The last day of the baron's council found Merian in a pensive mood. Having resigned herself to the fact that she would leave the council and return, not to Caer Rhodl, but to Castle Neufmarche in Hereford, she was nevertheless apprehensive. A sojourn amongst the Ffreinc in the baron's household? Secretly she was fascinated by the thought-even regarding the prospect of a winter spent in Normandie in a kindly light. Even so, she could not deny the feeling that she was behaving as something of a traitor. A traitor to what? Her family? Her country? Her own ideas about who and what the Ffreinc were?

She could not decide.

Her father had as much as commanded her to go. Her own mother had told her, "It is important that you do well in the baron's court, Merian. He likes you, and we need his friendship just now." Although she did not say it outright, her mother had given her to know that by currying favour with the baron, she was helping her family survive. In short, she was little more than a hostage to the baron's good pleasure.

She told herself that Cymru would be the same whether she was attached to the baron's court or not. She told herself that in all likelihood, her poor opinion of the Ffreinc was based on hearsay and ignorance and that this was a chance to discover the truth. Of course, she still considered the Ffreinc enemies, but was not a Christian required to love her enemy? From the time she was old enough to stand beside her mother in church, she had been instructed to love her enemies and do good to those who persecuted her. So if not the Ffreinc, then who? She told herself that any young woman in her position would welcome the chance to advance herself in this way, and that she should be grateful.

She told herself all these things and more. Yet the feeling of betrayal would not go away.

It was with these thoughts turning over in her mind that she made her way amongst the untidy sprawl of tents to the baroness's pavilion in the centre of the camp. Merian had been sent to find Sybil and inform her friend that she had said her good-byes to her parents and that her things were packed and awaiting collection by the baron's servants. As she passed the baron's tent, however, a shout brought her up short. She stopped.

It sounded like an argument had broken out. There was a crash, as if a table had been overturned, and suddenly, out of the tent burst four marchogi dragging two men between them. At the sight of the young noblewoman standing directly in their path, the soldiers halted. The foremost prisoner raised his head. Even with the blood streaming from a cut above his eye, even though she never thought to see him again amongst the living, she knew him.

"Bran!" She blurted the name in startled amazement. "Is it you?"

"Merian," gasped Bran, no less astonished to see her.

"Step aside, lady," said one of the knights, jerking Bran to his feet.

Without thinking, Merian held up her hand. "Stop!" she said, and the soldiers paused. She stepped nearer. "I thought you died-everyone said so."

"Wishful thinking."

"You know this man?" The voice was Neufmarche's. He stepped from the tent and came to stand beside Merian.

"I did once," Merian replied, turning to the baron. "I-until this moment, I thought him dead! Why are you treating him so? What has he done?"

"He claims to be the heir of Elfael," the baron replied. "Is this true?"

"It is," Merian granted.

"That is all I need to know." The baron, sword in hand, waved the soldiers on. "Take them away."

"I am sorry you had to see that, my dear-," the baron began. He did not finish the thought, for as the knights, still distracted by Merian, stepped past her, Bran twisted in their grasp and shook himself free. Snatching a dagger from the belt of his nearest captor, he spun on his heel, grabbed Merian, and pulled her roughly to him. Neufinarche made a clumsy attempt to snatch her from Bran's grasp, and almost lost his hand.

"Stay back!" Bran shouted, raising the naked blade to Merians slender neck.

"Bran, no-," Merian gasped.

One of the knights made a sudden lunge toward him. Bran evaded the move, pressing the knife to Merian's throat and drawing a frightened scream from the young woman. "If you have any care for her at all," he snarled, "you will stand aside,"

"Stand easy, men," the baron told his soldiers. To Bran he said, "Do you imagine this will aid you in any way?"

"That we will soon discover," he said. Turning to the soldiers holding Tuck, he commanded, "Release the priest."

The knights looked to the baron. He saw the sharp blade pressed against the soft white flesh-flesh he coveted-and could not bear to see it harmed. Neufmarche surrendered with a nod. "Do it," he said dully. "Let him go."

"Tuck," called Bran, "bring the horses!"

The English friar shook free of his captors, giving one a pointed kick, saying, "That is for laying unclean hands on one of God's humble servants." He hurried to where the horses had been left on the nearby picket line.

"Bran, let me go," pleaded Merian, her fear quickly melting into anger. "This is not meet."

"I asked you to come with me once," he said, his mouth close to her ear. "You refused. Now it seems you are to join me whether you will or no."

Tuck hurried back, leading the horses. He passed one pair of reins to Bran and scrambled into the saddle. Bran, stepping gingerly backwards to the horse, pulled Merian with him. "Climb up and be quick," he told her, maintaining his grip on the knife. Gathering her skirts, she put her foot to the stirrup, and Bran, with a sudden movement, boosted her onto the horse and, quick as a cat, vaulted up behind her.

"Farewell, baron," said Bran, shaking out the reins. "Had you been true, you would have enjoyed the spectacle of your rival's downfall. Now you will have to content yourself with the knowledge that this day you sealed your own."

"I will track you down like an animal," said Neufmarche. "When I find you, I will gut you and hang your carcass for the birds."

"You must catch me first, Neufmarche," said Bran. "And if we are followed from this place, Merians lovely corpse will be all you find on the trail."

"Don't waste your breath on them," said Tuck. "Let us hie from this vipers' den."

"Away, Tuck!" With that, Bran slapped the reins across the shoulders of his mount, and the horse leapt ahead. The fat priest followed, and the two riders disappeared with their hostage, passing between the dose-set tents and out of sight. The soldiers watched in flat-footed amazement.

"After them!" shouted the baron. "Merian is not to be harmed,"

"What about the other two?" asked one of the knights.

"Once the lady is safe-and only then," the baron cautioned, "kill them. If anything happens to her, your lives are forfeit."

The four knights ran for their horses and clattered off in pursuit of the fugitives. Baron Neufmarche watched until they were out of camp and then returned to his tent, his spirits soaring with jubilation. By the time his knights returned with Merian, the last heir to the throne of Elfael really would be dead, his unwanted presence a fast-fading memory. The troops promised by his father, the duke, would arrive with the first ships in the spring, and in the council just concluded, he had-through bargaining, wheedling, threatening, and cajoling over many days-finally obtained the support of his vassal lords for his threefold plan.

The unexpected appearance of Elfael's prince might have swiftly undone all his hard work over the last many days, but fortunately, that problem would be swiftly resolved when the knights returned with his head in a sack. Thus, no sooner than it had arisen, the unforeseen impediment had been cleared. The conquest of Wales could begin.