Free Hood by Stephen R. Lawhead Page B

small, reticent smile and shrugged. “It is nothing—a feeling only.”
    Bran resumed his chore, and Ffreol watched him work.
    The two sat in companionable silence as evening enfolded them in a gentle twilight. The hares were gutted and washed by the time Friar Aethelfrith returned with a bag on his back and a small cask under each arm. “I did not know if you preferred wine or ale,” he announced, “so I bought both.”
    Handing one of the casks to Bran, he gave the other to Ffreol and then, opening the bag, drew out a fine loaf of fresh-baked bread and a great hunk of pale yellow cheese. “Three moons if a day since I had fresh bread,” he confided. “Three threes of moons since I had a drink of wine.” Offering Bran another of his preposterous bows, he said, “A blessing on the Lord of the Feast. May his days never cease and his tribe increase!”
    Bran smiled in spite of himself and declared, “Bring the jars and let the banquet begin!”
    They returned to the oratory, where Iwan, reclining beside the hearth, had built up the fire to a bright, crackling blaze. While Aethelfrith scurried around readying their supper, Ffreol found wooden cups and poured out the ale. Their host paused long enough to suck down a cup and then returned to his preparations, spitting the fat hares and placing them at the fireside for Iwan to tend. He then brought a wooden trencher with broken bread and bite-sized chunks of cheese, and four long fire-forks, which he passed to his guests.
    They sat around the hearth and toasted bread and cheese and drank to each other’s health while waiting for the meat to cook. Slowly, the cares of the last days began to release their hold on Bran and his companions.
    “A toast!” said Iwan at one point, raising his cup. “I drink to our good host, Aethleth—” He stumbled at the hurdle of the name once more. He tried again, but the effort proved beyond him. Casting an eye over the plump priest, he said, “Fat little bag of vittles that he is, I will call him Tuck.”
    “ Friar Tuck to you, boyo!” retorted the priest with a laugh. Cocking his head to one side, he said, “And it is Iwan, is it not? What is that in couth speech?” He tapped his chin with a stubby finger. “It’s John , I think. Yes, John. So, overgrown infant that he is, I will call him Little John.” He raised his cup, sloshing ale over the rim, “So, now! I lift my cup to Little John and to his friends. May you always have ale enough to wet your tongues, wit enough to know friend from foe, and strength enough for every fight.”
    Ffreol, moved as much by the camaraderie around the hearth as by the contents of his cup, raised his voice in solemn, priestly declamation, saying, “I am not lying when I say that I have feasted in the halls of kings, but rarely have I supped with a nobler company than sits beneath this humble roof tonight.” Lofting his cup, he said, “God’s blessing on us. Brothers all!”

CHAPTER 8
    T he sun was high and warm by the time the men were ready to depart Aethelfrith’s oratory. Bran and Iwan bade the priest farewell, and Brother Ffreol bestowed a blessing, saying, “May the grace and peace of Christ be upon you, and the shielding of all the saints be around you, and nine holy angels aid and uphold you through all things.” He then raised himself to the saddle, saying, “Do not drink all the wine, brother. Save some for our return. God willing, we will join you again on our way home.”
    “Then you had better hurry about your business,” Aethelfrith called. “That wine will not last long.”
    Bran, eager to be away, slapped the reins and trotted out onto the road. Ffreol and Iwan followed close behind, and the three resumed their journey to Lundein. The horses were just finding their stride when they heard a familiar voice piping, “Wait! Wait!”
    Turning around in the saddle, Bran saw the bandy-legged friar running after them. Thinking they had forgotten something, he pulled