"I do believe you, baron," the bishop assured him. "It can only be that de Braose has taken the food and kept it for himself."

"So it would seem," Baron Neufmarche concurred. Rising from his chair, he crossed to the door in quick strides, opened it, and summoned the servant waiting outside. "Bring Remey here at once." The man hurried away, and the baron returned to his guest. "This will soon be put right."

"What do you intend-if I may be so bold?"

"I intend to send another consignment immediately," declared the baron. "What is more, I intend to make certain that it reaches you this time. I will give orders that the food is to be delivered to you and no one else."

"Baron Neufmarche," sighed Asaph, feeling the weight of care lift from his shoulders, "you have no idea how much this means to me. It is a blessing of the highest order."

"It is nothing of the kind," protested Neufmarche. "If I had been more diligent, this would not have happened, and you would not have had to undertake such an onerous errand. I am sorry." He paused. Then, his voice becoming grave, he said, "I can see now that we have no ally in Count de Braose. He is duplicitous and deceitful, and his word can no longer be trusted."

"Alas, it is true," confirmed Asaph readily.

"We must watch him closely, you and I," the baron continued. "I have received word of, shall we say, certain undertakings involving the count and his uncle." He offered a brief confidential smile. "But never fear, my friend; trust that I will do whatever I can to intercede for you."

Before the bishop could think what to say, the door opened and a thin man in a soft red hat entered the room. "Ah, there you are!" called the baron. "Remey, you will recall the supplies we sent to Count Falkes in Elfael, yes?"

"I do, my lord. Of course. I saw to it personally at your request."

"How many wagons did we send?"

The old servant placed a finger to his lips for a moment and then said, "Five, I believe. Three of grain, and two more loaded with meat and various other necessaries."

"That is correct, Remey," confirmed the baron. "I want you to ready another consignment of the same." He paused, glancing at the bishop, then added, "And double it this time."

"Ten wagons!" gasped Bishop Asaph. This went far beyond his most fervent hopes. "My lord baron, this is most generous-indeed, more than generous! Your largesse is as noble as it is needful."

"Think nothing of it," the baron replied grandly. "I am only too glad to be of some small service. Now then, perhaps I can persuade you to share a little sustenance with me before you return to Elfael. In fact, if you would consent to stay a day or so, you may depart with the first wagons."

"Nothing would please us more," replied the bishop, almost giddy with relief. "And tonight, Brother Clyro and I will hold vigil for you and extol your name before the Throne of Grace,"

"You are too kind, bishop. I am certain I do not deserve such praise."

"On the contrary, I will spread word of your munificence from one end of Elfael to the other so that all our people will know who to thank for their provision." Tears started to his eyes, and he dabbed them with his hands, saying, "May God bless you richly, baron, for troubling yourself on our behalf. May God bless you well and richly."

)3ran spent the day getting to know the people of Cel Craidd, the hidden heart of the greenwood. A few were folk of Elfael, but many were from other cantrefs-chiefly Morgannwg and Gwent, which had also fallen under Norman sway. All, for one reason or another, had been forced to abandon their homes and seek the refuge of the wood. He talked to them and listened to their stories of loss and woe, and his heart went out to them.

That night he sat beside the hearth in Iwan's hut, and they talked of the Ffreinc and what could be done to reclaim their homeland. "We must raise a warband," Iwan declared, brash in his enthusiasm. "That is the first thing. Drive the devils out. Drive them so far and so hard they dare not come back again."

The three men faced one another across the small fire burning in the centre of the hut's single room. "We could get swords and armour," Siarles suggested. "And horses, to be sure. Good ones-trained to battle." The young man had been chief huntsman to the king of Gwent, but when the Ffreinc deposed his lord and took all hunting rights to themselves, Siarles had fled to the forest rather than serve a Ffreinc lord. He had assumed the position of Iwan's second. "De Braose has hundreds of horses. We'll raise a thousand," he said, exuberance getting the better of him. He considered this for a moment and then amended it, saying, "Not every warrior will need a horse, mind. To be sure, we must have footmen as well."

The mere thought of trying to find so many men and horses was laughable to Bran. Even if men in such numbers could somehow be found, arming and equipping a warband of that size could well take a year or more-and they must be housed and fed in the meantime. It was absurd, and Bran pitied his friends for their hopeless, pathetic dream; it might make the British heart beat faster, but it was doomed to failure. The Ffreinc were bred for battle; they were better armed, better trained, better horsed. Engaging them in open battle was certain disaster; every British death strengthened their hold on the land that much more and increased misery and oppression for everyone. To think otherwise was folly.

Listening to Iwan and Siarles, Bran grew more certain than ever that his future lay in the north amongst his mother's kinsmen. Elfael was lost-it had been so from the moment his father was cut down in the road-and there was nothing he could do to change that. Better to accept the grim reality and live than to die chasing a glorious delusion.

He looked sadly at the two men across from him, their faces eager in the firelight. They burned with zeal to drive the enemy from the valley and redeem their homeland. Why stop there? Bran thought. They might as well hope to reclaim Cymru, England, and Scotland, too for all the good it would do them. Unable to endure the futile hope of those keen expressions, Bran rose suddenly and left the hut.

He stepped out into the moonlight and stood for a moment, feeling the cool night air wash over him. Gradually, he became aware that he was not alone. Angharad was sitting on a stump beside the door. "They have no one else," she said. "And nowhere else to go."

"What they want-," Bran began, then halted. Did anyone have even the slightest notion of the effort in time and money that it would take to raise a sufficiently large army to do what Iwan suggested? "It is impossible," he declared after a moment. "They are deluded,"

"Then you must tell them. Tell them now. Explain why they are wrong to want what they want. Then you can leave knowing that, as their king, you did all you could."

Her words rankled. "What do you expect of me, Angharad?" He spoke softly so those inside would not overhear. "What they propose is madness-as you and I know."

"Perhaps," she conceded. "But they have nothing else. They have no kinsmen in the north waiting to take them in. Elfael is all they have. It is all they know. If their hope is mistaken, you must tell them."

"I will," said Bran, drawing himself up, "and let that be the end." He went back into the hut, taking his place at the fire once more.

"We could go to Lord Rhys in the south," Iwan was saying. "He has returned from Ireland with a large warband. If we convinced him to help us, he might loan us the troops we need."

"No," Bran said quietly. "There is no plunder to be had, and we have nothing to offer them. King Rhys ap Tewdwr will not get dragged into a war for nothing, and he has enough worries of his own."

"What do you suggest?" asked Iwan. "Is there someone else?"