What these graces might be, he did not say, and Merian did not ask, lest she prove herself a backward hill-country churl in need of those same finer graces. She welcomed Roubert's company but felt awkward in his presence. Although he always appeared eager to see her, she sensed a natural haughtiness in him and a veiled disdain for all things foreign-which was nearly everything in fair Britain's island realm, including herself.

Aside from Roubert, the only other person near her own age was the baron's dour daughter, Sybil. Merian and the young lady had been introduced on the first day by Neufmarche himself, with the implied directive that they should become friends. For her part, Merian was willing enough-there was little to do anyway with the council in session most of the day-but so far had received scant encouragement from the young noblewoman.

Lady Sybil appeared worn down by the heat of the summer sun and the innate discomforts of camp. Her fine dark hair hung in limp hanks, and dark shadows gathered beneath her large brown eyes. She appeared so listless and unhappy that Merian, at first annoyed by the young woman's affected swanning, eventually came to pity her. The young Ffreinc noblewoman languished in the shade of a canopy erected outside the baron's massive tent, cooling herself with a fan made of kidskin stretched over a willow frame.

"Mere de Dieu," sighed the young woman wistfully when Merian came to visit her one day, "I am not… um"-she paused, searching for a word she could not find-"accoutume so much this heated air."

Merian smiled at her broken English. "Yes," she agreed sympathetically, "it is very hot."

"It is always so, non?"

"Oh no," Merian quickly assured her. "It is not. Usually, the weather is fine. But this summer is different." A cloud of bafflement passed over Lady Sybil's face. "Hotter," Merian finished lamely.

The two gazed at each other across the ditch of language gaping between them.

"There you are!" They turned to see Baron Neufmarche striding toward them, flanked by two severe-looking knights dressed in the long, drab tunics and trousers of Saxon nobility. "My lords," declared the baron in English, "have you ever seen two more beautiful ladies in all of England?"

"Never, sire," replied the two noblemen in unison.

"It is pleasant to see you again, Lady Merian," said the baron. Smiling into her eyes, he grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. Turning quickly, he kissed his daughter on the forehead and rested his hand on her shoulder. "I see you are finding pleasure in one another's company at last."

"We are trying," Merian said. She offered Sybil a hopeful smile. Clearly, the young woman had no idea what her father was saying.

"I hope that when the council is over, you still plan to attend us in Hereford," the baron said.

"Well, I… Merian faltered, unable to untangle her mixed emotions so quickly. After all, when originally mooted, the proposition had been greeted with such hostility on her part that now she hardly knew what she felt about the idea.

Neufmarche smiled and waved aside any excuse she might make. "We would make you most welcome, to be sure." He stroked his daughter's hair. "In fact, now that you know each other better, perhaps you might accompany Sybil to our estates in Normandie when she returns this autumn. It could be easily arranged."

Uncertain what to say, Merian bit her lip.

"Come, my lady," coaxed the baron. He saw her hesitancy and offered her a subtle reminder of her place, "We have already made arrangements, and your father has consented."

"I would be honoured, sire," she said, "seeing my father has consented."

"Good!" He smiled again and offered Merian a little bow of courtesy. "You have made my daughter very happy."

A third soldier came rushing up just then, and the baron excused himself and turned to greet the newcomer. "Ah, de Lacy! You have word?"

"Oui, anon baron de seigneur," blurted the man, red-faced from rushing in the heat. The baron raised his hand and commanded him to speak English for the benefit of the two knights with him. The messenger gulped air and dragged a sleeve across his sweating face. Beginning again, he said, "It is true, my lord. Baron de Braose did dispatch wagons and men through your lands. They passed through Hereford on the day the council convened and returned but yesterday." The man faltered, licking his lips.

"Yes? Speak it out, man!" Calling toward the tent, the baron shouted, "Remey! Bring water at once." In a moment, the seneschal appeared with a jar and cup. He poured and offered the cup to the baron, who passed it to the soldier. "Drink," Bernard ordered, "and let us hear this from the beginning-and slowly, if you please."

The messenger downed the water in three greedy draughts. Taking back the cup, the baron held it out to be refilled, then drank a little himself. "See here," he said, passing the vessel to the nobles with him, "de Braose's men passed through my lands without permission-did you mark?" The nobles nodded grimly. "This is not the first time they have trespassed with impunity. How many this time?"

"Seven knights and fifteen men-at-arms, not counting ox herds and attendants for three wagons. As I say, they returned but yesterday, only-most were afoot, and there were no wagons."

"Indeed?"

"There is rumour of an attack in the forest. Given that some of the men were seen to be wounded, it seems likely."

"Do they say who perpetrated the attack?"

"Sire, there is talk… rumours only." The soldier glanced at the two noblemen standing nearby and hesitated.

"Well?" demanded the baron. "If you know, say it."

"They say the train was attacked by the phantom of the forest."

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Remey, unable to stifle his surprise.

The baron glanced hastily over his shoulder to see the two young women following the conversation. "Pray excuse us, ladies. This was not for your ears." To the men, he said, "Come; we will discuss the matter in private." He led his party into the tent, leaving Merian and Lady Sybil to themselves once more.

"Le fantonie!" whispered Sybil, eyes wide at what she heard. "I have heard of this. It is a creature gigantesque? Oui?"

"Yes, a very great, enormous creature," said Merian, drawing Sybil closer to share this delicious secret. "The people call him King Raven, and he haunts the forest of the March,"

"Incroyable!" gasped Sybil. "The priests say this is very impossibility, nest ce pas?"

"Oh no. It is true." Merian gave her a nod of solemn assurance. "The Cymry believe King Raven has arisen to defend the land beyond the Marches. He protects Cymru, and nothing can defeat him-not soldiers, not armies, not even King William the Red himself."

]Dressed as humble wool merchants, Bran, Iwan, Aethelfrith, and Siarles swiftly crossed the Marches and entered England. Strange merchants these: avoiding towns entirely, travelling only by night, they progressed through the countryside-four men mounted on sturdy Welsh horses, each leading a packhorse laden with provisions and their wares, which consisted of three overstuffed wool sacks. Laying up in sheltered groves and glades and hidden glens along the way, they slept through the day with one of their number on watch at all times.

They arrived in Lundein well before the city gates were open and waited impatiently until sleepy-eyed guards, yawning and muttering, drew the crossbeams and gave them leave to enter. They went first to the Abbey of Saint Mary the Virgin, where, after a cold-water bath, the travellers changed into clean clothes and broke fast with the monks. Then, groomed and refreshed, they led their packhorses through the narrow streets of the city to the tower fortress. At the outer wall of the tower, they inquired of the porter and begged audience with Cardinal Ranulf of Bayeux, Chief Justiciar of England.