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,