"Never fear," replied Alan, who then turned to Earl Hugh and said, "My apologies, Lord. The count is embarrassed by his lack of French. But he wishes you to know that in his home country, he is a very champion among hunters and has ridden to the hunt throughout Spain. His father, the duke, keeps a stable of the finest horses to be found anywhere in the realm."

The earl listened, his interest piqued. "No finer horses than mine, I'll warrant," he suggested when Alan finished. "I'd like to see them. Did you bring any with you?"

"Alas no, Lord," answered Alan, without waiting to consult his master. "They are very valuable animals, as you must imagine, and could not be allowed to make a voyage, however short."

"A pity," replied Hugh. "I should like to have seen them in the flesh. My own horses have been praised by those who know a good animal when they see one. I'll show them to you, eh?"

Alan turned his head to receive the count's decision, then said, "My lord would like nothing more than to have the pleasure of viewing your excellent animals."

"Then let's be at it!" said Hugh, hoisting himself from his chair with the aid of the board before him. Calling for his seneschal, he motioned his visitors to follow and bowled from the hall with a lurching, unsteady gait.

"We're well on our way, men," Bran whispered. To Ifor and Brocmael, he said, "This next part will be in your hands. Are you ready?" Both young men nodded. "Good." To Tuck, he added, "Tell Alan-"

"My lord," said Alan, with a fishy grin at Tuck, "it is not necessary, as I speak a fair bit of Cymry, too, ye ken?"

"You do amaze me," Bran confessed. "I begin to believe you were born to this."

"Just where did you learn to speak like that?" Tuck wondered. "I mean no offence, but you spoke like a roadside beggar before we passed through these gates."

Alan lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. "It is useful for the earnin' o' a penny or two," he said, putting on the rough speech again as easily as a man putting on a hat. "A wanderin' musician is a pitiful lump without his harp."

"Wandering musician," echoed Tuck. "A minstrel?"

"If ye like," said Alan.

"How did you lose your harp?" the friar asked.

"Let's just say some lords appreciate a jest more'n others, ye ken?"

Bran laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "I want you to stay with us while we're here-will you do that? I'll reward you well. Perhaps when this is over we can even find you a harp."

"I am honoured, Sire," the beggar answered.

"Here now!" called Earl Hugh from a doorway across the way. "This way to the stables."

"Let the hunt begin," said Bran, and the four Spanish noblemen and their interpreter hurried to join their host.

Cel Craidd

Merian held the long smooth length of ash between her fingers and carefully wrapped the thin rawhide strap in a tight spiral around the end, placing the clipped halves of stripped feathers from a goose's wing just so as she slowly turned the rounded shaft. Half her mind was on her task-fletching arrows required patience and dexterity, but consumed little thought-and the other half of her mind was on the worrying news that had reached them the night before.

The news had come after nightfall. Merian and Noin and two of the other women were tending to the evening meal, and the rest of Cel Craidd was still at work: some trimming and shaping branches of ash and yew for war bows, or assisting Siarles in splitting narrow lengths of oak for arrows; two of the women were weaving hemp and linen for strings, and Tomas was helping Angharad affix the steel points. Scarlet and his small host of warriors-two of the younger women and three of the older children-were hard at work training to the longbow-they would practice until it was too dark to see. And any who were not busy with either bows or arrows were tending the bean field. The forest round about was sinking into a peaceful and pleasant autumn twilight.

And then they heard the long, low whistle that signalled the return of the scouts-those who had been away all day watching the King's Road. A few moments later, Rhoddi and Owain tumbled breathless down the bank and into the settlement bearing the news: Sheriff de Glanville had returned with upwards of fifty knights.

"They came quick and they came quiet," Rhoddi said when he had swallowed a few mouthfuls of water and splashed a cup over his head. "It was already getting dark, and they were on us before we knew it or we would have prepared a welcome for them."

"Where's Iwan?" asked Siarles, already halfway to flying off to his aid.

"He stayed to watch and see if any more came along," explained Owain. "He sent us on ahead." Catching Siarles's disapproving glance, the young warrior added, "There was nothing we could do. There were just too many, and we didn't have men or arrows enough to take 'em on."

"We thought better to let be this once," offered Rhoddi.

"Rhi Bran would have fought 'em," said Siarles.

"Given men enough and clear warning to get set in place, aye," agreed Rhoddi, "King Raven would have taken 'em on and no doubt won the day. But we en't Bran, and we didn't have men enough or time."

Iwan had returned a little while later to confirm what the others had said. "So now, Bloody Hugo has fifty more knights to throw at us. I hope Bran and Tuck fare well on their errand-we'll need all the help we can get. I just wish there was some way to get word to them."

Now, as the sun beat down brightly upon their wildwood settlement, Merian looked around at the quiet industry around her, Iwan's words circling in her mind like restless birds. I might not be able to get word to Bran, she thought, but I can do better than that-I can raise troops myself. In that moment, she knew what she had to do: she would go to her father and persuade him to join Bran in the battle to drive the Ffreinc out of Elfael. Her father could command thirty, perhaps forty men, and each one trained to the longbow. Experienced archers would be more than welcome and, added to however many men Bran was able to raise, would form the beginnings of a fair army. She knew Bran's feelings about involving her father, but he was wrong. She'd tried to persuade him otherwise and met with a stubborn-nay, prideful-resistance. But in this matter of life and death, she considered, the outcome was just too important to allow such petty concerns to cloud good judgement. They needed troops, her father had them, and that was that.

Bran, she knew, would forgive her when he saw the men she would bring. Moreover, if she left at once, she could be back in Cel Craidd with the promise of warriors or better, the warriors themselves, before Bran returned.

Having made up her mind, the urge to go reared up like a wild horse and she was borne along like a helpless rider clinging to its neck. She made short work of the arrow she was fletching, set it aside, and rose, brushing bits of feather from her lap. I can't be wearing this home to meet my family, she decided, looking down at her stained and threadbare gown. Hurrying to her hut, she went inside and drew a bundle down from the rafters, untied it, and shook out the gown she had worn as an Italian noblewoman when accompanying Bran on the mission to rescue Will Scarlet. Though of the finest quality, the material was dark and heavy and made her look like an old woman; nevertheless, it was all she had and it would have to do. As she changed into the gown, she thought about what she would say to the family she had not seen for… how long had it been? Two years? Three? Too long, to be sure.

She brushed her hair and washed her face, and then hurried off to prepare a little something to eat on the way, and to ready a horse. Caer Rhodl was no great distance. It was still early; if she left at once and did not stop on the way, she could be there before nightfall.