The first sign of something amiss came as our forest tribe gathered to share the festal meal. We drank the abbot’s wine and savoured the aromas of roasting meat and fresh bread, and then Friar Tuck led us in the Christ Mass, offering comfort and solace to our exiled souls. We prayed with our good priest and felt God’s pleasure in our prayers.
It was as we were singing a last hymn the wind shifted, coming around to the west and bringing with it the scent of smoke.
Yes, Odo.” I sigh at his interruption. “It is not in any way unusual to smell smoke in a forest. In most forests there are always people burning things: branches and twigs to make charcoal, or render lard, clear land . . . what have you. But the Forest of the March is different from any other forest I’ve ever known, and that’s a fact.”
My monkish friend cannot understand what I am saying. To him, a forest is a forest. One stand of trees is that much like another. “See here,” I say, “Coed Cadw is ancient and it is wild—dark and dangerous as a cave filled with vipers. The Forest of the March has never been conquered, much less tamed.”
“You would call a forest tame?” He wonders at this, scratching the side of his nose with his quill.
“Oh, aye! Most forests in the land have been subdued in one way or another, mastered long ago by men—cleared for farmsteads, harvested for timber, and husbanded for game. But Coed Cadw is still untouched, see. Why, there are trees that were old when King Arthur rallied the clans to the dragon flag, and pools that have not seen sun-light since Joseph the Tin planted his church on this island. It’s true!”
I can see he doesn’t believe me.
“Odo, lad,” I vouch in my most solemn voice, “there are places in that forest so dark and doomful even wolves fear to tread—believe that, or don’t.”
“I don’t, but I begin to see what you mean,” he says, and we move on . . .
Well, as I say, we are all of us in fine festive fettle and about to sit down to a feast provided, mostly, at Abbot’s Hugo’s expense, when one of the women remarks that something has caught fire. For a moment, she’s the only one who can smell it, and then a few more joined her, and before we knew it, we all had the stink of heavy timber smoke in our nostrils. Soon enough, smoke began to drift into the glade from the surrounding wood.
In grey, snaking ropes it came, feeling its way around the boles of trees, flowing over roots and rocks, searching like ghost fingers, touching and moving on. Those of us seated at the table rose as one and looked to the west, where we saw a great mass of slate-black smoke churning up into the winter sky. Even as we stood gaping at the sight, ash and cinders began raining down upon us.
Someone gave out a cry, and Bran climbed onto the board. He stood with hands upraised, commanding silence. “Peace!” he said. “Remain calm. We will not fear until there is cause to fear, and then we will bind courage to our hearts and resist.” Turning to the men, he said, “Iwan, Siarles, fetch the bows. Will, Tomas, Rhoddi, follow me. We will go see what mischief is taking place.” To the others he said, “Those who remain behind, gather supplies and make ready to leave in case we must flee Cél Craidd.”
“Be careful, Will,” said Nóin, biting her lip.
“A little work before dinner,” I replied, trying to make my voice sound light and confident although the smoke thickening and ash raining down on our heads filled me with dread. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Iwan and Siarles returned and passed out the bows and bundles of arrows. I slung the strung bow over my chest and tied a sheaf of arrows to my belt. Leaving the folk in the care of Angharad and the friar, we departed on the run. We followed the drift of the smoke as the wind carried it from the blaze, and with every step the darkness grew as the smoke clouds thickened. Before long, we had to stop and wet the edges of our cloaks and pull them fast around our faces to keep from breathing the choking stuff.
We pressed on through the weird twilight and soon began to see the flicker of orange-and-yellow flames through the trees ahead. The fire produced a wind that gusted sharply, and we felt the heat lapping at our hands and faces. The roar of the blaze, like the surge of waves hurled onto the shore, drowned out all other sound.
“This way!” urged Bran, veering off the track at an angle towards the wall of fire.
Working quickly and quietly, we came around to a place where the fire had already burned. And there, standing on the charred, still-smouldering earth stood a body of Ffreinc soldiers—eight of them, loitering beside a wagon pulled by two mules and heaped with casks of oil. Some of them carried torches. The rest held lances and shields. All were dressed for battle, with round steel helmets and swords strapped to their belts; their shields leaned against the wagon bed.
We dropped to the ground and wormed back out of sight behind the screen of smoke and flames.
“Sheriff’s men,” spat Siarles.
“Trying to burn us out,” observed Tomas, “and on Christmas day, the sots. Not very friendly, I’d say.”
“Shall we take them, Bran?” asked Rhoddi.
“Not yet,” Bran decided. “Not until we know how many more are with them.” Turning to me and Rhoddi, he said, “You two go with Iwan. Siarles and Tomas come with me. Go all the way to the end and take a good look”—he pointed off into the wood where the wall of flame burned brightest—“and then come back here. We will do the same.”
Rhoddi and I fell into step behind Iwan, and the three of us made our way along the inside of the fiery wall, as it were, until, after a few hundred paces, we reached the end. Keeping low, to bet-ter stay out of the smoke, we crawled on hands and knees to peer around the edge of the flames. Ten Ffreinc soldiers were working this end of the blaze—two with torches and three with casks of oil they were sprinkling on the damp underbrush. Five more stood guard with weapons ready.
Iwan pointed out the one who seemed to be the leader of the company, and we withdrew, hurrying back to the meeting place. Bran and Iwan spoke briefly together. “We will take the first group here and now,” Bran told us, unslinging his bow. “Then we will take the others.”
Iwan drew three arrows from the cloth bag. “Fan out,” he told us, indicating the spread with three jerks of his hand, “and loose on my signal.”
We all drew three shafts and crept into position, halting at the edge of the flame wall. The Ffreinc were still watching the fire, their faces bright.When I saw Iwan fit an arrow to the string, I did likewise. When he stood, I stood. He drew, and so did I . . .
“Now!” he said, his voice low but distinct.
Six shafts streaked out from the wood, crossing the burned clear-ing in a wink. Four soldiers dropped to the ground.
The two remaining men-at-arms had no time to wonder what had happened to the other fellas. Before they could raise their shields or look around, winged death caught them, lifted them off their feet, and put them on their backs—pierced through with two shafts each.
Then it was a fleet-footed race to the further end of the flame wall. The fire was burning hotter as more of the underbrush and wood took light, drawing wind to itself and spitting it out in fluttering gusts. The smoke was heavy. We clutched our cloaks to our faces and made our way as best we could, stumbling half-blind through the murk to take up new positions.
The flames were now between us and the Ffreinc.We could see the soldiers moving as through a shimmering curtain. Imagine their surprise when out from this selfsame curtain flew not frightened partridges to grace the Christmas board, but six sizzling shafts tipped with stinging death.
Four of the arrows found their marks, and three Marchogi toppled into the snow. A fifth shaft ripped through a soldier’s arm and into the cask in the hands of the fella behind him. The amazed soldier dropped the cask, dragging down his companion, who was now securely nailed to the top of the cask.
“Ready . . . ,” said Iwan, placing another arrow on the string and leaning into the bow as he drew and took aim. “Now!”
Six more arrows sped through the high-leaping flames, and four more Ffreinc joined the first four on the ground. The remaining two, however, reacting quickly, threw themselves down, pulling their shields over them, thinking to protect themselves this way. But Iwan and Siarles, pressing forward as far as the flames would allow, each sent a shaft pelting into the centre of the shields; one glanced off, taking the edge of the shield with it. The other shaft struck just above the boss and penetrated all the way through and into the neck of the soldier cowering beneath it.
The last fella, crouching behind his shield, tried to back away. Bran knelt quickly and, holding the bow sideways, loosed a shaft that flashed out of the flames, speeding low over the ground. It caught the retreating soldier beneath the bottom edge of the shield, pinning the man’s ankles together. He fell screaming to the snow and lay there moaning and whimpering.
We held our breath and waited.
When no more soldiers appeared, we began to imagine it safe to leave.
“What are we to do about the fire?” I asked.
“We cannot fight it,” Siarles replied. “We’ll have to let it go and hope for the best.”
“We will watch it,” Iwan said. “If it spreads or changes direction, we should know.”
Bran looked back through the curtain of flame towards the fallen soldiers. “I did not see the sheriff.” Turning to us, he said, “Did any-one see the sheriff ?”
No one had seen him, of course, for just as the question had been spoken there came a shout and, from the night-dark wood behind us, mounted knights appeared, lances couched, crashing up out of the brush where they had been hidden.