"Yet the silver will not leap into our hands of its own accord, I think," offered Siarles.

Angharad, frowning on her stool, spoke again. "If thou wouldst obtain justice, thou must thyself be just."

The others turned questioning glances toward Bran, who explained, "I think she means we cannot attack them without provocation."

The group fell silent in the face of such a challenge. "Truly," Bran said at last. Raising his head, he gazed across the fire ring, dark eyes glinting with merry mischief. "We cannot take on knights on horseback, but King Raven can."

Brother Tuck remained unmoved. "It will take more than a big black bird to frighten battle-hardened knights, will it not?"

"Well then," Bran concluded. His smile was slow, dark, and fiendish. "We will give them something more to fear."

~Zx bbot Hugo de Rainault was used to better things. He had served in the courts of Angevin kings; princes had pranced to his whim; dukes and barons had run to his beck and bidding. Hugo had been to Rome- twice!-and had met the pope both times: Gregory and Urban had each granted him audience in their turn, and both had sent him away with gifts of jewel-encased relics and precious manuscripts. He had been extolled for an archbishopric and, in due time, perhaps even a papal legacy. He had governed his own abbey, controlled immense estates, held dominion over the lives of countless men and women, and enjoyed a splendour even the kings of England and France could sincerely envy.

Alas, all that was before the rot set in.

He had done what he could to prevent the debacle once the tide of fortune began to turn against him-benefactions and indulgences; costly gifts of horses, falcons, and hunting hounds to courtiers in high places; favourable endorsements for those in a position to speak a good word on his behalf. The reach of kings is long, however, and their memories for insults even longer. When William the Red cut up rough over the throne of England, Hugo had done what any rightthinking churchman would have done-the only thing he could have done. What choice did he have? Robert Curthose, the Conqueror's eldest, was the legitimate heir to his father's throne. Everyone knew it; most of the barons agreed and supported Robert's claim. Who could have known the deceitful William would move so swiftly and with such devastating accuracy? He cut the legs out from under his poor deluded brother with such uncanny ease, one had to wonder whether the hand of God was not in it after all.

Be that as it may, the whole sorry affair was the beginning of a long decline for Hugo, who had seen his own fortunes steadily wane since the day William the Red snatched away the crown. Now, at long last, the abbot was reduced to this: exile in a dreary backwater province full of hostile natives, to be bootlicker to a half-baked nobody of a count.

Hugo supposed he should be grateful, even for this little, but gratitude was not a quality he had cultivated. Instead, he cursed the rapacious Rufus; he cursed the blighted wilderness of a country he had come to; and he cursed the monstrous fate that had brought him so very low.

Low, he may be. Shattered, perhaps. Even devastated. But not destroyed. And never, ever finished.

He would, like Lazarus, rise again from this dismal hinterland tomb. He would use this opportunity, weak and slender though it was, to haul himself up out of the muck of his disgrace and reclaim his former stature. The de Braoses' new church might be an unlikely place to start, but stranger things had happened. That Baron William de Braose was a favourite of Red William was the single bright light in the whole cavalcade of misery he now endured. The road to the successful restoration of the abbot's wealth and power ran through the baron, and if Hugo had to wet-nurse his lordship's snotty-nosed nephew to ingratiate himself, so be it.

Time was against him, he knew. He was no longer a young man. The years had not mellowed him, however; if anything, they had made him leaner, harder, and subtler. Outwardly serene and benevolent, with a charitable smile-when it suited his interests-his scheming, devious soul never slept. Though his hair had gone white, he had lost none of it, nor any teeth. His body was still resilient and sturdy, with a peasant's enduring strength. What is more, he retained all the ruthless cunning and insatiable ambition of his younger years. Allied to that was the sagacity of age and the sly wisdom that had kept him alive through travails that would have consumed lesser men.

He paused in the saddle and gazed out over the Vale of Elfael: his new and, he fervently hoped, temporary home. It was not much to look at, although it was not without, he grudgingly admitted, a certain bucolic charm. The air was good and the ground fertile. Obviously, there was water enough for any purpose. There were worse places, he considered, to begin the reconquest.

Attending the abbot were two of Baron de Braose's knights. They rode with him for protection. The rest of his entourage and belongings would come in a week or so-three wagons filled with the few books and treasures left to him, and a smattering of more practical ecclesiastical accoutrements, such as robes, stoles, his mitre, crook, staff, standard, and other oddments. There would be five attendants: two priests, one to say Mass and another to carry out the details of administration, and three lay brothers-cook, chamberer, and porter. With these, chosen for their loyalty and unfaltering obedience, Abbot Hugo would begin afresh.

Once officially installed in his new church, Hugo would commence building his new empire. Ike Braose wanted a church; Hugo would give him an abbey entire. First would come a stone-built minster worthy of the name, and with it, a hospital-both inn for passing dignitaries and healing centre for those wealthy enough to pay for their care. There would be a great tithe barn and stable, and a kennel to raise hunting hounds to sell to the nobility. Then, when these were firmly established, a monastery school-the better to draw in the sons of the region's noblemen and worthies and reap fat grants of land and favours from appreciative parents.

With these thoughts, he lifted the reins and urged his brown palfrey on once more, following his escort to the count's fortress, where he would spend the night, continuing on to the church the next morning.

Within sight of their destination now, the riders picked up the pace. At the foot of the hill, they turned off the track and rode up to the fortress, passing over the narrow bridge and through the newly erected gate tower, where they were met by the snivelling nephew himself.

"Greetings, Abbot Hugo," called Count Falkes, hurrying to meet him. "I hope you have had a pleasant journey."

"Pax vobiscum," replied the cleric. "God be praised, yes. The journey was blissfully tranquil." He extended his hand for the young count to kiss his ring.

Count Falkes, unused to this courtesy, was taken aback. After a brief but awkward hesitation, he remembered his manners and pressed his lips to the abbot's ruby ring. Hugo, having made his point, now raised the hand over the young count in blessing. `Benedictus, oinni patri," he intoned, then smiled. "I imagine it must be easy to forget when one is unaccustomed to such decorum."

"Your Grace," replied the count dutifully. "I assure you, I meant no disrespect."

"It is already forgotten," the abbot replied. "I suppose there is little place for such ceremony here in the Marches." He turned to take in the hall, stables, and yard with a sweep of his keen eyes. "You have done well in a short time."

"Most of what you see was here already," the count conceded. "Aside from a few necessary improvements, I have not had time to construct anything better."

"Now that you say it," intoned the abbot, "I thought it possessed a certain quaint charm not altogether fitting the tastes of your uncle, the baron."