"He already did!" snarled Bran. "The money was here, and you let them take it!" He growled with frustration and stalked to the open doorway of the chapel, then turned back suddenly. "I need a horse."

"That will be difficult."

"I do not care how difficult it is. Unless you want to see me dead this time tomorrow, you will find a horse at once. Do you understand me?"

"Where will you go?"

"North," answered Bran decisively. "Ffreol would still be alive and I would be safe there now if we had not listened to you."

The bishop bent his head, accepting the reproach.

Bran said, "My mother's kinsmen are in Gwynedd. When I tell them what has happened here, they will take me in. But I need a horse and supplies to travel."

"Saint Ernin's abbey serves the northern cantrefs," observed the bishop. "If you need help, you can call on them."

"Just get me that horse," commanded Bran, taking the cleric roughly by the arm and steering him toward the door.

"I will see what I can find." The bishop left, shaking his head and murmuring, "Poor Ffreol. We must go and claim his body so that he can be buried here amongst his brothers."

Bran walked alongside him, urging the elderly churchman to a quicker pace. "Yes, yes," he agreed. "You must claim the body, by all means. But first the horse-otherwise you will be digging two graves this time tomorrow."

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."