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 isJust 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."

Ffreol 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 incense.

Ffreol approached the altar, knelt, and said a prayer of blessing for the keeper of the cell. "I hope nothing has happened to old Faganus," he said when he finished.

"Saints and sinners are we all," said a gruff voice from the open doorway. "Old Faganus is long dead and buried."

Startled, Bran turned quickly, his hand reaching for his knife. A quick lash of a stout oak staff caught him on the arm. "Easy, son," advised the owner of the staff. "I will behave if you will"

Into the cell stepped a very short, very fat man. The crown of his head came only to Bran's armpit, and his bulk filled the doorway in which he stood. Dressed in the threadbare brown robes of a mendicant priest, he balanced his generous girth on two absurdly thin, bandy legs; his shoulders sloped and his back was slightly bent, giving him a stooped, almost dwarfish appearance; however, his thick-muscled arms and chest looked as if he could crush ale casks in his brawny embrace.

He carried a slender staff of unworked oak in one hand and held a brace of hares by a leather strap with the other. His tonsure was outgrown and in need of reshaving; his bare feet were filthy and caked with river mud, some of which had found its way to his full, fleshy jowls. He regarded his three intruders with bold and unflinching dark eyes, as ready to wallop them as welcome them.

"God be good to you," said Ffreol from the altar. "Are you priest here now?"

"Who might you be?" demanded the rotund cleric. He was one of the order of begging brothers which the Ffreinc called freres and the English called friars. They were all but unknown amongst the Cymry.

"We might be the King of England and his barons," replied Iwan, rising painfully. "My friend asked you a question."

Quick as a flick of a whip, the oak staff swung out, catching Iwan on the meaty part of the shoulder. He started forward, but the priest thumped him with the knob end of the staff in the centre of the chest. The champion crumpled as if struck by lightning. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

"It was only a wee tap, was it not?" the priest said in amazement, turning wide eyes to Bran and Ffreol. "I swear on Sweet Mary's wedding veil, it was only a tap."

"He was wounded in a battle several days ago," Bran said. Kneeling beside the injured warrior, he helped raise him to his feet.

"Oh my soul, I didn't mean to hurt the big 'un," he sighed. To Ffreol, he said, "Aye, I am priest here now. Who are you?"

"I am Brother Ffreol of Llanelli in Elfael."

"Never heard of it," declared the brown-robed priest.

"It is in Cymru," Bran offered in a snide tone, "which you sons of Saecsens call Wales."

"Careful, boy," snipped the priest. "Come over high-handed with me, and I'll give you a thump to remind you of your manners. Don't think I wont."

"Go on, then," Bran taunted, thrusting forward. "I'll have that stick of yours so far up your-"

"Peace!" cried Ffreol, rushing forward to place himself between Bran and the brown priest. "We mean no harm. Pray, forgive my quick-tempered friends. We have suffered a grave calamity in the last days, and I fear it has clouded our better judgement." This last was said with a glare of disapproval at Bran and Iwan. "Please forgive us."

"Very well, since you ask," the priest granted with a sudden smile. "I forgive you." Laying his staff aside, he said, "So now! We know whence you came, but we still lack names for you all. Do they have proper names in Elfael? Or are they in such short supply that you must hoard them and keep them to yourselves?"

"Allow me to present Bran ap Brychan, prince and heir of Elfael," said Ffreol, drawing himself upright. "And this is Iwan ap Iestyn, champion and battlechief"

"Hail and welcome, friends," replied the little friar, raising his hands in declamation. "The blessings of a warm hearth beneath a dry roof are yours tonight. May it be so always."

Now it was Bran's turn to be amazed. "How is it that you speak Cymry?"

The brown priest gave him a wink. "And here was I, thinking you hotheaded sons of the valleys were as stupid as stumps." He chuckled and shook his head. "It took you long enough. Indeed, sire, I speak the tongue of the blessed."

"But you're English," Bran pointed out.

"Aye, English as the sky is blue," said the friar, "but I was carried off as a boy to Powys, was I not? I was put to work in a copper mine up there and slaved away until I was old enough and bold enough to escape. Almost froze to death, I did, for it was a full harsh winter, but the brothers at Llandewi took me in, did they not? And that is where I found my vocation and took my vows." He smiled a winsome, toothy grin and bowed, his round belly almost touching his knees. "I am Brother Aethelfrith," he declared proudly. "Thirty years in God's service." To Iwan, he said, "I'm sorry if I smacked you too hard."