Before the Normans, there were the English, and before the English, the Danes, and the Saxons before them. And each invader had carved out dominions for themselves and had gradually been gathered in and woven into the many-coloured mantle that was the Island of the Mighty.

These Normans were, from what he knew of them, ambitious and industrious, capable of great acts of piety and even greater brutality. They built churches wherever they went and filled them on holy days with devout worshippers, who nevertheless lived like hellions the rest of the time. It was said of the Ffreinc that they would blithely burn a village, slaughter all the men, and hang all the women and children, and then hurry off to church lest they miss a Mass.

Be that as it may, the Normans were Christian at least-which was more than could be said for the Danes or English when they had first arrived on Britain's fair shores. That being the case, the Church had decided that the Normans were to be treated as brothers in Christ-albeit as one would treat a domineering, wildly violent, and unpredictable older brother.

There was, so far as Bishop Asaph could see, no other alternative. Had he not urged King Brychan-if once, then a thousand times over the years-to acknowledge the Conqueror, swear fealty, pay his taxes, and do what he could to allow his people to live in peace? "What?" Asaph could hear the king cry in outrage. `Am I to kneel and kiss the rosy rump of that usurping knave? And me a king in my own country? Let me be roasted alive before I stoop to pucker!"

Well, he had sown his patch and reaped his reward, God save himand his feckless son, too. Now that was a very shame. Profligate, recklessly licentious, and dissolute the prince may have been-no mistake about it, he was all that and more-yet he had qualities his father lacked, hidden though they might have been. Were they hidden so deeply as to never be recovered? That was the question he had often asked himself.

Alas, the question was moot, and would so forever remain. With Bran's death, the old era passed and a new had begun. Like it or not, the Ffreinc were a fact of life, and they were here to stay. The path was as clear as the choice before him: his only hope of guiding his scattered flock through the storms ahead was to curry favour with the ruling powers. Bishop Asaph intended to get along with them however he could and hope-and pray-for the best.

It was in this frame of mind that Llanelli's deferential senior cleric entered the fortress where Count Falkes de Braose sat blowing on numb fingers in his damp, smoke-filled hall, beside a sputtering fire of green wood.

"Ah, Bishop Asaph," said the count, glancing around as the churchman was led into the hall. "It is good to see you again. I trust you are well?" Falkes sniffed and drew a sleeve under his runny nose.

"Yes," answered the bishop stiffly, "well enough."

"I, on the other hand, seem destined to endure no end of suffering," opined the count, "what with one thing and another-and this vile weather on top of it all."

"And yet despite your sufferings, you remain alive to complain," observed the bishop, his voice taking on the chill of the room. In Falkes's presence he felt anew the loss of Brother Ffreol and the death of Bran-not to mention the massacre at Wye Ford. Ffreol's death had been an accident-that was what he had been told. The slaughter of the king and warband was, regrettably, a consequence of war he would have to accept. Bran's death was, in his mind, without justification. That the prince had been killed trying to escape without paying the ransom was, he considered, beside the point. Whatever anyone thought of the young man, he was Elfael's rightful king and should have been accorded due respect and courtesy.

"Mind your tongue, priest, if you value it at all," threatened de Braose, who promptly sneezed. "I am in no mood for your insolence: "

Duly chastised, Asaph folded his hands and said, "I was told you required my assistance. How may I be of service?"

Waving a long hand toward the empty chair on the other side of the fireplace, de Boase said, "Sit down and I will tell you." When the churchman had taken his seat, the count declared, "It has been determined that Elfael needs a town."

"A town," the bishop repeated. "As it happens, I have long advocated a similar plan."

"Have you indeed?" sniffed Falkes. "Well then. We agree. It is to be a market town." He went on to explain what would be required and when.

The cleric listened, misgiving mounting with every breath. When the count paused to sneeze once more, the bishop spoke up. "Pray, excuse me, my lord, but who do you expect to build this town?"

"Your people, of course," confirmed the count, stretching his hands toward the fire. "Who else?"

"But this is impossible!" declared Asaph. "We cannot build you an entire town in a single summer."

The count's eyes narrowed dangerously. "It will profit both of us."

"Be that as it may, it cannot be done," objected the churchman. "Even if we possessed a ready supply of tools and material, who would do the building?"

"Be at ease," said the count. "You are growing distraught over nothing. Have I not already said that we will use as much existing building work as possible? We will begin with that and add only what is necessary. It does not have to be a city, mind-a small market village will do."

"What existing buildings do you mean?"

"I mean," replied the count with exaggerated patience, "those buildings already established-the church and outbuildings and whatnot."

"But… but…," cried the bishop in a strangled voice. "That is my monastery you are talking about!"

"Oui," agreed the count placidly. "We will begin there. Those structures can easily be converted to other uses. We need only raise a few houses, a grange hall, smithery, and such like. Your monastery serves… what? A paltry handful of monks? My town will become a centre of commerce and prosperity for the whole valley. Where is the difficulty?"

"The difficulty, Count de Braose," replied the bishop, fighting to keep his voice level, "is that I will no longer have a monastery."

"Your monastery is no longer required," stated the count. "We need a market town, not a monkery."

"There has been a monastery in this valley for eleven generations," Asaph pointed out. He raised his hands and shook his head vehemently. "No. I will not preside over its destruction. It is out of the question.

The churchman's outright and obstinate refusal irritated de Braose; he felt the warmth of anger rising in him, and his voice grew hushed. `Au contraire, bishop," he said, "it is the question. See here, we must have a town, and quickly. People are coming to settle in the valley; we need a town."

He paused, gathered his nerves, and then continued in a more conciliatory tone, "The labourers will be drawn from the residents of the valley, and the materials will be supplied from the woods and stone fields of Elfael. I have already undertaken the requisition of the necessary tools and equipment, as well as oxen and wagons for transport. Anything else that you require will be likewise supplied. All that remains," he said in conclusion, "is for you to supply the men. They will be ready to work as soon as the last snow has melted. Is that clear?"

"Which men do you imagine I command?" demanded the bishop in his anger at being thrown out of his beloved monastery. "There are no men," he snapped, "only a paltry handful of monks,"

"The Welsh," said Falkes. "The people of Elfael, your countrymen-that is who I mean."

"The men of Elfael are gone," scoffed the bishop. "The best were slaughtered on their way to Lundein," he said pointedly, "and the rest fled. The only ones left are those who had nowhere else to go, and if they have any sense at all, they will stay far away from this valley."