the oppression of England and its rapacious king dwindled to mere annoyance. The forest had weathered the ravages of men and their petty concerns from the beginning of time and would prevail. What was one red-haired Ffreinc tyrant against that?
“It is only money, after all,” observed Ffreol, optimism making him expansive. “We have only to pay them and Elfael is safe once more.”
“If silver is what the Red King wants,” said Iwan, joining in, “silver is what he will get.We will buy back our land from the greedy Ffreinc bastards.”
Bran said, “There are two hundred marks in my father’s strongbox. That is a start.”
“And a good one,” declared Iwan. All three fell silent for a moment. “How will we get the rest?” Iwan asked at last, voicing the thought all three shared.
“We will go to the people and tell them what is required,” said Bran. “We will raise it.”
“That may not be so easy,” cautioned Brother Ffreol. “If you could somehow empty every silver coin from every pocket, purse, and crock in Elfael, you might get another hundred marks at most.”
To his dismay, Bran realised that was only too true. Lord Brychan was the wealthiest man in three cantrefs, and he had never possessed more than three hundred marks all at once in the best of times.
Six hundred marks. Cardinal Ranulf might as well have asked for the moon or a hatful of stars. He was just as likely to get one as the other.
Unwilling to succumb to despair again so soon, Bran gave the mare a slap and picked up the pace. Soon he was racing through the darkening wood, speeding along the road, feeling the cool evening air on his face. After a time, his mount began to tire, so at the next fording place, Bran reined up. He slid from the saddle and led the horse a little way along the stream, where the animal could drink. He cupped a few handfuls of water to his mouth and drew his wet hands over the back of his neck. The water cooled his temper somewhat. It would be dark soon, he noticed; already the shadows were thickening, and the forest was growing hushed with the coming of night.
Bran was still kneeling at the stream, gazing at the darkening forest, when Ffreol and Iwan arrived. They dismounted and led their horses to the water. “A fine chase,” said Ffreol. “I have not ridden like that since I was a boy.” Squatting down beside Bran, he put a hand to the young man’s shoulder and said, “We’ll find a way to raise the money, Bran, never fear.”
Bran nodded.
“It will be dark soon,” Iwan pointed out. “We will not reach Caer Cadarn tonight.”
“We’ll lay up at the next good place we find,” said Bran.
He started to climb into the saddle, but Ffreol said, “It is vespers. Come, both of you, join me, and we will continue after prayers.”
They knelt beside the ford then, and Ffreol raised his hands, saying:
I am bending my knee
In the eye of the Father who created me,
In the eye of the Son who befriended me,
In the eye of the Spirit who walks with me,
In companionship and affection.
Through thine own Anointed One, O God,
Bestow upon us fullness in our need . . .
Brother Ffreol’s voice flowed out over the stream and along the water. Bran listened, and his mind began to wander. Iwan’s hissed warning brought him back with a start. “Listen!” The champion held up his hand for silence. “Did you hear that?”
“I heard nothing but the sound of my own voice,” replied the priest. He closed his eyes and resumed his prayer. “Grant us this night your peace—”
There came a shout behind them. “Arrêt!”
The three rose and turned as one to see four Ffreinc mar-chogi on the road behind them. Weapons drawn, the soldiers advanced, walking warily, their expressions grave in the dim light.
“Ride!” shouted Iwan, darting to his horse. “Hie!”
The cry died in his throat, for even as the three prepared to flee, five more marchogi stepped from the surrounding wood. Their blades glimmered dimly
“It is only money, after all,” observed Ffreol, optimism making him expansive. “We have only to pay them and Elfael is safe once more.”
“If silver is what the Red King wants,” said Iwan, joining in, “silver is what he will get.We will buy back our land from the greedy Ffreinc bastards.”
Bran said, “There are two hundred marks in my father’s strongbox. That is a start.”
“And a good one,” declared Iwan. All three fell silent for a moment. “How will we get the rest?” Iwan asked at last, voicing the thought all three shared.
“We will go to the people and tell them what is required,” said Bran. “We will raise it.”
“That may not be so easy,” cautioned Brother Ffreol. “If you could somehow empty every silver coin from every pocket, purse, and crock in Elfael, you might get another hundred marks at most.”
To his dismay, Bran realised that was only too true. Lord Brychan was the wealthiest man in three cantrefs, and he had never possessed more than three hundred marks all at once in the best of times.
Six hundred marks. Cardinal Ranulf might as well have asked for the moon or a hatful of stars. He was just as likely to get one as the other.
Unwilling to succumb to despair again so soon, Bran gave the mare a slap and picked up the pace. Soon he was racing through the darkening wood, speeding along the road, feeling the cool evening air on his face. After a time, his mount began to tire, so at the next fording place, Bran reined up. He slid from the saddle and led the horse a little way along the stream, where the animal could drink. He cupped a few handfuls of water to his mouth and drew his wet hands over the back of his neck. The water cooled his temper somewhat. It would be dark soon, he noticed; already the shadows were thickening, and the forest was growing hushed with the coming of night.
Bran was still kneeling at the stream, gazing at the darkening forest, when Ffreol and Iwan arrived. They dismounted and led their horses to the water. “A fine chase,” said Ffreol. “I have not ridden like that since I was a boy.” Squatting down beside Bran, he put a hand to the young man’s shoulder and said, “We’ll find a way to raise the money, Bran, never fear.”
Bran nodded.
“It will be dark soon,” Iwan pointed out. “We will not reach Caer Cadarn tonight.”
“We’ll lay up at the next good place we find,” said Bran.
He started to climb into the saddle, but Ffreol said, “It is vespers. Come, both of you, join me, and we will continue after prayers.”
They knelt beside the ford then, and Ffreol raised his hands, saying:
I am bending my knee
In the eye of the Father who created me,
In the eye of the Son who befriended me,
In the eye of the Spirit who walks with me,
In companionship and affection.
Through thine own Anointed One, O God,
Bestow upon us fullness in our need . . .
Brother Ffreol’s voice flowed out over the stream and along the water. Bran listened, and his mind began to wander. Iwan’s hissed warning brought him back with a start. “Listen!” The champion held up his hand for silence. “Did you hear that?”
“I heard nothing but the sound of my own voice,” replied the priest. He closed his eyes and resumed his prayer. “Grant us this night your peace—”
There came a shout behind them. “Arrêt!”
The three rose and turned as one to see four Ffreinc mar-chogi on the road behind them. Weapons drawn, the soldiers advanced, walking warily, their expressions grave in the dim light.
“Ride!” shouted Iwan, darting to his horse. “Hie!”
The cry died in his throat, for even as the three prepared to flee, five more marchogi stepped from the surrounding wood. Their blades glimmered dimly
Similar Books
