"Well now," the priest answered, snatching up a coin from the floor. "Let me see. There are twelve pennies in a shilling, and twenty shillings in a pound-so a pound is worth two hundred and forty pennies." Tapping his finger on his palm as if counting invisible coins, the mendicant priest continued, amazing his onlookers with his thorough understanding of worldly wealth. "Now then, a mark, as we all know, is worth thirteen shillings and four pence, or one hundred sixty pennies-which means that there are one and a half marks in one pound sterling."

"So how much for a byzant?" asked Siarles.

"Give me time," said Tuck. "I'm getting to that."

"This will take all night," complained Siarles.

"It will if you keep interrupting, boyo," replied the priest testily. "These are delicate calculations." He gave Siarles a sour look and resumed, "Where was I? Right-so that's…" He paused to reckon the total. "That's over five pounds." He frowned. "No, make that six-more.

"A bag?" asked Bran.

"Each," replied the priest, handing the byzant back to him.

"You mean to say this," said Bran, holding the gold coin to the light, "is worth ten marks?"

"They are as valuable as they are scarce: '

"Sire," said Iwan, dazzled by the extent of their haul, "this is far better than we hoped." Reaching into another of the leather bags, he drew out more of the fat gold coins. "This is a… a miracle,"

"The Good Lord helps them who help themselves," Friar Tuck said, pouring coins from the fold of his gathered robe into the bowl on the floor before him. "Blessed be the name of the Lord!"

"How much is there altogether?" wondered Bran, gazing at the treasure hoard.

"Several hundred marks at least," suggested Siarles.

"It is more than enough to pay the workers," observed Angharad from her stool. "Much more." She rose and gathered a deerskin from her sleeping place. Spreading it on the floor beside the kneeling priest, she instructed, "Count it onto this."

"And count it out loud so we can all hear," added Siarles.

"Help me," said the priest. "Put them into piles of twelve."

The two fell to arranging the silver coins into little heaps to represent a shilling, and then Brother Tuck began telling out the number, shilling by shilling. Siarles, using a bit of charred wood, kept a running tally on a hearthstone, announcing the reckoning every fourth or fifth stack, and calling out the total at each mark: one hundred… one hundred seventy-five… two hundred…

The women of Cel Craidd brought food-a haunch of roast meat from one of the slaughtered oxen and some fresh barley cakes made from the supplies intended for Abbot Hugo. Bran and the others ate while the counting continued.

After a while, they heard voices outside the hut. "Your flock grows curious," Angharad said. "They have been patient long enough. You should speak to them, Bran."

Rising, Bran stepped to the door and pushed aside the ox-hide covering. Stepping out into the soft night air, he saw the entire population of the settlement-forty-three souls in all ranged on the ground around the door of the hut. Wrapped in their cloaks, they were talking quietly amongst themselves. A fire had been lit and some of the children were running barefoot around it.

"We are still counting the money," he told them simply. "I will bring word when we have finished."

"It is taking a fair sweet time," suggested one of the men.

"There is a lot to count."

"God be praised," said another. "How much?"

"More than we hoped," replied Bran. "Your patience will be rewarded, never fear."

He returned to Angharad's hearth and the counting. "Three hundred fifty..," droned Siarles, making another mark on the stone, "… four hundred…"

"Four hundred marks!" gasped Iwan. "Why were they carrying so much money?"

"Something is happening that we have neither heard nor foreseen," Angharad replied, "and this is the proof."

Tuck, still counting, gave a cough to silence them. And the total continued to grow.

When the last silver penny had been accounted, the total stood at four hundred and fifty marks. Then, turning his attention to the leather bags in the last casket, the friar began to count out the gold coins to the value of ten marks each. The others looked on breathlessly as the friar arranged the golden byzants in neat little towers of ten.

When he finished, Tuck raised his head and, in a voice filled with quiet wonder, announced, "Seven hundred and fifty marks. That makes five hundred pounds sterling."

"Do I believe what I am hearing?" breathed Iwan, overwhelmed by the enormity of the plunder. "Five hundred pounds… " He turned his eyes to Bran and then to Angharad. "What have we done?"

"We have ransomed Elfael from the stinking Ffreinc," declared Bran. "Using their own money, too. Rough justice, that."

Turning on his heel, he moved to the door and stepped out to deliver the news to those waiting outside. Angharad went with him and, raising her hands, said, "Silence. Rhi Bran would speak."

When the murmuring died down, Bran said, "Through our efforts we have won five hundred pounds-more than enough to pay the redemption price Red William has set. We have redeemed our land!"

The sudden outcry of acclamation took Bran by surprise. Hearing the cheers and seeing the glad faces in the moonlight took him back to another place and time. For a moment, Bran was a child in the yard at Caer Cadarn, listening to the revelry of the warriors returning from a hunt. His mother was still alive, and as Queen of the Hunt, she led the women of the valley, singing and dancing in celebration of the hunters' success, her long, dark hair streaming loose as she spun and turned in the rising glow of a full moon.

Nothing could ever bring her back or replace the warmth he had known in the presence of that loving soul. But this he could do: he could reclaim the caer and, under his rule, return the court of Elfael to something approaching its former glory.

Angharad had once asked him what it was he desired. He had suspected even then that there was more to the question than he knew. Now, suddenly, he beheld the shape of his deepest desire. More than anything in the world, he wanted the joy he had known as a child to reign in Elfael once more.

Angharad, standing at his side, felt the surge of emotion through him as a torrent through a dry streambed, and knew he had made up his mind at last. "Yes," she whispered. "This night, whatever you desire will bend to your will. Choose well, my king."

Raising his eyes, he saw the radiant disc of the moon as it cleared the sheltering trees, filling the forest hollow with a soft, spectral light. "My people, my Grellon," Bran said, his voice breaking with emotion, "tonight we celebrate our victory over the Ffreinc. Tomorrow we reclaim our homeland."

Xerian had determined to endure the baron's council with grace and forbearance. Spared the greater evil of having to spend the summer in the baron's castle in Hereford, she could afford to be charitable toward her enemies. Therefore, she vowed to utter no complaint and to maintain a respectful courtesy to one and all in what she had imagined would be a condition little better than captivity.

As the days went by, however, her energetic dislike for the Ffreinc began to flag; it was simply too difficult to maintain against the onslaught of courtesy and charm with which she was treated. Thus, to her own great amazement-and no little annoyance-she found herself actually enjoying the proceedings despite the fact that the one hope she had entertained for the council-that she might renew her acquaintance with Cecile and Therese-was denied her: they were not in attendance.

Their brother, Roubert, cheerfully informed her that his sisters had been sent back to Normandie for the summer and would not return until autumn, or perhaps not even until next spring. "It is good for them to acquire some of the finer graces," he confided, adopting a superior tone.