"Very well!" he said, his voice loud in the chamber. He glared at her for a moment and then tried again. "But see here, it is folly to quarrel. Consider that I am overtired from a long journey-it is that making me sharp, nothing more. Therefore, let us be done with this foolishness." He coaxed her with a smile. "Now tell me, my dear, what is in your mind?"

"Since you ask," she said, "it occurs to me that if the campaign is as gravely important as you contend, then I would not entrust such an undertaking to a mere equerry."

"Why not? Ormand is entirely trustworthy."

"That is as may be," she allowed primly, "but if you really need the troops, then why place so much weight on a mere letter in the hand of an insignificant menial?"

"And what would you do?"

"I'd send a suitable emissary instead."

"An emissary."

"Yes," she agreed, "and what better emissary than the sole and beloved daughter-in-law of the duke himself?" She paused, allowing her words to take effect. "Duke Geoffrey can easily refuse a letter in Ormand's hand," she concluded, "as you and I know only too well. But refuse me? Never."

Bernard considered this for a moment, tapping the silver base of his cup with a finger. What she suggested was not entirely without merit. He could already see certain advantages. If she went, she might obtain not only troops, but money as well. And it was true that the old duke could never deny his daughter-in-law anything. He might fume and fret for a few days, but he would succumb to her wishes in the end.

"Very well," decided the baron abruptly, "you shall go. Ormand will accompany you-and your maidservants, of course-but you will bear the letter yourself and read it to the duke when you judge him in a favourable mood to grant our request."

Lady Agnes smiled and inclined her head in acquiescence to his desires. "As always, my husband, your counsel is impeccable."

)Bran stirred his mount to speed. "Iwan!" he cried. At the sound of his name, the king's champion raised himself in the saddle, and Bran saw blood oozing down the warrior's padded leather tunic.

"Bran!" the warrior gasped. "Bran, thank God. Listen-"

"Iwan, what has happened? Where are the others?"

"We were attacked at Wye ford," he said. "Ffreinc-three hundred or more… sixty, maybe seventy knights, the rest footmen."

Lurching sideways, he seized the young prince by the arm. "Bran, you must ride…," he began, but his eyes rolled up into his head; he slumped and toppled from the saddle.

Bran, holding tight to his arm, tried to lower his longtime friend more gently to the ground. Iwan landed hard nonetheless and sprawled between the horses. Bran slid off the mare and eased the wounded man onto his back. "Iwan! Iwan!" he said, trying to rouse him. "My father, the warband-where are the others?"

"Dead," moaned Iwan. "All… all of them dead."

Bran quickly retrieved a waterskin from its place behind his saddle. "Here," he said, holding the skin to the warrior's mouth, "drink a little. It will restore you."

The battlechief sucked down a long, thirsty draught and then shoved the skin away. "You must raise the alarm," he said, some vigour returning to his voice. He clutched at Bran and held him fast. "You must ride and warn the people. Warn everyone. The king is dead, and the Ffreinc are coming."

"How much time do we have?" asked Bran.

"Enough, pray God," said the battlechief. "Less if you stay. Go now."

Bran hesitated, unable to decide what should be done.

"Now!" Iwan said, pushing the prince away. "There is but time to hide the women and children."

"We will go together. I will help you."

"Go!" snarled Iwan. "Leave me!"

"Not like this."

Ignoring the wounded man's curses, Bran helped him to his feet and back into the saddle. Then, taking up the reins of Iwan's horse, he led them both back the way he had come. Owing to the battlechief's wound, they travelled more slowly than Bran would have wished, eventually reaching the western edge of the forest, where he paused to allow the horses and wounded man to rest. "Is there much pain?" he asked.

"Not so much," Iwan said, pressing a hand to his chest. "Ah, a little…"

"We'll wait here awhile." Bran dismounted, walked a few paces ahead, and crouched beside the road, scanning the valley for any sign of the enemy invaders.

The broad, undulating lowlands of Elfael spread before him, shimmering gently in the blue haze of an early autumn day. Secluded, green, fertile, a region of gentle, wooded hills seamed through with clearrunning streams and brooks, it lay pleasantly between the high, bare stone crags of mountains to the north and east and the high moorland wastes to the south. Not the largest cantref beyond the Marches, in Bran's estimation it tendered in charm what it lacked in size.

In the near distance, the king's fortress on its high mound, whitewashed walls gleaming in the sunlight, stood sentinel at the gateway to Elfael, which seemed to drowse in the heavy, honeyed light. So quiet, so peaceful-the likelihood of anything disturbing such a deep and luxurious serenity seemed impossibly remote, a mere cloud shadow passing over a sun-bright meadow, a little dimming of the light before the sun blazed forth again. Caer Cadarn had been his family's home for eight generations, and he had never imagined anything could ever change that.

Bran satisfied himself that all was calm-at least for the momentthen returned to his mount and swung into the saddle once more.

"See anything?" asked Iwan. Hollow-eyed, his face was pale and dripping with sweat.

"No Ffreinc," Bran replied, "yet."

They started down into the valley at a trot. Bran did not stop at the hill fort but rode straight to Llanelli, the tiny monastery that occupied the heel of the valley and stood halfway between the fortress and Glascwm, the chief town of the neighbouring cantref-and the only settlement of any size in the entire region. Although merely an outpost of the larger abbey of Saint Dyfrig at Glascwm, the Llanelli monastery served the people of Elfael well. The monks, Bran had decided, not only would know best how to raise an alarm to warn the people, but also would be able to help Iwan.

The gates of the monastery were open, so they rode through and halted in the bare-earth yard outside the little timber and muddaubed church. "Brother Ffreol! Brother Ffreol!" Bran shouted; he leapt from the saddle and ran to the door of the church. A lone priest was kneeling before the altar. An elderly man, he turned as Bran burst in upon his prayers.

"Lord Bran," said the old man, rising shakily to his feet. "God be good to you."

"Where is Brother Ffreol?"

"I am sure I cannot say," replied the aging monk. "He might be anywhere. Why all this shouting?"

Without reply, Bran seized the bell rope. The bell pealed wildly in response to his frantic pulling, and soon monks were hurrying to the church from every direction. First through the door was Brother Cefan, a local lad only slightly older than Bran himself. "Lord Bran, what is wrong?"

"Where is Ffreol?" demanded Bran, still tugging on the bell rope. "I need him."

"He was in the scriptorium a short while ago," replied the youth. "I don't know where he is now."

"Find him!" ordered Bran. "Hurry!"

The young brother darted back through the door, colliding with Bishop Asaph, a dour, humourless drone of advancing age and, as Bran had always considered, middling ability. "You there!" he shouted, striding into the church. "Stop that! You hear? Release that rope at once!"

Bran dropped the rope and spun around.

"Oh, it's you, Bran," said the bishop, his features arranging themselves in a frown of weary disapproval. "I might have guessed. What, pray, is the meaning of this spirited summons?"