"The council has decided…," I said, hearing my voice as from the bottom of a well. "We have come to a decision."

Noin's smile faded; she grew sombre. "Well, what is it,Will? Speak it out."

I bent my head. "I have to leave again."

"Is that all?" She fairly shouted with relief. "Mother Mary, I was afraid it was serious."

"I thought you would be unhappy."

"Oh, I am right enough," she replied, balling her fist on her hip. "But I would be more unhappy if I thought you had changed your mind about marrying."

"But I do want to marry you, Noin. I do."

"Then all is well between us." She turned as if to go back to her work, but paused. "When do you go?"

"As soon as all can be made ready," I said.

"Go, then and help them see it through. We will fare as best we can while you are away," she said, lifting a hand to my face, "and count the days until your return."

"I will bring our friar back with me if I have to carry him on my back, and we will be wed the day I return." This I told her, kissing the palm of her hand. We talked about our wedding day and the plans I had to build her a new house on my return-with a big bed, a table, and two chairs.

So it was, the five of us were set to leave the next morning: Friar Tuck and myself; Bran, of course; Iwan, because we could use another pair of hands and eyes on the road; Merian because the plan was her idea entire, and she would in no wise stay behind in any event.

However, this notion was not without difficulties of its own and, though I was loath to do it, the chore fell to me to point this out. "Forgive me, my lord, if I speak above myself," I began, "but is it wise for a hostage-begging your pardon, my lady-to… well, to be allowed to enter into affairs of such delicacy?"

"You doubt my loyalty?" challenged Merian, dark eyes all akindle with quick anger. "I thought I knew you better, William Scatlocke."

"I do heartily beg your pardon, Lady," I said, raising my hands as if to fend off blows of her fists. "I only meant-"

"Here's the pot calling the kettle black!" she fumed. "That is rich indeed, my friend!"

Siarles smiled to see me handed my head so skilfully. But Bran waded into the clash. "Merian, peace. Will is right."

"Right!" she snapped. "He is a fool, and so are you if you believe for even one heartbeat that I would ever do anything to endanger-"

"Peace, woman!" Bran said, shouting down her objection. "If you would listen for a moment, you would consider that Will has raised a fair point."

"It is not," she sniffed. "It is silly and insulting-I don't know which the more."

"No, it is neither." Bran shook his head. "It goes to the heart of things between us. The time has come for you to decide, Merian Fair."

"Decide what?" she asked, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"Are you a hostage, or are you one of us?"

She frowned. "You tell me, Bran ap Brychan. What am I to you?"

"You know that right well. I would call you queen if you would but hear it."

Her frown deepened, and a crease appeared between her brows. She was caught on the thorns this time, no mistake-and she knew it. "See here!" she snapped. "Do not think to make this about that."

"Say what you will, my lady. It comes 'round to the same place in the end-either you stand with us, join us in heart and spirit or…"

"Or?" she replied, haughty in her indignation. "Or what will you do?"

"Or you must stay here like a good little hostage," Bran replied, "while we enact your plan."

"That I will not do," she snipped.

"Then?"

Those of us who stood 'round about found other places to look just then, so as not to be drawn into what had become the latest clash in a royal battle of tempers and wills.

Merian glared at Bran. She did not like having her loyalty questioned, but even she could see the problem now.

"What will you do?" Bran pressed. "We are waiting."

"Oh, very well!" she fumed, giving in. "I will forswear my captivity and pledge fealty to you, Bran ap Brychan-but I'll not marry you." She smiled with sour sweetness at the rest of us. "There! Are we all happy now?"

"I accept your pledge," replied Bran, "and release you from your captivity."

"Then I can go with you?" inquired Merian, just to make sure.

"My lady, you are a free woman," granted Bran gently, and I could see how much the words cost him. "You can go with us, or you can simply go. Should you choose to stay, you will be in danger-as you already know."

"I am not afraid," she declared. "It is my plan, remember, and I will not have any clod-footed men mucking it up."

She was not finished yet, for as we gathered to depart, Merian spied a woman named Cinnia, a slender, dark-eyed young widow a few years older than herself, Merian's favourite amongst the forest dwellers-another of the Norman-widowed brides of which there were so many. My lady asked Cinnia to join us. She would serve as a companion for Merian, who explained, "A woman of rank would never travel alone in the company of men. The Ffreinc understand this. Cinnia will be my handmaid."

We loaded our supplies and weapons-longbows and sheaves of arrows rolled in deer hides-onto two packhorses. When we were at last ready to depart, Tuck said a prayer for the success of our journey, although he could have no idea what he was praying. Thus blessed, we took our leave. Angharad was still gone, so Tomas and Rhoddi were charged with keeping watch over Cel Craidd and Elfael while Lord Bran was away, and to reach us with a warning if the sheriff got up to anything nasty.

Thus, on a splendid winter's day, we rode out to beard the sleeping lion in his den. What is that, Odo? I have not told what we planned to do?" My weak-eyed scribe thinks I have skipped too lightly over this important detail. "All in good time," I tell him. "Patience is also a virtue, impetuous monk. You should try it."

He moans and sighs, rolls his eyes and dips his pen, and we go on…

Coed Cadw

Richard de Glanville watched the forest rising before him like the rampart of a vast green fortress, the colours muted and misty in the pale winter light. Just ahead lay the stream that ran along the valley floor at the foot of the rise leading to the forest. He raised his hand and summoned the man riding behind him to his side. "We will stop to water the horses, Bailiff," he said. "Tell the men to remain alert."

"Of course," replied the bailiff in a voice that suggested he had heard the command a thousand times and it did not bear repeating.

The man's tone of dry irritation piqued his superior's attention. "Tell me, Antoin," said the sheriff, "do you think we will catch the phantom today?"

"No, Sheriff," replied the bailiff. "I do not think it likely."

"Then why did you come on this sortie?"

"I came because I was ordered thus, my lord."

"But of course," allowed Sheriff de Glanville. "Even so, you think it a fool's errand. Is that so?"

"I did not say that," replied the soldier. He was used to the sheriff 's dark and unpredictable moods, and rightly cautious of them. "I say merely that the Forest of the March is a very big place. I expect the phantom has moved on."

The sheriff considered this suggestion. "There is no phantom, Bailiff. There are only a devil's clutch of Welsh rebels."

"However that may be," replied Antoin blandly, "I have no doubt your persistence and vigilance has driven them away."

De Glanville regarded his bailiff with benign disdain. "As always, Antoin, your insights are invaluable."

"King Raven will be caught one day, God willing."

"But not today-is that what you think?"

"No, Sheriff, not today," confessed the soldier. "Still, it is a good day for a ride in the greenwood."