Read Online Hood by Stephen R. Lawhead - Free Book Online Page B

turnip or two. Seeing the food reminded Bran that he had eaten very little in the last few days, and his hunger came upon him with the force of a kick. He scented the aroma of roasting meat on the evening air, and his mouth began to water. He was on the point of suggesting to Brother Ffreol that they should return to the centre of town and see if there might be an inn near the market square, when the monk suddenly announced, “I know just the place!” He urged his horse to a trot and proceeded toward the old south gate. “This way!”
    The priest led his reluctant companions out through the gate and up the curving road as it ascended the steep riverbank. Shortly, they came to a stand of trees growing atop the bluff above the river, overlooking the town. “Here it is—just as I remembered!”
    Bran took one look at an odd eight-sided timber structure with a high, steeply pitched roof and a low door with a curiously curved lintel and said, “A barn? You’ve brought us to a barn?”
    “Not a barn,” the monk assured him, sliding from the saddle. “It is an old cell.”
    “A priest’s cell,” Bran said, regarding the edifice doubtfully.
    There was no cross atop the structure, no window, no outward markings of any kind to indicate its function. “Are you sure?”
    “The blessed Saint Ennion once lived here,” Ffreol explained, moving toward the door. “A long time ago.”
    Bran shrugged. “Who lives here now?”
    “A friend.” Taking hold of a braided cord that passed through one doorpost, the monk gave the cord a strong tug. A bell sounded from somewhere inside. Ffreol, smiling in anticipation of a glad welcome, pulled the cord again and said, “You’ll see.”

CHAPTER 7
    F freol waited a moment, and when no one answered, he gave the braided cord a more determined pull. The bell sounded once more—a clean, clear peal in the soft evening air. Bran looked around, taking in the old oratory and its surroundings.
    The cell stood at the head of a small grove of beech trees. The ground was covered with thick grass through which an earthen pathway led down the hillside into the town. In an earlier time, it occupied the grove as a woodland shrine overlooking the river. Now it surveyed the squalid prospect of a busy market town with its herds and carts and the slow-moving boats bearing iron ore to be loaded onto ships waiting at the larger docks downriver.
    When a third pull on the bell rope brought no response, Ffreol turned and scratched his head. “He must be away.”
    “Can we not just let ourselves in?” asked Bran.
    “Perhaps,” allowed Ffreol. Putting his hand to the leather strap that served for a latch, he pulled, and the door opened inward. He pushed it farther and stuck in his head. “Pax vobiscum!” he shouted and waited for an answer. “There is no one here. We will wait inside.”
    Iwan, wincing with pain, was helped to dismount and taken inside to rest. Bran gathered up the reins of the horses and led them into the grove behind the cell; the animals were quickly unsaddled and tethered beneath the trees so they could graze. He found a leather bucket and hauled water from a stoup beside the cell. When he had finished watering the horses and settled them for the night, he joined the others in the oratory; by this time, Ffreol had a small fire going in the hearth that occupied one corner of the single large room.
    It was, Bran thought, an odd dwelling—half house, half church. There was a sleeping place and a stone-lined hearth, but also an altar with a large wooden cross and a single wax candle. A solitary narrow window opened in the wall high above the altar, and a chain of sausages hung from an iron hook beside the hearth directly above a low three-legged stool. Next to the stool was a pair of leather shoes with thick wooden soles—the kind worn by those who work the mines. Crumbs of bread freckled both the altar and the hearthstones, and the smell of boiled onions mingled with