daresay Siarles would risk it. But Will here cannot. I do beg your pardon.'
She lifted one slender shoulder and sighed. 'Oh, very well. It was worth a try. Do not think poorly of me, Will Scarlet. It is just that…' She paused to find the right word. 'I get so vexed with him sometimes. He will not listen to me, and I don't know what else to do.'
I accepted this in silence, stretching my hands towards the flames.
'I know he will get himself killed one day,' she continued after a time. 'If the sheriff catches him, or one of the baron's men, Bran is as good as dead before the sun sets.'
'You worry about him.'
'Truly, I do so worry,' she confided. 'I do not think I could bear losing him again.'
'Again?'
She nodded, growing pensive. 'It was just after the Ffreinc came to Elfael. The king-Bran's father, Lord Brychan-had been killed and all the warband with him. Only Iwan survived.' She went on to describe how Bran had been seized and taken hostage by Count Falkes, and how he had fled the cantref. 'He might have made good his escape, but he stopped to help a farmer and his wife who were being attacked by the count's rogues. He fought them off, but others came and gave chase. They caught him, and he was wounded and left for dead.' She paused, adding in a softer voice, 'Word went out that he had been killed… and so I thought. Everyone thought he had been killed. I only learned the truth very much later.'
She drew breath as if there was more she would say, but thought better of it just then, for she fell silent instead.
'How did Bran survive?' I asked after a moment.
'Angharad found him,' she explained, 'and brought him back to life. He has lived in the forest ever since.'
I considered this. It explained the curious bond I sensed between the old woman and the young man, and the way in which he honoured her. I thought on this for a time, content in the silence and the warmth of the flames.
'He won't always live in the forest,' I said, more to have something to say and so prolong our time together.
'No?' she replied, glancing sideways at me. She was kneading her fingers before the fire, and the flames made her eyes shine bright.
'Why, he intends to win back his throne. You said so yourself just now. When that happens, I expect we will all bid the forest a fond fare-thee-well.'
'But that will never happen,' she insisted. 'Does no one see? The baron is too strong, his wealth too great. He will never let Elfael go. Am I the only one who sees the truth?' She shook her head sadly. 'What Bran wants is impossible.'
'Well,' I said, 'I wouldn't be too sure. I have seen the lone canny fox outwit the hunter often enough to know that it matters little how many horses and men you have. All the wealth and weapons in the world will not catch the fox that refuses to be caught.'
She smiled at that, which surprised me. 'Do you really think so?'
'God's truth, my lady. That is exactly what I think.'
'Thank you for that.' She smiled again and laid her hand on my arm. 'I am glad you are here, Will.'
Just then, the first fresh flakes of snow arrived. One brushed her forehead and caught on her dark eyelashes. She blinked and looked up as the snow began to fall gently all around. God help me, I did not look at the snow. I saw only Merian. Is she?' Odo wants to know. His question brings me out of a reverie, and I realise I've drifted off for some moments.
'Is she what, lad?' I ask.
'Is she very beautiful-as beautiful as they say?'
'Oh, lad, she is all that and more. It is not her face or hair or fine noble bearing-it is all these things and more. She is a right fair figure of a woman, and I will trounce the man who slanders her good name. She was born to be a queen-and if there is a God in heaven, that is what she will be.'
'Pity,' sniffs Odo. 'With men like you to protect her, I wouldn't give a rat's whisker for her chances. Most likely, she'll share the noose with your Rhi Bran.'
Oh, this makes me angry. 'Listen, you little pus pot of a priest,' I say, my voice low and tight. 'This en't finished yet, not by a long walk. So, if you have any other clever ideas like this, keep 'em under your skirt.' Tired of him, of my confinement, sick of the pain that burns in my wounded leg, I lean back on my filthy pallet and turn my face away.
Odo is silent a moment, as well he should be, then says, 'Sorry, Will, I did not mean to offend you. I only meant-'
'It makes no matter,' I tell him. 'Read back where we left off.'
He does, and we go on. The snow fell through the night. We awoke to a thick layer of white fluff over the forest. Branches dragged down and saplings bent low beneath the weight of cold, wet snow. Our little village of low-roofed huts lay almost hidden beneath this shroud. Early yet, the sun was just rising as we gathered our gear and made our final preparations. After a quick meal of black bread, curds, and apples, we gathered to receive our marching orders.
'Here,' said Siarles, handing me what appeared to be a bundle of rags covered with bark and twigs and leaf wrack, 'put this on.'
Taking the bundle, I shook it out and held it up before me. 'A cloak?' I asked, none too certain of my guess. Long, ragged, dun-coloured things with all manner of forest ruck sewn on, they looked like the pelt of some fantastical woodland creature born of tree and fern.
'We wear these when moving about the forest,' he said, pulling a similar garment around his shoulders. 'Good protection.'
Folk-whether two-legged or four-are difficult enough to see in dense wood. This, any forester will tell you for nothing. Wearing these cloaks, a fella would be well-nigh impossible to see even for eyes trained in tracking game along tangled pathways through dense brush in the dim or faulty light that is the forest. Nevertheless, bless me for a dunce, I saw a flaw in the plan. 'It has snowed,' I said.
'You noticed,' replied Siarles. 'Oh, you're a shrewd one, no mistake.' He indicated a basket into which the others were digging. 'Get busy.'
The basket was filled with scrags of sheep's wool, birch bark, and scraps of bleached linen and such which we fixed to the distinctive hooded cloaks of the Grellon, quickly adapting them for use in the snow.
One of the men, Tomas-a slender, light-footed little Welshman-helped me with mine, then set it on my shoulders just right and adjusted the hood as I drew the laces tight. I did the same for him, and Iwan passed among us with bow staves, strings, and bags of arrows. I tucked the strings into the leather pouch at my belt and slung the bag upon my back. At Bran's signal, we fell in behind Iwan and tried our best to keep up with his great, ground-covering stride; no easy chore in the best of times, it was made more difficult still by the snow.
After a while we came to a place beneath the great overhanging limbs of oak and ash and hornbeam where the path was wide and still mostly dry. I found myself walking beside Tomas. 'Once in Hereford, a man told me a tale about Abbot Hugo losing his gold candlesticks to King Raven,' I said, opening a question that had been rumbling around in my skull for some time now. 'Is it true at all?'
'Aye, 'tis true,' Tomas assured me. 'Mostly.'
'Which part? Pardon my asking.'
'What did you hear?' he countered.
'There were twenty wagons full of gold and silver church treasure, they said-and all of it under guard of a hundred mounted knights and men-at-arms. They say King Raven swooped down, killed the soldiers with his fiery breath, and snatched away the gold candlesticks to use in unholy devil rites,' I told him. 'That's what I heard.'
'We did stop the wagons and help lighten the load,' replied the Welshman. 'And there was some gold, yes, and the candlesticks-that's true enough. But there were never a hundred knights.'
'Twenty, more like,' put in Siarles, who had overheard us talking.
'Aye, only twenty,' confirmed Iwan, joining in. 'And there weren't but three oxcarts. Still, we got more than seven hundred marks in that one raid, not counting the candlesticks.'
'And how much since then?' I asked, thinking I had come into a most gainful employment.
'A little here and there,' said Siarles. 'Nothing much.'
