Hood

As soon as all the remaining guests had found places at the lower tables, the baron raised his silver goblet and, in a loud voice, declared, 'Lords and ladies all! Peace and joy to you this day of celebration in honour of my lady wife's safe return from her sojourn in Normandie. Welcome, everyone! Let the feast begin!'

The feast commenced in earnest with the appearance of the first of scores of platters piled high with roast meat and others with bread and bowls of stewed vegetables. Servants appeared with jars and began filling goblets and chalices with wine.

'I do not believe we have met,' said the baroness, raising a goblet to be filled. In her gown of glistening silver samite, she seemed a creature carved of ice; her smile was just as cold. 'I am Baroness Agnes.'

'Peace and joy to you, my lady. I am called Merian.'

The woman's gaze sharpened to unnerving severity. 'King Cadwgan's daughter, yes, of course. I am glad you and your family could join us today. Are you enjoying your stay?'

'Oh, yes, baroness, very much.'

'This cannot be your first visit to England, I think?'

'But it is,' answered Merian. 'I have never been to Hereford before. I have never been south of the March.'

'I hope you find it agreeable?' The baroness awaited her answer, regarding her with keen, almost malicious intensity.

'Wonderfully so,' replied Merian, growing increasingly uncomfortable under the woman's unrelenting scrutiny.

'Bon,' answered the baroness. She seemed suddenly to lose interest in the young woman. 'That is splendid.'

Two kitchen servants arrived with a trencher of roast meat just then and placed it on the table before the baron. Another servant appeared with shallow wooden bowls which he set before each guest. The men at the table drew the knives from their belts and began stabbing into the meat. The women waited patiently until a servant brought knives to those who did not already have them.

More trenchers were brought to the table, and still more, as well as platters of bread and tureens of steaming buttered greens and dishes that Merian had never seen before. 'What is this?' she wondered aloud, regarding what appeared to be a compote of dried apples, honey, almonds, eggs, and milk, baked and served bubbling in a pottery crock. 'It is called a muse,' Lady Agnes informed her without turning her head. 'Equally good with apricots, peaches, or pears.'

Whatever apricots or peaches might be, Merian did not know, but guessed they were more or less like apples. Also arriving on the board were plates of steamed fish and something called frose, which turned out to be pounded pork and beef cooked with eggs… and several more dishes the contents of which Merian could only guess. Delighted at the extraordinary variety before her, she determined to try them all before the night was over.

As for the baroness, sitting straight as a lance shaft beside her, she took a bite of meat, chewed it thoughtfully, and swallowed. She tore a bit of bread from a loaf and sopped it in the meat sauce, ate it, and then, dabbing her mouth politely with the back of her hand, rose from her place. 'I hope we can speak together again before you leave,' she said to Merian. 'Now I must beg your pardon, for I am still very tired from my travels. I will wish you bonsoir.'

The baroness offered her husband a brisk smile and whispered something into his ear as she stepped from the table. Her sudden absence left a void at Merians right hand, and the baron was deep in conversation with her father, so she turned to the guest on her left, a young man a year or two older than her brother. 'You are a stranger, I think,' he said, watching her from the corner of his eye.

'Verily,' she replied.

'So are we both,' he said, and Merian noticed his eyes were the colour of the sea in deep winter. His features were fine-almost feminine, except for his jaw, which was wide and angular. His lips curled up at the corners when he spoke. 'I have come from Rainault. Do you know where that is?'

'I confess I do not,' answered Merian, remembering her mother's caution and trying to discourage him with an indifferent tone.

'It is across the narrows in Normandie,' he said, 'but my family is not Norman.'

'No?'

He shook his head. 'We are Angevin.' A flicker of pride touched this simple affirmation. 'An ancient and noble family.'

'Still Ffreinc, though,' Merian observed, unimpressed.

'Where is your home?' he asked.

'My father is King Cadwgan ap Gruffydd-of an ancient and noble family. Our lands are in Eiwas.'

'In Wallia?' scoffed the young man. 'You are a Welsh!'

'British,' said Merian stiffly.

He shrugged. 'What's the difference?'

'Welsh,' she said with elaborate disdain, 'is what ignorant Saxons call anyone who lives beyond the March. Everyone else knows better.'

'I have heard of this March,' he said, unperturbed. 'I have heard about your haunted forest.'

Merian stared at the young man, agitation knitting her brows as curiosity battled her reluctance to encourage any Ffreinc affinity. Curiosity won. 'This is the second time this evening someone has mentioned the haunting.' Searching the lower tables, she found the two girls she had spoken to earlier. 'Those two-there.' She indicated the sisters sitting together. 'They spoke of it also.'

'They would,' muttered the young man, obviously irritated that his important news had been spoiled.

'Do you know them?'

'My sisters,' he said, as if the word pained his mouth. 'What did they say?'

'Nothing at all. The baron was seated, and we had to come to table, so I learned nothing more about it.'

'Well then, I will tell you,' said the young man, recovering something of his former good humour as he went on to explain how the forest was haunted by a rare phantom in the form of an enormous preying bird.

'How strange,' said Merian, wondering why she had heard nothing of this.

'This bird is bigger than a man-two men! It can appear and disappear at will and swoop out of the sky to snatch horses and cattle from the field.'

'Truly?'

He nodded with dread assurance. Apparently, the thing was black from head to tail and twice the height of the tallest man, possessing glowing red eyes and a beak as sharp as a sword. He smiled grimly, enjoying the effect his words were having on the young woman beside him. 'It can devour a human being whole with one snatch of its beak, and also outrun the fastest horse.'

'I thought you said it swooped from the sky,' Merian pointed out, dashing cold water on his fevered assertions. 'Is it a bird or a beast?'

'A bird,' the young man insisted. 'That is, it has the wings and head of a bird, but the body of a man, only bigger. Much bigger. And it does not only fly, but hides in the forest and waits to attack its prey.'

'How do you know this?' asked Merian. 'How does anyone know?'

Bending near, he put his head next to hers and said, 'It was seen by soldiers-not so many days ago.'

'Where?'

'In the forest of the March!' he replied confidently. 'Some of the baron's own knights and men-at-arms were attacked. They fought the creature off, of course, but they lost their horses anyway.'

The tale was so strange that Merian could not decide what to make of it. 'They lost their horses,' she repeated, a sceptical note edging into her tone. 'All of them?'

The young man nodded solemnly. 'And one of the knights.'

'What?' It was a cry of disbelief.

'It is true,' he insisted hurriedly. 'The knight was missing for three days but was at last able to fight free of the thing and escaped unharmed-except that he cannot remember what happened to him or where he was. Some are saying that the phantom is from the Otherworld, and everyone knows that any mortal who goes there cannot remember the way back-unless, of course, he eats of the food of the dead, and then he is doomed to stay there and can never return.'