The two travellers established themselves on the bench outside the door. Too early for the alewife's roast leg of lamb, they dulled their appetites with a few lumps of soft cheese fried in a pan with onions, into which they dipped their bread. While they ate and drank, they talked to some of the curious townsfolk who came along to greet the visitors-quickly informing them that they'd arrived at a bad time, owing to the overbearing presence of the Earl of Cestre, a Ffreinc nobleman by the name of Hugh d'Avranches.

"Wolf Hugh is a rough pile," said the ironsmith from the smithy across the square. He had seen the travellers ride in and had come to inquire if their horses needed shoeing or any tack needed mending.

"That he is," agreed his neighbour.

"You call him Wolf," observed Tuck. "How did he come by that?"

"You ever see a wolf that wasn't hungry?" said the smith. "Ravening beast like that'll devour everything in sight-same as the earl."

"He's a rough one, right enough," agreed his friend solemnly. "A rogue through and through."

"As you say," replied Bran. "Here's to hoping we don't meet up with him." He offered his bowl to the smith.

The smith nodded and raised the bowl. "Here's to hoping." He took a hearty draught and passed the bowl to his friend, who drained it.

When they had finished, Bran and Tuck made their way down to the small harbour below the town. A fair-sized stretch of timber and planking, the wharf was big enough to serve seagoing ships and boats plying the coastal waters between the mainland and Ynys Mon, known as Holy Island, just across the narrow channel. They found a boatman who agreed to ferry them and their horses to the island. It was no great distance, and they were soon on dry land and mounted again. They followed the rising path that led up behind the promontory, over the headland, and down to a very pleasant little valley on the other side: Aberffraw and, tucked into a fold between the encircling hills, the settlement of Celyn Garth.

Less a town than a large estate consisting of an enormous timber fortress and half a dozen houses-along with barns, cattle pens, granaries, and all surrounded by apple orchards and bean, turnip, and barley fields scraped from the ever-encroaching forest which blanketed the hills and headlands-it had become the royal seat of the northern Welsh and was, as the shepherd had suggested, perfectly suited to keeping out of the voracious earl's sight.

Bran and Tuck rode directly to the fortress and made themselves known to the short, thick-necked old man who appeared to serve the royal household as gateman and porter. With a voice like dry gravel, he invited them to enter the yard and asked them to wait while he informed his lord of their arrival.

Whatever life the kings of North Wales had known in earlier times, it was clear that it was much reduced now. As in England, the arrival of the Normans meant hardship and misery in draughts too great to swallow. The Cymry of the noble houses suffered along with the rest of the country, and Celyn Garth was proof of this. The yard was lumpy, rutted, and weedy; the roof of the king's hall sagged, its thatch ratty and mildewed; the gates and every other door on the nearly derelict outbuildings stood in need of hingeing and rehanging.

"I hope we find the king well," said Bran doubtfully.

"I hope we find him at his supper," said Tuck.

What they found was Llewelyn ap Owain, a swarthy, nimble Welshman who received them graciously and prevailed upon them to stay the night. But he was not the king.

"It's Gruffydd you're looking for, is it?" he said. "Aye, who else? It pains me, friend, to inform you that our king is a captive." Llewelyn explained over a hot supper of roast pork shanks and baked apples. They were seated at the hearth end of the near-empty hall. Their host sat at table with his guests, while his wife and daughters served the meal. "He's held prisoner by Earl Hugh, may God rot his teeth."

"Wolf Hugh?" asked Bran. "Is that the man?"

"Aye, Cousin, that's the fellow-Hugh d'Avranches, Earl of Cestre-devious as the devil, and cruel as Cain with a toothache. He's a miserable old spoiler, is our Hugh, with a heart full of torment for each and all he meets."

"How long has Gruffydd been captive?" wondered Tuck.

Llewelyn tapped his teeth as he reckoned the tally. "Must be eight years or more, I guess," he said. "Maybe nine already."

"Has anyone seen him since he was taken prisoner?" Tuck asked.

"Oh, aye," replied Llewelyn. "We send a priest most high holy days. The earl allows our Gruffydd to receive food and clothing and such since it whittles down the cost of keeping an expensive captive. We use those visits for what benefit we can get."

Bran nodded; he and Tuck shared a glance, and each could sense the sharp disappointment of the other. "Who's ruling in Gruffydd's place?" asked Bran, swallowing his frustration.

Llewelyn paused to consider.

It was a simple enough question, and Tuck wondered at their host's hesitation. "You must be looking at him, I reckon," Llewelyn confessed at last. "Although I make no claim myself, you understand." He spread his hands as if to express his innocence. "I merely keep the boards warm for Gruffydd, so to speak. I am loyal to my lord, while he lives, and would never usurp his authority."

"Which is why the Ffreinc keep him alive, no doubt," observed Bran. As long as Gruffydd drew breath, no one else could occupy his empty throne, much less gather his broken tribe.

"But people do come to me for counsel and guidance," Llewelyn offered, "and I see it my duty to oblige however I can."

"I understand," said Bran. He fell silent, contemplating the depth of his difficulty. The kingdom of Gwynedd, leaderless and adrift, was in no shape to supply a war host to help fight a war beyond its borders. He realized with increasing despair that he had come all this way for nothing.

"So then, I'll be sending for your relations," said Llewelyn, breaking the silence. "They'll be that glad to see you."

"And I them," replied Bran, and complimented his host on his thoughtfulness. "Thank you, Llewelyn; I am in your debt."

They finished supper, and the guests were given their own quarters so they would not have to share with the rest of Llewelyn's household, who mostly slept on benches and reed mats in the hall. The next morning-on the counsel and guidance of their host-Bran and Tuck rode out to get the measure of the land and people of the northern part of Gwynedd, and to speak frankly without being overheard.

"This is going to be more difficult than I thought," Bran admitted when, after riding for a goodly time, they stopped to water the horses at a stream flowing down a rocky, gorse-covered hill and into Mor Iwerddon, the Sea of Ireland, gleaming blue under a fine early autumn sky.

"Raising an army of king's men with the king in an enemy prison?" Tuck queried. "What is difficult about that?"

"I don't think he even has an army."

"Well, that would make it slightly more tricky, I suppose," remarked Tuck.

"Yes," mused Bran. "Tricky." He walked a few paces away, then back. Glancing up suddenly, he grinned that twisted, roguish smile that Tuck knew meant trouble. More than that, however, it was the first time in many, many days that Tuck had seen him smile, and the friar had almost forgotten the magic of that lopsided grin-truly, it was as if a slumbering spirit had awakened in that instant to reanimate a young man only half-alive until now. He was once again himself, Rhi Bran y Hud, alive with mischief and alert to possibility. "That's it, friend friar-a trick!"

"Eh?"

"To raise a king's army from a king who is in prison."

Tuck caught his meaning at once.

Gathering up the reins, Bran stepped quickly to his horse, raised his foot to the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. "Come, Tuck, why are you dragging your feet?"