Neufmarche caught the veiled reference to increased fortification. No one builds fortresses to hold down a few monks and some women and children, he thought and guessed the rest. "They are a strange people," he observed, and several of his knights grunted their agreement. "Sly and secretive."

"Bien sir," Falkes replied. He chewed thoughtfully and asked, trying to sound casual, "Do you plan to make a foray yourself?"

The bluntness of the question caught the baron off guard. "Me? I have no plans," he lied. "But now that you mention it, the thought has crossed my mind." He raised his cup to give himself time to think and then continued, "I confess, your example gives me heart. If I imagined that acquiring land would be so easy, I might give it some serious consideration," He paused as if entertaining the possibility of an attack in Wales for the very first time. "Busy as I am ruling the estates under my command, I'm not at all certain a campaign just now would be wise,"

"You would know better than I," Falkes conceded. "This is my first experience ruling an estate of any size. No doubt I have much to learn."

"You are too modest," Neufmarche replied with a wide, expansive smile. "From what I have seen, you learn very quickly." He drained his cup and held it aloft. A servant appeared and refilled it at once. "I drink to your every success!"

"And I to yours, mon ami," said Count Falkes de Braose. "And I to yours."

The next morning, the baron departed with an invitation for Falkes to visit him whenever he passed through his lands in Herefordshire. "I will look forward to it with keenest pleasure," said the count as he waved his visitors away. He then hurried to his chamber, where he drafted a hasty letter to his uncle, informing him of the progress with the ongoing survey of the building sites-as well as his adversary's unannounced visit. Falkes sealed the letter and dispatched a messenger the moment his guests were out of sight.

~ngharad stirred the simmering contents of the cauldron with a long wooden spoon and listened to the slow plip, plip, plip of the rain falling from the rim of stone onto the wet leaves at the entrance to the cave. She took up the bound sprig of a plant she had gathered during the summer and with a deft motion rolled the dry leaves back and forth between her palms, crumbling the herb into the broth. The aroma of her potion was growing ever more pungent in the close air of the cave.

Every now and then she would cast a glance toward the fleecewrapped bundle lying on a bed of pine boughs and covered with moss and deer pelts. Sometimes the man inside the bundle would moan softly, but for the most part his sleep was as silent as the dead. Her skill with healing unguents and potions extended to that small mercy if nothing more.

When the infusion was ready, she lifted the cauldron from the fire and carried it to a nearby rock, where it was left to cool. Then, taking up an armful of twigs from the heap just inside the cave entrance, she returned to her place by the fire.

"One for the Great King on his throne so white," she said, tossing a twig onto the embers. She waited until the small branch flared into flame, then reached for another, saying, "Two for the Son the King begat."

This curious ritual continued for some time-taking up a twig and consigning it to the flames with a little verse spoken in a child's rhythmic singsong-and the simple chant reached the young man in his pain-fretted sleep.

Three for the Errant Goose both swift and wild.

Four for Pangur Ban the cat.

Five for the Martyrs undefiledAye, five for the Martyrs undefiled.

She paused and cupped a hand above the fire for a moment, allowing the smoke to gather, then turned her palm, releasing a little white cloud. As the smoke floated up and dispersed, she continued her verse.

Six for the Virgins who watch and wait.

Seven for the Bards in halls of oak.

Eight for the patches on Padraig's cloak.

Nine for the lepers at the gate.

Ten for the rays of Love's pure lightAye, ten for the rays of Love's pure light.

Though the young man did not wake, the softly droning words and the simple rhythm seemed to soothe him. His breathing slowed and deepened, and his stiff muscles eased.

Angharad heard the change in his breathing and smiled to herself. She went to test the heat of the potion in the cauldron; it was still hot but no longer bubbling. Picking up the big copper kettle, she carried it to where Bran lay, drew her three-legged stool near, and began gently pulling away the fleeces that covered him.

His flesh was dull and waxen, his wounds livid and angry. The right side of his face was roundly swollen, the skin discoloured. The teeth marks on his arm where the hound had fastened its jaws were puncture wounds, deep but clean-as was the slash between his shoulder blades. Painful as any of these wounds might have been, none were life-threatening. Rather, it was the ragged gash in the centre of his chest that worried her most. The iron blade had not pricked a lung, nor pierced the watery sac of the heart; but the lance head had driven cloth from his tunic and hair from the hound deep into the cut. These things, in her experience, could make even insignificant injuries fester and turn sour, bringing on fever, delirium, and finally death.

She sighed as she placed her fingertips on the bulbous swelling. The flesh was hot beneath her gentle fingertips, oozing watery blood and yellow pus. He had been wandering a few days before she had found him, and the wounds had already begun to go rancid. Therefore, she had taken great pains to prepare the proper infusion with which to wash the wound and had gathered the instruments to enlarge it so she could carefully dig out any scraps of foreign matter.

Angharad had expected him to come to her injured. She had foreseen the fight and knew the outcome, but the wounds he had suffered would tax her skill sorely. He was a strong one, his strength green and potent; even so, he would need all of it, and more besides, if he was to survive.

Bending to the cauldron, she took up a bit of clean cloth from a neat stack she had prepared; she folded the cloth and soaked it in the hot liquid and then gently, gently applied it to the gash in his chest. The heat caused him to moan in his sleep, but he did not wake. She let the cloth remain and, taking up another, soaked it and placed it on the side of his face.

When the second cloth had been carefully arranged, she returned to the first, removed it, placed it back in the cauldron, and began again.

So it went.

All through the night, the old woman remained hunched on her little stool, moving with slow purpose from one wound to the next, removing the cloth, dipping it, and replacing it. When the potion in the cauldron cooled, she returned it to the embers of her fire and brought it back to the boil. Heat was needed to draw out the poison of the wounds.

While she worked, she sang-an old song in the Elder Tongue, something she had learned from her own banfaith many, many years ago-the tale of Bran the Blessed and his journey to Tir na' Nog. It was a song about a champion who, after a long sojourn in the Otherworld, had returned to perform the Hero Feat for his people: a tale full of hope, longing, and triumph-fitting, she thought, for the man beneath her care.

As dawn seeped into the rainy sky to the east, Angharad finished. She set aside the cauldron and rose slowly, arching her back to ease the ache there. Then she knelt once more and, taking up a handful of dried moss, placed it gently over the young man's wounds before covering him with the sheepskins. Later that day, she would begin the purification procedure all over again, and the next day, too, and perhaps the next. But for now, it was enough.