Keepers of the Western Forest Page 15

  Chapter 15

   

  Brynn had walked back and forth between his house and Broderic’s quarters twice. He realized Broderic would be gone for hours, even days, but he was still disappointed each time at not finding him back. His mother was not at home and Shayla had gone to look for Tara. He slung his longbow over his back and picked up his quiver of arrows.  He was going to follow Broderic.

  He strode round to the stables and saddled the grey palfrey. Sir Broderic had headed for the north gate—there was only one path he could have taken into the forest. “Let’s go, lass,” he murmured. He scratched the palfrey behind the ear, something he knew she loved. “Not much rest for you, I’m afraid.”

  They took the street at a canter and were soon through the gate, galloping towards the forest. Once among the trees, as the track grew narrower, they slowed down to a walk. Where there were branches that grew out across the path, many showed signs of snapped-off twigs; more than a few leaves were smeared with blood. The wounded knight must have passed here on his way to Camelot.

  Except for the echoing rattle of a woodpecker, the woods were silent and Brynn rode on with his ears alert for any telltale sound. After an hour or more, he came to a place where the track divided into two, continuing to right and left of a steep mound that rose suddenly from the forest floor. Around him the trees grew tall, their branches arching high above his head; as they swayed, shifting patterns of light and shadow played like rippling fire over the rounded hillock, enamelling the leaves of the nettles and brambles that straggled up its grassy sides.

  In the solemn gloom, he shivered as he remembered the tale he had heard at court of Sir Gawain’s encounter with the Green Knight. Wasn’t the Green Chapel, where Gawain and the terrifying giant with his huge axe had kept their tryst, just such a mound as this? Faerie hills, folk call them.

  As he waited there, unable to decide which path to take, he heard a horse somewhere nearby, snorting softly. He looked around him, holding his breath. After a few moments, he heard something else—it sounded like a faint groan. It came from not far away, where the left-hand track curved and disappeared into the trees.

  “Come on, girl.” He guided the palfrey towards the bend in the track. The first thing he saw was River, swinging his neck to look at him and snorting again. Then he saw Sir Broderic lying on the ground. His head and shoulders were resting on the bole of an oak tree and he was pressing both hands against his side. Almost half of the linen surcoat he wore over his armour was red with blood.

  The reins fell from Brynn’s grip. He swayed in his saddle, darkness threatening his vision. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to look again at the torn, soaked linen and the blood oozing through Broderic’s fingers. He dismounted and knelt beside his hero.

  “Sir, sir! Speak to me.”

  Broderic’s eyes did not open, but he uttered a faint moan. Brynn noticed that his sword was still in its scabbard—someone had wounded him and he had not had the chance to defend himself. What must he do? He couldn’t move Broderic by himself. He would have to fetch some one from Camelot, but that would mean leaving him alone for two or three hours. Would he still be alive when help arrived?

  At that moment came the unmistakable sound of horses approaching. Bryn’s heart was thumping. Was the traitor who had wounded Sir Broderic coming back? No, he could hear men’s voices conversing openly—surely a villain like that would ride alone. He stood up.

  The first rider to come into view wore mail; on his surcoat, Brynn recognized the oak tree emblem. It was Darin’s father, Sir Karman. After him rode a burly man with short, grizzled hair—a forester, to judge by his green tunic and longbow.

  Sir Karman raised his hand and halted his horse. He jumped down and bent over Broderic for a moment. When he looked up, his kindly eyes were filled with concern. “What happened here, lad?”

  Brynn hesitated. Sir Karman had been away from court; now was not the time to inform him of the suspicion that had fallen on his son. “I don’t know, sir,” he replied. “He must have been ambushed.

  “It’s my son’s friend, a fine young knight,” Sir Karman said to his companion, who had dismounted and was now kneeling beside Broderic. “What do you think, Brogan?”

  “The wound is wide, but not deep,” said the forester. “A sword, I’d say. Cut through the mail, cracked a rib or two, maybe. The only real danger is the amount of blood he’s lost.” He sprang up and walked in amongst the trees. When he returned, he had some broad, dark green leaves under his arm. He knelt again, took a small dagger from his belt and cut a long strip from Broderic’s surcoat. Reaching under the mail hauberk, he shoved the leaves up and against the wound. He passed the linen strip beneath Broderic’s waist, slid it up behind his back to chest-level and bound it tight. “We can’t risk moving him until I’ve treated the wound properly. He’ll have to stay here tonight.”

  Brynn had given no thought to the time when he set off after Sir Broderic. “The day is nearly over!” he exclaimed.

  The forester got to his feet. “Yes. And this man must be kept warm. It won’t be cold tonight, but even so we’ll need a fire.” He strode over to his horse and reached into a copious saddlebag. He took out a beech-wood box and handed it to Brynn. “Can you use this?”

  “Yes, it’s a tinder box, sir.”

  Brogan nodded. “There’s flint, steel, touchwood and tinder in there. There’s plenty of dead wood around.” He turned to Sir Karman. “We are not far from Lachlyn’s old place. I use it when I’m in these parts. If you will come with me, sir, we can get everything we need and be back just after nightfall.”

  “Very well.” Sir Karman said. He put his hand on Brynn’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, lad, Brogan here knows his business. He’s treated me for wounds worse than this before now.”

  Brogan grinned. “We’ll bring herbs and blankets. A pallet to carry our patient on tomorrow. And something for our supper.”

  “I’ll get started on the fire, then!” Brynn said.

  The two men mounted and galloped away. Brynn searched around for wood and soon had a pile of twigs and moss-covered branches. He slid open the lid of the box, took out some straw tinder, put it on the ground and placed some kindling twigs around it. Taking a strip of dried mushroom touchwood, he held it pressed against the flint in his right hand and fitted his left hand into the curved firesteel. He struck the sharpened flint down against the steel and red sparks flew. Before long, the touchwood was glowing. He dropped it on the straw and blew on it until a lick of flame appeared.

  When the fire was going, he went and sat by Broderic. He fancied Brogan’s makeshift bandage had already done some good and that Sir Broderic was lying easier.

  “Don’t worry, sir. Help is coming.”

  Broderic’s eyelids flickered and then opened suddenly. He gaped at Brynn.

  “Sir! You’re going to be all right! What happened?”

  Broderic gripped Brynn’s arm. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,” he whispered. He grimaced and let go his hold on Brynn with a groan.

  “Easy, sir.”

  “But Brynn, I saw him. After he came at me from behind, he opened his visor. As if he wanted me to see!”

  “What sir, what?”

  “It was Darin!”