"Impossible to say," replied Bran. Dismounting, he darted back toward the run. "Stay here, everyone, and keep the horses quiet."
"Do as he says," instructed Tuck, sliding from the saddle. He followed Bran, and found him crouched in the bracken, peering out from beneath low-hanging yew branches onto the run.
"Any sign of them?" he said, creeping up beside Bran.
"Not yet," whispered Bran, laying a finger to his lips.
In a moment, they heard the light jingling of the Ffreinc horses' tack and the faint thump of hooves on the soft earth as they came. Bran flattened himself to the ground, and Tuck likewise. They waited, holding their breath.
The first of the riders passed-one of the visiting Ffreinc noblemen who had ridden with them the previous day-scouting ahead of the others. At that moment, there was a rustling of brush behind them and King Gruffydd appeared.
"Is it him?" demanded Gruffydd. "Is it Wolf d'Avranches?"
"Shh!" Bran hissed. "Get down."
Just then the main body of hunters passed: four knights and Earl Hugh, riding easily in the early morning. "There he is!" said Gruffydd, starting up again.
"Quiet!" said Bran.
"That vile gut-bucket-I'll have him!" growled Gruffydd, charging out of the brake. Bran made a grab for the king, caught him by the leg and pulled. Gruffydd kicked out, shaking Bran off, and stumbled out onto the run. The riders were but a hundred paces down the run when the Welsh king appeared out on the open track behind them. He gave a shout, and one of the riders turned, saw him, and jerked hard on the reins. "Ici! Arret! " he cried, wheeling his horse.
"He's insane!" snarled Bran. Out from the wood he leaped, snagged the king by the neck of his cloak, and yanked him back under the bough of the yew tree.
"Release me!" shouted the king, wrestling in his grasp.
"You'll get us all killed!" growled Bran, dragging him farther into the wood.
"Let them come!" sneered Gruffydd, shrugging off Bran's hands. "I'm not afraid."
"Jesu forgive," said Tuck to himself. Stepping quickly behind the king, he tapped him on the shoulder. Gruffydd turned, and the friar brought the thick end of a stout stick down on the top of his head with a crack. The king staggered back a step, then lurched forward, hands grasping for the priest. Tuck gave him another smart tap, and the king's eyes fluttered back in his head and he fell to his knees.
"Good work, Tuck," said Bran, catching Gruffydd as he toppled to the ground. From the hunting run there came a sound that set their hearts beating all the faster: hounds. The first dog gave voice, followed by two others. "Hurry! Get back to the horses."
Dragging the half-conscious king between them, they fought through the bracken and tangled vines of ivy to where Ifor and Brocmael were waiting with the horses. "Get his clothes off him," directed Bran, pointing to Gruffydd. As Brocmael and Ifor began stripping off the Welsh king's clothing, Bran laid out his plan. "Fly back to town and make for the docks. Find Alan and have him get any ship that's going." Bran began shucking off his boots. "I'll keep them busy while you make good your escape."
The baying of the hounds seemed to fill the forest now, drawing ever nearer.
"What are you going to do?" said Tuck, watching Bran pull off his tunic and trousers.
"Give those to me." He took Gruffydd's tunic and cloak from Ifor. "Get his trousers."
There was shouting from the hunting run; the hunters had found their trail. As the others hefted an unresisting Gruffydd into the saddle, Bran pulled on the Welsh king's trousers and stuffed his feet into his boots.
"I'll stay with you," said Tuck.
"No," said Bran. "Go with them. Take care of Gruffydd. If I don't find you before you reach the town, see you get yourselves on the first ship sailing anywhere. Leave the horses if you have to-just see you get clear of the town with all haste."
"God with you," said Tuck as Bran disappeared into the forest, racing towards the sound of the barking dogs.
"We should stay and help him," Ifor said.
"He can take care of himself," replied the priest, struggling into the saddle. "Believe me, no one knows how to work the greenwood like Rhi Bran."
"I'm staying," Ifor declared, drawing his sword.
"Put that away, lad," Tuck told him. "There's been enough disobedience for one day. We'll do as we're told."
With a grimace of frustration, the young Welshman thrust his blade back into the scabbard and the three took to flight, leading Bran's horse with the wounded king slung sideways across his mount like a bag of grain.
They worked deeper into the wood and heard, briefly, shouts echoing from the direction of the hunting run, and horses thrashing into the close-grown bushes and branches. There was a crash-as if a horse or its rider had fallen into a hedge-and then a cry of alarm, followed by other shouts and the frenzied barking of the hounds sighting their quarry. Then, slowly, the sounds of the chase began to dwindle as the pursuit moved off in another direction.
The riders continued on, eventually working back to the head of the hunting run. By this time Gruffydd was able to sit up in the saddle, so they lashed their horses to speed and made quick work of the remaining distance, keeping out of sight of the castle until they reached the track leading to Caer Cestre. Alan was there on the wharf, waiting where they'd left him. He waved as Tuck and the others came in sight-a quick, furtive flick of his hand. Tuck then saw why Alan was trying to warn them. His heart sank. For between Alan and the dock stood two of the Ffreinc noblemen they had been hunting with the day before, and there was no ship in sight.
CHAPTER 22
Leaping, ducking, dodging through the thick-grown woodland tangle like a wild bird, Bran flew towards the sound of the baying hounds. In a little while, he reached the edge of the hunting run and burst out onto open ground-not more than a few hundred paces from the hunting party: four men on horseback, lances ready. They were standing at the edge of the run, watching the wood and waiting for the dogs and their handler to flush the quarry into the open so they could ride it down.
It was their usual way of hunting. Only, this time, their quarry was Bran.
Without a moment's hesitation, Bran put his head down and ran for the opposite side of the wide grassy corridor. He had made it but halfway across when there arose a shout behind him. "Arret! Arret!"
He ran even faster and reached the far side of the hunting run and flashed into the undergrowth with the riders right behind. There was more shouting behind him and the sound of ringing steel as the four knights began hacking their way into the wood. Bran found a big elm tree and paused to catch his breath. He waited until he heard the hounds again and then darted off once more, this time working his way back through the woods in the direction of the earl's castle.
The chase was breathless and frantic. The hounds were quick on his scent, and as fast as Bran hurtled through the brake, the dogs were faster still. It was only a matter of time before he would be caught and brought to bay. He ran on, trying his best to put some distance between himself and the hunters. He heard the slavering growls as the beasts closed on him. He was searching for a heavy branch to wield as a club when the first hound finally reached him.
The dog bounded over a fallen limb, and Bran turned meet it. The animal-a great, long-legged rangy grey beast-howled once and leaped for him. Bran, standing still in the path, made no move to flee. Instead, he held out his hands. "Here! Come, old friend. Come to Count Rexindo."
The dog, confused now, hesitated. Then, identifying the man who had fed him and befriended him, it gave a yelp of recognition and ran to Bran, put his paws on his chest, and began licking Bran's face. "Good fella," said Bran. "That's right, we're friends. Here, come with me. Let's run."