Stephen Lawhead - Hood

)Brother Aethelfrith paused on the road to drag a damp sleeve across his sweating face. The Norman merchants with whom he had been travelling had long since outpaced him; his short legs were no match for their mules and high-wheeled carts, and none of the four traders or their retainers had consented to allow him to ride in back of one of the wagons. To a man, all had made obscene gestures and pinched their nostrils at him.

"Stink? Stink, do I?" muttered the mendicant under his breath. He was a most fragrant friar, to be sure, but the day was sweltering, and sweat was honest reward for labours spent. "Normans," he grumbled, mopping his face, "God rot them all!"

What a peculiar people they were: big, lumpy lunks with faces like horses and feet like boats. Vain and arrogant, untroubled by any notions so basic as tolerance, fairness, equality. Always wanting everything their own way, never giving in, they reckoned any disagreement as disloyal, dishonest, or deceitful, while judging their own actions, however outrageously unfair, as lawful God-given rights. Did the Ruler of heaven really intend for such a greedy, grasping, gluttonous race of knaves and rascals to supplant Good King Harold?

"Blessed Jesus," he muttered, watching the last of the wagons recede into the distance, "give the whole filthy lot flaming carbuncles to remind them how fortunate they are."

Then, chuckling to himself over the image of the entire occupying population hopping around clutching painfully swollen backsides, he moved on. Upon cresting the next hill, he saw a stream and a fording place where the road met the valley. Several of the carts had paused to allow the animals to drink. "God be praised!" he cried and hurried to join them. Perhaps they would take pity on him yet.

Arriving at the ford, he called a polite greeting, but the merchants roundly ignored him, so he walked a little way upstream until he came to a shady place, where, drawing his long brown robe between his legs, he tucked the ends into his belt and waded out into the stream. "Ahh," he sighed, luxuriating in the cool water, "a very blessing on a hot summer day. Thank you, Jesus. Much obliged."

When the merchants moved off a short while later, he remained behind, content to dabble in the stream a little longer. By all accounts, Llanelli was a mere quarter day's walk from the ford. No one was expecting him, so he could take all the time he needed; and if he reached the monastery by nightfall, he would count himself fortunate.

The fat friar padded in the stream, watching the small, darting fish. He hummed to himself, enjoying the day as if it were a meal of meat and ale spread before him with lavish abundance. Upon reflection, he had no right to be so happy. His errand, God knew, was sin itself.

How he had come to the idea, he still could not say. An overheard conversation-a marketplace rumour, an errant word, perhaps, spoken by a stranger in passing-had worked away in him, sending its black roots deep, growing unseen until it burst forth like a noxious flower in full bloom. One moment, he had been standing before the butcher's stall, haggling over the price of a rind of bacon, and the next his bandy legs were scuttling him back to his oratory to pray forgiveness for the thoroughly immoral idea that had so forcefully awakened in his everscheming brain.

"Oh my soul," he sighed, shaking his head at the mystery of it. "The heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. Who can know it?"

Although he had spent the night on his knees, begging both forgiveness and direction, as dawn came up bright in the east, that heavenly guidance was no more in evidence than the pope's pardon. "If you have qualms, Lord," he sighed, "stop me now. Otherwise, I go."

Since nothing materialised to prevent him, he rose, washed his face and hands, strapped on his sandals, and hastened to consummate his scheme. It was not-and he was fiercely adamant about this part-for his own enrichment, nor did he desire any gain but justice. This was the heart of the matter. Justice. For, as his old abbot had often said, "When iniquity sits in the judgement seat, good men must take their appeals to a higher court."

Aethelfrith did not know how that appeal to justice might come about, but trusted that his information would give Bran all the inspiration he required to at least set the wheels in motion.

The shadows lengthened over the valley, and the road was not shrinking; with grudging reluctance, Aethelfrith stepped from the water, dried his feet on the hem of his robe, and continued on his way. The merchants' van was well ahead of him now, but he dismissed the rude company from his thoughts. His destination was almost within sight. The Vale of Elfael stretched before him, its green fields spotted with slow-shifting loud shadows. He doubted a more peaceful and serene dale could be found anywhere.

Buoyed by the beauty of the place, Brother Aethelfrith opened his mouth wide and began to sing aloud, letting his voice resound and echo out across the valley as he made his way down the long slope that would eventually bring him to Llanelli.

He was sweating again, long before reaching the valley floor. In the near distance he saw the old fortress, Caer Cadarn, rising on its hump of rock overlooking the road. "May your walls keep you safe as Jericho," Aethelfrith muttered, then crossed himself and hurried by.

The sun was touching the far western hills when he reached Llanelli or what was left of it. The low wall of the enclosure had been taken down and most of the interior buildings either destroyed or converted to other uses. The yard had been enlarged to make a market square, and new structures-unfinished, their bare timbers rising from the builders' rubble-stood at each corner. All that remained of the original monastery was a single row of monks' cells and the chapel, which was only slightly larger than his own oratory. There seemed to be no one around, so he strode to the door of the chapel and walked in.

Two priests knelt before the altar, on which burned a single thick tallow candle that sent a black, oily thread of smoke into the close air. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then cleared his throat to announce his presence and said, "Forgive me, friends. I see I am inter" rupting your prayers.

The nearer of the two priests looked around and then nudged the other, who quickly finished his prayer, crossed himself, and rose to greet the newcomer. "God be good to you, brother," said the priest, taking in his visitor's robe and tonsure. "I am Bishop Asaph. How can I be of service?"

"Greetings in Christ and all his glorious saints!" declared the mendicant. "Brother Aethelfrith, I am, come on an errand of some… ah"-he hesitated, not wishing to say too much about his illicit chore-"delicacy and importance."

"Peace and welcome, brother," the bishop said. "As you can see, we have little left to call our own, but we will help you in any way we can."

"It is easily done and will cost you nothing," the friar assured him. "I am looking for Bran ap Brychan-I have a message for him. I was hoping someone here could tell me where to find him."

At this, a shadow passed over the bishop's face. His smile of welcome wilted, and his eyes grew sad. "Ah," he sighed. "I would that you had asked anything but that. Alas, you will not find the man you seek amongst the living." He shook his head with weary regret. "Our young Prince Bran is dead."

"Dead! Oh, dear God, how?" Aethelfrith gasped. "When did this happen?"

"Last autumn, it was," replied the bishop. "As to how it happened-there was a fight, and he was cruelly cut down when trying to escape Count de Braose's knights." The English monk staggered backwards and collapsed on a bench against the wall. "Here; rest a moment," said Asaph. "Brother Clyro, fetch our guest some water."