Hood by Stephen R. Lawhead Read Free Book Online Page A

formed a hedge wall along either side so thick and lush that three paces off the road in any direction and a person could no longer be seen from the path.
    “Is it wise, do you think,” asked the priest, “to keep to the road? The marchogi are certain to be on it too.”
    “I do not doubt it,” replied Bran, “but going any other way would take far too long. If we keep our wits about us, we will hear them long before they hear us, and we can easily get off the road and out of sight.”
    Iwan, his face tight with pain, said nothing. Brother Ffreol accepted Bran’s assurances, and they rode on.
    “Do you think we should have seen the Ffreinc by now?” asked the monk after a while. “If they had been in a hurry to reach Elfael, we would certainly have met them. They probably stopped to make camp for the night. God be praised.”
    “You praise God for that?”
    “I do,” admitted the monk. “It means the Cymry have at least one night to hide their valuables and get to safety.”
    “One night,” mocked Bran. “As much as all that!”
    “Wars have turned on less,” the priest pointed out. “If the Conqueror’s arrow had flown but a finger’s breadth to the right of Harold’s eye, the Ffreinc would not be here now.”
    “Yes, well, it seems to me that if God really wanted praising, he’d have prevented the filthy Ffreinc and their foul mar-chogi from coming here in the first place.”
    “Do you have the mind of God now that you know all things good and ill for each and every one of his creatures?”
    “It does not take the mind of God,” replied Bran carelessly, “to know that anytime a Norman stands at your gate it is for ill and never good. That is a doctrine more worthy than any Bishop Asaph ever professed.”
    “Jesu forgive you,” sighed the priest. “Such irreverence.”
    “Irreverent or not, it is true.”
    They fell silent and rode on. As the sun sank lower, the shadows on the trail gathered, deepening beneath the trees and brushwood; the sounds became hushed and furtive as the forest drew in upon itself for the night.
    The road began to rise more steeply toward the spine of the ridge, and Bran slowed the pace. In a little while the gloom had spread so that the gap between trees was as dark as the black boles themselves, and the road shone as a ghost-pale ribbon stretching dimly away into the deepening night.
    “I think we should stop,” suggested Brother Ffreol. “It will soon be too dark to see. We could rest and eat something. Also, I want to tend Iwan’s wound.”
    Bran was of a mind to ride all night, but one look at the wounded warrior argued otherwise, so he gave in and allowed the monk to have his way. They picketed the horses and made camp at the base of an oak just out of sight of the road, ate a few mouthfuls of bread and a little hard cheese, and then settled down to sleep beneath the tree’s protecting limbs. Wrapped in his cloak, Bran slept uneasily, rising again as it became light enough to tell tree from shadow.
    He roused Ffreol and then went to Iwan, who came awake at his touch. “How do you feel?” he asked, kneeling beside the champion.
    “Never better,” Iwan said as he tried to sit up. The pain hit him hard and slammed him back once more. He grimaced and blew air through his mouth, panting like a winded hound. “Perhaps I will try that again,” he said through clenched teeth, “more slowly this time.”
    “Wait a moment,” said Ffreol, putting out his hand. “Let me see your binding.” He pulled open the big man’s shirt and looked at the bandage wrapped around his upper chest. “It is clean still. There is little blood,” he announced, greatly reassured.
    “Then it is time we made a start.”
    “When we have prayed,” said the monk.
    “Oh, very well,” sighed Bran. “Just get on with it.”
    The priest gathered his robe around him, and folding his hands, he closed his eyes and began to pray for the speedy and sure success of their mission. Bran