He halted, thinking what to do.

There was no sign of the other Welshmen, so Bran resumed his walk down to the dock, picking up his speed as he went until, with a sudden furious rush, he closed on the group of men. He was on them before they knew he was there. Seizing the nearest soldier by the arm, he marched the surprised knight to the edge of the jetty and, with a mighty heave, vaulted him into the river. The body hit with a loud thwack, and the resulting splash showered the dock with water.

Bran dropped lightly down into a small fishing boat moored to the pier below and, seizing an oar from the oarlock, fended off the flailing knight. The soldier's companions stared in slack-jawed astonishment at this audacious attack. One of them dashed to the end of the dock and extended his hand to his comrade. Bran dropped the oar, grabbed the hand, and pulled for all he was worth. The knight gave out a whoop as he toppled over the edge and into the water as well.

The two remaining knights backed away from the edge of the dock and drew their swords. One of them raised the point of his blade to Tuck's throat, while the other waved his weapon impotently at Bran, who remained out of reach in the boat. Both were shouting in French and gesturing for the two Welshmen to surrender. "Tuck!" cried Bran, lofting the other oar. "Catch!"

Up came the oar. The friar snatched it from the air and, gathering his strength behind it, drove the blade into the soldier's chest, propelling him backward and over the edge of the dock to join his two companions in the water. The last knight standing swung towards Tuck, his blade a bright arc in the air.

Tuck was quicker than he knew. Sliding his hands along the shaft of the oar, he deftly spun it up into the man's face. The knight stumbled backwards, retreating step by step. Bran, meanwhile, scrambled back onto the dock. "Now, Tuck!"

Tuck drove forward with the oar, and the knight fell back a step, tripping over Bran's outstretched foot. The knight lurched awkwardly, trying to keep his feet under him. He swung the blade wildly at Tuck, who easily parried the stroke, knocking it wide. Another thrust with the oar sent the soldier sprawling onto his backside, and before he could recover, Bran had grabbed his legs, pulled them up over his head, and pitched the knight heels first off the dock and into the river.

Bran and Tuck paused to look at their handiwork: four soldiers thrashing in the water and crying for help. Owing to the weight of their padded jerkins and mail shirts, they were unable to clamber out of the river; it was all they could do to keep their heads above water. Their cries had begun to draw would-be rescuers to the waterfront.

"Where are Gruffydd and the others?" asked Bran.

"They're hiding across the way," Tuck said, waving vaguely behind him. "I told Alan to keep them out of sight until the ship was ready. It has only just arrived."

Bran glanced around. Two boys stood on deck, laughing at the spectacle played out on the dock. Their shipmates had gone ashore, leaving the youngest crew members to watch the vessel. "Go get them," ordered Bran. "Get everyone aboard the ship and cast off!"

"But the captain and crew are not here," replied Tuck. "They've gone up to the town."

"Just go," Bran urged, picking up the oar. "I'll keep the soldiers busy."

Tuck dashed away, returning as fast as his stubby legs allowed with Alan, Gruffydd, and the two young Welshmen trailing in his wake. They arrived on the dock to find Bran swinging the oar and shouting, keeping the water-logged Ffreinc in the water and the gathering crowd of onlookers at bay. Truth be told, Bran found preventing the rescue far easier than he imagined. Most of the townsfolk seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of the earl's thugs at such an embarrassing disadvantage. Several boys were throwing stones at the knights, who singed the air with curses and obscenities.

"Get aboard!" cried Bran. "Cast off!"

Tuck turned on the others. "You heard him! Get aboard and cast off."

While Ifor and Brocmael untied the mooring ropes, Alan picked up two long poles that were lying on the dock and tossed them onto the deck of the ship. The boat's two young guardians protested, but were powerless to prevent their vessel from being boarded. They stood by helplessly as Tuck and Gruffydd set the plank on the rail and climbed aboard. "Ready!" Tuck called.

"Push away!" shouted Bran, wielding the oar over his sputtering charges.

Using the poles, Alan and Brocmael began easing the cog away from the dock. As the ship floated free, Ifor grabbed the tiller and tried to steer the vessel into deeper water in the centre of the stream. The ship began to move. "Bran!" shouted Tuck. "Now!"

Bran gave a last thrust with the oar and threw it into the water. Then, with a running jump, he leapt from the dock onto the deck of the ship. He was no sooner aboard than a howling arose from the wharf; he turned to see the three hounds pacing along the edge of the dock and barking.

"Come!" called Bran, slapping the side of the vessel. "Come on, lads! Jump!"

The dogs needed no further encouragement. They put their heads down and ran for the ship, bounded across the widening gap, and fell onto the deck in a tangle of legs and tails. Bran laughed and dived in among them. They licked his hands and face, and he returned their affection, giving them each a chuck around the ears and telling them what good, brave dogs they were.

"You've stolen the earl's hounds," Brocmael said, amazed at Bran's audacity-considering the high price Wolf Hugh set on his prize animals.

"Hounds?" said Ifor. "We've stolen a whole ship entire!"

"The ship will be returned," Bran told them, still patting the nearest dog. "But the hounds we keep-they'll help us to remember our pleasant days hunting with the earl. Anyway, we've left him our horses-a fair enough trade, I reckon."

"Does anyone know how to sail a ship of this size?" wondered Alan.

"Maybe the lads there can help us," Tuck said, regarding the boys-who were thoroughly amazed at what had taken place and were enjoying it in spite of themselves. "Maybe they know how to sail it."

"We don't have to sail it," Bran countered. "We'll let the tideflow carry us downriver as far as the next settlement and try to pick up a pilot there. Until then, Ifor, you and your two young friends will man the tiller and see you keep us in the stream flow and off the bank. Can you do that?"

"I've seen it done," replied the young man.

"Then take us home," said Bran. Ifor called the two young crewmen to him and, with an assortment of signs and gestures, showed them what they were to do. Bran crossed to where Gruffydd was sitting against the side of the ship, knees up and his head resting on his arms.

"Are you well, my lord?" Bran said, squatting down beside him.

"My blasted head hurts," he complained. "Did you have to hit me so hard?"

"Perhaps not," Bran allowed. "But then, you did not give us much choice."

The king offered a grunt of derision and lowered his head once more. "You will feel better soon," Bran told him, rising once more. "And when we cross over into Wales you'll begin to see things in a better light."

Gruffydd made no reply, so Bran left him alone to nurse his aching head. Meanwhile, Tuck and Brocmael had begun searching the hold of the ship to see what it carried by way of provisions. "We have cheese, dried meat, and a little ale."

"We'll pick up more when we stop. Until then, fill the cups, Tuck! I feel a thirst coming on."