"My sympathies," said Ranulf. "May I ask how you know the men who committed this crime were, as you call them, Ffreinc marchogi?"

Bran put out a hand to Iwan. "This man survived and witnessed all that took place. He is the only one to escape with his life."

"Is this true?" wondered the cardinal.

"It is, my lord, every word," affirmed Iwan. "The leader of this force is a man named Falkes de Braose. He claims to have received Elfael by a grant from King William."

Ranulf of Bayeux raised the long white quill and held it lengthwise between his hands as if studying it for imperfections. "It is true that His Majesty has recently issued a number of such grants," the cardinal told them. Turning to his assistant on the left, he said, "Bring me the de Braose grant."

Without a word the man in the chair beside him rose and crossed the room, disappearing through a door behind the tapestry.

"There would seem to be some confusion here," allowed the cardinal when his man had gone, "but we will soon find the cause." Regarding the three before him, he added, "We keep good records. It is the Norman way."

Friar Aethelfrith stifled a hoot of contempt for the man's insinuation. Instead, he beamed beatifically and loosed a soft fart.

A moment later the cardinal's assistant returned bearing a square of parchment bound by a red satin riband. This he untied and placed before his superior, who took it up and began to read aloud very quickly, skipping over unimportant parts. "Be it known… this day… by the power and enfranchisement… Ah!" he said. "Here it is.

He then read out the pertinent passage for the petitioners. "Granted to William de Braose, Baron, Lord of the Rape of Bramber, in recognition for his support and enduring loyalty, the lands comprising the Welsh commot Elfael so called, entitled free and clear for himself and his heirs in perpetuity, in exchange for the sum of two hundred marks."

"We were sold for two hundred marks?" wondered Iwan.

"A token sum," replied the cardinal dryly. "It is customary."

"The Norman way, no doubt," put in Aethelfrith.

"But it is Count Falkes de Braose who has taken the land," Bran pointed out, "not the baron."

"Baron William de Braose is his uncle, I believe," said the cardinal. "But, yes, that is undoubtedly where the confusion has arisen. There is no provision for Falkes to assume control of the land, as he is not a direct heir. The baron himself must occupy the land or forfeit his claim. Therefore, as Chief Justiciar, I will allow this grant to be rescinded."

"I do thank you, my lord," said Bran, sweet relief surging through him. "I am much obliged."

The cardinal raised his hand. "Please, hear me out. I will allow the grant to be revoked for a payment to the crown of six hundred marks."

"Six hundred!" gasped Bran. "It was given to de Braose for two hundred."

"In recognition of his loyalty and support during the rebellion of the Barons," intoned the cardinal. "Yes. For you it will be six hundred and fealty sworn to King William."

"That is robbery!" snapped Bran.

The cardinal's eyes snapped quick fire. "It is a bargain, boy." He stared at Bran for a moment and then pulled the parchment to himself, adding, "In any case, that is my decision. The matter will be held in abeyance until such time as the money is paid." He gestured to his assistant, who began writing an addendum to the grant.

Bran stared at the churchman and felt the despair melt away in a sudden surge of white-hot rage. His vision became blood-tinged and hard. He saw the bland face and shrewd eyes, the man's flaming red hair, and it was all he could do to keep from seizing the imperious cleric, pulling him bodily across the table, and beating the superior smirk off that smug face with his fists.

Rigid as a stump, hands clenched in rage, he stared at the courtiers as his grip on reality slipped away. In a blood-tinted vision, he saw a tub of oil at his feet, and before anyone could stop him, he snatched up the tub and emptied it over the table, drenching the cardinal, his clerks, and their stacks of parchment. As the irate courtiers spluttered, Bran calmly withdrew an oil-soaked parchment from the pile; he held it to a torch in a wall sconce and set it ablaze. He blew on it to strengthen the flame, then tossed it back onto the table. The oil flared, igniting the table, parchments, and men in a single conflagration. The clerks pawed at the flames with their hands and succeeded only in spreading them. The cardinal, gripped with terror, cried out like a child as tongues of fire leapt to his hair and turned the rich fox fur trim into a collar of living flame. Bran glimpsed himself standing gaunt and grim as the howling clerics fled the room, each oil-soaked footprint alighting behind them as they ran. He saw Ranulf of Bayeux's face bubble and crack like the skin of a pig on a spit, and as the cardinal fought for his last breath-

"Abeyance, my lord," said Ffreol. "Forgive me, but does that mean Baron de Braose keeps the land?"

At the sound of Ffreol's voice, Bran came to himself once more. He felt drained and somewhat light-headed. Without awaiting the cardinal's reply, he turned on his heel and strode from the chamber.

"Until the money is paid, yes," Cardinal Ranulf replied to Ffreol. He reached for a small bronze bell to summon the porter. "Do not bother to return here until you have the silver in hand." He rang the bell to end the audience, saying, "God grant you a good day and pleasant journey home."

nd a pleasant journey home," minced Aethelfrith in rude parody of Cardinal Ranulf. "Bring me my staff, and I will give that bloated toad a pleasant journey hence!"

Bran, scowling darkly, said nothing and walked on through the gates, leaving the White Tower without a backward glance. The unfairness, the monstrous injustice of the cardinal's demand sent waves of anger surging through him. Into his mind flashed the memory of a time years ago when a similar injustice had driven him down and defeated him: Bran had been out with some of the men; as they rode along the top of a ridgeway, they spied in the valley below a band of Irish raiders herding stolen cattle across the cantref. Outnumbered and lightly armed, Bran had let the raiders pass unchallenged and then hurried back to the caer to tell his father. They met the king in the yard, along with the rest of the warriors of the warband. "You let them go-and yet dare to show your face to me?" growled the king when Bran told him what had happened.

"We would have been slaughtered outright," Bran explained, backing away. "There were too many of them."

"You worthless little coward!" the king shouted. The warriors gathered in the yard looked on as the king drew back his hand and let fly, catching Bran on the side of the head. The blow sent the boy spinning to the ground. "Better to die in battle than live as a coward!" the king roared. "Get up!"

"Lose ten good men for the sake of a few cows?" countered Bran, climbing to his feet. "Only a fool would think that was better."

"You snivelling brat!" roared Brychan, lashing out again. Bran stood to the blow this time, which only enraged his father the more. The king struck him again and yet again-until Bran, unable to bear the abuse any longer, turned and fled the yard, sobbing with pain and frustration.

The bruises from that encounter lasted a long time, the humiliation longer still. Any ambition Bran might have held for the crown died that day; the throne of Elfael could crumble to dust for all he cared.

They did not stay in Lundein again that night but fled the city sprawl as if pursued by demons. The moon rose nearly full and the sky remained clear, so they rode on through the night, stopping only a little before dawn to rest the horses and sleep. Bran had little to say the next day or the day after. They reached the oratory, and Brother Aethelfrith prevailed upon them to spend the night under his roof, and for the sake of wounded Iwan, Bran agreed. While the friar scurried about to prepare a meal for his guests, Bran and Ffreol took care of the horses and settled them for the night.