Bran and Tuck dismounted and hurried to where the dark-haired young nobleman was waiting. "It is a footprint, no doubt," agreed Tuck when he saw it. "But is it our man? Or one of the Ffreinc handlers? That is the question, is it not?"

"Follow it," instructed Bran. "See if you can find out where it leads."

The trail was slight and difficult to follow, which made the going slow. Meanwhile, the sky flamed to sunrise in the east. By the time they had determined that the tracks they were finding did indeed belong to King Gruffydd, the sun was up and casting shadows across the many-stranded pathways of the wood.

"This is not good," observed Bran, gazing upwards at the cloud-swept heavens.

"My lord?" said Tuck, following his glance. "What do you see?"

"He's going the wrong way," Bran pointed out. "We're being led deeper into the wood and away from the town."

So they were. But there was nothing for it. They had to follow the trail wherever it led, and eventually arrived at a sizeable clearing on the south-facing slope of a hill, in the centre of which was a small house made of mud and wattles; brush and beech saplings and small elm trees were growing up around the hovel, and the grass was long. Clearly, the steading had been abandoned some few years ago-no doubt when the earl became its nearest neighbour. The surrounding wood was actively reclaiming the clearing and had long since begun to encroach on what once had been fine, well-drained fields. The grass still bore the faint trace of a path: someone had walked through the place not long ago.

At the edge of the clearing, the searchers paused to observe the house. "Do you think he's down there, my lord?" asked Ifor.

"He is," affirmed Bran, "or was. Let's find out." He lifted the reins and proceeded into the old field. The house was decrepit-two of the four walls were in slow, dissolving collapse-but the upright posts still stood strong, and stout crossbeams supported what was left of the roof. "Go and see," he told Ifor. "The rest of us will wait here so that we don't make more of a trail than is here already."

The young man hurried off, and the others watched his progress across the field until he disappeared around the far side of the house. They waited, and Ifor reappeared a moment later, signalling them to come on ahead. By the time the others reached the house, they found a very groggy King Gruffydd sitting on a stump outside the ruined doorway and Ifor sprawled on the ground clutching his head.

"I nearly did for your man, here," said Gruffydd, looking up as Bran, swiftly dismounting, came to stand over him. "He woke me up and I thought he was a Ffreinc come to take me back."

"You hit him?" said Tuck, kneeling beside the injured Ifor.

"Aye," admitted the king, "I did, and for that I am heartily sorry."

Tuck jostled the young man's shoulder. "Are you well, Ifor?"

Ifor groaned. "Well enough," he grunted between clenched teeth. "I think he broke my skull."

"I said I was sorry, lad," offered Gruffydd somewhat testily. "Have you brought anything to eat?"

"What are you doing here?" Bran asked. "We waited for you in the town. Why didn't you come?"

The grizzled king frowned as he watched Tuck gently probing the young man's head. "I got lost."

Bran stared at the man, unable to think of anything to say.

"It's eight years since I was beyond the walls of that vile place," Gruffydd explained. "I must have got muddled and turned around. And the air made me tired."

"The air," repeated Bran dully.

"I expect that's so," offered Tuck. "Considering his lordship hasn't been out of that cramped cell in a good long while, his endurance might have suffered in that time. It makes sense."

"I apologize, my lord," said Bran then. "It never occurred to me that your strength would be impaired."

"I'm not impaired, curse your lying tongue," growled the king. "I was just a little tired is all." He made to stand and tottered as he came to his feet. He swayed so much Tuck put out a hand to steady him, then thought better of it and pulled it away again. "Have you brought me a horse?"

"We had no time to get you one," Bran replied. "But it isn't far-you can share with one of us."

"I will not ride behind anyone!" the king asserted stiffly.

"You can have my horse, Sire," volunteered Brocmael. "Ifor and I will share. For all it's only back to town."

Bran nodded. "We best be on our way. I want to be as far from here as possible when Wolf Hugh realizes what has been done to him-if he hasn't guessed already."

Dismounting quickly, Brocmael gave over the reins of his horse and helped his king into the saddle; then he vaulted up behind Ifor and the party set off.

The fastest way to the town was along one of the hunting runs towards the castle. As the morning was still fresh, Bran decided the need for a speedy retreat outweighed the concern of being seen, so they made their way to the nearest hunting run and headed back the way they had come. They passed along the slightly undulating green-walled corridor, eyes searching the way ahead, alert to the barest hint of danger.

Even so, danger took them unawares. They had just rounded a blind bend, and as the leaf-bounded tunnel of the run came straight they saw, in the near distance, a hunting party riding towards them. Without a word, the four fugitives urged their mounts into the brake and were soon concealed in the heavier undergrowth amongst the trees. "Do you think they saw us?" asked Ifor, drawing up beside Bran.

"Impossible to say," replied Bran. Dismounting, he darted back toward the run. "Stay here, everyone, and keep the horses quiet."

"Do as he says," instructed Tuck, sliding from the saddle. He followed Bran, and found him crouched in the bracken, peering out from beneath low-hanging yew branches onto the run.

"Any sign of them?" he said, creeping up beside Bran.

"Not yet," whispered Bran, laying a finger to his lips.

In a moment, they heard the light jingling of the Ffreinc horses' tack and the faint thump of hooves on the soft earth as they came. Bran flattened himself to the ground, and Tuck likewise. They waited, holding their breath.

The first of the riders passed-one of the visiting Ffreinc noblemen who had ridden with them the previous day-scouting ahead of the others. At that moment, there was a rustling of brush behind them and King Gruffydd appeared.

"Is it him?" demanded Gruffydd. "Is it Wolf d'Avranches?"

"Shh!" Bran hissed. "Get down."

Just then the main body of hunters passed: four knights and Earl Hugh, riding easily in the early morning. "There he is!" said Gruffydd, starting up again.

"Quiet!" said Bran.

"That vile gut-bucket-I'll have him!" growled Gruffydd, charging out of the brake. Bran made a grab for the king, caught him by the leg and pulled. Gruffydd kicked out, shaking Bran off, and stumbled out onto the run. The riders were but a hundred paces down the run when the Welsh king appeared out on the open track behind them. He gave a shout, and one of the riders turned, saw him, and jerked hard on the reins. "Ici! Arret! " he cried, wheeling his horse.

"He's insane!" snarled Bran. Out from the wood he leaped, snagged the king by the neck of his cloak, and yanked him back under the bough of the yew tree.

"Release me!" shouted the king, wrestling in his grasp.

"You'll get us all killed!" growled Bran, dragging him farther into the wood.

"Let them come!" sneered Gruffydd, shrugging off Bran's hands. "I'm not afraid."

"Jesu forgive," said Tuck to himself. Stepping quickly behind the king, he tapped him on the shoulder. Gruffydd turned, and the friar brought the thick end of a stout stick down on the top of his head with a crack. The king staggered back a step, then lurched forward, hands grasping for the priest. Tuck gave him another smart tap, and the king's eyes fluttered back in his head and he fell to his knees.