The travellers found the family amiable enough. They fed them well, entertained them with news of local doings, and asked no questions about who their guests were, or what their business might be. However, when they were preparing to leave the next morning, one of the younger lads-upon learning that they had travelled from Elfael-could not help asking whether they knew anything about King Raven.

"I might have heard a tale or two," Bran allowed, smiling.

The boy persisted in his questions despite the frowns from his mother and brothers. "Is it true what they say? Is he a very bad creature?"

"Bad for the Ffreinc, it would seem," Bran said. "By all accounts King Raven does seem a most mysterious bird. Do you know him hereabouts?"

"Nay," replied the middle lad, shaking his head sadly. "Only what folk say."

One of his older brothers spoke up. "We heard he has killed more'n two hundred Ffreinc-"

"Swoops on 'em from the sky and spears 'em with his beak," added the one who had raised the subject in the first place.

"Boys!" said the mother, embarrassed by her sons' forthright enthusiasm. "You have said enough."

"No harm," chuckled Bran, much amused by this. "I don't know about spearing knights with his beak, but at least the Ffreinc are afraid of him-and that's good enough for me."

"They say he helps the Cymry," continued the younger one. "Gives 'em all the treasure."

"That he does," Tuck agreed. "Or, so I've heard."

The travellers took their leave of their hosts shortly after that, resuming their journey northward. The day was bright and fair, the breeze warm out of the south, and the track good. Bran and Tuck rode easily along, talking of this and that.

"Your fame is spreading," Tuck observed. "If they know King Raven here, they'll soon enough know him everywhere."

Bran dismissed the comment with a shrug. "Children are readily persuaded."

"Not at all," the friar insisted. "Where do children hear these things except from their elders? People know about King Raven. They are talking about him."

"For all the good it does," Bran pointed out. "King Raven may be better liked than William the Red, but it is the Red King's foot on our neck all the same. The Ffreinc may be wary of the Phantom of the Wood, but it hasn't changed a blessed thing."

"Perhaps not," Tuck granted, "but I was not thinking of the Ffreinc just now. I was thinking of the Cymry."

Bran gave an indifferent shrug.

"King Raven has given them hope," insisted Tuck. "He has shown them that the invaders can be resisted. You must be proud of your feathered creation."

"He had his uses," Bran admitted. "But, like all things, that usefulness has reached its end."

"Truly?"

"King Raven has done what he can do. Now it is time to take up bows and strap on swords, and join battle with the enemy openly, in the clear light of day."

"Perhaps," Tuck granted, "but do not think to hang up your feathered cloak and long-beaked mask just yet."

"There will be no more skulking around the greenwood like a ghost," Bran declared. "That is over."

"Certain of that, are you?" Tuck said. "Just you mark my words, Bran ap Brychan, King Raven will fly again before our cause is won."

Long before Rome turned its eyes toward the Isle of the Mighty, Bangor, in the far north of Gwynedd, was an ancient and revered capital of kings. There, among the heavy overhanging boughs of venerable oaks, the druids taught their varied and subtle arts, establishing the first schools in the west. That was long ago. The druids were gone, but the schools remained; and now those aged trees sheltered one of the oldest monasteries in Britain, and for all anyone knew, all of Christendom. Indeed, the proud tribes of Gwynedd had sent a bishop and some priests to Emperor Constantine's great council half a world away in Nicea-as the inhabitants of north Wales never tired of boasting.

When Bran's father-Brychan ap Tewdwr, a prince of the south-found himself in want of a wife, it was to Gwynedd that he had come looking. And in Bangor he had discovered his queen: Rhian, a much-loved princess of her tribe. While she had lived, ties between the two kingdoms north and south had remained strong. Thus, Bran expected to find a hearty welcome among his mother's kinsmen.

After three days on the road, the two travellers drew near the town and the pathways multiplied and diverged. So they stopped to ask directions from the first person they met-a squint-eyed shepherd sitting under a beech tree at the foot of a grassy hill.

"You'll be wanting to see your folk, I expect," observed the shepherd.

"It is the reason we came," Bran told him, a hint of exasperation colouring his tone. Having already explained that his mother had been the daughter of a local chieftain, he had asked if the fellow knew where any of her people might be found.

"Well," replied the shepherd. He craned his neck around to observe his sheep grazing on the hillside behind him, "you won't find any of 'em in town yonder."

"No?" wondered Bran. "Why not?"

"They en't there!" hooted the man, whistling through his few snaggled teeth.

"And why would that be?" wondered Bran. "If you know, perhaps I could persuade you to tell me."

"No mystery there, Brother," replied the shepherd. "They've all gone over to Aberffraw, en't they."

"Have they indeed," said Bran. "And why is that?"

"It's all to do with that Ffreinc earl, 'n' tryin' to stay out o' his reach, d'ye ken?"

"I think so," replied Bran doubtfully. "And where might this Aberffraw be?"

"Might be anywhere," the shepherd replied. His tanned, weather-beaten face cracked into a smile as he tapped his nose knowingly.

"Just what I was thinking," remarked Bran. "Even so, I'll wager that you know, and could tell me if you had a mind to."

"You'd win that wager, Brother, I do declare."

"And will you yet tell me?"

The shepherd became sly. "How much would you have wagered?"

"A penny."

"Then I'll be havin' o' that," the man replied.

Bran dug in his purse and brought out a silver coin. He held it up. "This for the benefit of your wide and extensive knowledge."

"Done!" cried the shepherd, delighted with his bargain. He snatched the coin from Bran's fingertips and said, "Aberffraw is on the Holy Isle, en't it. Just across the narrows there and hidden round t'other side o' the headland. You won't see it this side, for it is all hidden away neat-like."

Bran thanked the shepherd and wished him good fortune, but Tuck was not yet satisfied. "When was the last time you went to church, my friend?"

The shepherd scratched his grizzled jaw. "Well now, difficult to say, that."

"Difficult, no doubt, because it has been so long you don't remember," ventured Tuck.Without waiting for a reply, he said, "No matter. Kneel down and bow your head. Quickly now; I'll not spend all day at it."

The shamefaced shepherd complied readily enough, and Tuck said a prayer for him, blessed his flock, and rode on with the stern admonition for the herdsman to get himself to church next holy day without fail.

At Bangor, they stopped to rest and eat and gather what information they could about the state of affairs in the region. There was no tavern in the town, much less an inn, and Tuck was losing hope of finding a soothing libation when he glimpsed a clay jar hanging from a cord over the door of a house a few steps off the square. "There!" he cried, to his great relief, and made for the place, which turned out to be the house of a widowed alewife who served the little town a passing fair brew and simple fare. Tuck threw himself from his saddle and ducked inside, returning a moment later with generous bowls of bubbly brown ale in each hand and a round loaf of bread under his arm. "God is good," he said, passing a bowl to Bran. "Amen!"