The battle lasted only moments and ended as abruptly as it had begun. There was a rustling in the branches overhead-as if a flock of nesting rooks had just taken flight-and the arrows stopped.
As the king's men reassembled to gather up their wounded and reckon their losses, they found a longbow lying among the rocks in the streambed-one of the rebels' weapons. What is more, it had blood on it. And there was no Ffreinc body in sight.
After the ruinous ventures of the previous encounters, this was deemed a triumph. It shrank in significance, however, when the victorious troops returned to their camp in the Vale of Elfael to learn that the other three search parties had become lost in the forest and unable to join the battle as planned. In their confusion, they had stumbled upon a hidden settlement-a cluster of crude huts and hovels made of sticks and skin around a great oak tree and a stone-lined well, together with a few storehouses and a pitiful field. Caught unawares, the inhabitants scattered. But the knights did manage to kill one of them as they fled-an old woman who seemed to be in some way guarding the place with only a wooden staff.
CHAPTER 37
Tuck half carried, half dragged the wounded Tomas through the wood, pausing now and then to rest and listen for sounds of pursuit. He heard only the nattering of squirrels and birds, and the rapid beating of his own heart. The spear, so far as he could tell, had been hurled in blind desperation up into the branches where the soldier had marked the arrow that killed the man beside him. By chance, the missile had caught Tomas in the soft place below the ribs on his left side. Tuck had been hiding in a crevice behind the tree and saw Tomas fall.
The archer landed hard among the roots of the tree, and Tuck heard the bone-rattling thump. Without a moment's hesitation, Tuck rushed to the warrior's aid and, with a shout to alert the others, hefted Tomas up onto his shoulders and started for home. He paused at the nearest stream to get some water and to assess the injury.
The spearhead had gone in straight and clean and, by the look of it, not too deep. There was plenty of blood, however, and Tuck wet one of the cloths he carried in his satchel and pressed it to Tomas's side. "Can you hold that?" he asked.
Tomas, his face ashen, nodded. "How bad is it?" he asked between clenched teeth.
"Not so bad," Tuck replied, "for all I can see. Angharad will be able to put it right. Is there much pain?"
Tomas shook his head. "I just feel sick."
"Yes, well, that is to be expected, is it not?" replied the friar. He offered the archer another drink. "Get a little more water down you and we'll move along."
Tomas drank what he could, and Tuck hefted him onto his feet once more. Draping the injured man's arm across his own round shoulders so as to bear him up, they continued on. The way was farther than he remembered, but Tuck kept up a ready pace, his short, sturdy legs churning steadily. As he walked, he said the Our Father over and over again, as much for himself as for the comfort of the man he carried.
After two more brief pauses to catch his breath, Tuck approached Cel Craidd. He could see the lightning-blasted oak that formed an archway through the hawthorn hedge which helped to hide the settlement. "Almost there," Tuck said. "A few more steps and we can rest."
There was a rush and rustle behind him. "Tuck! How is he?"
The friar half turned, bent low beneath the warrior whose weight he bore. "Iwan, thank God you're here." He glanced quickly around. "Is anyone else hurt?"
"No," he replied. "Only Tomas here." Tossing aside his bow, he helped ease the weight of the wounded man to the ground. Tomas, now only half-conscious, groaned gently as they stretched him out. "Let's have a look."
"I lost my bow," moaned the injured warrior.
"No matter, Tomas," replied Iwan. "We'll get you another. Lie still while we have a look at you."
Tuck loosened the young man's belt and pulled up his shirt. The wound was a simple gash in the fleshy part of his side, no more than a thumb's length. Blood oozed from the cut, and it ran clean. "Not too bad," Iwan concluded. "You'll be chasing Ffreinc again before you know it." To Tuck, he said, "Let's get him to a hut and have Angharad see to him."
As the two lifted Tomas between them, the rest of the war band appeared. "We're clean away," reported Rhoddi, breathing hard from his run. "No one gave chase."
Scarlet, Owain, and Bran were the last to arrive. Bran glanced around quickly, counting his men. "Was anyone else injured?"
"Only Tomas here," said Iwan, "but he-"
Before the words were out of his mouth there arose a piercing shriek-the voice of a woman-from the settlement beyond the concealing hedge. The cry came again: a high-pitched, desperate wail.
"Noin!" shouted Scarlet, darting forward. He dived through the archway of the riven oak and disappeared down the path leading into Cel Craidd.
The men scrambled after him, flying down into the bowl of a valley that cradled their forest home. At first glance all appeared to be just as they had left it earlier that morning… but there were no people, none to greet their return as on all the other days when they had gone out to do battle with the Ffreinc.
"Where are they?" wondered Owain.
The shuddering wail came again.
"This way!" Scarlet raced off along one of the many pathways radiating out into Coed Cadw.
Only a few steps down the path he found his wife standing in the path, bent almost double, her shoulders shaking with the violence of her sobs.
"Noin!" Scarlet rushed to her side. "Noin, are you hurt?"
She turned, her face stricken and crumpled with pain, although she appeared to be unharmed. And then Will looked at the bundle she cradled in her arms. It was little Nia, her arms and legs limp and still. The child appeared to be asleep, eyes closed, her features composed. There was a dark, ugly purple bruise on her throat.
Will Scarlet put his ear to the little one's face. "She's not breathing."
"Oh, Will…" sobbed Noin as Scarlet gathered them both in his arms.
"Bran!" shouted Rhoddi. "Over here!"
A few dozen steps farther along the path lay another, larger bundle-a shapeless mass of bloody rags, as if a sack of meat had been rolled and crushed beneath a millstone. Beside what was left of this body lay the banfaith's staff. Bran halted in midstep, staring, his face frozen.
"Angharad!" he cried, rushing swiftly to the body. He sank to his knees beside the pathetic heap of rag and bone and gathered it into his arms. He knelt there, rocking back and forth, cradling the corpse of his beloved teacher and advisor, his confidante, his best and dearest friend.
After a time, Bran collected himself somewhat; he lowered the body to the ground and gently smoothed the hair from the old woman's face and then cupped her wrinkled cheek in his hand. "Farewell, Mother," he whispered, gazing at the wizened features he had come to know so well. He placed the tips of his fingers to her eyes and drew her eyelids shut, then bent his head in sorrow as his tears flowed freely.
Owain and the others raced off to make a search of the path and surrounding wood. Bran gathered up the broken body of the Wise Banfaith in his strong arms and returned to Cel Craidd; Scarlet and Noin came after, bearing their beloved daughter. Tuck, ministering to Tomas's wound, looked up as Bran and Scarlet returned with the little girl and the old woman. He rose and ran to them as they lay the corpses beneath the spreading boughs of the Council Oak. "Who is it? Who-?" he said and stopped in his tracks. "Lord have mercy," he sighed when he saw who had been killed. "Christ have mercy."