Stephen Lawhead - Hood

"He will go with you and talk to them. He stands in good stead with Baron Neufmarche. The Ffreinc will listen to him. He will help you."

"I'm leaving, Merian." Bran backed away from the window. "It was a mistake to come here..

"Just wait there," she said and disappeared suddenly. She was back an instant later. "Here, take this," she said. Reaching out, she dropped a small leather bag into his hand. It chinked as he caught it. "It is not much," she said, "but it is all I have."

"I need a weapon," he said, tucking the bag away. "Can you get me a sword? Or a spear? Both would be best."

"Let me see." She darted away again and was gone longer this time. Bran waited. The sky brightened. The rising sun bathed his back with its warming rays. It would be daylight before he could start out, and that would mean finding a way north that avoided as much of Elfael as possible. He was pondering this when Merian returned to the window.

"I couldn't get a sword," she said, "but I found this. It belongs to my brother." She pushed the polished ash-wood shaft of a longbow out to him, followed by a sheaf of arrows.

Bran took the weapons, thanked her coolly, and stepped away from the window. "Farewell, Merian," he said, raising a hand in parting.

"Please don't go." Reaching out, she strained after him, brushing his fingertips with her own. "Think of your people, Bran," she said, her voice pleading. "They need you. How can you help them in Gwynedd?"

"I love you, Merian," he said, still backing away. "Remember me."

"Bran, no!" she called. "Wait!"

But he was already running for his life.

)By the time Bran reached the stream separating the two cantrefs, the sun was burning through the mist that swathed the forest to the east and collected in the hollows of the lowlands. Astride his slow horse, he cursed his luck. He had considered simply taking a horse from Cadwgan's stable but could not think how to do so without waking one of the stable hands. And even if he had been able to achieve that, adding the wrath of Lord Cadwgan to his woes was not a prospect to be warmly embraced. The last thing he needed just now was an irate king's search party hot on his heels.

Despite his slow pace, he rode easily along the valley bottom through fields glistening with early morning dew. The crops were ripe, and soon the harvest season would be upon them. Long before the first scythe touched a barley stalk, however, Bran would be far away beyond the forest and mountain fastness to the north, enjoying the warmth and safety of a kinsman's hearth.

There were, Bran considered as he clopped along, two ways to Gwynedd through the Cymraic heartland. Elfael straddled both, and neither was very good.

The first and most direct way was straight across Elfael to Coed Cadw and then through dense woodland all the way to the mountains. They were not high mountains, but they were rough, broken crags of shattered stone, and difficult to cross-all the more so for a man alone and without adequate supplies. The second route was less direct; it meant skirting the southern border of Elfael and working patiently through the intricate interlacing of low hills and hidden valleys to the west before turning north along the coast.

This second route was slower and passed uncomfortably close to Caer Cadarn before bending away to the west. There was a risk that he might be seen. Still, it kept him out of the treacherous mountain pathways and made best use of his mount's limited value as a steady plodder.

Bran did not relish the idea of passing so close to the unfriendly Ffreinc, but it could not be helped. He considered laying up somewhere and waiting until nightfall; however, the idea of trying to remain hidden under de Braose's nose and then thrashing around the countryside in the dark lacked the allure of ready flight. The day was new, he reckoned, and he would pass Caer Cadarn at the nearest point while it was still early morning and the invaders would most likely be otherwise occupied. Perhaps they were not even looking for him yet.

He reached the boundary stream but did not cross. Instead, he turned his slow steed west and, in the interest of keeping well out of sight of Caer Cadarn, followed the narrow waterway as it snaked through the gorsy lowlands that formed the border between Elfael and Brycheiniog to the south. In time, the stream would swing around to the northwest, entering Maelienydd, a region of rough hills and cramped valleys that he hoped to cross as quickly as possible. Then he would head for Arwstli, angling north all the while toward Powys and so work his way cantref by cantref to Gwynedd and a glad welcome amongst his mother's people.

Bran was thinking about how distraught and outraged his kinsmen would be upon learning the news of his father's cruel murder and the loss of Elfael when the distant echo of a scream brought him up short. He tried telling himself he had imagined it only and was halfway down the path toward believing that when the terrified shriek came again: a woman's voice, carried on the breeze and, though faint, clearly signifying terrible distress. Bran halted, listened again, and then turned his mount in the direction of the cry.

He crossed the stream into the far southwestern toe of Elfael. Over the nearest hill, he saw the first threads of black smoke rising in the clear morning air. He crested the hill and looked over into the valley on the other side, where he saw the settlement called Nant Cwm, a fair-sized holding comprised of a large house and a yard with several barns and a few outbuildings. Even from a distance, he could see that it was under attack; smoke was spewing from the door of the barn and from the roof of the house. There were five saddled horses in the yard between the house and barn, but no riders. Then, as Bran watched, a man burst from the front door of the house, almost flying. He ran a few steps, his feet tangled, then fell sprawling on his side. Right behind him came his attackers-two Ffreinc men-at-arms with drawn swords. Two more marchogi emerged from the house, dragging a woman between them.

Bran saw the hated Ffreinc, and his anger flared white hot in an instant. Snatching up the bow Merian had given him, he grabbed the sheaf of arrows, and before he knew his feet had touched ground, he was racing down the hill toward the settlement.

In the yard, the farmer cried out, throwing his hands before him clearly pleading for his life. The two Ffreinc standing over him raised their swords. The woman screamed again, struggling in the grasp of her captors. The farmer shouted again and tried to rise. Bran saw the swords glint hard and bright in the sun as they slashed and fell. The farmer writhed in a vain attempt to avoid the blows. The fierce blades slashed again, and the man lay still.

At the farmer's death, Bran's vision hardened to a single, piercing beam, and the world flashed crimson. He bit his lip to keep from crying out his rage as he flew toward the fight. As soon as he judged he was within the longbow's range, he squatted down and opened the cloth bundle.

There were but six arrows. Every arrow would have to count. Bran nocked the first onto the string, pulled the feathered shaft close to his cheek, and took aim-his target the nearer of the two soldiers struggling with the farmer's wife.

Just as he was about to let fly, the farmhouse door opened and out of the burning building ran a young boy of, perhaps, six or seven summers.

One of the marchogi shouted, and from around the far side of the house another Ffreinc soldier appeared with a sword in one hand and the leash of an enormous hunting dog in the other. This was the commander-a knight with a round steel helmet and a long hauberk of ringed mail. The knight saw the boy escaping across the yard and gave a shout. When the child failed to stop, he loosed the hound.