"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."
"Only some pigs and a cow or two now and then," put in Iwan.
"Aye, any that wander too close to the forest," said Tomas. "Them's ours."
"But the way people talk you'd think the raids were ten-a-day."
"You can't help the way people talk," Iwan said. "We might stop the odd wagon betimes to remind folk to respect King Raven's wood, but there was only the one big raid."
"What did you do with all the money?"
"We gave it away," said Tomas, a note of pride in his voice. "Gave it to Bishop Asaph to build a new monastery."
"All of it?"
"Most of it," agreed Iwan placidly. "We still have a little kept by."
"Thing is," said Siarles, "silver coin isn't all that useful in the forest."
"We give out what is needful to the folk of Elfael to help keep body and soul together."
I had heard this part of the tale, too, but imagined it merely wishful thinking on the part of those telling the story. It seemed, however, the generosity of Rhi Bran the Hud was true even if the greater extent of his notorious activities was not.
"Just the one big raid? Why so?"
"Two good reasons," Iwan replied.
"It is flamin' dangerous," put in Siarles.
"To be sure," said Iwan. "It does no one any good if we are caught or killed in a needless fight. Neither did we want the Ffreinc to become so wary they would make the escorts too large to easily defeat…"
"Or change the route the wagons followed," Siarles said. The slight edge to his tone suggested that he did not altogether agree with the caution of his betters.
"As a result," continued Iwan, "the Ffreinc have grown lax of late. Because they have passed through the forest without trouble these many months, they think they can come and go at will now. Today, we will remind them who allows them this right."
Such prudence, I thought. They would not spend themselves except for great and certain gain, nor kill the goose that laid the silver eggs. Meanwhile, they watched and waited for those chances worthy of their interest.
"Am I to take it that today's supply train is of sufficient value to make a raid worth the risk?"
"That is what we shall soon discover." Iwan surged on ahead, and it was all we could do to keep up with him.
Finally, as the unseen sun stretched toward midday, we came in sight of the King's Road. Here we stopped, and Bran addressed us and delivered his final instructions. My own part was neither demanding nor all that dangerous so long as things went according to plan. I was to work my way along the road to a position a little south of the others, there to lie in wait for the supply train. I was to keep out of sight and be ready with my bow if anything went amiss.
Just before he sent us to our places, Bran said, "Let no one think we do this for ourselves alone. We do it for Elfael and its long-suffering folk, and may God have mercy on our souls. Amen."
CHAPTER 10
Amen!" We pledged our lives with our king's, and then stood for a moment, listening to the hush of a woodland subdued beneath the falling snow. And there was that much to goad a fella to reflection. Some or all of us might be dead before the day's journey had run, and there's a thought to make a man think twice.
"You heard him, lads. Be about your work," said Iwan, and we all scattered into the forest.
I moved a few dozen paces along the roadside and found a place behind the rotting bole of a fallen pine. It lay atop the slight rise of a bank overlooking the road below with a clear view ahead to the place where our rude welcome would commence. Trying not to disturb the snow too much, I cleared me a place and heaped up some dry leaves and pine branches, and lay my bowstave lengthwise along the underside of the pine trunk, where it would be somewhat protected from the snow and ready to hand. Then I hunkered down amongst the boughs and bracken. I need not have worried about leaving too many telltale signs, for the snow kept falling, gradually becoming heavier as the morning wore on. By midday the tracks we'd made had been filled in, removing any traces of disturbance. All the world lay beneath a clean, unbroken breast of glimmering white.
I sat and watched the flakes spin down, snow on snow, and still it fell. The day passed in silence, and aside from a few birds and squirrels, I saw no movement anywhere near the road. All remained so quiet I began to think that the soldiers guarding the supply train had thought better of continuing their journey and decided to lay up somewhere until the snow stopped and travel became easier. Maybe little Gwion Bach had it wrong and the wagons were not coming at all.
The daylight, never bright, began to falter as the snow fell thicker and faster. Warm as a cock in a dovecot under my cloak, I dozed a little the way a hunter will, alert though his eyes are closed, and passed the time in my half-sheltered nook…
… and awakened to the smell of smoke.
I looked around. Nothing had changed. The road was still empty. There was no sign of anyone passing or having passed; the snow was still falling in soft, clumping flakes. The light was dimmer now, the winter day fading quickly into an early gloom.
And then I heard it: the light jingle of a horse's tack.
I fished a dry string from my pouch and was rigging the bow before the sound came again. I shook the snow off from the bag of arrows and opened it. Bless me, there were nine black arrows inside-black from crow feather to iron tip. I placed four of them upright along the trunk of the tree in front of me, and blew gently on my hands to steady and warm them.
Oh, a fella can get a bit cramped waiting in the snow. I tried to loosen my stiff limbs a little without making too much commotion.
The sound came again and, again, the faint whiff of smoke. I had no time to wonder at this, for at that same instant two riders appeared. The snow softened all sound but the jingle of the tack as they rode, and the hooves of their horses breaking a path in the snow. Big men-knights-they loomed larger still in their padded leather jerkins and long winter cloaks which covered their mail shirts. Helmeted and gauntleted, their shields were on their backs and their lances were tucked into the saddle carriers; their swords were sheathed.
They passed quietly up the road and out of sight. I counted slow beats until those following them should arrive. But none came after.
I waited.
After a time, the first two returned, hastening back the way they had come. When they reached a place just below my overlook, one of the riders stopped and sent the other on ahead while he tarried there.
Scouts, I thought. Wary, they were, and right prudent to be so.
The soldier below me was so close, I could smell the damp horsehair scent of his mount and see the steam puff from the animal's nostrils and rise from its warm, sodden rump. I kept my head low and remained dead still the while, as would a hunter in the deer blind. In a moment, I heard the jingle of horse's tack once more and the second rider reappeared. This time, eight mounted soldiers followed in his wake. All of them joined the first knight, who ordered the lot to take up positions along either side of the road.
So now! These were not complacent fools. They had identified the hollow as potentially dangerous and were doing what they could to pare that danger to a nub. As the last soldier took his place, the first wagon hove into view. A high-sided wain, like that used to carry hay and grain, it was pulled by a double team of oxen, its tall wheels sunk deep in the snow-covered ruts of the King's Road. And though the wagon bed was covered against the snow, it was plain to a blind man by the way the animals strained against the yoke that the load was heavy indeed. Within moments of the first wain passing, a second followed. The oxen plodded slowly along, their warm breath fogging in the chill air, the falling snow settling on their broad backs and on their patient heads between wide-swept horns.