Although his cousin Philip heartily assured him that his uncle, the baron, applauded his accomplishments, Falkes reckoned he would not be secure in his position as Lord of Elfael until the de Braose banner flew unopposed over the surrounding commots. So despite the bonecracking cold, a most miserable Falkes remained with his visitors, sitting on his horse and shivering in the damp wind.

The surveying party had arrived the day before when the first wains rolled down into the shallow bowl of the valley. Bumping across the stream that was now a swift-running torrent, the high-sided, woodenwheeled vehicles toiled up the slope and came to a stop at the foot of the mound on which the fortress stood. The wagons, five in all, were full of tools and supplies for the men who would oversee the construction of the three castles Baron de Braose had commissioned. Building work would not begin until the spring, but the baron was anxious to waste not a single day; he wanted everything to be ready when the masons and their teams of apprentices arrived with the thaw.

By the time the wildflowers brushed the hilltops with gold, the foundations of each defensive tower would be established. When the stars of the equinox shone over the sites, the ditches would be man deep and the walls shoulder high. By midsummer, the central mound would belly to the sky, and stone curtains twice the height of the workmen would crown the hillcrests. And when the time came for the master mason to call his men to pack their tools and load the wains to return to their families in Wintancaester, Oxenforde, and Gleawancaester, the walls and keep, bailey, donjon, and ditch would be half-finished.

For now, however, the wagons and animals would remain in sight of Caer Cadarn, where their drivers would camp in the lee of the fortress to shelter from the perpetual wind and icy rain that roared down out of the northwest. All winter long, Count Falkes's men-atarms would be kept busy hunting for the table, while the footmen and servants foraged for wood to keep the fires ablaze in hearth and fire ring of caer and camp.

It was not at all a convivial country, Falkes decided, for although winter had yet to arrive in force, the count had never been so cold in all his life. Curse the baron's impatience! If only the invasion of Elfael could have waited until the spring. As it was, Falkes and his men had come so late to Wales that they had not had time to adequately prepare for the season of snow and ice. Falkes found he had seriously underestimated the severity of the British weather; his clothes-he wore two or three tunics and mantles at a time, along with his heaviest cloak-were too thin and made of the wrong stuff. His fingers and toes suffered perpetual chilblains. He stamped his way around the fortress, clapping his hands and flapping his arms across his chest to keep warm. By night, he took to his bed after supper and burrowed deep under the fleeces and skins and cloaks that served him for bedclothes in his dank, wind-fretted chamber.

Just this morning he had awakened in his bed, aghast to find that frost had formed on the bedclothes overnight; he swore an oath that he would not sleep another night in that room. If it meant he had to bed down with the servants and dogs beside the hearth in the great hall, so be it. The only time his hands and feet were ever warm was when he sat in his chair before the hearth, with arms and legs outstretched toward the fire-a position he could maintain only for a few moments altogether; but those were moments of pure bliss in what looked to be a long, grinding, bitter winter-more ordeal than season.

It was not until the light was beginning to fail and the surveyor could no longer read the chart he was making that the builders decided to stop for the day and return to Caer Cadarn. The count was the first to turn his horse and head for home. As the work party came in sight of the fortress, the skies opened and rain began hammering down in driving sheets. Falkes lashed his mount to speed and covered the remaining distance at a gallop. He raced up the long ramp, through the gates, and into the yard to find a half dozen unfamiliar horses tethered to the rail outside the stable.

"Who has come?" he asked, throwing the reins of his mount to the head stabler.

"It is Baron Neufmarche of Hereford," replied the groom. "He arrived only a short while ago."

Neufmarche here? Mon Dieu! This is a worry, thought the count. What could he possibly want with me?

Dashing back across the rain-scoured yard, a very wet Falkes de Braose entered the great hall. There, standing before a gloriously radiant hearth, was his uncle's compatriot and chief rival, accompanied by five of his men: knights every one. "Baron Neufmarche!" called Falkes. He shrugged off his sodden cloak and tossed it to a waiting servant. "This is an unexpected pleasure," he brayed, trying to sound far more gracious than he felt at the moment. Striding quickly forward, he rubbed the warmth back into his long hands. "Welcome! Welcome, messires, to you all!"

"My dear Count de Braose," replied the baron with a polite bow of courtesy. "Pray forgive our intrusion-we were on our way north, but this vile weather has driven us to shelter. I hope we do not trespass on your hospitality."

"Please," replied Falkes, oozing cordiality, "I am honoured." He glanced around to see the cups in the hands of his guests. "I see my servants have seen to your refreshment. Bon."

"Yes, your seneschal is most obliging," the baron assured him. Taking up a spare cup, already poured, he handed it to the count. "Here, drink and warm yourself by the fire. You have had an inclement ride."

Feeling uncomfortably like a guest in his own house, Falkes nevertheless thanked the baron and accepted the cup. Withdrawing a poker from the fire, he plunged it into the wine; the hot iron sizzled and sputtered. The count then raised his steaming cup and said, "To King William!" Several cups later, when a meal had been prepared and they all sat down together, the count at last discovered the errand that brought the baron to his door, and it had nothing to do with seeking shelter from the rain.

"I have long wished to visit the Earl of Rhuddland," the baron informed him, spearing a piece of roast beef with his knife. "I confess I may have waited too far into the autumn, but affairs at court kept me in Lundien longer than I anticipated." He lifted a shoulder. "C'est la vie."

Count Falkes allowed himself a sly, secret smile; he knew Baron Neufmarche had been summoned by King William to attend him in Lundein and kept waiting several days before finally being sent away. William the Red had still not completely forgiven the contrary noblemen who had upheld his brother Roberts claim to the throne, legitimate though it undoubtedly was. When the dust of revolt had settled, William had tacitly pardoned those he considered rebels, returning them to rank and favour-although he could not resist harassing them in small ways just to prove the point.

The delay Neufmarche complained of had allowed the count's uncle to make good the de Braose clan's first foray into Wales without interference from the lords of neighbouring territories. While Neufinarche was idling in Lundien, Count Falkes had, with uncommon swiftness and ease, conquered Elfael. The whole campaign had been closely planned to avoid extraneous entanglements from the likes of rival lords such as Neufinarche, for if Baron de Braose had had to beg Neufmarche for permission to cross his lands that lay between Norman England and the Welsh provinces, Falk-es was fairly certain they would all be waiting still.

"You have done well," the baron said, gazing around the hall approvingly, "and in a very short time. I take it the Welsh gave you no trouble?"

"Very little," affirmed Falkes. "There is a monastery nearby, with a few monks and some women and children in hiding. The rest seem to have scattered to the hills. I expect we won't see them until the spring." He cut into a plump roast fowl on the wooden trencher before him. "By then we will be well fortified hereabouts, and opposition will be futile." He sliced into the succulent breast of the bird, raised a bite on his knife, and nibbled daintily.