CHAPTER 16

On your mettle, my lords," said Alan a'Dale, glancing over Bran's shoulder across the yard, where the earl of Cestre had just appeared at the stable door.

"Everyone ready?" asked Bran. Ifor and Brocmael nodded, their brows lowered with the weight of responsibility that had been laid upon them. "When we get into the forest," Bran continued, "find your place and mark it well. If we should become separated, go back to the head of the run and wait for us there. Whatever happens, don't linger in the run waiting for one of Hugh's men to see you."

"We know what to do," said Ifor, speaking up for the first time since entering the Ffreinc stronghold.

"Count on us," added Brocmael, finding his voice at last. "We won't fail."

"Just you and Alan keep the earl busy, my lord," the friar said. "Let Tuck and his young friends here worry about the rest. If any of the earl's men come looking for us, I'll make sure they don't twig to the lads' doings here, never fear."

Bran nodded and drew a deep breath. He arranged his features into the curiously empty-eyed, slightly bored guise of Count Rexindo, then turned to greet the earl with his customary short bow and, "Pax vobiscum."

Earl Hugh, waddling like a barnyard sow, came puffing up already red faced and sweating with the exertion of walking across the courtyard. Accompanying him were two of his men: rough fellows in once-fine tunics spattered with wine stains and grease spots, each with a large dagger thrust into his leather belt-nasty brutes by both look and smell. Behind these two trailed three more stout Ffreinc in leather jerkins and short trows with high leather leggings; they wore soft leather caps on their heads and leather gauntlets on their hands with which they grasped the leashes of three hunting hounds. The dogs were grey, long-legged beasts with narrow heads and chests and powerful haunches; each looked fully capable of bringing down a stag or boar all on its own strength.

"Pax! Pax!" said Hugh as Bran stepped to meet him. "Good day for a chase, eh?"

"Indeed," replied Bran, speaking directly through Alan now. "I am keen to see if the trails of England can match those of Spain."

"Ho!" cried the earl in joyous derision. "My hunting runs are second to none-better even than Angevin, which are renowned the world over."

Count Rexindo sniffed, unimpressed when the earl's boast was relayed to him. He turned his attention to the dogs, walking to the animals and wading in amongst them, his hands outstretched to let them get his scent. It did not hurt that he had rubbed his palms and fingers with the meat he had filched from the supper platter the previous night. The hounds nuzzled his hands with ravenous enthusiasm, licking his fingers and jostling one another to get a taste. Bran smiled and stroked their sleek heads and silken muzzles, letting the animals mark and befriend him.

"Very unusual, these dogs," he said through Alan. "What breed are they?"

"Ah, yes," said Hugh, rubbing his plump palms together. "These are my boys-a breed of my own devising," he declared proudly. "There are none like them in all England. Not even King William has hounds as fine as these."

This required a small conference, whereupon the count replied through his translator. "No doubt your king must spare a thought for more important matters," allowed Count Rexindo with a lazy smile. "But never fear, my lord earl. If your dogs are even half as good as you say, I will not hold your boast against you."

The earl flinched at the slight. "You will not be disappointed, Count," replied Hugh. He called for the horses to be brought out-large, well-muscled beasts, heavy through the chest and haunches. Hugh's own mount was a veritable mountain of horseflesh, with a powerful neck and thick, solid legs. With the help of a specially made mounting stool and the ready arms of his two noblemen, Fat Hugh hefted himself into the saddle. But when the earl saw Bishop Balthus likewise struggling to mount, he called out in Ffreinc, "You there! Priest." Tuck paused and regarded him with benign curiosity. "This hunt is not for you. You stay here."

Although Tuck understood well enough what was said, he appealed to Alan, giving himself time to think and alerting Bran to the problem. Once it was explained to him, Bran reacted quickly. "My lord Balthus rides today, or I do not," he informed the earl through Alan; he tossed aside the reins and made as if preparing to dismount.

Alan softened this blunt declaration by adding, "Pray allow me to explain, my lord."

The earl, frowning mightily now, gave his permission with an irritated flick of his hand.

"You see," Alan continued, "it seems Count Rexindo's father required Bishop Balthus to make a sacred vow never to allow the count out of his sight during his sojourn in England."

"Eh?" wondered the earl at this odd revelation.

"Truly, my lord," confessed Alan. He leaned forward in the saddle and confided, "I think my lord the duke believes his son a little too… ah, spirited for his own good. He is the duke's only heir, you understand. It is the bishop's head if anything ill should befall the count."

Earl Hugh's glower lightened somewhat as he considered the implications of what he had just been told. "Let him come, then," said the earl, changing his mind. "So long as he can keep his saddle-the same as goes for anyone who rides with me."

Alan explained this to Count Rexindo, who picked up the reins once more. "Gracias, senor," he said.

The dog handlers departed from the castle first, and after a few rounds of the saddle cup, the riders followed. Hugh and Count Rexindo led the way, followed by the earl's two knights; the two young Spanish lords, Ramiero and Galindo, followed them, and Bishop Balthus fell into line behind the others, thinking that if he was last from the start no one would mark him dawdling along behind. "Wish us God's speed, Alan," he said as he kicked his mount to life.

"Godspeed you, my lord," replied Alan, raising his hand in farewell, "and send you his own good luck."

Out through the castle's rear gate they rode. A fair number of the earl's vassals were at work in his fields, and from his vantage point at the rear of the procession, Tuck could not help noticing the looks they got from the folk they passed: some glared and others spat; one or two thumbed the nose or made other rude gestures behind the backs of the earl and his men. It was sobering to see the naked hostility flickering in those pinched faces, and Tuck, mindful of his bishop's robes, smiled and raised his hand, blessing those few who seemed to expect it.

Once beyond the castle fields, the hunting party entered a rough countryside of small holdings and grazing lands, hedged about by dense woodland through which wide trails had been clear cut-Earl Hugh's vaunted hunting runs. Wide enough to let a horse run at full gallop without getting slapped by branches either side, they pursued a lazy curving pattern into the close-grown wood; a few hundred paces inside the entrance the dense foliage closed in, cutting off all sight and sound of the wider world. This, Tuck considered, would serve their purpose right fair-if Ifor and Brocmael could keep their wits about them in the tangle of bramble thickets and scrub wood brush that cloaked the edges of the run.

The party rode deeper into the wood, and Tuck listened to the soft plod of the horses' hooves on the damp turf and breathed the warm air deep. As the sun rose and the greenwood warmed, he began to sweat in his heavy robes. He allowed himself to drop a little farther behind the others, and noticed that the two young Welshmen had likewise fallen behind the leaders.

The search has begun, thought Tuck.

Soon the others were some distance ahead. Tuck picked up a little speed and drew up even with the Welshmen. "Be about your business, lads," he said as he passed by them. "I'll go ahead and keep watch and give a shout if Hugh or his men come back this way."