"Your wine, sire." Remey placed a pewter goblet on the table beside the baron's chair. "I have ordered sausages to be prepared, and there is fresh bread soon. Would you like anything else while you wait?"

"The wine will suffice for now," the baron replied, easing off his boots and stretching his legs. "Bring the rest when it is ready-and some of those fraises, if there are any left"

"Of course, sire," replied the seneschal. "The sessions went well today, I assume?"

"They went very well indeed, Remey. I am content." Baron Neufmarche raised his cup and allowed himself a long, satisfying sip, savouring the fine, tart edge of the wine. Councils always brought demands, and this one more than most-owing to the prolonged absence of the king. Royal dispatch fresh from Normandie indicated that the conflict between Red William and his brother, Duke Robert, had bogged down; with summer dwindling away, there would be no further advances at least until after harvest, if then. Meanwhile, the king would repair to Rouen to lick his wounds and restock his castles.

Thus, the king's throne in England appeared likely to remain vacant into the foreseeable future. An absent king forced the lesser lords to look for other sources of protection and redress. This, Neufmarche reflected, created problems and opportunities for the greater lords like himself, whose influence and interests rivalled the king's. A baron who remained wary and alert could make the most of the opportunities that came his way.

He was just congratulating himself on the several exceptional opportunities that he had already seized this day when one of the squires who served as sentry for the camp appeared outside the tent. Bernard saw him hovering at the door flap and called, "Yes? What is it?"

"Someone requests audience, sire."

"Affairs are concluded for the day," Neufmarche replied. "Tell them they are too late."

There was a short silence, and then a small cough at the door flap.

"What? Did you not hear what I said? The council is over."

"I have told them, sire," the squire replied. "But they insist."

"Do they!" shouted the baron. Rising from his chair, he stumped to the doorway in his stocking feet and threw back the hanging flap. "I am at rest, idiot!"

The squire jumped back, almost colliding with the two strangers behind him-Welshmen from the look of them: a young one, dark and slender, with a puckered scar along his cheek, and an older one, broad and bandy-legged, who, despite his outgrown tonsure, appeared to be a priest of some kind. Both men were dusty from the road and stank of the saddle.

"Well?" demanded the baron, glaring at the strangers who had disturbed his peace. "What is it? Be quick!"

"Pax vobiscum," said the fat priest. "We have come on a matter we think will be of special interest to you."

"The only thing that interests me right now," snarled the baron, is a cup of wine and the comfort of my chair-which I possessed until your unseemly interruption."

"William de Braose," said the young man quietly.

Neufmarche turned a withering gaze upon the lithe stranger. "What about him?"

"His star ascends in the king's court while yours declines." The young man smiled, the scar twisting his expression into a fierce grimace. "I would have thought the humiliation of that would be a constant embarrassment to a man like you. Am I wrong?"

"Impudent knave!" spat Neufmarche, thrusting forward. "Who are you to speak to me like this?"

The stranger did not flinch but replied with quiet assurance. "I am the man who offers you a way to reverse your sorry fate."

Baron Neufmarche succumbed to his own curiosity. "Come inside," he decided. "I will listen to what you have to say." Holding the flap aside, he invited the strangers to enter and dismissed the squire. "I would ask you to sit," the baron said, returning to his camp chair, "but I doubt you will be here that long. For I warn you, the moment I lose interest in your speech, I will have you thrashed and thrown out of this camp.

"As you say," replied the young man.

Taking up his cup once more, the baron said, "You have until this cup is drained." He drank deeply and said, "Less now. I would speak quickly if I were you."

"De Braose is a tyrant," the young man said, "with little understanding of the land he has taken, and none at all of the people under his rule. Most of them have fled, and those that remain are made to perform slave labour at the cost of their own fields and holdings. If they were allowed to return to their homes, to work the land and tend their herds, Elfael would enjoy prosperity unequalled by any other cantre? All that is required is someone who can guide the will of the people-someone the Cymry will follow, who can deliver them to you."

The baron sipped again, more slowly this time, and considered what he had heard. "You can do this?"

"I can." There was no hint of hesitation or doubt in the young man.

"Your offer is tempting, to be sure," allowed the baron cautiously. Putting the cup aside, he said, "But who are you to make such an offer?"

At this, the bowlegged friar spoke up. "Before you stands Bran ap Brychan, the rightful heir to Elfael. And I am Aethelfrith, at your service.

Neufmarche gazed at the young man before him. It never ceased to amaze him how very often events beyond his reckoning conspired to bring his plans to bountiful fruition. Here, he had not lifted a hand, and the prize plum had simply dropped into his lap. "The rightful heir is dead," he said, feigning indifference. "At least, that is what I heard."

"To my great relief," replied Bran, "it remains a rumour only. Still, it serves a useful purpose."

"When the time is right," put Aethelfrith, "we will make his presence known, and his people will rally to him and overthrow the de Braose usurpers."

"In exchange for your promise to restore me to the throne," Bran said, "I would pledge fealty to you. Elfael would then abide in peace."

Now the baron smiled. "What you have said has roused my interest-and more than you know." He rose and walked to the rear of the tent. "Will you take some wine?"

"It would be an honour," replied Tuck. "There is much to discuss."

"A moment, please," said the baron. "I will order cups to be brought." With that, he disappeared through the rear flap into the room used by his servants for preparing food for the baron and his guests. "Remey!" Neufmarche called aloud. "Wine for my visitors." The servant, just returning from the kitchen tent with a trencher of sausages, appeared at his summons. Stepping quickly to meet him, the baron raised a finger to his lips for silence, leaned close, and whispered, "Fetch me four knights-armed and ready to fight. Bring them here at once."

Remey's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Sire? Is something amiss?"

"No time to explain-but the two Welshmen are to be taken cap tive. Indeed, they will not leave this place alive. Understand?" The aging seneschal inclined his head in a compliant nod. "Go," said Neufmarche, taking the trencher from his hands. "I will keep them occupied until you return."

Remey turned on his heel and padded away. The baron returned to his audience room with the sausages, which he placed on the table, inviting his guests to help themselves. "Sit you down, please. Enjoy!" he said with expansive warmth. "The wine will come in a moment. In the meantime, I would hear more about how you plan to bring about de Braose's defeat."