"How much will he wager?" wondered Hugh, his pig eyes brightening at the thought.

"Whatever you like," answered Alan. "It makes no difference to the count."

"One hundred marks," answered the earl quickly.

Alan relayed this to Rexindo, who nodded appreciatively.

"Done!" shouted the earl. Turning to Bishop Balthus, he said, "You! Priest! Mark this. You are a witness to the wager-one hundred marks silver to the one who makes the kill."

Tuck gave him a nod of acceptance, wondering where on God's green earth Bran imagined he would find such a princely sum if-heaven forbid it!-he should lose the wager.

Meanwhile, Bran, ignoring the stare of the captive king who stood shivering but a few paces away, instead approached the hounds and walked in amongst them, holding out his hands, as he was wont to do, allowing the dogs to lick his fingers and palms. He chose one from among those he had marked to buy-a big, sleek, shaggy grey creature-and rubbed the animal's muzzle affectionately. Reaching into the pouch at his belt, he brought out a morsel he'd filched from last night's meal and fed it to the hound, rubbing the dog's nose and muzzle all the while. "This one," he said through Alan. "Let us take this one with us and leave the others."

The earl, happy with the choice-all the more so since it meant he would not risk his other hounds developing a taste for this unusual game-agreed readily. Count Rexindo then gestured to his two young attendants and directed them to take charge of the prisoner. "Relacher le captif," Alan said to the gaoler, who began fumbling at his belt for the key to the shackles.

The earl frowned again as the chains fell away, and it appeared he might have second thoughts about disposing of such a valuable prisoner in this way. The hound was given to sniff the captive's clothing, and as the two young nobles began marching the prisoner away, he protested, "Here now! What goes?"

Alan explained. "The count has ordered his men to take the wretch to the head of the hunting run and release him. They are to ride back here and tell us as soon as it is done, and then the chase will begin." He paused, regarding the Ffreinc noblemen, then added, "With this many hunters there will surely be no sport unless the prey is given a fair start."

"Go then," directed Earl Hugh, "and hurry back all the sooner." Spying one of the servants just then creeping across the yard, he shouted, "Tremar! Bring us a saddle cup!" The man seized up like a thief caught with his hand in the satchel, then spun about and ran for the hall entrance. "Two of them!" roared Hugh as the man disappeared. To his noblemen, he added, "Hunting is such thirsty business."

When Count Rexindo finished with the hounds, he turned and walked back to where Bishop Balthus stood, and the cleric saw the count slip his fingers back into the pouch at his belt, replacing the rag that had been liberally doused with herb oil, and with which he had smeared his palm-the same that had stroked the dog's nose and muzzle.

"Do you think it will work?" Tuck whispered as the grooms brought out the horses. "Or are we mad?"

"We can but pray. Still, if Gruffydd has followed your instruction," he said, "we have a chance at least-if he can endure the hunt." He motioned Alan to him and said, "You had best come with us today; we may need you. Tell the earl that Count Rexindo requires the aid of his servant and to bring a horse for you. Can you ride?"

"I can keep a saddle, my lord," he answered.

"Good man."

As Alan arranged for himself to accompany the hunt, a servant appeared with two saddle cups overflowing, and these were passed hand to hand around the ring of gathered hunters. The Ffreinc noblemen revived somewhat with the application of a little wine, and were soon showing themselves as keen as the earl to begin the day's amusement.

"Watch them," muttered Bran as he passed the cup to Tuck and Alan once more. "We have the measure of Hugh, but as for these-we don't know them and cannot tell how they will behave once we're on the trail. They may be trouble."

"I will keep my eye on them, never fear," Tuck told him.

The grooms brought the horses then, and to pass the time the hunters examined the tack and weapons. It had been decided that each would have two spears and a knife: ample weapons to bring down a defenceless prey. By the time the count's two young attendants returned from their errand, the earl was in a fever to begin the pursuit. Despite any lingering misgivings about losing a valuable captive, the idea of hunting a man had begun to work a spell in him, and like the hounds he cherished so much, waiting chafed him raw. At the earl's cry, the company took to their saddles and clattered from the yard. Earl Hugh sang out for Count Rexindo to ride with him-which, of course, Bran was only too happy to do-and they were off.

At first, Ifor and Brocmael and Tuck pretended to be as eager for the pursuit as those around them. They kept pace, staying only a little behind the earl, who was leading the chase; the Ffreinc noblemen thundered along behind-so close that Tuck could have sworn he could hear the bloodlust drumming in their veins.

They reached the head of the game run at the gallop and entered the long, leafy avenue in full flight. Rather than wait for the hound and handler to catch up, Earl Hugh proceeded headlong down the run with Count Rexindo right beside. After a few hundred yards or so, the count swerved to the right as if to begin searching that side of the run. Two of the Ffreinc noblemen went with him, and the rest followed the earl. However, no one turned up a trail, so the party slowed, eventually coming to a halt. There was nothing for it but to return to the head of the run and await the hound, which was not long in coming.

Nor was the animal slow in raising the scent of the fugitive. Only a few hundred paces into the run, the great grey beast gave out with a loud baying yelp and leapt ahead, straining at the leash-and the party was away once more. This time, they were led directly to the tree where Ifor and Brocmael had hidden Brocmael's spear a few days earlier, the hound bawling and barking all the way. Upon arrival, the hunters discovered a heap of filthy rags-the prisoner's ratty clothes, now cast aside.

The dog handler picked up the heap of rags and showed it to the earl, whose eyes narrowed. "He is smart, this one," he said with grudging appreciation. "But it will take more than that to throw one of my dogs off the scent." To the handler, he said, "Give him to mark."

The handler shoved the bundle against the dog's muzzle to renew the scent, and the hound began circling the tree to raise the trail. Once, and again, and then three more times-but each time the beast stopped in the place where the clothes had lain, confusing himself the more and frustrating his handler.

"We must raise another scent, my lord," reported the handler at last. "This trail is tainted."

"Tainted!" growled Hugh. "The man shed his clothes is all. Give the hound his head and he will yet raise the trail."

The handler loosed the hound from the leash and urged it to search a wider area around the tree. This time the dutiful hound came to stand before Count Rexindo, who gazed placidly down from his saddle as the dog bayed at him. "Lontano!" said the count, waving the dog away.

The handler pulled the animal off, but time and again, the fuddled dog ran between the heap of clothing on the ground and Count Rexindo on his horse. Finally, the handler picked up some of the rags and gave them a sniff himself. Then, approaching the earl, he handed up the rags. "There is some mischief here, Sire," he said. "As you will see."

The earl gave the scraps a sniff and straightened in the saddle. "What?" He sniffed again. "What is that?"

"Lavender, methinks," replied the handler. "Tainted, as I said."