Free Hood by Stephen R. Lawhead

incense.
    Ffreol approached the altar, knelt, and said a prayer of blessing for the keeper of the cell. “I hope nothing has happened to old Faganus,” he said when he finished.
    “Saints and sinners are we all,” said a gruff voice from the open doorway. “Old Faganus is long dead and buried.”
    Startled, Bran turned quickly, his hand reaching for his knife. A quick lash of a stout oak staff caught him on the arm. “Easy, son,” advised the owner of the staff. “I will behave if you will.”
    Into the cell stepped a very short, very fat man. The crown of his head came only to Bran’s armpit, and his bulk filled the doorway in which he stood. Dressed in the threadbare brown robes of a mendicant priest, he balanced his generous girth on two absurdly thin, bandy legs; his shoulders sloped and his back was slightly bent, giving him a stooped, almost dwarfish appearance; however, his thick-muscled arms and chest looked as if he could crush ale casks in his brawny embrace.
    He carried a slender staff of unworked oak in one hand and held a brace of hares by a leather strap with the other. His tonsure was outgrown and in need of reshaving; his bare feet were filthy and caked with river mud, some of which had found its way to his full, fleshy jowls. He regarded his three intruders with bold and unflinching dark eyes, as ready to wallop them as welcome them.
    “God be good to you,” said Ffreol from the altar. “Are you priest here now?”
    “Who might you be?” demanded the rotund cleric. He was one of the order of begging brothers which the Ffreinc called fréres and the English called friars. They were all but unknown amongst the Cymry.
    “We might be the King of England and his barons,” replied Iwan, rising painfully. “My friend asked you a question.”
    Quick as a flick of a whip, the oak staff swung out, catching Iwan on the meaty part of the shoulder. He started forward, but the priest thumped him with the knob end of the staff in the centre of the chest. The champion crumpled as if struck by lightning. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath.
    “It was only a wee tap, was it not?” the priest said in amazement, turning wide eyes to Bran and Ffreol. “I swear on Sweet Mary’s wedding veil, it was only a tap.”
    “He was wounded in a battle several days ago,” Bran said. Kneeling beside the injured warrior, he helped raise him to his feet.
    “Oh my soul, I didn’t mean to hurt the big ’un,” he sighed. To Ffreol, he said, “Aye, I am priest here now.Who are you?”
    “I am Brother Ffreol of Llanelli in Elfael.”
    “Never heard of it,” declared the brown-robed priest.
    “It is in Cymru,” Bran offered in a snide tone, “which you sons of Saecsens call Wales.”
    “Careful, boy,” snipped the priest. “Come over highhanded with me, and I’ll give you a thump to remind you of your manners. Don’t think I won’t.”
    “Go on, then,” Bran taunted, thrusting forward. “I’ll have that stick of yours so far up your—”
    “Peace!” cried Ffreol, rushing forward to place himself between Bran and the brown priest. “We mean no harm. Pray, forgive my quick-tempered friends. We have suffered a grave calamity in the last days, and I fear it has clouded our better judgement.” This last was said with a glare of disapproval at Bran and Iwan. “Please forgive us.”
    “Very well, since you ask,” the priest granted with a sudden smile. “I forgive you.” Laying his staff aside, he said, “So now! We know whence you came, but we still lack names for you all. Do they have proper names in Elfael? Or are they in such short supply that you must hoard them and keep them to yourselves?”
    “Allow me to present Bran ap Brychan, prince and heir of Elfael,” said Ffreol, drawing himself upright. “And this is Iwan ap Iestyn, champion and battlechief.”
    “Hail and welcome, friends,” replied the little friar, raising his hands in declamation. “The blessings of a warm hearth beneath