children, but by our children’s children—or those who after them come. But sow we must; another course we have not.”
“Yet, there is hope?” asked the friar.
“There is always hope, Aethelfrith,” replied the old woman. “In hope we do abide. As children of the Swift Sure Hand, hope is our true home. You, a priest, must understand this.”
Tuck smiled at the gentle rebuke. “I bow to your teaching, Banfáith. And you are right, of course. I used to know a bishop who said much the same thing. Hope is the treasure of our souls, he would say.”
“It is an end worth fighting for,” mused Bran. “It may be for others to complete what we’ve begun, but there must be a beginning. And we will carry this fight as far as we can before passing it on to those who come after.”
The three of them sat in silence, watching the flames and listening to the crack and hiss of the wood as it burned. From somewhere in the forest an owl called to its mate. It was a sound Tuck had heard countless times since throwing in his lot with the forest folk, but tonight it filled him with an almost unbearable sadness. He rose from his place and bade the other two a good night. “God rest you right well, friends, and grant you His peace.”
“Tuck,” said Bran as the friar stepped from the hearth, “the Ffreinc are grasping, devious devils—false-hearted as the sea is wide. Even so, I am willing to swear fealty to Red William if it means we can draw a living breath without their foot on our neck. If you can find a way to speak peace to William, I stand ready to do my part. I want you to know that.”
That night the friar did not sleep. Though cool and damp, the sky was clear and ablaze with stars; he found a place among the roots of one of the giant oaks and settled down in the dry bracken to pray for Elfael and its people, and all those who would not be able to avoid the war that was coming. He was praying still when the watchers rose, silently saddled their horses, and departed Cél Craidd to take up their posts on the King’s Road.
CHAPTER 33
Hereford
Spare me the excuses, Marshal,” said King William, cutting off the lengthy beggings of pardon as read out by Guy of Gysburne. Following his eviction from Elfael, his fortunes had risen beyond anything he might have dared to hope. Owing to his intimate knowledge of the Cymry and the lands beyond the March, the young marshal had become an aide-de-camp to William Rufus for the purpose of what the king now referred to as the Harrowing of Wales. “Tell it to me plain—who has come?”
Gysburne allowed his gaze to drop down the parchment roll prepared for him by the court scribes in attendance. “Besides Huntingdon, Buckingham, and Surrey, who marched out with you, there is Bellême of Shrewsbury and de Reviers of Devon. Salisbury arrived a short while ago,” he read on. “FitzRobert of Cornwall has sent word ahead and should arrive before nightfall. Earl Hugh of Chester—accompanied by Rhuddlan—will join us tomorrow or the day after. Le Noir of Richmond is on the road; he begs pardon, but the distance is too great and the time too short . . .”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the king irritably. “Go on.”
“There is de Mowbray of Northumberland, who also sends regrets and apologies, albeit he is en route and will join you as soon as travel permits.” Guy looked up from the roll. “As for the rest, we must presume they are either on their way, or sending petitions of pardon.”
The king nodded. “There is one notable absence.”
“Sire?”
“Neufmarché, of course. This is his castle, by the bloody rood! He should be here to receive us. Where is he?”
“I have spoken to his seneschal, Sire, who will say only that the baron is away visiting his lands in Wales. The summons was sent on, but it is not at all certain that it reached him, since the messenger has not yet returned.”
“I swear upon my father’s grave, if Neufmarché does not appear in two days’ time, it would be better for him not to appear at all.”
“Sire?”
“The baron is a devious, two-faced schemer, Marshal. I snubbed him once to put him in his place—summoned him to attend me and then kept him wearing out the waiting bench for three days . . . and