The swineherds, terrified by the inhuman cry, threw themselves to the ground and covered their heads with their mantles. They were still cowering there, not daring to move, when Iwan appeared and, with a gesture only, summoned Tuck to follow him. They returned to the horses then and waited for Bran, who soon joined them. "You can have Siarles's horse," Bran told the priest. "He is bringing the pigs."

The three retreated back down the narrow defile, retracing their steps until they reached a wider way, and then rode north into the heart of the forest. Unaccustomed to riding, it was all Aethelfrith could do to remain in the saddle, let alone guide his mount. He soon lost all sense of distance and direction and contented himself with merely keeping up as he pressed deeper and ever deeper into the dark heart of the ancient wood.

Eventually, they slowed their horses and, after splashing across a brook and gaining a long, low rise, arrived at the great black trunk of a lightning-blasted oak. Here Bran stopped and dismounted. Aethelfrith, grateful for the chance to quit the saddle, climbed down and stood looking around. The trees were giants of the forest, their limbs huge and majestic, their crowns lofty. Their great girth meant that their trunks were far apart from one another and little grew in the shadows beneath them. Younger trees struggled up, straight and thin as arrows, to reach the sun; most failed. Unable to sustain their own weight, they fell back to earth-but slowly, slanting down at unnatural angles.

"This way," said Bran, motioning his guest to follow. He stepped through the split in the trunk of the blighted oak as through an open door. The friar followed, emerging on the other side into a wide, sunlit hollow large enough to contain a most curious settlement, a veritable village of hovels and huts made from branches and bark and-could it be?-the horns, bones, and skins of deer, oxen, and other beasts. On the far side of the glade were small fields, where a number of settlement dwellers were at work amongst the furrowed rows of beans, peas, and leeks.

"Passing strange," murmured Aethelfrith, oddly delighted with the place.

"This is Cel Craidd," Bran told him. "My stronghold. You are welcome here, Tuck, my friend. The freedom of my home is yours."

The cleric made a polite bow. "I accept your hospitality."

"Come along, then," said Bran, leading the way into the peculiar settlement, "there is someone else I would have you meet before we sit down to hear your news."

Bran, his cloak of black feathers gleaming blue and silver in the bright daylight, led the way to one of the hovels in the centre of the settlement. As they approached, an old woman emerged, pushing aside the deer hide that served as her door. She regarded the newcomer with a keen dark eye and then touched the back of her hand to her forehead.

"This is Angharad," said Bran. "She is our banfaith." Seeing that the priest did not understand the word, he added, "It is like a bard. Angharad is Chief Bard of Elfael."

To the old woman, he said, "And this is Brother Aethelfrith-he helped us in Lundein," Clapping a hand to the friar's shoulder, Bran continued, "He has come with news he deems so important that he has travelled all the way from Hereford."

"Then let us hear it," said Angharad. Stepping back, she pulled aside the deerskin and indicated that her guests should enter. The single large room had a bare earth floor; packed hard and swept clean, it was covered by an array of animal skins and handwoven coverings. More skins encircled a round firepit in the centre of the room, where a small fire flickered amongst the embers. There was a sleeping pallet on one side and a row of woven grass baskets.

Bran untied the leather laces at the neck of his feathered cloak and hung it on the tine of a protruding antler above one of the baskets; above the cloak, he hung the high-crested hood with its weird mask, then removed the black leather gauntlets and put them in the basket. He knelt over a basin on the floor to splash water on his face and drew his hands through his black hair. Shaking off the excess moisture, he arched his back and then suddenly slumped and sighed, and his body quivered as if with cold. The tremor passed, and Bran straightened. When he turned, he had changed slightly; he was more the Bran whom Aethelfrith remembered.

Angharad invited her guests to sit and stepped out to a barrel beside the door; she dipped out a bowl, which she brought to the priest. "Peace, friend, and welcome," she said, offering him the cup. "May God be good to thee all thy days, and strengthen thee to every virtue."

The priest bowed his head. "May his peace and joy forever increase," he replied, "and may you reap the rich harvest of his blessing."

"It is water only," Bran explained. "We don't have enough grain to make ale just now."

"Water is the elixir of life," declared the priest, raising the bowl to his lips. "I never tire of drinking it." He sucked down a healthy draught and passed the bowl to Bran, who also drank and passed it to Iwan. When the big man finished, he returned the bowl to Angharad, who set it aside and took her place at the fire ring with the men.

"I trust all is well in Hereford," said Bran, easing into the reason for the friar's journey to Elfael.

"Better than here," replied Aethelfrith. "But that could change." Leaning forward in anticipation of the effect his words would have, he said, "What if I told you a flood of silver was coming your way?"

"If you told me that," replied Bran, "I would say we will all need very big buckets."

"Aye," agreed the priest, "and tubs and vats and casks and tuns and barrels and cisterns large and small. And I say you had best find them quickly, because the flood is on the rise."

Bran eyed the stout priest, whose plump cheeks were bunched in a self-satisfied grin. "Tell us," he said. "I would hear more of this silver flood."

The rider appeared unannounced in the yard at Caer Rhodl. The horse was exhausted: hide wet with lather, spume pink with blood, hooves cracked. Lord Cadwgan took one look at the suffering animal and its dead-eyed rider and commanded his grooms to take the poor beast to the stables and tend it. To the rider, he said, "Friend, your news must be grievous indeed to drive a good horse this way. Speak it out, and quickly-there will be ale and warm meat waiting for you."

"Lord Cadwgan," said the rider, swaying on his feet, "the words I have are bitter ashes in my mouth."

"Then spit them out and be done, man! They will grow no sweeter for sucking on them."

Drawing himself up, the messenger nodded once and announced, "King Rhys ap Tewdwr is dead-killed in battle this time yesterday."

Lord Cadwgan felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Only months ago, Rhys, King of Deheubarth-and the man most Britons considered the last best hope of the Cymry to turn back the tide of the Ffreinc invaders-had returned from exile in Ireland, where he had spent the last few years ingratiating himself with Irish kings, slowly eliciting support for the British cause against the Ffreinc. Word had gone out that Rhys had returned with a massive warhost and was preparing to make a bid for the English throne while William the Red was preoccupied in Normandie. Such was the strength of King Rhys ap Tewdwr's name that even men like Cadwgan-who had long ago bent the knee to the Ffreinc king-allowed themselves to hope that the yoke of the hated overlords might yet be thrown off.

"How can this be?" Cadwgan wondered aloud. "By whose hand? Was it an accident?" Before the messenger could answer, the lord collected himself and said, "Wait. Say nothing." He raised his hand to prevent the reply. "We will not stand in the yard like market gossips. Come to my chambers and tell me how this tragedy has come about."