“That is as may be,” she allowed primly, “but if you really need the troops, then why place so much weight on a mere letter in the hand of an insignificant menial?”
“And what would you do?”
“I’d send a suitable emissary instead.”
“An emissary.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “and what better emissary than the sole and beloved daughter-in-law of the duke himself ?” She paused, allowing her words to take effect. “Duke Geoffrey can easily refuse a letter in Ormand’s hand,” she concluded, “as you and I know only too well. But refuse me? Never.”
Bernard considered this for a moment, tapping the silver base of his cup with a finger. What she suggested was not entirely without merit. He could already see certain advantages. If she went, she might obtain not only troops but money as well. And it was true that the old duke could never deny his daughter-in-law anything. He might fume and fret for a few days, but he would succumb to her wishes in the end.
“Very well,” decided the baron abruptly, “you shall go. Ormand will accompany you—and your maidservants, of course—but you will bear the letter yourself and read it to the duke when you judge him in a favourable mood to grant our request.”
Lady Agnes smiled and inclined her head in acquiescence to his desires. “As always, my husband, your counsel is impeccable.”
B
ran stirred his mount to speed. “Iwan!” he cried. At the sound of his name, the king’s champion raised himself in the saddle, and Bran saw blood oozing down the warrior’s padded leather tunic.
“Bran!” the warrior gasped. “Bran, thank God. Listen—”
“Iwan, what has happened? Where are the others?”
“We were attacked at Wye ford,” he said. “Ffreinc—three hundred or more . . . sixty, maybe seventy knights, the rest footmen.”
Lurching sideways, he seized the young prince by the arm. “Bran, you must ride . . . ,” he began, but his eyes rolled up into his head; he slumped and toppled from the saddle.
Bran, holding tight to his arm, tried to lower his longtime friend more gently to the ground. Iwan landed hard nonetheless and sprawled between the horses. Bran slid off the mare and eased the wounded man onto his back. “Iwan! Iwan!” he said, trying to rouse him. “My father, the warband—where are the others?”
“Dead,” moaned Iwan. “All . . . all of them dead.”
Bran quickly retrieved a waterskin from its place behind his saddle. “Here,” he said, holding the skin to the warrior’s mouth, “drink a little. It will restore you.”
The battlechief sucked down a long, thirsty draught and then shoved the skin away. “You must raise the alarm,” he said, some vigour returning to his voice. He clutched at Bran and held him fast. “You must ride and warn the people.Warn everyone. The king is dead, and the Ffreinc are coming.”
“How much time do we have?” asked Bran.
“Enough, pray God,” said the battlechief. “Less if you stay. Go now.”
Bran hesitated, unable to decide what should be done.
“Now!” Iwan said, pushing the prince away. “There is but time to hide the women and children.”
“We will go together. I will help you.”
“Go!” snarled Iwan. “Leave me!”
“Not like this.”
Ignoring the wounded man’s curses, Bran helped him to his feet and back into the saddle. Then, taking up the reins of Iwan’s horse, he led them both back the way he had come. Owing to the battlechief ’s wound, they travelled more slowly than Bran would have wished, eventually reaching the western edge of the forest, where he paused to allow the horses and wounded man to rest. “Is there much pain?” he asked.
“Not so much,” Iwan said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Ah, a little . . .”
“We’ll wait here awhile.” Bran dismounted, walked a few paces ahead, and crouched beside the road, scanning the valley for any sign of the enemy invaders.
The broad, undulating lowlands of Elfael spread before him, shimmering gently in the blue haze of an early autumn day. Secluded, green, fertile, a region of gentle, wooded hills seamed through with clear-running streams and brooks, it lay pleasantly between the high, bare stone crags of mountains to the north and east and the high moorland wastes to the south. Not the largest cantref beyond the Marches, in Bran’s estimation it tendered in charm what it lacked in size.
In the near distance, the king’s fortress on its high mound, whitewashed walls gleaming in the sunlight, stood sentinel at the gateway to Elfael, which seemed to drowse in the heavy, honeyed light. So quiet, so peaceful—the likelihood of anything disturbing such a deep and luxurious serenity seemed impossibly remote, a mere cloud shadow passing over a sun-bright meadow, a little dimming of the light before the sun blazed forth again. Caer Cadarn had been his family’s home for eight generations, and he had never imagined anything could ever change that.
Bran satisfied himself that all was calm—at least for the moment—then returned to his mount and swung into the saddle once more.
“See anything?” asked Iwan. Hollow-eyed, his face was pale and dripping with sweat.
“No Ffreinc,” Bran replied, “yet.”
They started down into the valley at a trot. Bran did not stop at the hill fort but rode straight to Llanelli, the tiny monastery that occupied the heel of the valley and stood halfway between the fortress and Glascwm, the chief town of the neighbouring cantref—and the only settlement of any size in the entire region. Although merely an outpost of the larger abbey of Saint Dyfrig at Glascwm, the Llanelli monastery served the people of Elfael well. The monks, Bran had decided, not only would know best how to raise an alarm to warn the people, but also would be able to help Iwan.
The gates of the monastery were open, so they rode through and halted in the bare-earth yard outside the little timber and mud-daubed church. “Brother Ffreol! Brother Ffreol!” Bran shouted; he leapt from the saddle and ran to the door of the church. A lone priest was kneeling before the altar. An elderly man, he turned as Bran burst in upon his prayers.
“Lord Bran,” said the old man, rising shakily to his feet. “God be good to you.”
“Where is Brother Ffreol?”
“I am sure I cannot say,” replied the aging monk. “He might be anywhere. Why all this shouting?”
Without reply, Bran seized the bell rope. The bell pealed wildly in response to his frantic pulling, and soon monks were hurrying to the church from every direction. First through the door was Brother Cefan, a local lad only slightly older than Bran himself. “Lord Bran, what is wrong?”
“Where is Ffreol?” demanded Bran, still tugging on the bell rope. “I need him.”
“He was in the scriptorium a short while ago,” replied the youth. “I don’t know where he is now.”
“Find him!” ordered Bran. “Hurry!”
The young brother darted back through the door, colliding with Bishop Asaph, a dour, humourless drone of advancing age and, as Bran had always considered, middling ability.
“You there!” he shouted, striding into the church. “Stop that!
You hear? Release that rope at once!”
Bran dropped the rope and spun around.
“Oh, it’s you, Bran,” said the bishop, his features arranging themselves in a frown of weary disapproval. “I might have guessed. What, pray, is the meaning of this spirited summons?”
“No time to waste, bishop,” said Bran. Rushing up, he snatched the churchman by the sleeve of his robe and pulled him out of the church and into the yard, where twenty or so of the monastery’s inhabitants were quickly gathering.
“Calm yourself,” said Bishop Asaph, shaking himself free of Bran’s grasp. “We’re all here, so explain this commotion if you can.”
“The Ffreinc are coming,” said Bran. “Three hundred marchogi—they are on their way here now.” Pointing to the battlechief sitting slumped in the saddle, he said, “Iwan fought them, and he’s wounded. He needs help at once.”
“Marchogi!” gasped the gathered monks, glancing fearfully at one another.
“But why tell
us
?” wondered the bishop. “Your father should be the one to—”
“The king is dead,” Bran said. “They murdered him—and the rest of the warband with him. Everyone is dead. We have no protection.”
“I do not understand,” sputtered the bishop. “What do you mean? Everyone?”
Fear snaked through the gathered monks. “The warband dead! We are lost!”
Brother Ffreol appeared, pushing his way through the crowd. “Bran, I saw you ride in. There is trouble. What has happened?”
“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 now—and 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.”
R
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 day—what 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, thick-walled room with long slits for windows. As he expected, the best weapons were gone; the warband had taken all but a few rusty, bent-bladed 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.