Thinking of those two ne'er-do-well nobles made me that sorry for Thane Aelred who, like all right-thinking men of his kind, had thrown in his lot with Robert, the lawful heir to the throne. Alas, Robby Shortshift turned out to be unreliable as a weathercock, forever turning this way and that at the slightest breath of a favourable wind from each and any quarter. That poor numbskull never could make up his mind, and would never fully commit himself to any course, nor stay one once decided. He was a flighty sparrow, but imagined himself a gilded eagle. The shame of it is that he led so many good men to ruination.

Aye, the only time he really ever led.

Of course, Red William held tight to the throne he'd stolen from his brother, and used the confusion over the succession-confusion he himself caused, mind-to further strengthen his grip. After he seized the royal money mintery, he had himself crowned king, sat himself on the throne, and decreed that what was in truth little more than a family disagreement had actually been a rebellious uprising, and all those who supported sad brother Robert were made out to be dangerous traitors. Lands were seized, lives lost. Good men were banished and estates forfeited to the crown. Only a small handful of fortune-kissed aristos came away scapegrace clean.

Turning to the lady, I said, "Speaking of names, now that I've given mine…"

"This is Lady Merian," Bran said. "She is our…" He hesitated.

"Hostage," she put in quickly. The way she mouthed the word with such contempt, I could tell it was a sore point between them.

"Guest," Bran corrected lightly. "We are to endure the pleasure of her company for a little while longer, it seems."

"Ransom me," she said crisply, "or release me and your trial will be over, my lord."

He ignored the jibe. "Lady Merian is the daughter of King Cadwgan of Eiwas, the next cantref to the south."

"Bran keeps me against my will," she added, "and refuses to set a price for my release even though he knows my father would pay good silver, and God knows the people here could use it."

"We get by," replied Bran amiably.

"Forgive my curiosity," I said, plunging in, "but if her father is only over in the next cantref, why does he not send a host to take her back by force?" I lifted a hand to the patched-together little village we were entering just then. "I mean, it would not take much to overwhelm this stronghold, redoubtable as it is."

"My father doesn't know where I am," Merian informed me. "And anyway, it is all the baron's fault. I wouldn't be here if he had not tried to kill Bran."

"Is that Baron de Braose?" I asked.

"No." She shook her head, making her long curls bounce. "Baron Neufmarche-he is my father's overlord. Bran took me captive when the baron turned traitor against him."

"It is somewhat complicated," offered Bran with a rueful smile.

"No," contradicted Merian, "it is simplicity itself. All you need do is send a message to my father and the silver is yours."

"When the time is right, Merian, I will. Be sure of it. I will."

"That's what you always say," she snipped. To me she confided, "He always says that-it's been a year and more, and he's still saying it."

The way they talked a fella'd thought they were a married couple airing a grudge nursed through long seasons of living together. There was little hostility in it, and instead I sensed a certain restraint and even a sort of backwards respect. They'd had this discussion so often, I suppose, that the heat had gone out of it long ago and they were left with the familiar warmth of genuine affection.

"Forgive my asking, but why was the baron trying to kill you, my lord?"

"Because he wants Elfael," said Iwan, coming up behind me. "No Ffreinc usurper can ever sit secure on the throne while Bran is alive."

"Elfael is a good place to stand if you're trying to conquer all Cymru," Bran explained. "Elfael may be small, but it is a prize both de Braose and Neufmarche want to possess for their own. De Braose has it now, but that could change."

"Aye," said Iwan firmly, "it will and one day soon."

In this, I began to see the shape of the desperate necessity that had driven them into hiding. As in England, so in Wales. The Welsh now faced what Saxon England had suffered a generation ago. The difference was that now the Normans were far more numerous, far better supplied, and far more deeply entrenched in land and power than ever before. Restless, industrious, and determined as the day is long, the Norman overlords had stretched their long, greedy fingers into every nook and cranny of life in the Island of the Mighty. They are relentless, constantly searching out and seizing whatever they want and, often as not, destroying the rest. And now they had turned their attention to the hill-fast lands beyond the March.

I would not have given an empty egg for Wales' chances of surviving the onslaught. England in its strength, with its massed war host and bold King Harry leading the best warriors the land ever saw, could not resist the terrible Norman war machine. What hope in hell did proud little Wales ever have?

So now. Fool that I am, I had joined my fate to theirs, exchanging the freedom of the road and the life of a wandering odd-jobber for certain death in a fight we could never win.

Well, that's Will Scarlet for you-doomed beginning and end. Oh, but shed him no tears-he had himself a grand time between.

CHAPTER 7

Castle Truan

A little more than a year had passed since Baron William de Braose decreed that a market town would be built within the borders of his newly seized lands in Elfael. In that short time, the place had grown to respectable size. Already it was larger than Glascwm, the only other settlement worthy of a name in the region. True, the inhabitants had been moved in from the baron's other estates-some from Bramber and lands beyond the March and some from the baron's lands in France-for, unfortunately, the local Welsh shunned the place and refused to reside there. That, however, did not detract from the pride that Count Falkes felt in what he reckoned a considerable achievement by any measure: creating a town with a busy little market from a run-down, worthless monastery housing a few doughty old monks.

One day, thought Falkes as he surveyed the tidy market square, this town, his town, would rival Monmouth or perhaps even Hereford. One day, if he could just maintain order in the cantref and keep his uncle off his back. Baron de Braose might have many good qualities, but patience, like a lame hound, was lagging far to the rear of the pack.

Falkes was only too aware that his uncle chafed at what he considered his nephew's slow progress. In the baron's view, the conquest of Wales should have concluded long since. "It has been almost two years," he had said last time Falkes had visited him at Bramber.

It was at the first of summer that the baron had invited him, along with his cousin and closest friend, the baron's son, Philip, on a hunting foray in the south of England. The sunny, open countryside of his uncle's estate made a welcome change from grey, damp Wales. Falkes was enjoying the ride and basking in the warmth of a splendid summer day, if not in his uncle's good opinion.

"Two years!" said William de Braose as they paused beneath an elm tree to rest the horses. "Two years and what have we to show for it?"

"We have a town, Uncle," Falkes had pointed out. "A very fine town. And, if I may be so bold to suggest, it has not been two years, but only a little more than one since work began."

"A town."William de Braose turned a cold eye on his nephew. "A single town."

"And an abbey," added Falkes helpfully, casting Philip a sideways glance. "The new church is almost finished. Indeed, Abbot Hugo is hoping you will attend the consecration ceremony."