Instantly the rope slackened, and the man's feet touched ground once more. The wretch collapsed onto his knees, and his hands tore at the constricting leather band around his neck, his breath coming in great, grunting gasps.

When the colour had returned to the Welshman's face, the sheriff said, "Inform the prisoner that I will give him one more chance to live."

Antoin, standing over the gasping man, relayed the sheriff 's words. The unfortunate looked up, eyes full of hope, and grasped the bailiff 's leg as might a beggar beseeching a would-be benefactor.

"Tell him," continued de Glanville, "that I will let him go if he will but tell me where King Raven can be found."

The bailiff duly repeated the offer, whereupon the Welshman rose to his feet. Speaking slowly and with care, aware of the dire consequence of his reply, the hunter folded his hands in supplication to the sheriff and delivered himself of an impassioned speech.

"What did he say?" asked the sheriff when the hunter finished.

"I cannot be certain," began the bailiff, "but it seems that he is a poor man with hungry children-five in number. His wife is dead-no, ill, she is ill. He says his cattle were killed by soldiers of the marshal. They have nothing."

"That is no excuse," replied de Glanville. "Does he know that? Ask him."

The bailiff repeated the sheriff 's observation, and the Welshman retorted with an impassioned plea.

"He says," offered Antoin, "that they are starving. The loss of his cattle has driven him to take the deer. This, he grieves, ah, no, regrets-but always when hunger drove him to the wood, he could take a deer with his lord's blessing."

The sheriff considered this, and then said, "The law is the law. What about King Raven? Make him understand that he can walk free, and take the deer with him, if he tells me where to find that rebel and thief."

This was told to the prisoner, who replied in the same impassioned voice. The bailiff listened, then answered, "The poacher says, if it is a crime to be hungry, then a guilty man stands before you. But if there be a thing such as mercy under heaven, then he pleads to you before God to let him go for the sake of mercy. He calls upon Christ to be his witness, for he knows nothing of King Raven or where he might be found."

The sheriff listened to this, impressed as he occasionally was with the Welsh facility with expression. If talking could save them, they had nothing to fear. Alas, words were but empty things, devoid of power and all too easily broken, discarded, and forgotten. "I will ask one last time," said the sheriff. "Tell me what I want to know."

When the sheriff 's words had been translated, the captive Briton drew himself up full height and gave his answer, saying, "Release me, for the sake of Christ before whom we all must stand one day. But know this, if it lay in my power to know the wiles and ways of the creature you call King Raven, I would not spare so much as a breath to tell you."

"Then save your breath for dying," replied the sheriff when the captive's reply had been relayed. "Hang him!"

The three knights began hauling on the end of the rope. The Welshman's feet were soon kicking and his hands clawing at the noose once more. His strangled cries were swiftly choked off, and his face, now purple and swollen, glared his dying hatred for the sheriff and all Ffreinc invaders.

In a few moments, the victim's struggles ceased and his hands fell limp to his sides, first one and then the other. The sheriff leaned on the pommel of his saddle, watching the poacher's body as it swung, twisting gently from side to side. After a time, the bailiff said, "He is dead, Sire. What do you want us to do with the body?"

"Let it swing," said the sheriff. "It will be a warning to others of his kind."

With that, he turned his mount and started from the clearing, mildly satisfied with the day's work. True, he was no closer to finding King Raven, but hanging a poacher was always a good way to demonstrate his authority and power over the local serfs. A small thing, perhaps, as some would reckon, but it was, after all, in the exercise of vigilance and attention to such small details that power was maintained and multiplied.

Richard de Glanville, Sheriff of the March, knew very well the ways and uses of power. He would find the rebel known as King Raven one day, and on that day all Elfael would see how traitors to the crown were punished. Justice might be delayed, but it could not be escaped. King Raven would be caught, and his death would make that of the hanged poacher seem like a child's game. He would not merely punish the rebel, he would destroy him and snuff out his name forever. That, he considered, would be a delight to savour.

We rode hard for Glascwm and passed through the gates of Saint Dyfrig's as a wet winter storm closed over the valleys. Rain, stinging cold, spattered into the hard-packed yard as the monks scurried to pull the horses into the stable and bundle us soggy travellers into the refectory where they could spoon hot soup into us. They did not yet know who it was they entertained-not that it would have made a difference, I reckon, for the abbey yard was already full of local folk who, having fled the Ffreinc, sought sanctuary within the walls of the abbey.

Wet and wretched, battered and beaten down, they stood slump-shouldered in the rain before the low huts they had built in the yard, watching us with the mute, dull-eyed curiosity of cattle as we trotted through the gate. Forlorn and past caring, they huddled before their hovels, shivering as the rain puddled in the mud at their bare feet. The monks had made a fire in the middle of the yard to warm them, but the damp fuel ensured that it produced more smoke than heat. Most were thin, half-starved farmers by the look of them; and more than a few bore the signs of Norman justice: here a missing hand, or chopped-off foot, there an eye burned out by a red-hot poker.

Oh, the Ffreinc love lopping bits off the poor folk. They are tireless at it. And when a Norman noble cannot find good excuse to maim some unfortunate who wanders across his path… why, he'll concoct a reason out of spit and spider silk.

As soon as we dismounted, the ladies were taken to the guest lodge where they could dry their clothes, but the rest of us foreswore that comfort for a hot meal instead. The abbot, a stiff old stick with a face like a wild pig's rump, huffed and puffed when he saw our lord and his rough companions puddling up his dining hall. "Bran ap Brychan!" he cried, bursting into the long, low-beamed room. "They told me you were killed dead a year ago or more."

"I am as you see me, Father," replied Bran, standing to receive Abbot Daffyd's blessing. "I hope we find you well."

"Well enough. If the Ffreinc would leave off harrowing the valleys and driving decent folk from their homes, we would fare that much better. I hope you do not plan on staying-we are stretched tight as a drum head with caring for those we have already."

"We will not trouble you any longer than necessary," Bran assured him.

"Good." The old man did not waste words. His forthright manner made me smile. Here was a fella who would listen to reason, and give back the same. "I'm glad you're not dead. What are you doing here?"

"And here I was thinking you would never ask," replied Bran. Iwan and Siarles chuckled, but Bran silenced them with a stern glance. "A few days ago, a letter was brought to you by Bishop Asaph."

"That is so," answered the abbot, folding his hands over his chest. His frown suggested he suspected grave mischief, and he was not wrong. "What is that to you, my son-if I may be so bold?"

"Be as bold as you like," answered Bran. "Only tell me that you have that letter."