Free Hood by Stephen R. Lawhead Page A

a dry roof are yours tonight. May it be so always.”
    Now it was Bran’s turn to be amazed. “How is it that you speak Cymry?”
    The brown priest gave him a wink. “And here was I, thinking you hotheaded sons of the valleys were as stupid as stumps.” He chuckled and shook his head. “It took you long enough. Indeed, sire, I speak the tongue of the blessed.”
    “But you’re English,” Bran pointed out.
    “Aye, English as the sky is blue,” said the friar, “but I was carried off as a boy to Powys, was I not? I was put to work in a copper mine up there and slaved away until I was old enough and bold enough to escape. Almost froze to death, I did, for it was a full harsh winter, but the brothers at Llandewi took me in, did they not? And that is where I found my vocation and took my vows.” He smiled a winsome, toothy grin and bowed, his round belly almost touching his knees. “I am Brother Aethelfrith,” he declared proudly. “Thirty years in God’s service.” To Iwan, he said, “I’m sorry if I smacked you too hard.”
    “No harm done, Brother Eathel . . . Aelith . . . ,” Iwan stuttered, trying to get his British tongue around the Saxon name.
    “Aethelfrith,” the priest repeated. “It means ‘nobility and peace,’ or some such nonsense.” He grinned at his guests. “Here now, what have you brought me?”
    “Brought you?” asked Bran. “We haven’t brought you anything.”
    “Everyone who seeks shelter here brings me something,” explained the priest.
    “We didn’t know we were coming,” said Bran.
    “Yet here you are.” The fat priest stuck out his hand.
    “Perhaps a coin might suffice?” said Ffreol. “We would be grateful for a meal and a bed.”
    “Aye, a coin is acceptable,” allowed Aethelfrith doubtfully. “Two is better, of course. Three, now! For three pennies I sing a psalm and say a prayer for all of you— and we will have wine with our dinner.”
    “Three it is!” agreed Ffreol.
    The brown priest turned to Bran expectantly and held out his hand.
    Bran, irked by the friar’s brash insistence, frowned. “You want the money now?”
    “Oh, aye.”
    With a pained sigh, Bran turned his back on the priest and drew the purse from his belt. Opening the drawstring, he shook out a handful of coins, looking for any clipped coins amongst the whole. He found two half pennies and was looking for a third when Aethelfrith appeared beside him and said, “Splendid! I’ll take those.”
    Before Bran could stop him, the priest had snatched up three bright new pennies. “Here, boyo!” he said, handing Bran the two fat hares on the strap. “You get these coneys skinned and cleaned and ready to roast when I get back.”
    “Wait!” said Bran, trying to snatch back the coins. “Give those back!”
    “Hurry now,” said Aethelfrith, darting away with surprising speed on his ludicrous bowed legs. “It will be dark soon, and I mean to have a feast tonight.”
    Bran followed him to the door. “Are you certain you’re a priest?” Bran called after him, but the only reply he heard was a bark of cheerful laughter.
    Resigned to his task, Bran went out and found a nearby stone and set to work skinning and gutting the hares. Ffreol soon joined him and sat down to watch. “Strange fellow,” he observed after a time.
    “Most thieves are more honest.”
    Brother Ffreol chuckled. “He is a good hand with that staff.”
    “When his victim is unarmed, perhaps,” allowed Bran dully. He stripped the fur from one plump animal. “If I’d had a sword in my hand . . .”
    “Be of good cheer,” said Ffreol. “This is a fortuitous meeting. I feel it.We now have a friend in this place, and that is well worth a coin or two.”
    “Three,” corrected Bran. “And all of them new.”
    Ffreol nodded and then said, “He will repay that debt a thousand times over—ten thousand.”
    Something in his friend’s tone made Bran glance up sharply. “Why do you say that?”
    Ffreol offered a