, Alan picked up two long poles that were lying on the dock and tossed them onto the deck of the ship. The boat’s two young guardians protested, but were powerless to prevent their vessel from being boarded. They stood by helplessly as Tuck and Gruffydd set the plank on the rail and climbed aboard. “Ready!” Tuck called.
“Push away!” shouted Bran, wielding the oar over his sputtering charges.
Using the poles, Alan and Brocmael began easing the cog away from the dock. As the ship floated free, Ifor grabbed the tiller and tried to steer the vessel into deeper water in the centre of the stream. The ship began to move. “Bran!” shouted Tuck. “Now!”
Bran gave a last thrust with the oar and threw it into the water. Then, with a running jump, he leapt from the dock onto the deck of the ship. He was no sooner aboard than a howling arose from the wharf; he turned to see the three hounds pacing along the edge of the dock and barking.
“Come!” called Bran, slapping the side of the vessel. “Come on, lads! Jump!”
The dogs needed no further encouragement. They put their heads down and ran for the ship, bounded across the widening gap, and fell onto the deck in a tangle of legs and tails. Bran laughed and dived in among them. They licked his hands and face, and he returned their affection, giving them each a chuck around the ears and telling them what good, brave dogs they were.
“You’ve stolen the earl’s hounds,” Brocmael said, amazed at Bran’s audacity—considering the high price Wolf Hugh set on his prize animals.
“Hounds?” said Ifor. “We’ve stolen a whole ship entire!”
“The ship will be returned,” Bran told them, still patting the nearest dog. “But the hounds we keep—they’ll help us to remember our pleasant days hunting with the earl. Anyway, we’ve left him our horses—a fair enough trade, I reckon.”
“Does anyone know how to sail a ship of this size?” wondered Alan.
“Maybe the lads there can help us,” Tuck said, regarding the boys—who were thoroughly amazed at what had taken place and were enjoying it in spite of themselves. “Maybe they know how to sail it.”
“We don’t have to sail it,” Bran countered. “We’ll let the tideflow carry us downriver as far as the next settlement and try to pick up a pilot there. Until then, Ifor, you and your two young friends will man the tiller and see you keep us in the stream flow and off the bank. Can you do that?”
“I’ve seen it done,” replied the young man.
“Then take us home,” said Bran. Ifor called the two young crewmen to him and, with an assortment of signs and gestures, showed them what they were to do. Bran crossed to where Gruffydd was sitting against the side of the ship, knees up and his head resting on his arms.
“Are you well, my lord?” Bran said, squatting down beside him.
“My blasted head hurts,” he complained. “Did you have to hit me so hard?”
“Perhaps not,” Bran allowed. “But then, you did not give us much choice.”
The king offered a grunt of derision and lowered his head once more. “You will feel better soon,” Bran told him, rising once more. “And when we cross over into Wales you’ll begin to see things in a better light.”
Gruffydd made no reply, so Bran left him alone to nurse his aching head. Meanwhile, Tuck and Brocmael had begun searching the hold of the ship to see what it carried by way of provisions. “We have cheese, dried meat, and a little ale.”
“We’ll pick up more when we stop. Until then, fill the cups, Tuck! I feel a thirst coming on.”
PART FOUR
“O cowardly dastard!” Will Scadlocke exclaim’d.
“Thou faint-hearted, sow-mothered reeve!
If ever my master doth deign thee to meet,
Thou shalt thy full paiment receive!”
Then Rhiban Hud, setting his horn to his mouth,
A blast he merrily blows;
His yeomen from bushes and treetops appeared,
A hundred, with trusty longbows.
And Little John came at the head of them all,
Cloath’d in a rich mantle, green;
And likewise the others were fancif ’ly drest,
A wonderous sight to be seen.
Forth from the greenwoode about they are come,
With hearts that are firm and e’er stout,
Pledging them all with the sheriff ’s yeomen
To give them a full hearty bout.
And Rhiban the Hud has removéd his cloak,
And the sheriff has uttered an oath,
And William now smites him on top of his pate
and swift exit is now made by both.
“Little I thought,” quod Scadlocke eft-soon,
“When I first came to this place,
For to have met with dear Little John,
Or again see my master’s fine face.”
CHAPTER 23
It is a grand day, my lord Bran,” Llewelyn proclaimed, grinning blearily through a haze of brown ale. “A grand and glorious day. Though it shames me to admit it, I never hoped to see our Gruffydd on his throne again. No, I never did. Yet, here he is—all thanks to you. Here he is.”
Two days of riotous celebration had followed the rescuers’ triumphant return to Aberffraw with their newly freed captive. King Gruffydd’s homecoming was heralded as a miracle on the order of Lazarus walking out of his tomb; and Bran, Tuck, Ifor, Brocmael, and Alan were lauded as champions and made to recount their exploits time and again to rapturous listeners until they grew hoarse for speaking. The revel was entering its third day before Bran and Tuck finally found the opportunity to speak to Gruffydd and Llewelyn in private.
“Here are men after my own heart!” declared Gruffydd, closing the door on the celebration to join them in his chamber. Bathed and shaved, his matted, moth-eaten locks shorn to his scalp, arrayed in a new wool cloak and fine red linen shirt, the king of the Northern Cymry finally resembled something worthy of the name. “You should have seen them, Llewelyn,” he bellowed. “They were mighty giants doing battle for me. It’s true!” Swaying unsteadily, he draped an arm across Bran’s shoulders. “I am forever in your debt, my friend. Hear me, Bran ap Brychan, may God blind me if I should ever forget.”
“That would be most uncomfortable for you,” allowed Bran with a smile, “but, never
fear. I have a way to help you.”
“Then speak it out, man, and see how quickly it is accomplished,” said Gruffydd. Reeling slightly, he looked around for his cup, saw one in Llewelyn’s hand, and took it.
Bran hesitated, uncertain whether to take advantage of the king’s ale-induced generosity or wait until Gruffydd was sober once more—which might mean a wait of several more days.
“Speak, man, and if it is in my power to grant, you shall have it before the sun has set on another day,” boasted Gruffydd. He drained the cup and wiped the foam from his moustache. “What will you have?”
“Your friendship,” said Bran.
“That you have in abundance already,” replied Gruffydd grandly. He waved his hand airily.
“What else?” prompted Llewelyn, well aware of Bran’s true desire.
Bran looked to Tuck, who urged him with a glance to ask for the help he had come north to seek. “As I have aided the return of your king to his lands and people,” replied Bran, speaking slowly and deliberately, “I ask the king’s pledge to aid me in the return of my lands and people.”
A shadow passed over Gruffydd’s square face just then. The smile remained firmly fixed, but his eyes narrowed. “Then receive my pledge,” Gruffydd said. “How can I help you?”
“With men and weapons,” Bran said. “Raise the tribes of Gwynedd and the north and ride with me. Together we can wrest Elfael from the Ffreinc and drive them from our lands.”
Gruffydd frowned. He looked into the empty cup as if it had offended him, then thrust it back at Llewelyn. “If that lay within my power,” he said, his voice falling, “you would have it this very night. Alas, I cannot grant such a request.”
Bran’s face tightened. Staring at the king, he said, “You will not help?”
“I cannot,” replied Gruffydd, who seemed to have sobered in the matter of a moment. “You must understand,” he continued, half turning away, “I have been absent from my realm eight years! For eight years my people have been without a king—”