Stephen Lawhead - Hood

"I could get ten marks," Bran told him, trying to make himself sound reasonable. "Maybe twelve."

"Twenty-five."

"Fifteen, maybe," Bran offered reluctantly. "But it would take time."

"How much time?"

"Four days," said Bran, pursing his lips in close calculation. "Five would be better."

"You have one," the Norman lord decided. "And the ransom will be twenty marks."

"Twenty, then," agreed Bran reluctantly. "But I will need a horse."

De Braose shook his head slowly. "You will go afoot."

"If I am not to have a horse, I will certainly need more time," said Bran. He would have the money before the morning was out but did not want the Ffreinc to know that.

"Either you can find the ransom or you cannot," concluded de Braose, making up his mind. "You have one day-no more. And you must swear on the cross that you will return here with the money."

"Then I am free to go?" asked Bran, surprised that it should be so easy.

"Swear it," said de Braose.

Bran looked his enemy in the eye and said, "I do swear on the cross of Christ that I will return with money enough to purchase my ransom." He glanced at the two knights standing by the door. "I can go now?"

De Braose inclined his long head. "Yes, and I urge you to make haste. Bring the money to me before sunset. If you fail, you will be caught and your life will be forfeit, do you understand me?"

"Of course." Bran turned on his heel and strode away. It was all he could do to refrain from breaking into a run the moment he left the hall. To maintain the pretence, he calmly crossed the yard under the gaze of the marchogi and strode from the caer. He suspected that his new overlords watched him from the fortress, so he continued his purposeful, unbroken stride until the trees along the river at the valley bottom took him from sight then he ran all the way to Llanelli to tell Bishop Asaph the grievous news about Brother Ffreol.

where is everyone?" shouted Bran, dashing through the gate and into the tidy spare yard of the Llanelli monastery. He had expected the yard to be full to overflowing with familiar faces of cowering, frightened Cymry seeking refuge from the invaders.

"Lord Bran! Thank God you are safe," replied Brother Eilbeg, the porter, hurrying after him.

Bran turned on him. "What happened to those I sent here?" he demanded.

"They've been taken to Saint Dyfrig's. Bishop Asaph thought they would be better cared for at the abbey until it is safe to return."

"Where is the bishop?"

"At prayer, sire," replied the monk. He looked through the door behind Bran, as if hoping to see someone else, then asked, "Where is Brother Ffreol?"

Bran made no answer but sped to the chapel, where he found Bishop Asaph on his knees before the altar, hands outstretched. "My lord," said Bran abruptly, "I have news."

The bishop concluded his prayer and turned to see who it was that interrupted his communion. One quick glance at Bran's bruised face told him there had been more trouble. "How bad is it?" asked the bishop, grasping the edge of the altar to pull himself to his feet.

"As bad as can be," Bran replied. "Brother Ffreol is dead. Iwan escaped, but they are searching for him to kill him."

The bishop's shoulders dropped, and he sagged against the near wall. He put a hand out to steady himself and paused a long moment, eyes closed, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Bran waited, and when the bishop had composed himself, he quickly explained how they had been caught on the road by marchogi who had killed the good brother without provocation.

"And you?" asked Asaph. "You fought free?"

Bran shook his head. "They took me captive and brought me to the caer. I was released to raise ransom for myself."

The bishop shook his head sadly. He gazed at Bran as if trying to fathom the depths of such outrageous events. "Cut down in the road, you say? For no reason?"

"No reason at all," confirmed Bran. "They are murderous Ffreinc bastards-that is all the reason they need."

"Did he suffer at all?"

"No," replied Bran with a quick shake of his head. "His death was quick. There was little pain."

Asaph gazed back at him with damp, doleful eyes and fingered the knotted ends of his cincture. "And yet they let you simply walk away?"

"The count thinks I am a nobleman,"

Asaph's wizened face creased in a frown of incomprehension. "But you are a nobleman,"

"I told him otherwise-although he refused to believe me."

"What will you do now?"

"I agreed to give him twenty marks in exchange for my freedom. I am honour-bound to bring him the money; otherwise he would never have let me go."

"We must go to Ffreol," murmured the bishop, starting for the chapel door. "We must go find his body and-"

"Did you hear me?" demanded Bran. Gripping the bishop's shoulder tightly, he spun the old man around. "I said I need the money."

"The ransom, yes-how much do you need?"

"Twenty marks in silver," repeated Bran quickly. "The strongbox-my father's treasure box-where is it? There should be more than enough to pay-" The sudden expression of anxiety on the bishop's face stopped him. The bishop looked away.

"The strongbox, Asaph," Bran said, his voice low and tense. "Where is it?"

"Count de Braose has taken it," the bishop replied.

"What!" cried Bran. "You were supposed to hide it from them!"

"They came here, the count and some of his men-they asked if we had any treasure," replied the churchman. "They wanted it. I had to give it to them."

"Fool!" shouted Bran. "In the name of all that is holy, why?"

"Bran, I could not lie," answered Asaph, growing indignant. "Lying is a venal sin. Love in the heart, truth on the lips-that is our rule."

"You just gave it to them?" Bran glared at the sanctimonious cleric, anger flicking like a whip from his gaze. "You've just killed me; do you know that?"

"I hardly think-"

"Listen to me, you old goat," spat Bran. "I must pay de Braose the ransom by sunset today, or I will be hunted down and executed. Where am I going to find that money now?"

The bishop, unrepentant, raised a finger heavenward. "God will provide."

"He already did!" snarled Bran. "The money was here, and you let them take it!" He growled with frustration and stalked to the open doorway of the chapel, then turned back suddenly. "I need a horse."

"That will be difficult."

"I do not care how difficult it is. Unless you want to see me dead this time tomorrow, you will find a horse at once. Do you understand me?"

"Where will you go?"

"North," answered Bran decisively. "Ffreol would still be alive and I would be safe there now if we had not listened to you."

The bishop bent his head, accepting the reproach.

Bran said, "My mother's kinsmen are in Gwynedd. When I tell them what has happened here, they will take me in. But I need a horse and supplies to travel."

"Saint Ernin's abbey serves the northern cantrefs," observed the bishop. "If you need help, you can call on them."

"Just get me that horse," commanded Bran, taking the cleric roughly by the arm and steering him toward the door.

"I will see what I can find." The bishop left, shaking his head and murmuring, "Poor Ffreol. We must go and claim his body so that he can be buried here amongst his brothers."

Bran walked alongside him, urging the elderly churchman to a quicker pace. "Yes, yes," he agreed. "You must claim the body, by all means. But first the horse-otherwise you will be digging two graves this time tomorrow."

The bishop nodded and hurried away. Bran watched him for a moment and then walked to the small guest lodge beside the gate; he looked around the near-empty cell. In one corner was a bed made of rushes overspread with a sheepskin. He crossed to the bed, lay down, and, overcome by the accumulated exertions of the last days, closed his eyes and sank into a blessedly dreamless sleep.