Bran considered this for a moment and then said, "You knew I would be here. You knew I would not be able to find my way out of the wood alone." He did not accuse her of laying a spell on him, but it was in his mind. "You knew, and still you let me go."
"It was your decision. I said I would not prevent you."
He smiled and shook his head. "I am a fool, Angharad, as we both know. But you could have told me the way out."
"Oh, aye," she agreed cheerfully, "but you did not ask." Growing suddenly serious, she regarded him with a look of unsettling directness. "What is your desire, Bran?" Their meal finished, it was time, once more, for them to part. "What will you do?"
Bran regarded the old woman before him; wrinkled and stooped she might be, but shrewd as a den of weasels. In her mouth the question was more than it seemed. He hesitated, feeling that much depended on the answer.
What answer could he give? Despite his newfound appreciation of the forest, he knew the Ffreinc would kill him on sight. Seeking refuge amongst his mother's kinsmen was still a good plan. In the months he had been living with Angharad, no better scheme had come to him, nor did anything more useful occur to him now. "I will go to my people," he replied, and the words thudded to the ground like an admission of defeat.
"If that is what you wish," the old woman allowed as graciously as Bran could have hoped, "then follow me, and I will lead you to the place where you can find them."
Gathering up the remains of the meal, Angharad set off with Bran following and little Gwion Bach and the dog running along behind. They walked at an unhurried pace along barely discernible trails that Angharad read with ease. After a time, Bran noticed that the trees grew taller, the spaces between them narrower and more shadowed; the sun became a mere glimmer of shattered gold in the dense leaf canopy overhead; the trail became soft underfoot, thick with moss and damp leaves; the very air grew heavier and more redolent of earth and water and softly decaying wood. Here and there, he heard the tiny rustlings of creatures that lived in shady nooks. Everywhere-around this rock, on the other side of that holly bush, beyond the purple beech wall he heard the sound of water: dripping off branches, trickling along unseen courses.
The morning passed, and they paused to rest and drink from a brook no wider than a man's foot. Angharad passed out handfuls of hazelnuts from the bag she carried. "A good day," observed Bran. He owed his life to the old woman who had saved him, and as much as he wanted to part on good terms, he also wanted her to understand why he had to leave. "A good day to begin a journey," he added.
"Aye," she replied, "it is that." Her answer, though agreeable, did not provide him the opening he sought, and he could think of no way to broach the subject. He fell silent, and they continued on a short while later, pressing ever deeper into the forest. The farther they went, the darker, wilder, and more ancient the woodland became. The smaller trees-beeches, birch, and hawthorn-gave way to the larger woodland lords: hornbeam, plane, and elm. The immense boles rose like pillars from the earth to uphold tremendous limbs, which formed a timber ceiling of intertwined branches. It would be possible, Bran imagined, to move through this part of the forest without ever setting foot on the ground.
Deeper they went, and deeper grew the shadows, and more silent the surrounding wood with a hush that was at once peaceful and slightly ominous-as if the woodland solitude was wary of trespass and imposed a guarded watch on strangers.
Bran's senses quickened. He imagined eyes on him, observing him, marking him as he passed. The impression grew with every step until he began darting glances right and left; the dense wood defied sight; the tangles of branch and vine were impenetrable.
Finally, the old woman stopped, and Bran caught the scent of smoke on the air. "Where are we?" he asked.
Extending a hand, she pointed to an enormous oak that had been struck by lightning during a storm long ago. Half-hollow now, the trunk had split and splayed outward to form a natural arch. The path on which they stood led through the centre of the blast-riven oak. "I am to go through there?"
A quick nod was the only answer he received.
Drawing himself up, he stepped to the fire-blackened arch, passing through the strange portal and into the unknown.
CHAPTER
28
tepping through the dark arch, Bran found himself holding his breath as if he were plunging into the sea, or leaping from a wall from which he could not see the ground below. On the other side of the oak arch was a hedge wall through which passed a narrow path. Two quick strides brought him through the hedge and into an enormous glade-a great wide greensward of a valley in the heart of the wood, bounded by a ring of towering trees that formed a stout palisade of solid oak around the mossy-banked clearing.
And there, spread out across the floor of the dell, was a camp with dwellings unlike any Bran had ever seen, made of brushwood and branches, the antlers of stags and hinds, woven grass, bark, bone, and hide. Some were little more than branches bent over a hollow in the ground. Others were more substantial shelters of such weird and fanciful construction that Bran was at once entranced and a little unsettled by the sight. He did not see the people who inhabited these queer dwellings, but having heard him coming a long way off, they saw him.
Moments before Bran emerged from the arch of the hedge wall beyond the shattered oak, women whisked children out of sight, men disappeared behind trees and huts, and the settlement that only moments before had been astir with activity now appeared deserted.
"Is anybody here?" called Bran.
As if awaiting his signal, the menfolk emerged from hiding, some carrying sticks and tools for weapons. Seeing that he was alone, they approached. There were, Bran estimated quickly, perhaps thirty men and older boys, ragged, their clothes patched and worn-like those the farmers gave the stick-men in the fields to frighten the birds.
"Pax vobiscum," Bran called. When that brought no response, he repeated it in Cymry, "Hedd a dy!" The men continued advancing. Silent, wary as deer, they closed ranks, dark eyes watching the stranger who had appeared without warning in their midst.
"Sefyll!" called Angharad, taking her place beside Bran. Her appearance halted the advance.
One of the menfolk returned the greeting. "Hudolion!" He was joined by others, and suddenly everyone was calling, "Hudoles!" and "Hudolion!"
Ignoring Bran, they hurried to greet the old woman as she scrambled gingerly down the mossy bank into the shallow basin of the glade. The respect and adulation provoked by her appearance impressed Bran. Clearly, she had some place of honour in this rough outcast clan.
"Welcome, hudolion," called one of the men, advancing through the knot of people gathered around her. Tall and lean, there was something of the wolf about him; he wore a short red cloak folded over his shoulder in the manner of a Roman soldier of old. The others parted to let him through, and as he took his place before the old woman, he touched the back of a grimy hand to his forehead in the ancient sign of submission and salutation.
"Greetings, Siarles," she said. "Greetings, everyone." Lifting a hand to Bran, she said, "Do you not recognise Prince Bran ap Brychan when you see him?"
The man called Siarles stepped nearer for a closer look. He peered into Bran's face uncertainly, cool grey eyes moving over the young man's features. He then turned to those behind him. "Call the big'un," he commanded, and a slender youth with a downy moustache raced away. "I do not," Siarles said, turning once more to Bran and Angharad, "but if it is as you say, then he will."
The youth ran to one of the larger huts and called to someone inside. A moment later, a large, well-muscled man stepped from the low entrance of the hut. As he straightened, Bran saw his face for the first time.