"Why did you want to see our Bran?" asked the bishop when he had finished.

"I had a notion to help him," replied the friar. "But now that I see how events have fallen out, I warrant it a poor idea. In any event, it is of no consequence now."

"I see," replied the bishop. He did not press the matter. "Have you travelled far?"

"From Hereford. I keep an oratory there-Saint Ennion's. Have you heard of it?"

"Of course, yes," replied the bishop. "One of our own dear saints from long ago."

"To be sure," conceded Aethelfrith. "But it is home to me now."

"Then it is too far to come and return all at once. You must stay with us a few days"-the bishop lifted a hand in a gesture of helpless- ness-"or until the Ffreinc come to drive us all away."

Friar Aethelfrith spent the next day helping Asaph and Clyro pack their belongings. They wrapped the bound parchment copies of the Psalms and the book of Saint Matthew, as well as the small golden bowl used for the Eucharist on high holy days. These things had to be disguised and secreted amongst the other bundles of clerical implements and utensils, for fear that the Ffreinc would confiscate them if their value was known.

They finished their work and enjoyed a simple supper of stewed beans with a little sliced leek and burdock. The next morning, Brother Aethelfrith bade his friends farewell and started back to his oratory. The merchants he had followed to Elfael had also concluded their business, and as he passed Castle Truan-what the Normans were now calling Caer Cadarn-he saw five mule-drawn carts turn out onto the road and thought, now that the wagons were empty of goods, he might beg bold and ask for a ride.

So he quickened his pace and by midmorning had caught up with the wagon van when it paused to water the animals at the valley stream before starting up the long slope of the forested ridge. He came within hailing distance and gave a shout, which was not returned. "I see they still have some manners to learn," he muttered. "But no matter. They will have to be hard-hearted indeed to refuse my request.

As he neared the fording place, he saw that the traders were standing together in a clump, motionless, with their backs to him; they seemed to be staring at something on the far side of the stream.

He hurried to join them, calling, "Pax vobiscum!"

One of the traders turned on him. "Keep your voice down!" he whispered savagely.

Mystified, the friar shut his mouth with a click of his teeth. Taking his place beside the men, he stared across the fording place and into the wood. The mules, impassive creatures ordinarily, seemed restless and uneasy; they jigged in their traces and tossed their heads. And yet the wood beyond the stream seemed quiet enough. Brother Aethelfrith could see no one on the road; all seemed calm and tranquil.

"Forgive my curiosity, friend," he whispered to the man next to him, "but what is everyone looking at?"

"Gerald thought he saw the thing-the creature," the merchant whispered back, his voice tense in the unnatural silence. The only sound to be heard was the lazy, liquid gurgle of the water as it slipped around and over the stones.

"What creature?" wondered the priest. Nothing moved amongst the lush green foliage of the trees and lower brushwood.

"The phantom," the man explained. He turned his face to the bowlegged friar. "Do you not know?"

"I know nothing of any phantom," replied Aethelfrith. "What sort of phantom is it presumed to be?"

"Why," replied the merchant, "it takes the form of a great giant of a bird. Men hereabouts call it King Raven."

"Do they indeed?" wondered the friar, much intrigued. "What does it look like-this giant bird?"

The merchant stared at him in disbelief. "By the rood, man! Are you dim? It looks like a thumping great raven."

"Shut up!" hissed one of the others just then. "You will have the demon down on us!"

Before anyone could reply to this, one of the other traders threw out his hand and shouted, "There it is!"

Friar Aethelfrith glimpsed a flash of blue-black feathers glinting in the sun and the suggestion of a massive black wing as the creature emerged from the brushwood on the opposite bank a few score paces downstream. Two of the merchants gave out shouts of terrified surprise, and two others fell to their knees, clasping their hands and crying aloud to God and Saint Michael to save them. The rest fled back down the road to the safety of Castle Truan, leaving their carts behind.

"Christ have mercy!" gasped one of the remaining merchants as the creature's head came into view. Its face was an oval of smooth black bone, devoid of feathers, with two round pits where its eyes should have been. Save for the wickedly long pointed beak, its head most resembled a charred human skull.

Lifting its swordlike beak, the thing uttered a piercing shriek that resounded in the deathly silence of the wood. Even as the cry hung in the air, the phantom turned and simply melted back into the shadow of the wood.

The terror-stricken merchants leapt to their feet and ran for their wagons, lashed their mules to motion, and fled back into the valley. Of all those at the stream, only Aethelfrith was left to give chase-which he promptly did.

Gathering up his robe, Aethelfrith strode boldly across the stream and started after the phantom. Upon reaching the far side of the stream, he paused and, finding nothing, proceeded into the brushwood, where the thing had vanished. There was no sign of the creature, and after a few paces he stopped to reconsider. He could hear the traders clattering away into the distance as their wagons bumped over the rutted road. Then, even as he was wondering whether to continue the chase or resume his journey, he saw the faint glimmer of glistening black feathers-just a quick flash before it disappeared into a hedge bank a few hundred paces down the trail. He hurried on.

The ground rose toward the ridge, and he eventually reached the top. Sweating and out of breath, he stumbled upon a game trail that led along the ridgetop. It was old and well established, overarched by the huge limbs of plane trees, elms, and oaks that formed a vault overhead and allowed only intermittent shafts of sunlight to strike down through the leaf canopy and illuminate the path. It was dark as a cellar, but since it was easier than pushing his way through the heavy underbrush, he decided to follow the run and soon realised just how quickly it allowed a man on foot to move about the forest.

The heat had been mounting steadily as the sun arced toward midday, and Aethelfrith was glad for the shade beneath the hanging boughs. He walked along, listening to the thrushes singing in the upper branches and, lower down, the click and chirrup of insects working the dead leaf matter that rotted along the trail. At any moment, he told himself, he would turn back-but the path was soft underfoot, so he continued.

After a time, the trail branched off the left-hand side continued along the ridgetop, and the right-hand side descended the slope to a rocky hollow. Here the priest stopped to consider which path, if either, to take. The day was speeding from him, and he decided to resume his homeward journey. He turned around and started back, but he had not gone far when he heard voices: murmured only, light as thistledown on the dead-still air, there and gone again, and so faint as to be easily dismissed as the invention of his own imagining.

But years of living alone in his oratory with no company save his own inner musings had made his hearing keen. He held his breath and listened for the sound to come again. His vigilance was rewarded with another feather-soft murmur, followed by the unmistakable sound of laughter.