The bishop nodded and hurried away. Bran watched him for a moment and then walked to the small guest lodge beside the gate; he looked around the near-empty cell. In one corner was a bed made of rushes overspread with a sheepskin. He crossed to the bed, lay down, and, overcome by the accumulated exertions of the last days, closed his eyes and sank into a blessedly dreamless sleep.
It was late when he woke again; the sun was well down, and the shadows stretched long across the empty yard. The bishop, he soon learned, had sent three monks in search of a horse; none of the three had yet returned. The bishop himself had taken a party with an oxcart to retrieve the body of Brother Ffreol. There was nothing to do, so he returned to the guest lodge to stew over the stupidity of churchmen and rue his rotten luck. He sprawled on the bench outside the chapter house, listening to the intermittent bell as it tolled the offices. Little by little, the once-bright day faded to a dull yellow haze.
He dozed and awoke to yet another bell. Presently the monks began appearing; in twos and threes they entered the yard, hurrying from their various chores. "That bell what was it?" Bran asked one of the brothers as he passed.
"It is only vespers, sire," replied the priest respectfully.
Bran's heart sank at the word: vespers. Eventide prayer-the day gone, and he was still within shouting distance of the caer. He slumped back against the mud-daubed wall and stuck his feet out in front of him. Asaph was worse than useless, and he felt a ripe fool for trusting him. If he had known the silly old man had given his father's treasure to de Braose-simply handed it over, by job's bones-he could have lit out for the northern border the moment the count set him free.
He was on the point of fleeing Llanelli when an errant breeze brought a savoury aroma from the cookhouse, and he suddenly remembered how hungry he was. An instant later he was on his feet and moving toward the refectory. He would eat and then go.
Nothing was easier than cadging a meal from Brother Bedo, the kitchener. A cheerful, red-faced lump with watery eyes and a permanent stoop from bending over his pots and steaming cauldrons, no creature that begged a crust was ever turned away from his door.
"Lord Bran, bless me, it's you," he said, pulling Bran into the room and sitting him down on a three-legged stool at the table. "I heard what happened to you on the road-a sorry business, a full sorry business indeed, God's truth. Brother Ffreol was one of our best, you know. He would have been bishop one day, he would-if not abbot also."
"He was my confessor," volunteered Bran. "He was a friend and a good man."
"I don't suppose it could have been helped?" asked the kitchener, placing a wooden trencher of roast meat and bread on the table before Bran.
"There was nothing to be done," Bran said. "Even if he'd had a hundred warriors at his back, it would not have made the slightest difference."
"Ah, so, well…" Bedo poured out a jar of thin ale into a small leather cup. "Bless him-and bless you, too, that you were there to comfort him at his dying breath."
Bran accepted the monk's words without comment. There had been precious little comforting in Ffreol's last moments. The chaos of that terrible night rose before him once more, and Bran's eyesight dimmed with tears. He finished his meal without further talk, then thanked the brother and went out, already planning the route he would take through the valley, away from the caer and Count de Braose's ransom demand.
The moon had risen above the far hills when Bran slipped through the gate. He had walked only a few dozen paces when he heard someone calling after him. "Lord Bran! Wait!" He looked around to see three dusty, footsore monks leading a swaybacked plough horse.
"What is that?" asked Bran, regarding the animal doubtfully.
"My lord," the monk said, "it is the best we could find. Anyone with a seemly mount has sent it away, and the Ffreinc have already taken the rest." The monk regarded the horse wearily. "It may not be much, but trust me, it is this or nothing."
"Worse than nothing," Bran grumbled. Snatching the halter rope from the monk's hands, he clambered up onto the beast's bony back. "Tell the bishop I have gone. I will send word from Gwynedd." With that, he departed on his pathetic mount.
)Bran had never ridden a beast as slow and stumble-footed as the one he now sat atop. The creature plodded along in the dying moonlight, head down, nose almost touching the ground. Despite Bran's most ardent insistence, piteous begging, and harrowing threats, the animal refused to assume a pace swifter than a hoof-dragging amble.
Thus, night was all but spent by the time Bran came in sight of Caer Rhodl, the fortress of Merians father, King Cadwgan, rising up out of the mists of the morning that would be. Tethering the plough horse to a rowan bush in a gully beside the track, Bran ran the rest of the way on foot. He scaled the low wall at his customary place and dropped into the empty yard. The caer was silent. The watchmen, as usual, were asleep.
Quick and silent as a shadow, Bran darted across the dark expanse of yard to the far corner of the house. Merian's room was at the back, its single small window opening onto the kitchen herb garden. He crept along the side of the house until he came to her window and then, pressing his ear to the rough wooden shutter, paused to listen. Hearing nothing, he pulled on the shutter; it swung open easily, and he paused again. When nothing stirred inside, he whispered, "Merian…," and waited, then whispered again, slightly louder. "Merian! Be quick!"
This time his call was answered by the sound of a hushed footfall and the rustle of clothing. In a moment, Merian's face appeared in the window, pale in the dim light. "You should not have come," she said. "I won't let you in-not tonight."
"There was a battle," he told her. "My father has been killed-the entire warband with him. The Ffreinc have taken Elfael."
"Oh, Bran!" she gasped. "How did it happen?"
"They have a grant from King William. They are taking everything."
"But this is terrible," she said. "Are you hurt?"
"I was not in the battle," he said. "But they are searching for me."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm leaving for Gwynedd-now, at once. I have kinsmen there. But I need a horse."
"You want me to give you a horse?" Merian shook her head. "I cannot. I dare not. My father would scream the roof down."
"I will pay him," said Bran. "Or find a way to return it. Please, Merian."
"Is there not some other way?"
He raised a hand and squeezed her arm, "Please, Merian, you're the only one who can help me now." He gazed at her in the glowing light of a rising sun and, in spite of himself, felt his desire quicken. On a sudden inspiration, he said, "I love you, Merian. Come with me. We will go together, you and I-far away from all of this."
"Bran, think what you're saying!" She pulled free. "I cannot just run away, nor can you." Leaning forward as far as the small window would allow, she clutched at him. "Listen to me, Bran. You must go back. It is the people of Elfael who will need you now and in the days to come. You will be king. You must think of your people."
"The Ffreinc will kill me!" protested Bran.
"Shh!" she said, placing her fingertips to his lips. "Someone will hear you."
"I failed to pay the ransom," Bran explained, speaking more softly. "If I go back to Elfael empty-handed, they'll kill me-they mean to kill me anyway, I think. The only reason I'm still alive is because they want the money first."
"Come," she said, making up her mind. "We must go to my father. You must tell him what you have told me. He will know what to do."
"Your father hates me." Bran rejected the idea outright. "No. I am not going back. Elfael is lost. I have to get away now while I still have a chance." He raised a hand to stroke her cheek. "Come with me, Merian. We can be together."
"Bran, listen. Be reasonable. Let my father help you."
"Will he give twenty marks to free me?" Merian bit her lip doubtfully. "No?" sneered Bran. "I thought not. He'd sooner see my head on a pike."
"He will go with you and talk to them. He stands in good
stead with Baron Neufmarche. The Ffreinc will listen to him. He will help you."
"I'm leaving, Merian." Bran backed away from the window. "It was a mistake to come here..
"Just wait there," she said and disappeared suddenly. She was back an instant later. "Here, take this," she said. Reaching out, she dropped a small leather bag into his hand. It chinked as he caught it. "It is not much," she said, "but it is all I have."
"I need a weapon," he said, tucking the bag away. "Can you get me a sword? Or a spear? Both would be best."
"Let me see." She darted away again and was gone longer this time. Bran waited. The sky brightened. The rising sun bathed his back with its warming rays. It would be daylight before he could start out, and that would mean finding a way north that avoided as much of Elfael as possible. He was pondering this when Merian returned to the window.
"I couldn't get a sword," she said, "but I found this. It belongs to my brother." She pushed the polished ash-wood shaft of a longbow out to him, followed by a sheaf of arrows.
Bran took the weapons, thanked her coolly, and stepped away from the window. "Farewell, Merian," he said, raising a hand in parting.
"Please don't go." Reaching out, she strained after him, brushing his fingertips with her own. "Think of your people, Bran," she said, her voice pleading. "They need you. How can you help them in Gwynedd?"
"I love you, Merian," he said, still backing away. "Remember me."
"Bran, no!" she called. "Wait!"
But he was already running for his life.
CHAPTER
12
)By the time Bran reached the stream separating the two cantrefs, the sun was burning through the mist that swathed the forest to the east and collected in the hollows of the lowlands. Astride his slow horse, he cursed his luck. He had considered simply taking a horse from Cadwgan's stable but could not think how to do so without waking one of the stable hands. And even if he had been able to achieve that, adding the wrath of Lord Cadwgan to his woes was not a prospect to be warmly embraced. The last thing he needed just now was an irate king's search party hot on his heels.
Despite his slow pace, he rode easily along the valley bottom through fields glistening with early morning dew. The crops were ripe, and soon the harvest season would be upon them. Long before the first scythe touched a barley stalk, however, Bran would be far away beyond the forest and mountain fastness to the north, enjoying the warmth and safety of a kinsman's hearth.
There were, Bran considered as he clopped along, two ways to Gwynedd through the Cymraic heartland. Elfael straddled both, and neither was very good.
The first and most direct way was straight across Elfael to Coed Cadw and then through dense woodland all the way to the mountains. They were not high mountains, but they were rough, broken crags of shattered stone, and difficult to cross-all the more so for a man alone and without adequate supplies. The second route was less direct; it meant skirting the southern border of Elfael and working patiently through the intricate interlacing of low hills and hidden valleys to the west before turning north along the coast.
This second route was slower and passed uncomfortably close to Caer Cadarn before bending away to the west. There was a risk that he might be seen. Still, it kept him out of the treacherous mountain pathways and made best use of his mount's limited value as a steady plodder.
Bran did not relish the idea of passing so close to the unfriendly Ffreinc, but it could not be helped. He considered laying up somewhere and waiting until nightfall; however, the idea of trying to remain hidden under de Braose's nose and then thrashing around the countryside in the dark lacked the allure of ready flight. The day was new, he reckoned, and he would pass Caer Cadarn at the nearest point while it was still early morning and the invaders would most likely be otherwise occupied. Perhaps they were not even looking for him yet.
He reached the boundary stream but did not cross. Instead, he turned his slow steed west and, in the interest of keeping well out of sight of Caer Cadarn, followed the narrow waterway as it snaked through the gorsy lowlands that formed the border between Elfael and Brycheiniog to the south. In time, the stream would swing around to the northwest, entering Maelienydd, a region of rough hills and cramped valleys that he hoped to cross as quickly as possible. Then he would head for Arwstli, angling north all the while toward Powys and so work his way cantref by cantref to Gwynedd and a glad welcome amongst his mother's people.
Bran was thinking about how distraught and outraged his kinsmen would be upon learning the news of his father's cruel murder and the loss of Elfael when the distant echo of a scream brought him up short. He tried telling himself he had imagined it only and was halfway down the path toward believing that when the terrified shriek came again: a woman's voice, carried on the breeze and, though faint, clearly signifying terrible distress. Bran halted, listened again, and then turned his mount in the direction of the cry.
He crossed the stream into the far southwestern toe of Elfael. Over the nearest hill, he saw the first threads of black smoke rising in the clear morning air. He crested the hill and looked over into the valley on the other side, where he saw the settlement called Nant Cwm, a fair-sized holding comprised of a large house and a yard with several barns and a few outbuildings. Even from a distance, he could see that it was under attack; smoke was spewing from the door of the barn and from the roof of the house. There were five saddled horses in the yard between the house and barn, but no riders. Then, as Bran watched, a man burst from the front door of the house, almost flying. He ran a few steps, his feet tangled, then fell sprawling on his side. Right behind him came his attackers-two Ffreinc men-at-arms with drawn swords. Two more marchogi emerged from the house, dragging a woman between them.
Bran saw the hated Ffreinc, and his anger flared white hot in an instant. Snatching up the bow Merian had given him, he grabbed the sheaf of arrows, and before he knew his feet had touched ground, he was racing down the hill toward the settlement.
In the yard, the farmer cried out, throwing his hands before him clearly pleading for his life. The two Ffreinc standing over him raised their swords. The woman screamed again, struggling in the grasp of her captors. The farmer shouted again and tried to rise. Bran saw the swords glint hard and bright in the sun as they slashed and fell. The farmer writhed in a vain attempt to avoid the blows. The fierce blades slashed again, and the man lay still.
At the farmer's death, Bran's vision hardened to a single, piercing beam, and the world flashed crimson. He bit his lip to keep from crying out his rage as he flew toward the fight. As soon as he judged he was within the longbow's range, he squatted down and opened the cloth bundle.
There were but six arrows. Every arrow would have to count. Bran nocked the first onto the string, pulled the feathered shaft close to his cheek, and took aim-his target the nearer of the two soldiers struggling with the farmer's wife.
Just as he was about to let fly, the farmhouse door opened and out of the burning building ran a young boy of, perhaps, six or seven summers.
One of the marchogi shouted, and from around the far side of the house another Ffreinc soldier appeared with a sword in one hand and the leash of an enormous hunting dog in the other. This was the commander-a knight with a round steel helmet and a long hauberk of ringed mail. The knight saw the boy escaping across the yard and gave a shout. When the child failed to stop, he loosed the hound.
With staggering speed, the snarling, slavvering beast ran down the boy. The mother screamed as the hound, fully as big as her son, closed on the fleeing child.
The hound leapt, and the terrified boy stumbled. Bran let fly in the same instant.
The arrow whirred as it streaked home, burying itself in the hound's slender neck, even as the beast's jaws snatched at the child's unprotected throat. The dog crumpled and rolled to the side, teeth still gnashing, forelegs raking the air.
As the whimpering boy climbed to his feet, the Ffreinc menat-arms searched the surrounding hills for the source of t
he unexpected arrow. The knight who had released the dog was the first to spot Bran crouching on the hill above the settlement. He shouted a command to his marchogi, pointing toward the hillside with his sword.
He was still pointing when an arrow-like a weird, feathered flower-sprouted in the middle of his mail-clad stomach.
The sword spun from his hand, and the knight crashed to his knees, clutching the shaft of the arrow. He gave out a roar of pain and outrage, and the two soldiers standing over the dead farmer leapt to life. They charged at a run, blades high, across the yard and up the hill.
Bran, working with uncanny calm, placed another arrow on the string, took his time to pull, hold, and aim. When he let fly, the missile sang to its mark. The first warrior was struck and spun completely around by the force of the arrow. The second ran on a few more steps, then halted abruptly, jerked to his full height by the slender oak shaft that slammed into his chest.
Next, Bran turned his attention to the two marchogi holding the woman. No one was struggling now; all three were staring in flatfooted disbelief at the lone archer crouching on the hillside.
By the time Bran had another arrow on the string and was taking aim, the two had released the woman and were running for the horses. One of the marchogi had the presence of mind to try to cut off any possible pursuit; he gathered the reins of the riderless horses, leapt into the saddle, and fled the slaughter ground.
Bran raced down to the farmyard, pausing at the foot of the hill to release another arrow. He drew and loosed at the nearest of the two fleeing riders. The arrow flew straight and true, sizzling through the air to sink its sharp metal head deep between the shoulders of the Ffreinc warrior, who arched his back and flung his arms wide as if to embrace the sky. The galloping horse ran on a few more steps, and the warrior slumped sideways and plunged heavily to the ground.
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