when Friar Tuck raised his voice and declared, “Friends! Gather around, everyone! Come, little and large! Come fill your cups. It is time to raise a health to the founder of the feast, our dear Blesséd Saviour—who on this night was born into our midst as a helpless infant so that he might win through this world to the next and, by his striving, open the gates of heaven so that all who love him might go in.” Lofting his cup, Tuck shouted, “To our Lord and Eternal Master of the Feast, Jesus!”
“To Jesus!” came the resounding reply.
Thus, the Feast of Christ began.
The devil, however, is busy always. Observing neither feast nor fest, our infernal tormentor is a harsh taskmaster to his willing servants. The moment we dared lift cup and heart to enjoy a little cheer, that moment the devil’s disciples struck.
And they struck hard.
CHAPTER 16
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 sunlight 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.”