"No harm done, Brother Eathel… Aelith…," Iwan stuttered, trying to get his British tongue around the Saxon name.

"Aethelfrith," the priest repeated. "It means `nobility and peace', or some such nonsense," He grinned at his guests. "Here now, what have you brought me?"

"Brought you?" asked Bran. "We haven't brought you anything."

"Everyone who seeks shelter here brings me something," explained the priest.

"We didn't know we were coming," said Bran.

"Yet here you are." The fat priest stuck out his hand.

"Perhaps a coin might suffice?" said Ffreol. "We would be grateful for a meal and a bed."

"Aye, a coin is acceptable," allowed Aethelfrith doubtfully. "Two is better, of course. Three, now! For three pennies I sing a psalm and say a prayer for all of you-and we will have wine with our dinner."

"Three it is!" agreed Ffreol.

The brown priest turned to Bran expectantly and held out his hand.

Bran, irked by the friar's brash insistence, frowned. "You want the money now?"

"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 dipped 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!"

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 dose 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 nie, 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."