"De Braose is a vile murderer," Merian snapped.

"That may be," Garran granted with irritating magnanimity, "but he has been given the conimot by the king. And," he delighted in pointing out, "the crown is divinely appointed by God. The king is justice, and his word is law."

"The king is himself a usurper," she countered.

"As were most of those before him," replied her brother, smug in his argument. "Facts are facts, dear sister. The Saxon stole the land from us, and now the Ffreinc have stolen it from them. We possess what we hold by King William's sufferance. He is our sovereign lord now, and it is no good wishing otherwise, so you had best make peace with how things are."

"You make peace with how things are," she answered haughtily. "I will remain true to our own kind."

"Then you will continue to live in the past," Garran scoffed. "The old ways are over for us. Times are changing, Merian. The Ffreinc are showing us the way to peace and prosperity."

"They are showing us the way to hell!" she shouted, storming from his presence.

That young Prince Bran had died needlessly was bad enough. That he had been killed trying to flee was shameful, yes, but anyone might have done the same in his place. What she found impossible to comprehend or accept was her brother's implied assertion that their Norman overlords were somehow justified in their crime by the innate superiority of their customs or character, or whatever it was her brother found so enamouring.

The Ffreinc are brutes and they are wrong, she insisted to herself. And that King William of theirs is the biggest brute of all!

After that last exchange, she refused to talk to anyone further regarding the tragedy that had befallen Bran and Elfael. She kept her thoughts to herself and buried her feelings deep in the fastness of her heart.

is

)Baron de Neufmarche, along with twenty men-atarms, accompanied his wife to the ship waiting at Hamtun docks. Although he had used the ship Le Cygne in the past and knew both the captain and pilot by name, he nevertheless inspected the vessel bow to stern before allowing his wife to board. He supervised the loading of men, horses, provisions, and weapons-his wife would travel with Ormand, his seneschal, and a guard of seven men. Inside a small casket made of elm wood, Lady Agnes carried the letter he had written to his father and the gift of a gold buckle received from the Conqueror himself in recognition of the baron's loyalty during the season of northern discontent in the years following the invasion.

Once Agnes was established in her quarters beneath the ship's main deck, the baron bade his wife farewell. "The tide is on the rise. Godspeed, lady wife," he said. Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed her cold fingers and added, "I wish you a mild and pleasant winter, and a glad Christmas."

"It may be that I can return before the snow," she ventured, hope lending a lightness to her voice. "We could observe Christmas together."

"No"-Bernard shook his head firmly-"it is far too dangerous. Winter gales make the sea treacherous. If anything should happen to you, I could not forgive myself." He smiled. "Enjoy your sojourn at home-it is brief enough. Time will pass swiftly, and we will celebrate the success of your undertaking with the addition of a new estate.

"Tres Bien," replied Lady Agnes. "Have a care for yourself, my husband." She leaned close and put her lips against his cheek. "Until we meet again, adieu, mon cheri."

The pilot called down from the deck above that the tide was beginning to run. The baron kissed his wife once more and returned to the wharf. A short time later, the tide had risen sufficiently to put out to sea. The captain called for a crewman to cast off, the ropes were loosed, and the ship pushed on poles away from the dock. Once in the centre of the river, the vessel was caught by the current, turned, and headed out into the estuary and the unprotected sea beyond.

Bernard watched all this from the wooden dock. Only when the ship raised sail and cleared the headland at the wide river mouth did he return to his waiting horse and give the order to start for home. The journey took two days, and by the time he reached his westernmost castle at Hereford, he had decided to make a sortie into Welsh territory, into the cantref of Brycheiniog, to see what he could learn of the land he meant to possess.

)3ran no longer knew how long he had been dragging his wounded body through the underbrush. Whole days passed in blind ing flashes of pain and shuddering sickness. He could feel his strength departing, his lucid times growing fewer and further apart. He could no longer count on his senses to steer him aright; he heard the voices of people who were not there, and often what he saw before him was, on nearer examination, mere phantasm.

Following his plunge into the pool, he had been swept downstream a fair distance. The current carried him along high-sided banks overhung with leafless branches and great moss-covered limbs, deeper and ever deeper into the forest until finally washing him into the shallows of a green pool surrounded by the wrecks of enormous trees, the boles of which had toppled and fallen over one another like the colossal pillars of a desolated temple.

The warm, shallow water revived him, and he opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by half-sunk, waterlogged trunks and broken boughs. Green slime formed a thick sludge on the surface of the pool, and the air was rank with the stench of fetid stagnant water and decay, and black with shifting clouds of mayflies. Bran struggled upright and, on hands and knees, hauled himself over a sunken log and into the soft, soggy embrace of a peat bog, where he collapsed, a quivering, pain-wracked lump.

Evening was fast upon him when he had finally roused himself that first day and, aching in every joint and muscle, gathered his feet beneath him and climbed up on unsteady legs. Following a deer trail, he lurched like a half-drowned creature from the swamp and staggered into the haven of the greenwood. His chief concern that first night was finding shelter where he could rest and bind his wounds.

He did not know how badly he was injured-only that he was alive and grateful to be so. Once he found shelter, he would remove his tunic and see what he could do to bandage himself. After he had rested and regained his strength, he would make his way to the nearest habitation and secure the aid of his fellow Cymry to continue his flight to safe haven in the north.

As twilight cast a purple gloom over the forest at the end of that first day, Bran found a great oak with a hollowed-out cavity down in the earth beneath the roots. The place had been used by a bear or badger; the earthy musk of the creature still lingered in the cavity. But the hole was dry and warm, and Bran fell asleep the moment he lay down his head.

He woke with a burning thirst, and light-headed from hunger. His wounds throbbed, and his muscles were stiff. There was nothing for his hunger, but he could hear the soft burble of a brook nearby, and easing himself upright, he made his unsteady way to the moss-carpeted bank. He knelt and, with some difficulty because of the cut that ran along the side of his face, stretching from cheekbone to ear, cupped water to his mouth. The inside of his cheek was as raw as sliced meat, and his tongue traced an undulating line like a thick, blood-soaked string.

The cold water made the inside of his mouth sting and brought tears to his eyes, but he quenched his thirst as best he could and then carefully removed his tunic and mantle to better assess his injuries. He could not see the cut in his upper back, but by reaching around cautiously, he was able to feel that it had stopped bleeding. The deep rent in his chest was easier to examine. Caked with dried blood that he gently washed away, the cut was ragged and ratty, the skin puckered along the edges. The wound ached with a persistent throb; the bones had been nicked when the blade forced his ribs apart, but he did not think any had been broken.