Five days after the feast of Saint Benedict, a messenger arrived with a letter from the baron. "Good news, I hope," said Falkes to the courier, taking receipt of the wrapped parchment. "Will you stay?"

"My lord baron requires an answer without delay," replied the man, shaking rainwater from his cloak and boots.

"Does he indeed?" Falk-es, his interest sufficiently piqued, waved the courier away to the cookhouse. Alone again, he broke the seal, unrolled the small scrap of parchment, and settled back in his chair, holding the crabbed script before his eyes. He read the letter through to the end and then scanned it again to make sure he had not missed anything.

The message was simple enough: his uncle, eager to strengthen his grasp on Elfael so that he could begin his long-anticipated invasion into fresh territories, desired the construction of his new castles to begin without further delay. The baron was sending masons and skilled workers at once. Further, many of these would be bringing their families, eliminating the need to return home when the building season ended, thus allowing them to work longer before winter brought a halt to their labours. Therefore, Baron de Braose wanted his nephew to put every available resource of time and energy into building a town and establishing a market so that the workers and their families would have a place to live while the construction continued.

"A town!" spluttered Falkes. "He wants an entire town raised before next winter!"

The baron concluded his letter saying that he knew he could rely on his nephew to carry out his command with utmost zeal and purpose, and that when the baron arrived on Saint Michael's Day to inspect the work, he trusted he would find all ready and in good order.

Falkes was still sitting in his chair with a stunned expression on his long face when the messenger returned. "My lord?" asked the man, approaching uncertainly.

Falkes stirred and glanced up. "Yes? Oh, it is you. Did you find something to eat?"

"Thank you, sire, I have had a good meal."

"Well," replied Falkes absently, "I am glad to hear it. I suppose you want to get back, so I… His voice trailed off as he sat gazing into the flames on the hearth.

"Ahem," coughed the messenger after a moment. "If you please, sire, what reply am I to make to the baron?"

Raising the letter to his eyes once more, Falkes took a deep breath and said, "You may tell the baron that his nephew is eager to carry out his wishes and will press ahead with all speed. Tell him…" His voice grew small at the thought of the enormity of the task before him.

"Pardon?" asked the messenger. "You were saying?"

"Yes, yes," resumed the count irritably. "Tell the baron his nephew wishes him success in all his undertakings. No, tell him… Tell the baron nothing. Wait but a little, and I will compose a proper reply." He flicked his long fingers at the messenger. "You may go see to your mount.

Bowing quickly, the messenger departed. Falkes went to his table, took up his pen, and wrote a coolly compliant answer to his uncle's demand on the same parchment, then rolled and resealed it and called for a servant to take the letter to the waiting messenger. He heard the clatter of iron-shod hooves in the courtyard a short time later and, closing his eyes, leaned his head against the back of his chair.

An entire town to raise in one summer. Impossible! It could not be done. Was his uncle insane? The baron himself, with all his men and money, could surely not accomplish such a thing.

He slumped farther into his chair and pulled the woollen cloaks more tightly under his chin as hopelessness wrapped its dark tendrils around him. Three castles to erect, and now a complete town as well. His own dream of a warm chamber in a newly enlarged fortress receded at an alarming pace.

By the Blessed Virgin, a town!

So lost in his despair was he that it was not until the next day that Falkes found a way out of the dilemma: it did not have to be a whole town. That would come, in time and in good order. For now, the undertaking could be something much more modest -a market square, a meeting hall, a few houses, and, of course, a church. Constructing even that much would be difficult enough-where was he to find the labourers? Why, a church alone would require as many men as he had ready to hand; where would he find the rest?

The church alone…, he thought, and the thought brought him upright in his chair. Yes! Of course! Why, the answer was staring him full in the face.

He rose and, leaving the warmth of his hall behind, rushed out into the snow-covered yard, calling for his seneschal. "Orval! Orval!" he cried. "Bring me Bishop Asaph!"

The summons came while the bishop was conducting an audit of food supplies with the kitchener. It was turning into a hard winter, and this year's harvest had been poor; the monastery was still sheltering a dozen or so people who, for one reason or another, could not escape to Saint Dyfrig's. Thus, the bishop was concerned about the stock of food on hand and wanted to know how long it would last.

Together with Brother Brocmal, he was examining the monastery's modest storerooms, making an exact accounting, when the riders arrived to fetch him. "Bishop Asaph!" called the porter, running across the yard. "The Ffreinc-the Ffreinc have come for you!"

"Calm yourself, brother," Asaph said. "Deliver your charge with some measure of decorum, if you please."

The porter gulped down a mouthful of air. "Three riders in de Braose livery have come," he said. "They have a horse for you and say you are to accompany them to Caer Cadarn."

"I see. Well, go back and tell them I am busy just now but will attend them as soon as I have finished."

"They said I was to bring you at once," countered the porter. "If you refused, they said they would come and drag you away by your ears!"

"Did they indeed!" exclaimed the bishop. "Well, I will save them the trouble." Handing the tally scroll to the kitchener, he said, "Continue with the accounting, Brother Brocmal, while I deal with our impatient guests.

"Of course, bishop," replied Brother Brocmal.

Asaph returned with the porter and found three marchogi on horseback waiting with a saddled fourth horse. "Pax vobiscum," said the bishop, "I am Father Asaph. How may I be of assistance?" He spoke his best Latin, slowly, so they would understand.

"Count de Braose wants you," said the foremost rider.

"So I have been given to understand," replied the bishop, who explained that he was in the midst of a necessary undertaking and would come as soon as he was finished.

"No," said the horseman. "He wants you now."

"Now," explained the bishop, still smiling, "is not convenient. I will come when my duties allow"

"He doesn't care if it is convenient," replied the soldier. "We have orders to bring you without delay."

He nodded to his two companions, who began dismounting. "Oh, very well," said Asaph, moving quickly to the waiting horse. "The sooner gone, the sooner finished."

With the help of the porter, the bishop mounted the saddle and took up the reins. "Well? Are you coming?" he asked in a voice thick with sarcasm. "Apparently, it does not do to keep the count waiting."

Without another word, the marchogi turned their mounts and rode from the yard out into a dazzling, sun-bright day. The soldiers led the way across the snow-covered valley, and the bishop followed at an unhurried pace, letting his mind wander as it would. He was still trying to get the measure of these new overlords, and each encounter taught him a new lesson in how to deal with the Ffreinc invaders.

Strictly speaking, they were not Ffreinc, or Franks, at all; they were Normans. There was a difference-not that any of the Britons he knew cared for such fine distinctions. To the people of the valleys beyond the March, the tall strangers were invaders from France-that was all they knew, or needed to know. To the Britons, be they Ffreinc, Angevin, or Norman, they were merely the latest in a long line of would-be conquerors.