'To carry on the work of Saint Martin.' Falkes turned an incredulous gaze upon the abbot who, still smiling, sipped his wine and continued, 'It is ambitious, I confess, but we must begin somewhere.'
'Saint Martin's?'
'You cannot imagine,' said the abbot, 'that we would continue to call our new Norman abbey by its old heathen Welsh name. In fact, I have prepared a letter to the pope requesting a charter to be drawn up in the name L'Abbaye de Martin de Saint dans les Champs.'
At the mention of the pope, Falkes rolled up the parchment and handed it back to the abbot, saying, 'You would be well advised to hold onto that letter a little longer, Abbot.'
CHAPTER 8
King Raven's greenwood refuge served in most respects as a village for those forced to call it home. Deep in the forest, King Raven's flock had carved out a clearing below the protecting arm of a stony ridge. At great effort, they had extended the natural glade to include a pitiful little field for barley, a sorry bean patch, and one for turnips. They had dragged together bits of this and that for their huts and crude shelters, and the pens for their few scrawny animals. There was a patched-together tun which served as a granary for storing a scant supply of grain, and a seeping pool at the foot of the rock scarp that served them for a well.
In the days following the archery contest, I came to see the place in a little better light than had greeted me on first sight, but that en't saying much. For it did seem that a lorn and lonely air hung over the place-the vapour of suffering produced by the folk whose lives were bound to this perilous perch. No one was here who had hope of a better life elsewhere-saving, maybe, only myself. Now, a right fair forester like myself might find living in such a place no great hardship for a few weeks, or even months. But even I would be screaming to get free long before a year had come round. And these poor folk had endured it for more than a year-a tribute, I suppose, to Lord Bran and his ability to keep the flame of hope burning in their hearts.
I greatly wondered how they could keep such a place hidden, all the more since there was a bounty on Rhi Bran's head. The baron's reward had been set at a price, and it kept on creeping up, higher and higher as King Raven's deeds became more outrageous and damaging to the de Braose interests. The reward was enough to make me wonder how far some poor fella's loyalty might stretch before it snapped like a rotten rope. I also wondered how long it would be before one of the sheriff 's search parties stumbled upon Cel Craidd.
Yet as I settled in amongst my new friends, I soon learned that the location was well chosen to confound discovery; to find it would take a canny and determined forester well trained to the March, which the baron did not possess. Beyond that, the folk worked hard to keep their home secret. They contrived everything from confusing the trails to sowing rumours specially concocted for Norman ears and sending spies among the folk of Elfael and Castle Truan. They kept perpetual watch on the King's Road and the forest approaches 'round about, marking the movements of all who came and went through the March.
Also call me tetched if you will-I came to believe there was something supernatural in it, too. Like in the old legends where the weary traveller comes upon a village hidden among the rocks on the seacoast. He sups there with the local folk and lays him down to sleep in a fine feather bed only to wake raw the next morn with sand in his eyes and seaweed in his hair, and the village vanished never to be found again… until it pleases its protectors to show itself to the next footsore wanderer.
I arrived at this odd belief after several curious encounters with Banfaith Angharad. They called her hudolion… It means enchantress, Odo, thank you for interrupting.'
'Ah, it is the same as hud, no?' he says, the glint of understanding briefly lighting up his dull eyes. 'Enchant.'
'Yes, from the same word,' I tell him. 'And it is pronounced hood, so see you set it down aright.'
My leg is on fire again today. It pains me ferocious, and I am in no mind to suffer Odo's irritating ways. I watch as he bends his nose to the scrap of parchment and scratches away for a moment. 'So now,' I say, 'while we're about it, his name is not Robin, as you would have it. His name is Rhi Bran-that is, King Bran, to you.'
'Rhi is the word for king, yes, you told me already,' he intones wearily. 'And Bran-it is the same as Raven, no?'
'Yes, the word is the same. Rhi Bran-King Raven, see? It is the same. I will have you speaking like a Welshman yet, Odo, my lad.' I give him a pain-sharp smile. 'Just like a true-born son of the Black Country.'
Odo frowns and dips his pen. 'You were telling me about Angharad,' he says, and we resume our meandering march… Indeed. Angharad was wise in ways beyond measure. Accomplished in many arts-some now all but lost- she could read signs and portents, and, as easily as a child tastes rain on the wind, she could foretell the shape of things to come long before they arrived. Old? She was ancient. Wreathed in wrinkles and bent low beneath the weight of years, she appeared to the unsuspecting eye merely one more old soul awaiting Elijah's chariot.
But the eyes in her head were bright as baubles. Her mind was quick and keen, restless as a wave on the strand and deep as that selfsame sea. If she sometimes shuffled in her shapeless dress, her mind leapt light- footed and deerlike. Yet she never rushed, never strove, was never seen to be straining after anything. Whatever she needed seemed to come to her of its own accord. And if, betimes, their elders grew uncomfortable in her presence, the children always found peace and comfort in those stout arms.
She was, as I say, adept in all manner of curious arts. And it is through one of these or another that I suspect she purposed to keep Cel Craidd concealed from all intruders. How she did it, I have never yet discovered. But I know the old ones put great store in what they called the caim-a saining charm, you might say, useful for protection against many dangers, threats, and ills. Something like this must protect King Raven's roost. Then again, it may be I that am that big a fool and there is no such thing.
I soon came to regard our banfaith not as a doddering, spindle-shanked hag, but as the very life and spirit of Cel Craidd. Her soul was deep and gentle and blessed, her wisdom true as the arrow from Bran's unerring bow, her will resilient as heartwood and stronger than iron. From the flutter of the first dove of morning to the hushed feather-sweep of the midnight owl, nothing eluded her notice. The reach of her restless, searching senses ranged over her forest stronghold and far, far beyond. At times, I do believe, they reached right into the very castles of the Norman barons.
One particular occasion taught me to respect her judgement, however queer that judgement might seem at first blush. Well, a fine dry winter had set in. I had been some weeks with the forest tribe, learning their ways and getting to know the folk right well. I helped in the fields to gather in the paltry root crop; I chopped firewood by the wagonload; I helped slaughter two of the three pigs, and salt and smoke the meat to keep over the winter. I also turned my hand at building two new huts-one for a family that had come a week or so earlier than myself, and one for a young widow and her wee daughter rescued from Count Falkes's marauders and their hounds.
Mostly, however, I went hunting with Iwan, Siarles, and one or two of the other men. Occasionally, Bran would join us; more often, Iwan led the party. Siarles, whose skills as a forester were greater even than my own, always served as guide since he knew the greenwood well: where the deer would be found, around which bend the pigs would appear, or when the birds would flock or fly. A good and worthy huntsman, uncanny in his own way, he made sure we rarely returned empty-handed from the chase. To be sure, it was desperate hunting-we brought back game or we went hungry.
In all these things, I was tested in small ways, and never openly. Still, through a word or gesture, or a glance exchanged, I soon came to understand that, while they accepted my presence among them, they did not wholly trust me yet. They were testing both my abilities and mettle, as well as my honour. This was only natural, I know, for a folk whose lives depended on remaining out of sight. The baron's spies were everywhere, and the abbot was a wily, relentless foe. King Raven lived or died on the loyalty of his flock, even as they lived or died with him.
So, they watched and they tested. Far from begrudging them their doubt, I welcomed every opportunity to prove myself. What's that, Odo? Strayed from the point, you say?' Lately, our Odo has taken to interrupting me whenever he thinks I have wandered too far afield and may not be able to make it back to the place of my departure. So he checks me with a word or two. 'Perhaps,' I allow, 'but it is all of a piece, you see.'
'That is as may be,' he says, rubbing his bald priest patch. 'But you were speaking of an incident that, ah'-he scans his scribbled scrip-'taught you to trust Angharad's wisdom.'
'Right you are, Odo, lad. So I was. Well, then… where was I?'
