Gathering up his robe, Aethelfrith strode boldly across the stream and started after the phantom. Upon reaching the far side of the stream, he paused and, finding nothing, proceeded into the brushwood, where the thing had vanished. There was no sign of the creature, and after a few paces he stopped to reconsider. He could hear the traders clattering away into the distance as their wagons bumped over the rutted road. Then, even as he was wondering whether to continue the chase or resume his journey, he saw the faint glimmer of glistening black feathers—just a quick flash before it disappeared into a hedge bank a few hundred paces down the trail. He hurried on.
The ground rose toward the ridge, and he eventually reached the top. Sweating and out of breath, he stumbled upon a game trail that led along the ridgetop. It was old and well established, overarched by the huge limbs of plane trees, elms, and oaks that formed a vault overhead and allowed only intermittent shafts of sunlight to strike down through the leaf canopy and illuminate the path. It was dark as a cellar, but since it was easier than pushing his way through the heavy underbrush, he decided to follow the run and soon realised just how quickly it allowed a man on foot to move about the forest.
The heat had been mounting steadily as the sun arced toward midday, and Aethelfrith was glad for the shade beneath the hanging boughs. He walked along, listening to the thrushes singing in the upper branches and, lower down, the click and chirrup of insects working the dead leaf matter that rotted along the trail. At any moment, he told himself, he would turn back—but the path was soft underfoot, so he continued.
After a time, the trail branched off; the left-hand side continued along the ridgetop, and the right-hand side descended the slope to a rocky hollow. Here the priest stopped to consider which path, if either, to take. The day was speeding from him, and he decided to resume his homeward journey. He turned around and started back, but he had not gone far when he heard voices: murmured only, light as thistledown on the dead-still air, there and gone again, and so faint as to be easily dismissed as the invention of his own imagining.
But years of living alone in his oratory with no company save his own inner musings had made his hearing keen. He held his breath and listened for the sound to come again. His vigilance was rewarded with another feather-soft murmur, followed by the unmistakable sound of laughter.
Frail as a wisp of cobweb adrift on the breeze, it nonetheless gave him a direction to follow. He took the right-hand trail leading down the back of the ridge. The path fell away steeply as it entered the hollow below, and Aethelfrith, his short legs unable to keep up with his bulk, plunged down the hill.
He entered the hollow in a rush, tripped over a root, and fell, landing with a mighty grunt at the feet of the great black phantom raven. He slowly raised his fearful gaze to see the ominous black head regarding him with malevolent curiosity.
The fantastic wings spread wide, and the thing swooped.
The priest rolled on his belly and tried to avoid the assault, but he was too slow, and he felt his arm seized in a steely grip as he squirmed on the ground. “God save me!” he cried.
“Shout louder,” hissed the creature. “God may hear you yet.”
“Let be!” he cried in English, wriggling like an eel to get free. “Let me go!”
“Do you want to kill him, or should I?”
Aethelfrith twisted his head around and saw a tall, brawny man step forward. He wore a long, hooded cloak into which were woven a multitude of small tatters of green cloth; twigs and branches and leaves of all kinds had also been attached to the curious garment. Regarding the priest with a frown, he drew a knife from his belt. “I’ll do it.”
“Wait a little,” spoke the raven with a human voice. “We’ll not kill him yet. Time enough for that later.” To the friar, he said, “You were at the ford. Did anyone else follow?”
Struggling in the creature’s unforgiving clutch, it took the priest a moment to realise that the thing had spoken to him.
Turning his eyes to his captor once more, he saw not the bone-thin shanks of a bird, but the well-booted feet and legs of a man: a man wearing a long cloak covered entirely with black feathers. The face staring down at him was an expressionless death’s head, but deep in the empty eye sockets, Aethelfrith caught the glimmer of a living eye.
“I ask for the last time,” the black-cloaked man said. “Did anyone follow you?”
“No, sire,” replied the priest. “I came alone. God have mercy, can we not talk this out? I am a priest, am I not?”
“That you are, Aethelfrith!” said the creature, releasing him at once.
“Pax vobiscum!” cried the priest, scrambling to his feet. “I mean no harm. I only thought to—”
“Tuck!” exclaimed the man in the leafy cloak.
Reaching up a black-gloved hand, the creature took hold of the sharp raven beak and lifted it to reveal a man’s face beneath.
“Blesséd Jesus,” gasped the astonished friar. “Is it Bran?”
“Greetings, Tuck,” laughed Bran. “What brings you to our wood?”
“You are dead!”
“Not as dead as some might wish,” he said, removing the high-crested hood from his head. “Tell us quickly now—how did you come to be here?”
“A hood!” cried the friar, relief bubbling over into exultation. “It is just a hood!”
“A hood, nothing more,” admitted Bran. “Why are you here?”
“I came to find you, did I not?” The friar stared at the strangely costumed man in amazement. “And here you are.
Sweet Peter’s beard, but you do not half frighten a body!”
“Friar Tuck!” called Iwan, stepping close. He gave the priest a thump on the back. “You held your life in your hands just then. What of the others—the men at the ford—did they see you?”
“Nay, John. They all ran away clutching their bowels.” He smiled at the memory. “You put the fear of the devil in them, no mistake.”
Bran smiled. “Good.” To Iwan he said, “Bring the horses.
We will meet Siarles as planned.”
“Tuck, too?” wondered Iwan.
“Of course.” Bran turned and started away.
“Wait,” called the cleric. “I came to Elfael to find you. I have something important to say.”
“Later,” Bran told him. “We must be miles from here before midday. Our day’s work has only begun. Come along,” he said, beckoning the priest to follow. “Watch and learn.”
The game run was narrow, and the horses were fast, pounding along the ridgetop track as the outreaching hazel branches whipped past. Bran, following Iwan’s lead, slashed his mount across the withers with his reins, careering through the forest. The trail continued to climb as the ridge rose, bending around to the north; upon reaching the summit, they abandoned the run and struck off along another trail, moving west toward the edge of the forest. The riders might have travelled more quickly but for the extra weight behind Bran, clinging on for dear life.
The trail dropped sharply into a rocky defile. The pathway became rough under hoof, and the riders slowed. Stones the size of houses rose abruptly on each hand, forming a winding and shadowed corridor through which they had to pick their way carefully. When the path grew too narrow, they abandoned their mounts, tying them to a small pine tree growing in a crevice, and then proceeded on foot.
Silently, they stalked along a stone gallery so close they could have touched both sides with arms outstretched. This trail ended, and they stepped out into a small clearing, where they were met by another man—also dressed in a long, hooded cloak of green tatters. “Where have you been?” he whispered sharply. He saw the bandy-legged priest toiling along in Bran’s wake and asked, “Where did you find that?”
Ignoring the question, Bran asked, “Are they here?”
“Aye,” answered the man, “but they will soon be moving on—if they are not already gone.” He darted away. “Hurry!”
Bran turned to his visitor and said, “You must swear a sacred oath to hold your tongue and keep silent.”
“Why? What is going to happen?” asked Aethelfrith.
“Swear it!” insisted Bran. “Whatever happens, you must swear.”
“On my naked soul, I swear silence,” the friar replied. “May all the saints bear witness.”
“Now stay out of sight.” To Iwan, looking on, he said, “Take up your position. You know what to do.”
All three moved off at a fast trot. Brother Aethelfrith stood for a moment, catching his breath, and then hurried after them.
Soon the surrounding wood began to thin somewhat, and they came to a dell with huge boulders strewn amongst the standing trees like miniature mountains. At the far end of the dell, the forest ended, and the Vale of Elfael opened before them.
Beneath a great spreading beech tree at the forest’s edge, three swineherds were taking their midday meal—two men and a boy, eating from a tuck bag they passed between them. All around them their scattered herd—thirty or more large grey-and-black-spotted swine—grubbed and rooted for last year’s acorns and beech mast beneath the trees.
Without a word, Bran and his two companions left the trail, quickly melting into the shadowed greenwood. Aethelfrith knelt down on the path to catch his breath and wait to see what would happen.
Nothing happened.
His attention had begun to drift when he heard a shout from the swineherds. Turning his eyes back to the trio of herdsmen, the friar saw that all three were on their feet and staring into the wood. He could not see what had drawn their attention, but he could guess.
The three remained stock-still, unable or unwilling to move, rigid with fear. Then Aethelfrith saw what they had seen: the elusive black shape moving slowly in and out of the shadows amongst the trees. At the same time, two figures in green emerged from the wood behind the watching herdsmen.
Keeping the low-hanging beech between the swineherds and the black shape that held their attention, the two green-cloaked men, using nothing more than short staves, quickly culled eight pigs from the herd and led them away into the wood.
Wonder of wonders, the swine followed the strange herdsmen willingly and without a sound. In less time than it would have taken Aethelfrith to tell, the livestock had been removed from the dell. Just as the animals disappeared into the forest, there arose a ghastly unnatural shriek from the surrounding wood. It was the same screech the priest had heard at the ford, only now he knew what it signified.
The swineherds, terrified by the inhuman cry, threw themselves to the ground and covered their heads with their mantles. They were still cowering there, not daring to move, when Iwan appeared and, with a gesture only, summoned Tuck to follow him. They returned to the horses then and waited for Bran, who soon joined them. “You can have Siarles’s horse,”
Bran told the priest. “He is bringing the pigs.”
The three retreated back down the narrow defile, retracing their steps until they reached a wider way, and then rode north into the heart of the forest. Unaccustomed to riding, it was all
Aethelfrith could do to remain in the saddle, let alone guide his mount. He soon lost all sense of distance and direction and contented himself with merely keeping up as he pressed deeper and ever deeper into the dark heart of the ancient wood.
Eventually, they slowed their horses and, after splashing across a brook and gaining a long, low rise, arrived at the great black trunk of a lightning-blasted oak. Here Bran stopped and dismounted. Aethelfrith, grateful for the chance to quit the saddle, climbed down and stood looking around. The trees were giants of the forest, their limbs huge and majestic, their crowns lofty. Their great girth meant that their trunks were far apart from one another and little grew in the shadows beneath them. Younger trees struggled up, straight and thin as arrows, to reach the sun; most failed. Unable to sustain their own weight, they fell back to earth—but slowly, slanting down at unnatural angles.
“This way,” said Bran, motioning his guest to follow. He stepped through the split in the trunk of the blighted oak as through an open door. The friar followed, emerging on the other side into a wide, sunlit hollow large enough to contain a most curious settlement, a veritable village of hovels and huts made from branches and bark and—could it be?—the horns, bones, and skins of deer, oxen, and other beasts. On the far side of the glade were small fields, where a number of settlement dwellers were at work amongst the furrowed rows of beans, peas, and leeks.
“Passing strange,” murmured Aethelfrith, oddly delighted with the place.
“This is Cél Craidd,” Bran told him. “My stronghold.
You are welcome here, Tuck, my friend. The freedom of my home is yours.”
The cleric made a polite bow. “I accept your hospitality.”
“Come along, then,” said Bran, leading the way into the peculiar settlement, “there is someone else I would have you meet before we sit down to hear your news.”
Bran, his cloak of black feathers gleaming blue and silver in the bright daylight, led the way to one of the hovels in the centre of the settlement. As they approached, an old woman emerged, pushing aside the deer hide that served as her door.
She regarded the newcomer with a keen dark eye and then touched the back of her hand to her forehead.
“This is Angharad,” said Bran. “She is our banfáith.”
Seeing that the priest did not understand the word, he added, “It is like a bard. Angharad is Chief Bard of Elfael.”
To the old woman, he said, “And this is Brother Aethelfrith—he helped us in Lundein.” Clapping a hand to the friar’s shoulder, Bran continued, “He has come with news he deems so important that he has travelled all the way from Hereford.”
“Then let us hear it,” said Angharad. Stepping back, she pulled aside the deerskin and indicated that her guests should enter. The single large room had a bare earth floor; packed hard and swept clean, it was covered by an array of animal skins and handwoven coverings. More skins encircled a round firepit in the centre of the room, where a small fire flickered amongst the embers. There was a sleeping pallet on one side and a row of woven grass baskets.
Bran untied the leather laces at the neck of his feathered cloak and hung it on the tine of a protruding antler above one of the baskets; above the cloak, he hung the high-crested hood with its weird mask, then removed the black leather gauntlets and put them in the basket. He knelt over a basin on the floor to splash water on his face and drew his hands through his black hair. Shaking off the excess moisture, he arched his back and then suddenly slumped and sighed, and his body quivered as if with cold. The tremor passed, and Bran straightened. When he turned, he had changed slightly; he was more the Bran whom Aethelfrith remembered.
Angharad invited her guests to sit and stepped out to a barrel beside the door; she dipped out a bowl, which she brought to the priest. “Peace, friend, and welcome,” she said, offering him the cup. “May God be good to thee all thy days, and strengthen thee to every virtue.”
The priest bowed his head. “May his peace and joy forever increase,” he replied, “and may you reap the rich harvest of his blessing.”
“It is water only,” Bran explained. “We don’t have enough grain to make ale just now.”
“Water is the elixir of life,” declared the priest, raising the bowl to his lips. “I never tire of drinking it.” He sucked down a healthy draught and passed the bowl to Bran, who also drank and passed it to Iwan. When the big man finished, he returned the bowl to Angharad, who set it aside and took her place at the fire ring with the men.
“I trust all is well in Hereford,” said Bran, easing into the reason for the friar’s journey to Elfael.
“Better than here,” replied Aethelfrith. “But that could change.” Leaning forward in anticipation of the effect his words would have, he said, “What if I told you a flood of silver was coming your way?”
“If you told me that,” replied Bran, “I would say we will all need very big buckets.”
“Aye,” agreed the priest, “and tubs and vats and casks and tuns and barrels and cisterns large and small. And I say you had best find them quickly, because the flood is on the rise.”
Bran eyed the stout priest, whose plump cheeks were bunched in a self-satisfied grin. “Tell us,” he said. “I would hear more of this silver flood.”