Before the count could interview the man in person, word had flashed throughout the caer that some sort of unworldly creature-a giant bird with a beak as long as a man's arm, wings a double span wide, and glowing red eyes-had arisen in the forest, called forth by means both mysterious and infernal to instil terror in the hearts of the Ffreinc intruders. This last appeared only too likely, the count considered, watching his men fall over themselves in their haste to hear the lunatic. This time tomorrow, the tale would spread from one end of the valley to the other.

Whatever it was that had frightened the stricken soldier, it would take more than some cockeyed tale involving an oversized bird and the dubious misplacement of a few horses to make Count Falkes tremble in his boots. Nothing short of a midnight shower of fire and brimstone and the appearance of Lucifer himself could drive a de Braose from his throne once he had got his rump on it. And that was that.

For Merian, the invitation to attend the baron's festivities came as a command to undertake an onerous obligation. "Must we go?" she demanded when her mother informed her. "Must I?"

She had heard how the Ffreinc lived: how the men worshipped their ladies and showered them with expensive baubles; how the noble houses were steeped in lavish displays of wealth-fine clothes, sumptuous food, imported wine, furniture made by artisans across the sea; how the Ffreinc prized beauty and held a high respect for ritual, indulging many extraordinary and extravagant courtesies.

All this and more she had heard from one gossip or another over the years, and it had never swayed her from her opinion that the Ffreinc were little more than belligerent swine, scrubbed up and dressed in satin and lace, perhaps, but born to the stockyard nonetheless. The mere thought of attending one of their festive celebrations produced in her a dread akin to the sweating queasiness some people feel aboard ship in uneasy seas.

"It is an honour to be asked," Queen Anora told her.

"Then that is honour enough for me," she replied crisply.

"Your father has already accepted the invitation,"

"He accepted without my permission," Merian pointed out. "Let him go without me."

This was not the last word on the subject far from it. In the end, however, she knew she must accept her father's decision; she would pretend the dutiful daughter and go, like a martyr, to her fate.

Galled as she was to think of attending the event, she worried that she would not be properly dressed, that she would not know how to comport herself correctly, that her speech would betray her for a brutish Briton, that her family would embarrass her with their backward ways, and on and on. Just as there were a thousand objections to consorting with the Ffreinc, there was, she discovered, no end of hazards to fear.

As the baron's castle at Hereford loomed into sight, rising in the deepening blue of a twilight summer sky above the thatched rooftops of the busy town, Merian was overcome by an apprehension so powerful she almost swooned. Her brother, Garran, saw her sway and grasped her elbow to keep her from toppling from her saddle. "Steady there, Sister," he said, grinning at her discomfort. "You don't want to greet all those highborn Ffreinc ladies covered with muck from the road. They'll think you a stable hand."

"Let them think what they will," she replied, trying to sound imperious and aloof. "I care not."

"You do," he asserted. "Twitching like a sparrow with salt on its tail at the mention of the baron's name. Do you think I haven't seen?"

"Oh? And would it do you any harm to stand a little closer to the washbasin, brother mine? I doubt highborn Ffreinc ladies look kindly on men who smell of the sty."

"Listen to that!" Garran hooted. "Your concern is as touching as it is sincere," he chortled, "but your counsel is misdirected, dear Sister. It is yourself you should worry about."

And worry she did. Merian had enough anxiety for the whole travelling party, and it twisted her stomach like a wet rag. By the time they reached the foot of the drawbridge spanning the outer ditch of the Neufmarche stronghold, she could scarcely breathe. And then they were riding through the enormous timber gates and reining up in the spacious yard, where they were greeted by none other than the baron himself.

Accompanied by two servants in crimson tunics, each bearing a large silver tray, the baron-his smooth-shaven face gleaming with goodwill-strode to meet them. "Greetings, Hies arms!" bellowed the baron with bluff bonhomie. "I am glad you are here. I trust your journey was uneventful."

"Pax vobiscum," replied King Cadwgan, climbing down from his saddle and passing the reins to one of the grooms who came running to meet them. "Yes, we have travelled well, praise God."

"Good!" The baron summoned his servants with a wave of his hand. They stepped forward with their trays, which contained cups filled to the brim with wine. "Here, some refreshment," he said, handing the cups around. "Drink, and may it well become you," he said, raising his cup. He sipped his wine and announced, "The celebration begins tomorrow."

Merian, having dismounted with the others and accepted the welcome cup, raised the wine to her lips; it was watered and cool and went down with undignified haste. When all had finished their cups, the new arrivals were conducted into the castle. Merian, marching with the wooden stoicism of the condemned, followed her mother to a set of chambers specially prepared for them. There were two rooms behind a single wooden door; inside each was a single large bed with a mattress of goose down; two chairs and a table with a silver candleholder graced the otherwise bare apartment.

Food was brought to them, the candles lit, and a fire set in the hearth, for though it was a warm summer night, the castle walls were thick and constructed entirely of stone, making the interior rooms autumnal. Having seen to the needs of the baron's guests, the servants departed, leaving the women to themselves. Merian went to the window and pushed open the shutter to look out and down upon the massive outer wall. By leaning out from the casement, she could glimpse part of the town beyond the castle.

"Come to the table and eat something," her mother bade her.

"I'm not hungry."

"The feast is not until tomorrow," her mother told her wearily. "Eat something, for heaven's sake, before you faint."

But it was no use. Merian refused to taste a morsel of the baron's food. She endured a mostly sleepless night and rose early, before her mother or anyone else, and drawn by morbid curiosity, she crept out to see what she could discover of the castle and the way its inhabitants lived. She moved silently along one darkened corridor after another, passing chamber after chamber until she lost count, and came unexpectedly to a large anteroom that contained nothing more than a large stone fireplace and a hanging tapestry depicting a great hunt: fierce dogs and men on horseback chasing stags, hares, wild boars, bears, and even lions, all of which ran leaping through a woodland race. Drawn to the tapestry, she was marvelling at the prodigious size and the tremendous amount of needlework required for such a grand piece when she felt eyes on her back.

Turning quickly, she found that she herself was the object of scrutiny. "Your pardon, Lady Merian," said her observer, emerging from the shadowed doorway across the room. Dressed entirely in black-tunic, breeches, boots, and belt-save for a short crimson cloak neatly folded across his shoulders and fixed with a large brooch of fine yellow gold almost the same colour as his long, flowing hair, he wore a short sword at his side, sheathed in a black leather scabbard.