"Fool, this is the king's court!" the cardinal roared. "There is none higher."
"I think," replied Tuck, hurrying away, "you will find that there is one.
Tuck rejoined the others in the yard. Bran was already mounted and ready to ride. Iwan and Siarles were securing the money sacks when from the hall entrance burst Cardinal Ranulf, shouting, "Saivez- les! Aux armes!"
Some of the knights still lingering in the yard heard the summons and turned to see the cardinal. Red-faced and angry, his robes splotched with black ink, hands outthrust, he was pointing wildly at the departing Britons.
`Aux armes! Gardes!" bawled the cardinal. "To arms! Seize them!"
"Iwan! Siarles!" shouted Bran. Slapping the reins across his mount's withers, he started for the gate. "To me!"
The porter, hearing this commotion, stepped from his hut just in time to see Bran bearing down on him. He flung himself out of the way as Bran slid from his still-galloping horse and dove into the hut, appearing three heartbeats later with the weapons that had been given over on his arrival. Raising his longbow and nocking an arrow to the string, he loosed one shaft at a bare-chested knight who was readying a lance for Iwans unprotected back. The arrow sang across the yard with blazing speed, striking the knight high in the chest. He dropped to the ground, clutching his shoulder, writhing and screaming.
Iwan finished tying the money sack and swung into the saddle. Siarles followed an instant behind, and both rode for the open gate. Tuck's horse, skittish with the sudden commotion, reared and shied, unwilling to be mounted. The friar held tight to the reins and tried to calm the frightened animal.
Meanwhile, the porter, having regained his feet and his wits, threw himself at Bran and received a jab in the stomach with the end of the bow. He crumpled to his knees, and Bran, returning to the business at hand, raised the bow, drew, and buried a second shaft in the doorpost a bare handsbreadth from the cardinal's head. Ranulf yelped and stumbled back into the hall. The porter struggled to his knees again-just in time to receive a sidelong kick to the jaw, which took him from the fight. "If you want to live," said Bran, "stay down."
Iwan reached the porter's hut, and Bran, darting inside again, retrieved the champion's bow and sword. "Ride on ahead!" shouted Bran, handing the champion his weapons; he galloped away, leading the packhorse. "Wait for me at the bridge!"
Siarles followed, holding tight to the reins of the second packhorse. He paused at the porter's hut long enough to snatch his bow and a sheaf of arrows from Bran's grasp. "Go with Iwan."
"My lord, I won't leave you behind."
"Keep the money safe," Bran shouted. "I'll bring Tuck. Wait for us at the bridge."
"But, my lord-," objected Siarles.
"Just go!" Bran waved him away as he darted back into the yard.
The friar had his hands full now; he was surrounded on three sides by Ffreinc knights-two holding the padded lances they had been using when the fight began, and one wielding a wooden practise sword. One of the knights made a lunge with his lance, striking the priest on the back of the neck. Tuck fell, still clinging to the reins of his rearing mount, and was dragged backwards.
Bran, running to the middle of the yard, loosed a shaft as the knight drove in to crush Tuck's skull with the butt of the lance. The arrow struck just above the hip, throwing the knight sideways; his lance spun from his hand. "Pick it up!" shouted Bran. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dull glint of metal as two helmeted heads appeared in the doorway of the hall. He sent another arrow into the doorway to keep them back and shouted for Tuck to release the horse. "The spear, Tuck!" he cried, pointing to the weapon on the ground. "Use it!"
Understanding came to him at last. The friar let go of the reins and snatched up the practise weapon just as the knight with the wooden sword closed on him. Spinning the shaft like a quarterstaff, Tuck dealt the man a solid blow on the forearm as the wooden blade swung down. The sword slipped from his grasp. As the soldier grabbed his broken arm, Tuck swung hard at the man's knee; the soldier's leg buckled, and he went down. Meanwhile, Tuck, spinning on his toes, whirled around to face his last assailant. He neatly parried one swipe of the padded lance and dodged another before landing a doublehanded blow on top of the knight's unprotected head. The lance pole bounced and split with a resounding crack! as the knight dropped senseless to the ground.
"Away, Tuck!" cried Bran. Seizing the reins of the friar's skittish horse, he held the animal until the priest gained the saddle and, with a slap on the beast's rump, sent him off. "Fly!"
Bran turned around to face the next assault, only to find himself alone in the yard. There were other soldiers in hiding close by, he guessed, but none brave enough to face his bow until they could better protect themselves. He walked to the soldier squirming in the dirt with an arrow in his hip. "If you're finished with this, I'll be having it back," Bran told him. Placing a foot on the wounded man's side, he gave a hefty yank and pulled the arrow free; the knight screamed in agony and promptly passed out. Bran set the bloody arrow on the string and, watching for anyone bold enough to challenge him, backed toward the gate and his own waiting mount.
Upon reaching his horse, he cast a last look at the hall, where a knight's red-painted shield was just then edging cautiously into view from the open doorway. He drew and loosed. The arrow blazed across the distance and struck the shield just above the centre boss. The oak shaft of the arrow shattered, and the shield split. Bran heard a yowl of pain as the splintered shield disappeared. Smiling to himself, he climbed into the saddle, wheeled his horse, and rode to join his swiftly fleeing band.
CHAPTER
45
The fields and groves of Winchester fell away behind the steady hoofbeats of the horses. Bran pushed a relentless pace, and the others followed, keeping up as best they could. When Bran finally paused to rest his mount, the sun was a golden glow behind the western hills. The first stars could be seen in patches of clear sky to the east, and the king's town was but a dull, smoke-coloured smudge on the southern horizon.
"Do you know what this means?" demanded Tuck. Out of breath and sweating from the exertion, he reined in beside Bran and gave vent to his anger.
"I suppose it means we wont be asked to join the king's Christmas hunt," replied Bran.
It means," cried Tuck, "that a worse fate has befallen Elfael than any since Good King Harold quit the battle with an arrow in his eye. Christ and all his saints! Attacking the cardinal like that you could have got us all killed-or worse! What were you thinking?"
"Me? You blame me?" shouted Bran. "You cannot trust these people, Tuck. The Ffreinc are two-faced liars and cheats, every last one-beginning with that red-haired maggot king of theirs!"
"Well, boyo, you showed them," the friar growled. "This time tomorrow there will be a price on your head-on all our heads, thanks to you.
"Good! Let Red William count the cost of cheating Bran ap Brychan."
"For the love of God, Bran," Tuck pleaded, "all you had to do was swallow a fair-sized chunk of that blasted Welsh pride and you could have had Elfael for two thousand marks."
"Yesterday it was six hundred marks, and today two thousand," Bran spat. "It'll be ten thousand tomorrow, and twenty the day after! It is always more, Tuck, and still more. There is not enough silver in all England to satisfy them. They'll never let us have Elfael."
"Not now," Tuck snapped. "You made fair certain of that, did you not?"
Bran, glaring at the fat priest, turned his face away.
Iwan and Siarles, leading the packhorses, reined up then. "Sire," said Iwan, "what about the money? What are we going to do now?"