"I will," he told her. "So far as I am able, I will."

She regarded him without expression and then smiled. "I suppose that will have to do." To the others who had followed them, she said, "Go about your business. Siarles, tell Iwan we will join him soon. I would speak to Bran alone a moment." The people moved off reluctantly; Angharad gave Bran a little bow and, drawing aside the red oxhide, said, "Be welcome here, Prince of Elfael."

Bran stepped into the dim interior of the odd dwelling. Although dark, it was surprisingly ample and comfortable. Light filtered in through a single hole in the roof directly over the stonelined fire pit in the centre of the room. The furnishings were spare. A single three-legged stool, a row of woven grass baskets along the curving wall, and a bed of reeds and fleeces were the only belongings in the room. These Bran took in with a single glance as he entered.

A second look revealed another item he did not see until his eyes had better adjusted to the dusky interior: a robe made entirely of feathers, all of them black. Drawn to the peculiar garment, he ran his hand over the glossy plumage. "What is this?"

"It is the Bird Spirit Cloak," replied the old woman. "Come, sit down." She indicated a place opposite her at the fire ring.

"They called you hudolion," Bran said, settling himself crosslegged on a grass mat. "Are you?" he asked. "Are you an enchantress?"

"I have been called many things," she replied simply. "Hag… Whore… Leper… Witch… I am each of these and none. Banfaith of Elfael… True Bard of Britain, these titles are also mine. Call me what you will, I am myself alone, the last of my kind,"

In her words Bran heard the echo of a long-forgotten time, a time when Britain belonged to Britons alone, and when its sons and daughters walked beneath free skies.

The old woman exhaled gently and closed her eyes. She was silent for a long moment and then drew a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice had changed, taking on the timbre and cadence of one of her songs. "Not for Angharad the friendly hearth, the silver-strung harp, or tore of gold," she said, almost singing the words. "In the forest she resides, living like the wild things-the nimble fox, elusive bear, or phantom wolf. Like these, her four-footed sisters, the forest is her shelter and her stronghold."

She exhaled again, and another long pause ensued. Bran, accustomed to the old woman's queer moods and eccentric ways, knew better than to interrupt her. He waited in silence for her to continue.

"Oh, beloved, yes, the greenwood is her caer, but it is not her home," she said after a moment. "Angharad was born to a more exalted position. She was born to bless the hall of a king with her song, to adorn and complete a noble sovereign with her strengthening presence. But the world has turned, the kings grown small, and the bards sing no more.

"Listen! Do not turn away. There was a time once, long ago, when the bards were lauded in the halls of kings, when rulers of the Cymry dispensed gold rings and jewelled armbands to the Chieftains of Song, when all men listened to the old tales, gloried in them, and so magnified their understanding; a time when lord and lady alike heeded the Head of Wisdom and sought the counsel of the Learned in all things.

"Alas! That time is gone. Everywhere kings quarrel amongst themselves, wasting their substance on trivialities and the meaningless pursuit of power, each one striving to rise at the expense of the other. They are maggots in manure, fighting for supremacy of the dung heap. Meanwhile, the enemy goes from strength to strength. The invader waxes mighty while the Gwr Gwyr, the True Men, melt away like mist on a sun-bright morning.

"The Day of the Wolf has dawned. The dire shape of its coming was seen and foretold, its arrival awaited with fear and dread. At long last it is here, and there are none who can turn it aside. Hear me, 0 Rhi Bran, the Red King stretches out his hand across the land, grasping, seizing, rending. He will not be satisfied until all lies under his dominion, or until he awakens from his sleep of death and acknowledges the law of love and justice laid down before the foundations of the world."

She spoke with eyes shut, her head weaving from side to side, as if listening to a melody Bran could not hear.

"I am Angharad, and here in the forest I watch and wait. For, as I live and breathe, the promise of my birth will yet be proved. By the grace of the Christ, my druid, I will yet compose a song to be sung before a king worthy of his praise." Then, slowly opening her eyes, she gazed at Bran directly. "Do you believe me when I say this?"

"I do believe," replied Bran without hesitation. More than anything else he had ever wanted, he ached for those words, somehow, to be true.

ishop Asaph stood in the door of his old wooden chapel, watching the labourers break a hole in the wall of his former chapter house, which was to become the residence of Count de Braose's chief magistrate and tax collector-an ominous development, to be sure, but of a piece with the multitude of changes taking place throughout Elfael almost daily.

The monastery yard had slowly become the market square of the new town, and the various monastic buildings either converted to accommodate new uses or pulled down to make way for bigger, more serviceable buildings. One row of monks' cells was being removed to make way for a blacksmith forge and granary. The long, low wattleand-daub refectory was to be a guildhall, and the modest scriptorium a town treasury. That there were no guilds in Elfael seemed not to matter; that no one paid taxes was, apparently, beside the point. The guilds would come in due course; the taxman, too.

Lamentable though the thought surely was, the bishop could not give it more than fleeting consideration. His mind was occupied with the far more urgent matter of feeding his hungry people. The grain promised by Baron Neufmarche had not yet arrived, and Asaph had determined to go to Count de Braose and see what might be done. He had hoped his next audience with the count would be on more amiable terms, but the prospect of better dealings seemed always to remain just beyond his grasp.

He tightened the laces of his shoes, then made his way through the building site that had been his home-God's home-and walked out across the valley to Caer Cadarn. Upon presenting himself at the fortress gate, he was, as he had come to expect, made to tarry in the yard until the count deigned to see him. Here, the Bishop of Llanelli loitered in the sun like a friendless farmhand with muck on his feet, while the count sat at meat. He resented this treatment but tried not to take offence; he decided to recite a psalm instead.

Twenty psalms later, the count's seneschal finally came for him. At the door to the audience chamber, Asaph thanked Orval and composed himself, smoothing his robe and adjusting his belt. Stepping through the opened door, Bishop Asaph found the count hunched over a table laden with the half-empty plates of the meal just finished and squares of parchment on which were drawn plans for defensive fortifications.

"Forgive me, bishop, if I do not offer you refreshment," said the count distractedly. "I am otherwise occupied, as you see."

"I would not presume upon your attentions," said the bishop tartly. "You can be sure that I would not come here at all if need did not demand it."

Falk-es glanced up sharply. "Pray, what are you prattling about now?"

"We were promised provisions," said the bishop.

"When?"

"Why, when Baron Neufmarche was here. It has been almost a month now, and the need grows ever-"

"Neufmarche promised grain, yes, I remember." Count de Braose returned to the drawings before him. "What of it?"

"My lord count," said the bishop, his palms growing wet with apprehension, "it has not arrived."