pay me heed now. I must tell you what to do, and we do not have much time.”
CHAPTER 19
Count Rexindo and his entourage assembled in the yard to await the appearance of the earl and his men. The stable-hands and idlers in the yard—many who had been in the hall the night before—watched them with an interest they had not shown in several days. Word of the day’s unusual sport had spread throughout the castle, and those who could had come to observe the spectacle for themselves. Under the gaze of the earl’s court, Bran gathered his company at a mounting block near the stables and traced out the steps of his plan one last time. All listened intently, keenly aware of the grave importance of what lay before them. When he finished, Bran asked, “You gave Lord Gruffydd the oil, Tuck?”
“I did,” the friar answered, “and Brocmael here has the clothes we bought.”
Bran glanced at the young man, who patted a bulge beneath his cloak.
“Alan, you know what to say?” he asked, placing his hand on the fellow’s shoulder and searching his face with his eyes.
“That I do, my lord. Come what may, I am ready. Never let it be said Alan a’Dale was ever at a loss for words.”
“Well then,” Bran said, gazing around the ring of faces. “It’s going to be a long and dangerous day, God knows. But with the Good Lord’s help we’ll come through it none the worse.”
“And the hounds?” asked Ifor.
“Leave them to me,” answered Bran. There was a noise in the yard as the earl and his company—including the five Ffreinc noblemen they had feasted with the previous night—emerged from the doorway across the yard. He gave Brocmael and Ifor an encouraging slap on the back and sent them on their way. “To the horses, lads. See you keep your wits about you and all will be well.”
As the two young Welshmen moved off to fetch their mounts, Bran composed himself as Count Rexindo; then, straightening himself, he turned, smiled, and offered a good-natured salute to Earl Hugh. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “Pray for all you’re worth, good friar. I would have God’s aid and comfort on this day.”
“Hey now,” Tuck replied, “it’s potent prayers I’m praying since first light this morning, am I not? Trust in the Lord. Our cause is just and we cannot fail.”
The earl and his company came into earshot then, and the count, piping up, said, “Pax vobiscum, mes ami.” Alan added his greeting and gave the earl a low bow he did not in any way deserve.
“Pax,” said Hugh. He rubbed his fat hands and glanced quickly around the yard, looking for his hounds and handlers. The lately arrived Ffreinc noblemen stood a little apart, stiff-legged and yawning; with faces unshaven and eyes rimmed red, they appeared ill rested and queasy in the soft morning light. Clearly, they were not accustomed to the roister and revel such as took place in Castle Cestre of an evening. The earl shouted across the empty yard, his voice echoing off the stone walls. In response to his call, a narrow door opened at the far end of the stable block and the porter entered the yard, pulling a very reluctant prisoner at the end of a chain behind him. “Here! Here!” said Hugh.
A moment later, from a door at the other end of the stables, the hounds and their handlers entered the yard. The hounds, seeing the horses and men assembled and waiting, began yapping with eager anticipation of the trail as hounds will. Count Rexindo, however, took one look at the chained captive and began shaking his head gravely.
“This is very bad,” he said, speaking through Alan, who made a sour face as he spoke—so as to emphasize the count’s displeasure. “No good at all.”
In truth, it was very bad. Years of captivity had reduced the Welsh king to little more than a rank sack of hair and bone. His limbs, wasted through disuse, were but spindles, and his skin dull and grey with the pallor of the prison cell. The bright morning light made him squint, and his eyes watered. Although he was so hunched he could hardly hold himself erect, Gruffydd nevertheless attempted to display what scraps of dignity he still possessed. This served only to make him appear all the more pathetic.
“My lord the count says that this prisoner will not serve,” Alan informed the earl.