Free Tuck by Stephen R. Lawhead Page A

consultation, and the abbot replied, “Come closer, if you please. My throat grows raw shouting like this.”
    “I am close enough,” Bran replied. “Swear to the truce.”
    Abbot Hugo took a step forward, spreading his arms wide. “Come,” he said, “let us be reasonable. Let us sit down together like reasonable men and discuss how best to fulfil your demands.”
    “First you must swear to the truce,” answered Bran through Odo. “There will be no peace unless you pledge a sacred vow to uphold the truce.”
    Frowning, the abbot drew himself up and said, “In the name of Our Lord, I swear to uphold the truce, ceasing all aggression against the people of Elfael from this day hence.”
    “Then it is done,” said Bran through Odo. “You may come forward—alone. Your monks are to stay where they are.”
    “A moment, pray,” called the abbot. “There is more . . . I wish to—”
    Bran halted. One of the monks behind Hugo dropped his hand to his side, and Bran caught the movement and glimpsed a solid shape beneath the folds of the monk’s robe. Grabbing Odo by the arm, Bran whispered something, and the two began backing away.
    “He’s onto them!” whispered Sergeant Jeremias from his hiding place among the roots.
    “I see that!” spat Gysburne. “What do you expect me to do?”
    “Stop him!” urged the sergeant. “Stop him now before he reaches the wood.”
    “Wait!” cried Abbot Hugo from the clearing. “We need safe conduct back to the village. Send some of your men to guard us.”
    When Odo had relayed these words to Bran, the young man called over his shoulder and said, “You came here under guard—you can leave the same way. There is no truce.”
    The two outlaws started for the wood again, and again Hugo called out, but Bran took no further notice of him.
    “Blast his cursed bones!” muttered Gysburne.
    “Stop him!” urged Jeremias with a nudge in the marshal’s ribs.
    With a growl between his teeth, Guy rose from his hiding place and, stepping out from behind the ash tree, called out, “Halt! We would speak to you!”
    At the sudden appearance of the marshal, Bran shoved Odo toward the nearest tree. Dropping to one knee, he raised his bow, the arrow already on the string. Gysburne had time but to throw himself to the ground as the missile streaked toward him. In the same moment, the nine knights hidden since midnight in anticipation of this moment rose with a shout, charging up out of the undergrowth. Odo gave out a yelp of fright and stumbled backwards to where Bran was drawing aim on the wriggling figure of Gysburne as he snaked through the grass toward the safety of the bracken.
    Swinging away from the marshal, Bran drew and let fly at the soldiers just then bolting from the wood to his left. His single arrow was miraculously multiplied as five more joined his single shaft in flight. Hidden since dawn in the upper branches of the great oaks and elms, the Grellon took aim and released a rain of whistling death on the knights scrambling below. Shields before them, the Ffreinc soldiers tried to keep themselves protected from the falling shafts. One knight stumbled, momentarily dropping his guard. An arrow flashed and the knight slewed wildly sideways, as if swatted down by a giant, unseen hand. A second arrow found its mark before the wounded man stopped rolling on the ground.
    Three more knights were down just that quick, and the five remaining soldiers moved surprisingly fast in their mail and padded leather tunics. Ten running paces carried them across the open ground between the wood and the lone kneeling archer. Swords drawn, they roared their vengeance and fell upon him.
    In the instant the soldiers raised their arms to strike, there came a sound like that of a hard slap of a gauntleted fist smashing into a leather saddle. Arrows streaked down from the upper branches of the surrounding trees, and the cracking thump was repeated so quickly the individual sounds merged to become