"No time to waste, bishop," said Bran. Rushing up, he snatched the churchman by the sleeve of his robe and pulled him out of the church and into the yard, where twenty or so of the monastery's inhabitants were quickly gathering.

"Calm yourself," said Bishop Asaph, shaking himself free of Bran's grasp. "We're all here, so explain this commotion if you can."

"The Ffreinc are coming," said Bran. "Three hundred marchogi- they are on their way here now." Pointing to the battlechief sitting slumped in the saddle, he said, "Iwan fought them, and he's wounded. He needs help at once."

"Marchogi!" gasped the gathered monks, glancing fearfully at one another.

"But why tell us?" wondered the bishop. "Your father should be the one to-"

"The king is dead," Bran said. "They murdered him-and the rest of the warband with him. Everyone is dead. We have no protection."

"I do not understand," sputtered the bishop. "What do you mean? Everyone?"

Fear snaked through the gathered monks. "The warband dead! We are lost!"

Brother Ffreol appeared, pushing his way through the crowd. "Bran, I saw you ride in. There is trouble. What has happened?"

"The Ffreinc are coming!" he said, turning to meet the priest and pull him close. "Three hundred marchogi. They're on their way to Elfael now."

"Will Rhi Brychan fight them?"

"He already did," said Bran. "There was a battle on the road. My father and his men have been killed. Iwan alone escaped to warn us. He is injured-here," he said, moving to the wounded champion, "help me get him down."

Together with a few of the other brothers, they eased the warrior down from his horse and laid him on the ground. While Brother Galen, the monastery physician, began examining the wounds, Bran said, "We must raise the alarm. There is still time for everyone to flee."

"Leave that with me. I will see to it," replied Ffreol. "You must ride to Caer Cadarn and gather everything you care to save. Go nowand may God go with you."

"Wait a moment," said the bishop, raising his hand to stop them from hurrying off. Turning to Bran, he said, "Why would the Ffreinc come here? Your father has arranged to swear a treaty of peace with William the Red."

"And he was on his way to do just that!" snapped Bran, growing angry at the perfunctory insinuation that he was lying. "Am I the Red King's counsellor now that I should be privy to a Ffreinc rogue's thoughts?" He glared at the suspicious bishop.

"Calm yourself, my son," said Asaph stiffly. "There is no need to mock. I was only asking."

"They will arrive in force," Bran said, climbing into the saddle once more. "I will save what I can from the caer and return here for Iwan."

"And then?" wondered Asaph.

"We will flee while there is still time!"

The bishop shook his head. "No, Bran. You must ride to Lundein instead. You must finish what your father intended."

"No," replied Bran. "It is impossible. I cannot go to Lundein- and even if I did, the king would never listen to me."

"The king will listen," the bishop insisted. "William is not unreasonable. You must talk to him. You must tell him what has happened and seek redress."

"Red William will not see me!"

"Bran," said Brother Ffreol. He came to stand at the young man's stirrup and placed his hand on his leg as if to restrain him. "Bishop Asaph is right. You will be king now. William will certainly see you. And when he does, you must swear the treaty your father meant to undertake,"

Bran opened his mouth to object, but Bishop Asaph stopped him, saying, "A grave mistake has been made, and the king must provide remedy. You must obtain justice for your people."

"Mistake!" cried Bran. "My father has been killed, and his warband slaughtered!"

"Not by William," the bishop pointed out. "When the king hears what has happened, he will punish the man who did this and make reparations.

Bran rejected the advice out of hand. The course they urged was childish and dangerous. Before he could begin to explain the utter folly of their plan, Asaph turned to the brothers who stood looking on and commanded them to take the alarm to the countryside and town. "The people are not to oppose the Ffreinc by force," instructed the bishop sternly. "This is a holy decree, tell them. Enough blood has been shed already-and that needlessly. We must not give the enemy cause to attack. God willing, this occupation will be brief. But until it ends, we will all endure it as best we can."

The bishop sent his messengers away, saying, "Go now, and with all speed. Tell everyone you meet to spread the word-each to his neighbour. No one is to be overlooked."

The monks hurried off, deserting the monastery on the run. Bran watched them go, grave misgivings mounting by the moment. "Now then," said Bishop Asaph, turning once more to Bran, "you must reach Lundein as quickly as possible. The sooner this error can be remedied, the less damage will result and the better for everyone. You must leave at once.

"This is madness," Bran told him. "We'll all be killed."

"It is the only way," Ffreol asserted. "You must do it for the sake of Elfael and the throne."

Bran stared incredulously at the two churchmen. Every instinct told him to run, to fly.

I will go with you," offered Ffreol. "Whatever I can do to aid you in this, trust it will be done."

"Good," said the bishop, satisfied with this arrangement. "Now go, both of you, and may God lend you his own wisdom and the swiftness of very angels."

acing up the ramp, Bran flew through the gates of Caer Cadarn. He leapt from the saddle, shouting before his feet touched the ground. The disagreeable Maelgwnt drifted into the yard. "What now?" he asked. "Foundered another horse? Two in one daywhat will your father say, I wonder?"

"My father is dead," Bran said, his tone lashing, "and all who rode with him, save Iwan."

The steward's eyes narrowed as he tried to work out the likelihood of Bran's wild assertion. "If that is a jest, it is a poor one-even for you."

"It is God's own truth!" Bran snarled. Clutching the startled man by the arm, he turned him around and marched swiftly toward the king's hall. "They were attacked by a Ffreinc warhost that is on its way here now," he explained. "They will come here first. Take the strongbox and silver to the monastery-the servants, too. Leave no one behind. The marchogi will take the fortress and everything in it for their own."

"What about the livestock?" asked Maelgwnt.

"To the monastery," replied Bran, dashing for the door. "Use your head, man! Anything worth saving-take it to Llanelli. The monks will keep it safe for us."

He ran through the hall to the armoury beyond: a square, thickwalled room with long slits for windows. As he expected, the best weapons were gone; the warband had taken all but a few rusty, bentbladed swords and some well-worn spears. He selected the most serviceable of these and then turned to the rack of longbows hanging on the far wall.

For some reason-probably for decorum's sake in Lundein-his father had left all the warbows behind. He picked one up, tried it, and slung it over his shoulder. He tucked a red-rusted sword into his belt, grabbed up a sheaf of arrows and several of the least blunt spears, and then raced to the stables. Dumping the weapons on the floor, Bran commanded Cefn to saddle another of the mares. "When you're finished, bring it to the yard. Brother Ffreol is on his way here by foot; I want to leave the moment he arrives."

Cefn, wan and distraught, made no move to obey. "Is it true?"

"The massacre?" Bran asked. "Yes, it's true. Ffreol and I ride now to Lundein to see the Red King, swear allegiance, and secure the return of our lands. As soon as I leave, run and find Maelgwnt-do everything he says. We're moving everything to the monastery. Never fear, you will be safe there. Understand?"