Stephen Lawhead - Hood

Those nearest swarmed over the fallen trunks, tumbling into the road and pulling the stragglers after them. When finally the last man had cleared the fiery corridor, Guy allowed himself to be pulled away from the wreckage by his sergeant. "Come, sire," said Jeremias, tugging him by the arm. "Let it go."

Still, Guy hesitated. He cast a last look over his shoulder at the inferno the road had become. Terrified horses still reared and plunged, hurling themselves headlong into the flames; the oxen lay dead-most had been killed by the knights in order to keep from being gored or trampled; discarded weapons and armour were strewn the length of the corridor. The rout was complete.

"It is over," said Jeremias. "You must rally the men and regain command. Come away."

Marshal Guy de Gysburne nodded once and turned away. A moment later, he was running into the flame-shattered darkness of a strange and hostile night.

The sound of frightened, mail-clad soldiers in headlong retreat dwindled away, and soon all that could be heard was the hiss and crackle of the burning brush and wagons. For a moment, the forest seemed to watch and wait with breath abated, and then the scouring of the king's road began.

Seven men carrying spears leapt over the burning logs and into the fiery corridor. Clad in green cloaks, the hooded men made quick work dispatching any wounded animals. They then signalled the rest of their band, and within the space of six heartbeats, twenty more men and women crept out from hiding in the surrounding wood. Likewise dressed in long green cloaks with leaves and twigs and bits of rag sewn onto them, they were the Grellon: King Raven's faithful flock.

Quickly removing their cloaks and hoods, the Grellon set about quenching the flames of the burning wagons and surrounding vegetation-using hides that had been soaked in the stream. As soon as the fires were out, torches were lit and sentries posted, and the flock fell to their appointed tasks with silent and urgent efficiency. While some of the band butchered the horses and oxen where they lay, others led the living animals away into the forest. Once the animals had been cared for, the workers unloaded the still-smouldering wagons, carefully examining the cargo. Much had been damaged by the flames, of course, but much remained unharmed; everything was carried off to be hidden in the wood for later use.

Once the vehicles had been unburdened of their baggage, the ironbound strongboxes were prised from the planks before the wagons themselves were broken apart and hauled into the forest. The useable parts-wheels, harness, yokes, and iron fittings-would find their way back into service, and the rest would be scattered, hidden, and left to rot.

While the wagons were being dismantled, the discarded bits of armour and weapons, saddles and tack-as well as anything else of value-were heaped together in a single pile that was then sorted into bundles and carried off. Meanwhile, the leavings of the butchered animals were placed in a ready-dug pit near the road, which was then filled in and covered with bracken and moss, freshly dug elsewhere and transplanted. When everything of value had been salvaged, the tree trunks blocking the road were removed-an arduous task made more difficult by the necessity of having to work in darkness-and the pitch-bearing logs were rolled back into the underbrush; any scorched branches were carefully trimmed back to green growth.

Their work finished, the forest dwellers gathered up the meat of the slaughtered beasts and crept away, melting back into the darkness from which they had sprung.

When the sun rose upon the forest the next day, there was little to mark the odd, one-sided battle that had been fought in that placesaving only some singed tree limbs that could not be reached, broken earth, and a few damp, dark patches where the blood of an ox or a horse stained the road.

Loss of all goods and chattels under your care, loss of horses and livestock, loss of church property and sacred relics-not to mention loss of the treasure you were sworn to protect," Abbot Hugo de Rainault intoned solemnly as he stared out the window of the former chapter house he had commandeered for his own use. "Your failure is as ignominious as it is complete."

"I lost no men," Marshal Gysburne pointed out.

"Mon Dieu!" growled Hugo. "Do you think Baron de Braose will care about that?" He levelled a virulent stare at the knight. "Do you think at all?"

Guy de Gysburne held his tongue and waited for the storm to pass. Of the two men before him, the abbot was the more outraged and possessed far greater ability to make his anger felt. Next to the fiery Hugo's scathing excoriations, the irate Count Falkes seemed placid and reasonable, if perturbed.

"At the very least, Gysburne, you will be imprisoned," said Count Falkes, breaking in.

"At worst, you face execution for malfeasance and gross neglect of duty," said the abbot, concluding the thought in his own way.

"We were ambushed. I did my duty."

"Did you? Did you?" demanded Hugo. "No doubt that will be of great comfort when your head is on the block."

"Execute a knight in service?" scoffed Guy; the bravado was thin and unconvincing.

"Do not imagine such a fate unlikely. The baron may think it worthwhile to make an example of you."

Guy, standing at attention with his hands clasped behind him as he bore the brunt of their anger, now turned in appeal to the count. "Lord Falkes," he said, "you saw the place of ambush; you saw how-"

"I saw very little indeed," Falkes replied with cool disdain. "A few bloodstains and some withered foliage. What is that?"

"It is my point exactly," insisted Guy, his voice rising with frustration. "Someone removed the wagons and oxen-removed everything!"

"Yes, yes, no doubt it was this creature-this phantom."

"I did not say that," muttered Guy.

"Phantom?" asked Abbot Hugo, raising one eyebrow with interest.

Falkes gave the priest a superior smile and explained about the birdlike creature haunting the forest of the March. "The folk of Elfael call it the Hud," he said. Waving his hand dismissively, he added, "I am sick of hearing about it."

"Hood?" questioned the abbot. "Is that what you said?"

"Hud," corrected Falkes. "It means sorcerer, enchanter, or some such. It is a tale to frighten children,"

"Something attacked us in the forest," the marshal said. "It commanded wild pigs, killed oxen, and burned our wagons."

"Yes, yes," replied Falkes impatiently, "and then carried everything away, leaving nothing behind."

"What do you want of me?" demanded Guy, tiring of the interrogation.

"I want the baron's money back!" roared Falkes. Guy lowered his head, and Falkes let out a sigh of exasperation. "Mon Dieu! This is hopeless." Looking to the abbot, he said, "Do what you will with him. I am finished here." With a last condemning glance at the miserable Guy de Gysburne, he paid the abbot a chilly farewell and strode from the room.

In a moment, they heard the clump of hooves in the yard as the count rode away. "A man in your precarious position, Gysburne," said the abbot quietly, "might rather ask what I can do for you." Clasping his hands before him, he regarded the dishevelled knight with a pitying expression. "I do not know what happened out there," Hugo continued in a more sympathetic tone, "but I see that it has shaken you and your men."

Gysburne clenched his jaw and looked away.

"There will be hell to pay, of course," resumed the abbot. "Yet I can ensure that the brunt of this catastrophe does not fall solely on your shoulders."

"Why should you help me?" asked the knight without looking up.

"Is not clemency an attribute of the Holy Church?" Abbot Hugo smiled. Guy's gaze remained firmly fixed on the floor at his feet. "If further explanation is needed, let us just say that I have particular reasons of my own."