Free Scarlet by Stephen R. Lawhead Page A

men. Occasionally, Bran would join us; more often, Iwan led the party. Siarles, whose skills as a forester were greater even than my own, always served as guide since he knew the greenwood well: where the deer would be found, around which bend the pigs would appear, or when the birds would flock or fly. A good and worthy huntsman, uncanny in his own way, he made sure we rarely returned empty-handed from the chase. To be sure, it was desperate hunting—we brought back game or we went hungry.
    In all these things, I was tested in small ways, and never openly. Still, through a word or gesture, or a glance exchanged, I soon came to understand that, while they accepted my presence among them, they did not wholly trust me yet. They were testing both my abilities and mettle, as well as my honour. This was only natural, I know, for a folk whose lives depended on remaining out of sight. The baron’s spies were everywhere, and the abbot was a wily, relentless foe. King Raven lived or died on the loyalty of his flock, even as they lived or died with him.
    So, they watched and they tested. Far from begrudging them their doubt, I welcomed every opportunity to prove myself.
    W hat’s that, Odo? Strayed from the point, you say?” Lately, our Odo has taken to interrupting me whenever he thinks I have wandered too far afield and may not be able to make it back to the place of my departure. So he checks me with a word or two. “Perhaps,” I allow, “but it is all of a piece, you see.”
    “That is as may be,” he says, rubbing his bald priest patch. “But you were speaking of an incident that, ah”—he scans his scribbled scrip—“taught you to trust Angharad’s wisdom.”
    “Right you are, Odo, lad. So I was. Well, then . . . where was I?”
    “The days were growing dimmer and a fine dry winter had set in.”
    He resumes writing, and we go on . . .
    O ne morning a few days before Christmas, I heard the call of a raven, but thought nothing of it until I saw people hurrying to the bare circle of earth beneath the tree they called Council Oak. “Will! Come, join us,” called Iwan. “It is the summons!”
    Angharad was there, wrapped head to foot in her cloak, although the day was mild enough for that time of year and the sun, low in the southern sky, was bright. Standing beside her was a small boy; I’d seen him before darting here and there about the place, always moving, never still. He seemed a clever, curious child, and a favourite of Bran’s among the youngsters.
    “Gwion Bach has news from Elfael,” she announced when Bran had taken his place. “Count Falkes is expecting winter supplies from his uncle, the baron. The wagons are to arrive any day.”
    “Is it known what is coming?” asked Bran.
    “Grain and wine, cloth and such,” she replied, glancing at the boy, who gave a slight nod. “And some things for the abbot’s new church.”
    “Any day,” mused Bran. “Not much time.”
    “None to lose,” agreed the hudolion.
    “Then we must hurry if we are to make ready a warm welcome for them.” Bran was already moving towards his hut. “Iwan! Siarles! To me!” He paused in midstep, turned, and regarded me as if weighing the prudence of taking an untried hound a-hunting with the pack.
    I sensed his reluctance and guessed what he was thinking. “My lord, I stand ready to lend both hand and heart to whatever command you give me.” Indicating young Gwion Bach, who was following in his lord’s footsteps, I said, “But if even children serve you in this fight, then perhaps you would not deny a willing elder to aid you in your purpose.”
    He nodded once, deciding it then and there. “Come along, Will. Join us.”
    “Rhi Bran!” Angharad called after him. “One thing more—something else comes with the wagons.”
    “Yes?”
    “There will be snow,” she said, gathering her robe around her more tightly.
    Bran accepted this without hesitation, but I had not yet learned to honour these utterances with