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  "The Ffreinc are coming!" he said, turning to meet the priest and pull him close. "Three hundred marchogi. They're on their way to Elfael now."

  "Will Rhi Brychan fight them?"

  "He already did," said Bran. "There was a battle on the road. My father and his men have been killed. Iwan alone escaped to warn us. He is injured-here," he said, moving to the wounded champion, "help me get him down."

  Together with a few of the other brothers, they eased the warrior down from his horse and laid him on the ground. While Brother Galen, the monastery physician, began examining the wounds, Bran said, "We must raise the alarm. There is still time for everyone to flee."

  "Leave that with me. I will see to it," replied Ffreol. "You must ride to Caer Cadarn and gather everything you care to save. Go nowand may God go with you."

  "Wait a moment," said the bishop, raising his hand to stop them from hurrying off. Turning to Bran, he said, "Why would the Ffreinc come here? Your father has arranged to swear a treaty of peace with William the Red."

  "And he was on his way to do just that!" snapped Bran, growing angry at the perfunctory insinuation that he was lying. "Am I the Red King's counsellor now that I should be privy to a Ffreinc rogue's thoughts?" He glared at the suspicious bishop.

  "Calm yourself, my son," said Asaph stiffly. "There is no need to mock. I was only asking."

  "They will arrive in force," Bran said, climbing into the saddle once more. "I will save what I can from the caer and return here for Iwan."

  "And then?" wondered Asaph.

  "We will flee while there is still time!"

  The bishop shook his head. "No, Bran. You must ride to Lundein instead. You must finish what your father intended."

  "No," replied Bran. "It is impossible. I cannot go to Lundein- and even if I did, the king would never listen to me."

  "The king will listen," the bishop insisted. "William is not unreasonable. You must talk to him. You must tell him what has happened and seek redress."

  "Red William will not see me!"

  "Bran," said Brother Ffreol. He came to stand at the young man's stirrup and placed his hand on his leg as if to restrain him. "Bishop Asaph is right. You will be king now. William will certainly see you. And when he does, you must swear the treaty your father meant to undertake,"

  Bran opened his mouth to object, but Bishop Asaph stopped him, saying, "A grave mistake has been made, and the king must provide remedy. You must obtain justice for your people."

  "Mistake!" cried Bran. "My father has been killed, and his warband slaughtered!"

  "Not by William," the bishop pointed out. "When the king hears what has happened, he will punish the man who did this and make reparations.

  Bran rejected the advice out of hand. The course they urged was childish and dangerous. Before he could begin to explain the utter folly of their plan, Asaph turned to the brothers who stood looking on and commanded them to take the alarm to the countryside and town. "The people are not to oppose the Ffreinc by force," instructed the bishop sternly. "This is a holy decree, tell them. Enough blood has been shed already-and that needlessly. We must not give the enemy cause to attack. God willing, this occupation will be brief. But until it ends, we will all endure it as best we can."

  The bishop sent his messengers away, saying, "Go now, and with all speed. Tell everyone you meet to spread the word-each to his neighbour. No one is to be overlooked."

  The monks hurried off, deserting the monastery on the run. Bran watched them go, grave misgivings mounting by the moment. "Now then," said Bishop Asaph, turning once more to Bran, "you must reach Lundein as quickly as possible. The sooner this error can be remedied, the less damage will result and the better for everyone. You must leave at once.

  "This is madness," Bran told him. "We'll all be killed."

  "It is the only way," Ffreol asserted. "You must do it for the sake of Elfael and the throne."

  Bran stared incredulously at the two churchmen. Every instinct told him to run, to fly.

  I will go with you," offered Ffreol. "Whatever I can do to aid you in this, trust it will be done."

  "Good," said the bishop, satisfied with this arrangement. "Now go, both of you, and may God lend you his own wisdom and the swiftness of very angels."

  CHAPTER

  5

  acing up the ramp, Bran flew through the gates of Caer Cadarn. He leapt from the saddle, shouting before his feet touched the ground. The disagreeable Maelgwnt drifted into the yard. "What now?" he asked. "Foundered another horse? Two in one daywhat will your father say, I wonder?"

  "My father is dead," Bran said, his tone lashing, "and all who rode with him, save Iwan."

  The steward's eyes narrowed as he tried to work out the likelihood of Bran's wild assertion. "If that is a jest, it is a poor one-even for you."

  "It is God's own truth!" Bran snarled. Clutching the startled man by the arm, he turned him around and marched swiftly toward the king's hall. "They were attacked by a Ffreinc warhost that is on its way here now," he explained. "They will come here first. Take the strongbox and silver to the monastery-the servants, too. Leave no one behind. The marchogi will take the fortress and everything in it for their own."

  "What about the livestock?" asked Maelgwnt.

  "To the monastery," replied Bran, dashing for the door. "Use your head, man! Anything worth saving-take it to Llanelli. The monks will keep it safe for us."

  He ran through the hall to the armoury beyond: a square, thickwalled room with long slits for windows. As he expected, the best weapons were gone; the warband had taken all but a few rusty, bentbladed swords and some well-worn spears. He selected the most serviceable of these and then turned to the rack of longbows hanging on the far wall.

  For some reason-probably for decorum's sake in Lundein-his father had left all the warbows behind. He picked one up, tried it, and slung it over his shoulder. He tucked a red-rusted sword into his belt, grabbed up a sheaf of arrows and several of the least blunt spears, and then raced to the stables. Dumping the weapons on the floor, Bran commanded Cefn to saddle another of the mares. "When you're finished, bring it to the yard. Brother Ffreol is on his way here by foot; I want to leave the moment he arrives."

  Cefn, wan and distraught, made no move to obey. "Is it true?"

  "The massacre?" Bran asked. "Yes, it's true. Ffreol and I ride now to Lundein to see the Red King, swear allegiance, and secure the return of our lands. As soon as I leave, run and find Maelgwnt-do everything he says. We're moving everything to the monastery. Never fear, you will be safe there. Understand?"

  Cefn nodded.

  "Good. Hurry now. There is not much time."

  Bran returned to the kitchen to find the old cook comforting her young helpers. They were huddled beneath her ample arms like chicks beneath the wings of a hen, and she held them, patting their shoulders and stroking their heads. "Mairead, I need provisions," Bran said, striding quickly into the room. "Brother Ffreol and I are riding to Lundein at once,"

  "Bran! Oh, Bran!" wailed the woman. "Rhi Brychan is dead!"

  "He is," Bran replied, pulling the two whimpering girls from her grasp.

  "And all who rode with him?"

  "Gone," he confirmed. "And we will mourn them properly when we have rid ourselves of these scabby Ffreinc thieves. But you must listen to me now. As soon as I am gone, Maelgwnt will take everyone to Llanelli. Stay there until I return. The Ffreinc will not harm you if you remain at the monastery with the monks. Do you hear me?"

  The woman nodded, her eyes filled with unshed tears. Bran turned her and pushed her gently away. "Off with you now! Hurry and bring the food to the yard."

  Next, Bran dashed to his father's chamber and to the small wooden casket where the king kept his ready money. The real treasure was kept in the strongbox that Maelgwnt would see hidden at the monastery-two hundred marks in English silver. The smaller casket contained but a few marks used for buying at the market, paying for favours, bestowing largesse on the tenants, and
other occasional uses.

  There were four bags of coins in all more than enough to see them safely to Lundein and back. Bran scooped up the little leather bags, stuffed them into his shirt, then ran back out to the yard, where Brother Ffreol was just coming through the gate, leading Iwan on horseback behind him.

  "Iwan, what are you doing here?" Bran asked, running to meet them. "You should stay at the monastery where they can tend you."

  "Save your breath," advised Ffreol. "I've already tried to dissuade him, but he refuses to heed a word I say."

  "I am going with you," the battlechief declared flatly. "That is the end of it."

  "You are wounded," Bran pointed out needlessly.

  "Not so badly that I cannot sit in a saddle," answered the big man. "I want to see the look in the Red King's eye when we stand before him and demand justice. And," he added, if a witness to this outrage is required, then you will have one."

  Bran opened his mouth to object once more, but Ffreol said, "Let him be. If he feels that way about it, nothing we say will discourage him, and stubborn as he is, he'd only follow us anyway."

  Glancing toward the stable, Bran muttered, "What is keeping Cefn?" He shouted for the groom to hurry; when that brought no response, he started for the stable to see what was taking so long.

  Brother Ffreol held him back, saying, "Calm yourself, Bran. You've been running all day. Rest when you can. We will be on our way soon enough."

  "Not soon enough for me," he cried, racing off to the stable to help Cefn finish saddling the horses. They were leading two mares into the yard when Mairead appeared with her two kitchen helpers, each carrying a cloth sack bulging with provisions. While the priest blessed the women and prayed over them, Bran and Cefn arranged the tuck bags behind the saddles and strapped them down, secreting the money in the folds. "Come, Ffreol," Bran said, taking the reins from the groom and mounting the saddle, if they catch us here, all is lost."

  "… and may the Lord make his face to shine upon you and give you his peace through all things whatsoever may befall you," intoned the priest, bestowing a kiss on the bowed head of each woman in turn. "Amen. Now off with you! Help Maelgwnt, and then all of you hie to Llanelli as soon as you can.,,

  The sun was already low in the west by the time the three riders crossed the stream and started up the long rising slope toward the edge of the forest; their shadows stretched long on the road, going before them like spindly, misshapen ghosts. They rode in silence until entering the shady margin of the trees.

  Coed Cadw, the Guarding Wood, was a dense tangle of ancient trees: oak, elm, lime, plane-all the titans of the wood. Growing amongst and beneath these giants were younger, smaller trees and thickets of hazel and beech. The road itself was lined with blackberry brambles that 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 marchogi 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 followed the sound of his voice more than the words and imagined that he heard a low, rhythmic drumming marking out the cadence. He listened for a while before realising that he was not imagining the sound. "Quiet!" he hissed. "Someone's coming."

  Ffreol helped Iwan to his feet, and the two disappeared into the underbrush; Bran darted to the horses and threw his cloak over their heads to keep them quiet, then stood and held the cloak in place so the animals would not shake it off. Brother Ffreol, flat on the ground, watched the narrow slice of road that he could see from beneath his bush. "Ffreinc!" he whispered a few moments later. "Scores of them." He paused, then added, "Hundreds."

  Bran, holding the horses' heads, heard the creak and rattle of wagon wheels, followed by the dull, hollow clop of hundreds of hooves and the tramp of leather-shod feet -a pulsing beat that seemed to go on and on and on.

  At long last, the sound gradually faded and the bird-fretted silence of the forest returned. "I believe they have gone," said Ffreol softly. He rose and brushed off his robe. Bran stood listening for a moment longer, and when no one else appeared on the road, he uncovered the horses' heads. Working quickly and quietly, he saddled the horses and then led the animals through the forest, within sight of the road. When, after walking a fair distance, no more marchogi appeared, he allowed them to leave the forest path and return to the road. The three travellers took to the saddle once more and bolted for Lundein.

>   CHAPTER

  6

  )By midmorning Bran, Iwan, and Brother Ffreol had begun the long, sloping ascent of the ridge overlooking the Vale of Wye. Upon reaching the top, they paused and looked down into the broad valley and the glittering sweep of the lazy green river. In the distance they could see the dark flecks of birds circling and swooping in the cloudless sky. Bran saw them, and his stomach tightened with apprehension.

  As the men approached the river ford, the strident calls of carrion feeders filled the air-ravens, rooks, and crows for the most part, but there were others. Hawks, buzzards, and even an owl or two wheeled in tight circles above the trees.

  Bran stopped at the water's edge. The soft ground of the riverbank was raggedly churned and chewed, as if a herd of giant boar had undertaken to plough the water marge with their tusks. There were no corpses to be seen, but here and there flies buzzed in thick black clouds over congealing puddles where blood had collected in a horse's hoofprint. The air was heavy and rank with the sickly sweet stench of death.

  Bran dismounted and walked back toward the road, where most of the fighting had taken place. He looked down and saw that in the place where he stood the earth took on a deeper, ruddy hue where a warrior's lifeblood had stained the ground on which he died.

  "This is where it happened," mused Brother Ffreol with quiet reverence. "This is where the warriors of Elfael were overthrown."

  "Aye," confirmed Iwan, his face grim and grey with fatigue and pain. "This is where we were ambushed and massacred." He lifted his hand and pointed to the wide bend of the river. "Rhi Brychan fell there," he said. "By the time I reached him, his body had been washed away."

  Bran, mouth pressed into a thin white line, stared at the water and said nothing. Once he might have felt a twinge of regret at his father's passing, but not now. Years of accumulated grievances had long ago removed his father from his affections. Sorrow alone could not surmount the rancour and bitterness, nor span the aching distance between them. He whispered a cold farewell and turned once more to the battleground.