Morning lengthened, and the day warmed beneath a fulsome sun, and Bran began to grow hungry. How had he forgotten to bring provisions? Despite months of thinking of nothing but escape, now that the day had come, he was appalled to discover how little he had actually prepared. He had no food, no water, no money, nor even any idea which way to go. He looked at the bow in his hand and marvelled that he had remembered to bring that.

Well, he could get something to eat at the first settlement just as soon as he found a way out of this accursed forest. Shouldering his bow, he trudged on with a growing hunger in his belly to match his unquiet heart.

I was bad enough having to stand by and watch as his beloved monastery was destroyed piecemeal, but the tacit enslavement of his people was more than he could bear. Elfael's men and women toiled like beasts of burden-digging the defensive ditches; building the earthen ramparts; carrying stone and timber to raise the baron's strongholds; and pulling down buildings, clearing rubble, and salvaging materials for the town. From dawn's first light to evening's last gleam, they drudged for the baron. Then, often as not, they went home to work their own fields by the light of the moon, when it shone, and by torchlight and bonfires when it did not.

The bishop pitied them. What choice did they have? To refuse to work meant the loss of another holding-a prospect no one could abide. So they worked and muttered strong curses under their breath for the Ffreinc outlanders.

This was not the way it was supposed to be. He and the count had an understanding, an agreement. The bishop had lived up to his part of the bargain: he had delivered the treasure of Elfael's king to Count de Braose in good faith, had offered no resistance and counselled the same amongst his flock; he had accepted Count de Braose as the new authority in Elfael and had trusted him to do right by the Cymry under his rule. But the Ffreinc did not deal fairly. They took what they wanted and behaved as they pleased, never giving a thought to the Cymry now languishing under their reign.

It could not continue. The scant rations left from the previous winter were dwindling rapidly, and in some places in the valley the Cymry were beginning to run out of food. Something must be done, and with both lord and heir dead, it fell to Bishop Asaph to do it.

Joining Brother Clyro in the chapel, he announced, "I have decided to speak to Count de Braose. I want you to remain in the chapel and uphold me before the Throne of Mercy."

"How would you have me pray, father?" asked old Brother Clyro. "That God would remove this oppression, or that God would turn the hearts of the oppressors toward peace?" A pedantic, unimaginative man, a scribe and a scholar, he could be counted on to carry out the bishop's instructions to the letter but, as ever, insisted on knowing the precise nature of those instructions.

"Pray for a softening of Count de Braose's heart," the bishop sighed, humouring him, "a turning from his ways, and for food to sustain the people through this ordeal."

"It will be done," replied Clyro with a nod.

Leaving the elderly cleric in the chapel, Bishop Asaph walked through the building site that had once been the monastery yard and struck off along the dirt road to the caer. The day had grown warm, and he was thirsty by the time he reached the fortress. The place was all but deserted, save for a crippled stable hand who, in the absence of the others who were aiding construction of the town, had been pressed into duty as a porter.

"Bishop Asaph to see Count de Braose," the cleric declared, presenting himself before the servant, who smelled of the stable. "It is a matter of highest importance. I demand audience with the count at once."

The porter's laugh as he limped across the yard was all the reply he received, and in the end, the bishop was made to wait in the yard until the count consented to receive him.

While he was waiting, however, another visitor arrived: a Norman lord, by the look of him. Astride a fine big horse and splendidly arrayed, with an escort of two retainers and three soldiers, he was, Asaph decided, most likely a count, or perhaps even a baron. Clearly a man of some importance.

Thus, it was with some surprise that the bishop heard himself hailed by the noble visitor. "You there!" the stranger called in a tone well suited to command. "Come here. I would speak to you."

The bishop dutifully obeyed. "Your servant, my lord,"

"You are Welsh, yes?" asked the stranger in good, if slightly accented, Latin.

"I am of the Cymry, my lord," answered the bishop. "That is correct.

"And a priest?"

"I am Father Asaph, bishop of what is left of the monastery of Llanelli," replied the churchman. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"I am Bernard de Neufmarche, Baron of Gloucester and Hereford." Indicating that the bishop was to follow, the baron led the churchman aside, out of the hearing of his own men and the count's overcurious porter. "Tell me, how do the people hereabouts fare?"

The question was so unexpected that the bishop could only ask, "Which people?"

"Your people-the Welsh. How do they fare under the count's rule?"

"Poorly," answered the bishop without hesitation. "They fare poorly indeed, sire. They are forced to work for the count, building his strongholds, yet he does not feed them-nor do they have any food of their own." Asaph went on to explain about the meagre harvest of the previous year and how the count's ambitious building scheme had interfered with this year's planting. He concluded, saying, "That is why I have come-to make entreaty with the count to release grain from his stores to feed the people."

Baron Neufmarche listened to all the churchman had to say, nodding solemnly to himself. "Word of this has reached me," he confided. "With your permission, bishop, I will see what I can do."

"Truly?" wondered Asaph, greatly impressed. "But why should you do anything for us?"

Neufmarche merely leaned close and, in a lowered voice, said, "Because it pleases me. But see that it remains a secret between ourselves, understood?"

The bishop considered the baron's words for a moment, then agreed. "As you say," he replied. "I praise God for your kind intervention."

The baron rejoined his men, and they were conducted directly to the hall, leaving a bewildered bishop to stand in the yard. "Father of Light," he prayed, "something has just happened which passes all understanding-at least, I cannot make any sense of it. Yet, Strong Redeemer, I pray that the meaning will be for good, and not ill, for all of us who wait on the Lord's deliverance in this time of testing."

The bishop remained in a corner of the yard, lifting his voice in prayer. He was still praying when, a little later, Count Falkes's seneschal came looking for them. "My lord will deal with you now," Orval told him and started away again. "At once."

The bishop followed the seneschal to the door of the hall and was conducted inside, where the count was seated in his customary chair beside the hearth. Baron Neufmarche was also in attendance, standing a little to one side; the visiting baron appeared to pay no heed to the bishop as he continued talking quietly to his own men. "Pax vobis- cum," said the bishop, raising his hand palm outward and making the sign of the cross.

"Yes? Yes?" said the count, as if irritated by his visitor's display of piety. "Get on with it. As you can see, I am busy. I have important guests.

"I will be brief," replied the bishop. "Simply put, the people are hungry. You cannot make them work all day without food, and if they have none of their own, then you must feed them."