"How long will the council last?" asked Merian as she and her father rode along. It was early on the second day of travel, the sun was high and bright, and Merian was in good spirits-all the more since her father's mood also showed signs of improving.

"How long?" repeated Cadwgan. "Why, as long as Neufmarche fancies." He thought about it for a moment and said, "There is no way to tell. It depends on the business to be decided. Once, I remember, Old William-the Conqueror, mind, not the redbearded brat-held a council that lasted four months. Think of that, Merian. Four whole months!"

Merian considered that if the baron's council lasted four months, then summer would be over and she would not have to go to Hereford. She asked, "Why so long?"

"I was not there," her father explained. "We were not yet under the thumb of the foreigners and had our own affairs to keep us occupied. As I recall, it was said the king wanted everyone to agree on the levy of taxes for land and chattels."

"Agree with him, you mean."

"Yes," said her father, "but there was more to it than that. The Conqueror wanted as much as he could get, to be sure, but he also knew that most people refuse to pay an unjust tax. He wanted all his earls, barons, and princes to agree-and to see one another agree-so that there could be no complaint later."

"Clever."

"Aye, he was a fox, that one," her father continued, and Merian, after their stormy relations of late, was happy to hear him speak and to listen. "The real reason the council lasted so long came down to the Forest Law."

Merian had heard of this and knew all right-thinking Britons, as well as Saxons and Danes, resented it bitterly. The reason was simple: the decree transformed all forested lands in England into one vast royal hunting preserve owned by the king. Even to enter a forest without permission of the warrant holder became a punishable offence. This edict, hated as it was from the beginning, made outlaws of all those who, for generations, had made their living out of the woodlands in one way or another-which was nearly everyone.

"So that was when it began?" mused Merian.

"That it was," Cadwgan confirmed, "and the council twisted and turned like cats on a roasting spit. They refused three times to honour the king's wishes, and each time he sent them back to think about the cost of their refusal."

"What happened?"

"When it became clear that no one would be allowed to return home until the matter was settled, and that the king was unbending, the council had no choice but to assent to the Conqueror's wishes."

"What a spineless bunch of lickspits," observed Merian.

"Do not judge them too harshly," her father said. "It was either agree or risk being hung as traitors if they openly rebelled. Meanwhile, they watched their estates and holdings slowly descending into ruin through neglect. So with harvest hard upon them, they granted the king the right to his precious hunting runs and went home to explain the new law to their people." Cadwgan paused. "Thank God, the Conqueror did not include the lands beyond the Marches. When I think what the Cyniry would have done had that been forced on us…" He shook his head. "Well, it does not bear thinking about."

]Despite Count Falkes's repeated offer to accompany him, Abbot Hugo insisted on visiting his new church alone. "But the work is barely begun," the count pointed out. "Allow me to bring the architect's drawings so you can see what it will look like when it is finished."

"You are too kind," Hugo had told him. "However, I know your duties weigh heavily enough, and I would not add to them. I am perfectly capable of looking around for myself, and happy to do so. I would not presume to burden you with my whims."

He rode out from the caer on his brown palfrey and arrived at Llanelli just as the labourers were starting their work for the day. The old church, with its stone cross beside the door, still stood on one side of the new town square. It was a rude wood-and-wattle structure, little more than a cow byre in Hugo's opinion; the sooner demolished, the better.

The abbot turned from the sight and cast his critical gaze across the square at a jumbled heap of timber atop a foundation of rammed earth. What? By the rod of Moses!-was that the new church?

He strode closer for a better look. A carpenter appeared with a coiled plumb line and a chunk of chalk. "You there!" the abbot shouted. "Come here,"

The man glanced around, saw the priestly robes, and hurried over, offering a bow of deference. "You wish to speak to me, Your Grace?"

"What is this?" He flipped a hand at the partially built structure.

"It is to be a church, father," replied the carpenter.

"No," the abbot told him. "No, I do not think that likely."

"Yes," replied the workman. "I do believe it is."

"I am the abbot here," Hugo informed him, "and I say that"-he flapped a dismissive hand at the roughly framed building-"that is a tithe barn."

The carpenter cocked his head to one side and regarded the priest with a quizzical expression. "A tithe barn, Your Grace?"

"My church will be made of stone," Abbot Hugo told the carpenter, "and it will be of my design and raised on a site of my choosing. I will not have my church fronting the town square like a butcher's stall."

"But, father, see here-"

"Do you doubt me?"

"Not at all. But the count-"

"This is to be my church, not the count's. I am in authority here, comlrris?"

"Indeed, Your Grace," answered the confused carpenter. "What am I to tell the master?"

"Tell him I will have the plans ready for him in three days," declared the abbot, starting away. "Tell him to come to me for his new instructions.

With that, the abbot marched to the old chapel, paused outside, and then pushed open the door. He was greeted by two priests; from the look of it, they had slept in the sanctuary amidst their bundled belongings.

"Who is in authority here?" demanded the abbot.

"Greetings in Christ, brother abbot," said the bishop, stepping forward. "I am Asaph, Bishop of Llanelli. We would have made a better welcome, but as you can see, this is all that is left of the monastery, and the monks have all been pressed to labour for the count."

"Be that as it may…," sniffed Hugo, glancing around the darkened chapel. It smelled old and musty and made him sneeze. "I see you are ready to depart. I shall not keep you."

"We were waiting to pass the reins to you, as it were," replied Asaph.

"That will not be necessary."

"No? We thought you might like to know something about your new flock."

"Your presumption has led you astray, bishop. It is the flock that must get to know and heed the shepherd." Hugo sneezed again and turned to leave. "God speed you on your way."

"Abbot, see here," said the bishop, starting after him. "There is much we would tell you about Elfael and its people."

"You presume to teach me?" Abbot Hugo turned on him. "All I need to know, I learned from the saddle of my horse on the way here." He glanced balefully at the rude structure and the two lorn priests. "Your tenure here is over, bishop. God in his wisdom has decreed a new day for this valley. The old must make way for the new. Again, I wish you God's speed. I do not expect we will meet again."

The abbot returned to his horse across the square, passing the carpenter, who was now sitting on a stack of lumber with a saw across his lap. "What about this?" called the carpenter, indicating the unfinished jumble of timber behind him. "What am I to do with this?"