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  “Oh, aye.”

  With a pained sigh, Bran turned his back on the priest and drew the purse from his belt. Opening the drawstring, he shook out a handful of coins, looking for any clipped coins amongst the whole. He found two half pennies and was looking for a third when Aethelfrith appeared beside him and said, “Splendid! I’ll take those.”

  Before Bran could stop him, the priest had snatched up three bright new pennies. “Here, boyo!” he said, handing Bran the two fat hares on the strap. “You get these coneys skinned and cleaned and ready to roast when I get back.”

  “Wait!” said Bran, trying to snatch back the coins. “Give those back!”

  “Hurry now,” said Aethelfrith, darting away with surprising speed on his ludicrous bowed legs. “It will be dark soon, and I mean to have a feast tonight.”

  Bran followed him to the door. “Are you certain you’re a priest?” Bran called after him, but the only reply he heard was a bark of cheerful laughter.

  Resigned to his task, Bran went out and found a nearby stone and set to work skinning and gutting the hares. Ffreol soon joined him and sat down to watch. “Strange fellow,” he observed after a time.

  “Most thieves are more honest.”

  Brother Ffreol chuckled. “He is a good hand with that staff.”

  “When his victim is unarmed, perhaps,” allowed Bran dully. He stripped the fur from one plump animal. “If I’d had a sword in my hand . . .”

  “Be of good cheer,” said Ffreol. “This is a fortuitous meeting. I feel it.We now have a friend in this place, and that is well worth a coin or two.”

  “Three,” corrected Bran. “And all of them new.”

  Ffreol nodded and then said, “He will repay that debt a thousand times over—ten thousand.”

  Something in his friend’s tone made Bran glance up sharply. “Why do you say that?”

  Ffreol offered a small, reticent smile and shrugged. “It is nothing—a feeling only.”

  Bran resumed his chore, and Ffreol watched him work.

  The two sat in companionable silence as evening enfolded them in a gentle twilight. The hares were gutted and washed by the time Friar Aethelfrith returned with a bag on his back and a small cask under each arm. “I did not know if you preferred wine or ale,” he announced, “so I bought both.”

  Handing one of the casks to Bran, he gave the other to Ffreol and then, opening the bag, drew out a fine loaf of fresh-baked bread and a great hunk of pale yellow cheese. “Three moons if a day since I had fresh bread,” he confided. “Three threes of moons since I had a drink of wine.” Offering Bran another of his preposterous bows, he said, “A blessing on the Lord of the Feast. May his days never cease and his tribe increase!”

  Bran smiled in spite of himself and declared, “Bring the jars and let the banquet begin!”

  They returned to the oratory, where Iwan, reclining beside the hearth, had built up the fire to a bright, crackling blaze. While Aethelfrith scurried around readying their supper, Ffreol found wooden cups and poured out the ale. Their host paused long enough to suck down a cup and then returned to his preparations, spitting the fat hares and placing them at the fireside for Iwan to tend. He then brought a wooden trencher with broken bread and bite-sized chunks of cheese, and four long fire-forks, which he passed to his guests.

  They sat around the hearth and toasted bread and cheese and drank to each other’s health while waiting for the meat to cook. Slowly, the cares of the last days began to release their hold on Bran and his companions.

  “A toast!” said Iwan at one point, raising his cup. “I drink to our good host, Aethleth—” He stumbled at the hurdle of the name once more. He tried again, but the effort proved beyond him. Casting an eye over the plump priest, he said, “Fat little bag of vittles that he is, I will call him Tuck.”

  “Friar Tuck to you, boyo!” retorted the priest with a laugh. Cocking his head to one side, he said, “And it is Iwan, is it not? What is that in couth speech?” He tapped his chin with a stubby finger. “It’s John, I think. Yes, John. So, overgrown infant that he is, I will call him Little John.” He raised his cup, sloshing ale over the rim, “So, now! I lift my cup to Little John and to his friends. May you always have ale enough to wet your tongues, wit enough to know friend from foe, and strength enough for every fight.”

  Ffreol, moved as much by the camaraderie around the hearth as by the contents of his cup, raised his voice in solemn, priestly declamation, saying, “I am not lying when I say that I have feasted in the halls of kings, but rarely have I supped with a nobler company than sits beneath this humble roof tonight.” Lofting his cup, he said, “God’s blessing on us. Brothers all!”

  CHAPTER 8

  The sun was high and warm by the time the men were ready to depart Aethelfrith’s oratory. Bran and Iwan bade the priest farewell, and Brother Ffreol bestowed a blessing, saying, “May the grace and peace of Christ be upon you, and the shielding of all the saints be around you, and nine holy angels aid and uphold you through all things.” He then raised himself to the saddle, saying, “Do not drink all the wine, brother. Save some for our return. God willing, we will join you again on our way home.”

  “Then you had better hurry about your business,” Aethelfrith called. “That wine will not last long.”

  Bran, eager to be away, slapped the reins and trotted out onto the road. Ffreol and Iwan followed close behind, and the three resumed their journey to Lundein. The horses were just finding their stride when they heard a familiar voice piping, “Wait! Wait!”

  Turning around in the saddle, Bran saw the bandy-legged friar running after them. Thinking they had forgotten something, he pulled up.

  “I’m coming with you,” Aethelfrith declared.

  Bran regarded the man’s disgraceful robe, bare feet, ragged tonsure, and untidy beard. He glanced at Ffreol and shook his head.

  “Your offer is thoughtful, to be sure,” replied Brother Ffreol, “but we would not burden you with our affairs.”

  “Maybe not,” he allowed, “but God wants me to go.”

  “God wants you to go,” Iwan scoffed lightly. “You speak for God now, do you?”

  “No,” the priest allowed, “but I know he wants me to go.”

  “And how, pray, do you know this?”

  Aethelfrith offered a diffident smile. “He told me.”

  “Well,” replied the battlechief lightly, “until he tells me, I say you stay here and guard the wine cask.”

  Ffreol lifted a hand in farewell, and the three started off again, but after only a few dozen paces, Bran looked around again to see the plump priest hurrying after them, robes lifted high, his bowed legs churning. “Go back!” he called, not bothering to stop.

  “I cannot,” replied Aethelfrith. “It is not your voice I heed, but God’s. I am compelled to come with you.”

  “I think we should take him,” Brother Ffreol said.

  “He is too slow afoot,” Bran pointed out. “He could never keep pace.”

  “True,” agreed Ffreol as the priest came puffing up. Reaching down his hand, he said, “You can ride with me, Tuck.” Aethelfrith took the offered hand and began wriggling labouriously up onto the back of the horse.

  “What?” said Iwan. Indicating Bran and himself, he said, “Are we not to have a say in this?”

  “Say whatever you like,” Aethelfrith replied. “I am certain God is willing to listen.”

  Iwan grumbled, but Bran laughed. “Stung you,” he chuckled, “eh, Little John?”

  For five days they journeyed on, following the road as it bent its way south and east over the broad lowland hills from whose tops could be seen a land of green and golden fields strewn with the smudgy brown blots of innumerable settlements. They travelled more slowly with four; owing to the extra weight, they had to stop and rest the horses more frequently. But what he cost them in time, Tuck made up in songs and rhymes and stories about the saints—and this made the journey more enjoyable.

  The countryside
became ever more densely populated— roads, lanes, and trackways seamed the valleys, and the cross-topped steeples of churches adorned every hilltop. Over all hung the odour of the dung heap, pungent and heavy in the sultry air. By the time the sprawl of Lundein appeared beyond the wide gleaming sweep of the Thames, Bran was heartily sick of England and already longing to return to Elfael. Ordinarily, he would not have endured such a misery in silence, but the sight of the city brought the reason for their sojourn fresh to mind, and his soul sank beneath the weight of an infinitely greater grief. He merely bit his lip and passed through the wretched realm, his gaze level, his face hard.

  On its way into the city, the road widened to resemble a broad, bare, wheel-rutted expanse hemmed in on each side by row upon row of houses, many flanked by narrow yards out of which merchants and craftsmen pursued their various trades.

  Carters, carpenters, and wheelwrights bartered with customers ankle deep in wood shavings; blacksmiths hammered glowing rods on anvils to produce andirons, fire grates, ploughshares, door bands and hinges, chains, and horseshoes; corders sat in their doorways, winding jute into hanks that rose in mounded coils at their feet; potters ferried planks lined with sun-dried pitchers, jars, and bowls to their nearby kilns. Everywhere Bran looked, people seemed to be intensely busy, but he saw no place that looked at all friendly to strangers.

  They rode on and soon came to a low house fronting the river. Several dozen barrels were lined up outside the entrance beside the road. Some of the barrels were topped with boards, behind which a young woman with hair the colour of spun gold and a bright red kerchief across her bare shoulders dispensed jars of ale to a small gathering of thirsty travellers. Without a second thought, Bran turned aside, dismounted, and walked to the board.

  “Pax vobiscum,” he said, dusting off his Latin.

  She gave him a nod and patted the board with her hand— a sign he took to mean she wanted to see his money first. As Bran dug out his purse and searched for a suitable coin, the others joined him.

  “Allow me,” said Aethelfrith, pushing up beside him. He brought out an English penny. “Coin of the realm,” he said, holding the small silver disc between thumb and forefinger. “And for this we should eat like kings as well, should we not?” He handed the money to the alewife. “Four jars, good woman,” he said in English. “And fill them full to overflowing.”

  “There is food, too?” asked Bran as the woman poured out three large jars from a nearby pitcher.

  “Inside the house,” replied the cleric. Following Bran’s gaze, he added, “but we’ll not be going in there.”

  “Why not? It seems a good enough place.” He could smell the aroma of roast pork and onions on the light evening breeze.

  “Oh, aye, a good enough place to practise iniquity, perhaps, or lose your purse—if not your life.” He shook his head at the implied depravity. “But we have a bed waiting for us where we will not be set upon by anything more onerous than a psalm.”

  “You know of such a place?” asked Ffreol.

  “There is a monastery just across the river,” Friar Aethelfrith informed them. “The Abbey of Saint Mary the Virgin. I have stayed there before. They will give us a bowl and bed for the night.”

  Aethelfrith’s silver penny held good for four more jars and half a loaf of bread, sliced and smeared with pork drippings, which only served to rouse their appetites. Halfway through the second jar, Bran had begun to feel as if Lundein might not be as bad as his first impression had led him to believe. He became more certain when he caught the young alewife watching him; she offered him a saucy smile and gave a little toss of her head, indicating that he should follow. With a nod and a wink, she disappeared around the back of the house, with Bran a few steps behind her. As Bran came near, she lifted her skirt a little and extended her leg to reveal a shapely ankle.

  “It is a lovely river, is it not?” observed Aethelfrith, falling into step beside him.

  “It is not the river I am looking at,” said Bran. “Go back and finish your ale, and I will join you when I’ve finished here.”

  “Oh,” replied the friar, “I think you’ve had enough already.” Waving to the young woman, he took Bran by the arm and steered him back the way they had come. “Evening is upon us,” he observed. “We’ll be going on.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Bran. Glancing back at the alewife, he saw that she had gone inside. “We should eat something.”

  “Aye, we will,” agreed Tuck, “but not here.” They rejoined the others, and Bran returned to his jar, avoiding the stern glance of Brother Ffreol. “Drink up, my friends,” ordered Tuck. “It is time we were moving along.”

  With a last look toward the inn, Bran drained his cup and reluctantly followed the others back to their mounts and climbed back into the saddle. “How many times have you been to Lundein?” he asked as they continued their slow plod into the city.

  “Oh, a fair few,” Aethelfrith replied. “Four or five times, I think, though the last time was when old King William was on the throne.” He paused to consider. “Seven years ago, perhaps.”

  At King’s Bridge they stopped in the road. Bran had never seen a bridge so wide and long, and despite the crowds now hurrying to their homes on the other side of the river, he was not certain he wanted to venture out too far. He was on the point of dismounting to lead his horse across when Aethelfrith saw his hesitation. “Five hundred men on horseback cross this bridge every day,” he called, “and oxcarts by the score. It will yet bear a few more.”

  “I was merely admiring the handiwork,” Bran told him. He gave his mount a slap and started across. Indeed, it was ingeniously constructed with beams of good solid oak and iron spikes; it neither swayed nor creaked as they crossed. All the same, he was happy to reach the far side, where Aethelfrith, now afoot, began leading them up one narrow, shadowed street and down another until the three Welshmen had lost all sense of direction.

  “I know it is here somewhere,” said Aethelfrith. They paused at a small crossroads to consider where to look next. The twisting streets were filling up with smoke from the hearth fires of the houses round about.

  “Night is upon us,” Ffreol pointed out. “If we cannot find it in the daylight, we will fare no better in the dark.”

  “We are near,” insisted the fat little priest. “I remember this place, do I not?”

  Just then a bell rang out—a clear, distinct tone in the still evening air.

  “Ah!” cried Aethelfrith. “That will be the call to vespers. This way!” Following the sound of the bell, they soon arrived at a gate in a stone wall. “Here!” he said, hurrying to the gate.

  “This is the place—I told you I would remember.”

  “So you did,” replied Bran. “How could we have doubted?”

  The mendicant priest pulled a small rope that passed through a hole in the wooden door. Another bell tinkled softly, and presently the door swung open. A thin, round-shouldered priest dressed in a long robe of undyed wool stepped out to greet them. One glance at the two priests in their robes, and he said, “Welcome, brothers! Peace and welcome.”

  A quick word with the porter, and their lodgings for the night were arranged. They ate soup with the brothers in the refectory, and while Ffreol and Aethelfrith attended the night vigil with the resident monks, Bran and Iwan went to the cell provided for them and fell asleep on fleece-covered straw mats. Upon arising with the bell the next morning, Bran saw that Ffreol and Aethelfrith were already at prayer; he pulled on his boots, brushed the straw from his cloak, and went out into the abbey yard to wait until the holy office was finished.

  While he waited, he rehearsed in his mind what they should say to William the Red. Now that the fateful day had dawned, Bran found himself lost for words and dwarfed by the awful knowledge of how much depended upon his ability to persuade the English king of the injustice being perpetrated on his people. His heart sank lower and lower as he contemplated the dreary future before him: an impoverished lackey to a Ffreinc bo
under whose reputation for profligate spending was exceeded only by his whoring and drinking.

  When at last Ffreol and Aethelfrith emerged from the chapel, Bran had decided he would swear an oath to the devil himself if it would keep the vile invaders from Elfael.

  The travellers took their leave and, passing beyond the monastery gates, entered the streets of the city to make their way to the White Tower, as the king’s stronghold was known.

  Bran could see the pale stone structure rising above the rooftops of the low, mean houses sheltering in the shadows of the fortress walls. At the gates, Brother Ffreol declared Bran’s nobility and announced their intent to the porter, who directed them into the yard and showed them where to tie their horses. They were then met by a liveried servant, who conducted them into the fortress itself and to a large anteroom lined with benches on which a score or more men—mostly Ffreinc, but some English—were already waiting; others were standing in clumps and knots the length of the room. The thought of having to wait his turn until all had been seen cast Bran into a dismal mood.

  They settled in a far corner of the room. Every now and then a courtier would appear, summon one or more petitioners, and take them away. For good or ill, those summoned never returned to the anteroom, so the mood remained one of hopeful, if somewhat desperate, optimism. “I have heard of people waiting twenty days or more to speak to the king,” Friar Aethelfrith confided as he cast his glance around the room at the men lining the benches.

  “We will not bide that long,” Bran declared, but he sank a little further into gloom at the thought. Some of those in the room did indeed look as if they might have taken up more or less permanent residence there; they brought out food from well-stocked tuck bags, some slept, and others whiled away the time playing at dice. Morning passed, and the day slowly crept away.

  It was after midday, and Bran’s stomach had begun reminding him that he had eaten nothing but soup and hard bread since the day before, when the door at the end of the great vestibule opened and a courtier in yellow leggings and a short tunic and mantle of bright green entered, passing slowly along the benches and eyeing the petitioners who looked up hopefully. At his approach, Bran stood. “We want to see the king,” he said in his best Latin.