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kiss before I go," Bran murmured, taking a handful of thick dark hair and pressing a curled lock to his lips. "Just one."

"No!" replied Merian, pushing him away. "Away with you."

"A kiss first," he insisted, inhaling the rosewater fragrance of her hair and skin.

"If my father finds you here, he will flay us both," she said, still resisting. "Go now-before someone sees you."

"A kiss only, I swear," Bran whispered, sliding close.

She regarded the young man beside her doubtfully. Certainly, there was not another in all the valleys like him. In looks, grace, and raw seductive appeal, he knew no equal. With his black hair, high handsome brow, and a ready smile that was, as always, a little lopsided and deceptively shy-the mere sight of Bran ap Brychan caused female hearts young and old to flutter when he passed.

Add to this a supple wit and a free-ranging, unfettered charm, and the Prince of Elfael was easily the most ardently discussed bachelor amongst the marriageable young women of the region. The fact that he also stood next in line to the kingship was not lost on any of them. More than one lovesick young lady sighed herself to sleep at night in the fervent hope of winning Bran ap Brychan's heart for her owncausing more than one determined father to vow to nail that wastrel's head to the nearest doorpost if he ever caught him within a Roman mile of his virgin daughter's bed.

Yet and yet, there was a flightiness to his winsome ways, a fickle inconstancy to even his most solemn affirmations, a lack of fidelity in his ardour. He possessed a waggish capriciousness that most often showed itself in a sly refusal to take seriously the genuine concerns of life. Bran flitted from one thing to the next as the whim took him, never remaining long enough to reap the all-too-inevitable consequences of his flings and frolics.

Lithe and long-limbed, habitually clothed in the darkest hues, which gave him an appearance of austerity-an impression completely overthrown by the puckish glint in his clear dark eyes and the sudden, unpredictable, and utterly provocative smile-he nevertheless gorged on an endless glut of indulgence, forever helping himself to the best of everything his noble position could offer. King Brychan's rake of a son was unashamedly pleased with himself.

"A kiss, my love, and I will take wings," Bran whispered, pressing himself closer still.

Feeling both appalled and excited by the danger Bran always brought with him, Merian closed her eyes and brushed his cheek with her lips. "There!" she said firmly, pushing him away. "Now off with you."

"Ah, Merian," he said, placing his head on her warm breast, "how can I go, when to leave you is to leave my heart behind?"

"You promised!" she hissed in exasperation, stiff arms forcing him away again.

There came the sound of a shuffling footstep outside the kitchen door.

"Hurry!" Suddenly terrified, she grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him to his feet. "It might be my father."

"Let him come. I am not afraid. We will have this out once and for all."

"Bran, no!" she pleaded. "If you have any thought for me at all, do not let anyone find you here."

"Very well," Bran replied. "I go."

He leaned close and stole a lingering kiss, then leapt to the window frame, pushed open the shutter, and prepared to jump. "Until tonight, my love," he said over his shoulder, then dropped to the ground in the yard outside.

Merian rushed to the window and pulled the heavy wooden shutter closed, then turned and began busying herself, stirring up the embers on the hearth as the sleep-numbed cook shambled into the large, dark room.

Bran leaned back against the side of the house and listened to the voices drifting down from the room above-to the cook's mumbled question and Merian's explanation of what she was doing in the kitchen before break of day. He smiled to himself. True, he had not yet succeeded in winning his way into Merian's bed; Lord Cadwgan's fetching daughter was proving a match worthy of his wiles. Even so, before summer was gone he would succeed. Of that he was certain.

Oh, but the season of warmth and light was everywhere in full retreat. Already the soft greens and yellows of summer were fading into autumn drab. Soon, all too soon, the fair, bright days would give way to the endless grey of clouds and mist and icy, wind-lashed rain.

That was a concern for another time; now he must be on his way. Drawing the hood of his cloak over his head, Bran darted across the yard, scaled the wall at its lowest span, and ran to his horse, which was tethered behind a hawthorn thicket next to the wall.

With the wind at his back and a little luck, he would reach Caer Cadarn well before his father departed for Lundein.

The day was breaking fair, and the track was dry, so he pushed his mount hard: pelting down the broad hillsides, splashing across the streams, and flying up the steep, wheel-rutted trails. Luck was not with him, however, for he had just glimpsed the pale shimmer of the caer's whitewashed wooden palisade in the distance when his horse pulled up lame. The unfortunate beast jolted to a halt and refused to go farther.

No amount of coaxing could persuade the animal to move. Sliding from the saddle, Bran examined the left foreleg. The shoe had torn away-probably lost amidst the rocks of the last streambed-and the hoof was split. There was blood on the fetlock. Bran lowered the leg with a sigh and, retrieving the reins, began leading his limping mount along the track.

His father would be waiting now, and he would be angry. But then, he thought, when was Lord Brychan not angry?

For the last many years-indeed, ever since Bran could remember-his father had nursed one continual simmering rage. It forever seethed just beneath the surface and was only too likely to boil over at the slightest provocation. And then, God help whoever or whatever was nearby. Objects were hurled against walls; dogs were kicked, and servants too; everyone within shouting distance received the ready lash of their surly lord's tongue.

Bran arrived at the caer far later than he had intended, slinking through the wide-open gate. Like a smith opening the forge furnace door, he braced himself for the heat of his father's angry blast. But the yard was empty of all save Gwrgi, the lord's half-blind staghound, who came snuffling up to put his wet muzzle in Bran's palm. "Everyone gone?" Bran asked, looking around. The old dog licked the back of his hand.

Just then his father's steward stepped from the hall. A dour and disapproving stilt of a man, he loomed over all the comings and goings of the caer like a damp cloud and was never happy unless he could make someone else as miserable as himself. "You are too late," he informed Bran, ripe satisfaction dripping from his thin lips.

"I can see that, Maelgwnt," said Bran. "How long ago did they leave?"

"You won't catch them," replied the steward, "if that's what you're thinking. Sometimes I wonder if you think at all."

"Get me a horse," ordered Bran.

"Why?" Maelgwnt asked, eyeing the mount standing inside the gate. "Have you ruined another one?"

"Just get me a horse. I don't have time to argue."

"Of course, sire, right away," sniffed the steward. "As soon as you tell me where to find one."

"What do you mean?" demanded Bran.

"There are none."

With a grunt of impatience, Bran hurried to the stable at the far end of the long, rectangular yard. He found one of the grooms mucking out the stalls. "Quick, Cefn, I need a horse,"

"Lord Bran," said the young servant, "I'm sorry. There are none left."

"They've taken them all?"

"The whole warband was summoned," the groom explained. "They needed every horse but the mares."

Bran knew which horses he meant. There were four broodmares to which five colts had been born in early spring. The foals were of an age to wean but had not yet been removed from their mothers.