Then it was another prayer-this one for children aplenty to bless us and keep us in our old age-and we knelt together as Tuck placed a hand on each of our heads and proclaimed, "I present to you Master William Scatlocke and his wife, Noinina. All praise to our Lord and Kind Creator for his wise provision!"

Of the feast, I remember little. I am told it was very good, and I must have tasted some of it. But my appetite was elsewhere by then, and I could not wait until Noin and I could be together. We sat on the bench at the head of the board and received the good wishes of our friends. Merian, with Lord Bran in tow, came by twice to say how much she had longed for this day on our behalf. Iwan and Siarles came to give us an old poem that they knew, full of words with double meanings which soon had everyone screaming with laughter. The celebration was so light and full of joy that I clean forgot about my mangled fingers, and I cannot recall giving them a solitary thought all that fine and happy day.

When the moon rose and the fire was banked high, Angharad brought out her harp and began to sing. She sang a song unknown to me, as to most of us, I suppose, about a beautiful maiden who conceived a love for a man she had seen passing by her window one day. The young woman decided to follow the stranger, braving great hardship crossing mountain and moor in her quest to find him once more and declare her love for him. She persevered through many terrors and misfortunes and at last came into the valley where her love lived. He saw her approaching-her beautiful gown begrimed and bedraggled, her fine leather shoes worn through and wrapped in rags, her beautiful hair dull with dust from the road, her once-fair cheeks sunken with hunger, her slender fingers worn, her full lips chapped and bleeding-and ran to meet her. As she came near, however, she chanced to see her own reflection in a puddle in the road, and horrified at what she saw, she turned and ran away. The man pursued her and caught her, and knowing what she had endured to find him, his heart swelled with love for her. And in that moment, he saw her as she was, and the power of his love transformed her broken form into one even more beautiful than that which had been.

I confess, there might have been more, but I was only listening with half an ear, for I was gazing at my own lovely bride and wishing we could steal away to the birch bower in the wood. Bran must have guessed what was in my mind, for as the song concluded and the people called for another, he came up behind me and said, "Go now, both of you. Merian and I will take your places."

We did not need urging. That quick I was up and out of my seat and taking Noin by the hand. We flitted off into the wood, leaving Bran and Merian at the board. By the light of a summer moon, we made our way along the path to the bower, where candles were already lit and the mead in a jar warming by a small fire. Fleeces had been spread on a bed of fresh rushes. There was food beneath a cloth for us to break our fast in the morning. "Oh, Will!" said Noin, when she saw it, "It is lovely-just as I always hoped it would be."

"And so, my lady, are you," I told her, and, pulling her close, kissed her with the first of countless kisses we would share that night.

As for the rest, I need not say more. If you have ever loved anyone, then you will know full well. If not, then nothing I can say will enlighten you.

CHAPTER 44

Caer Rhodl

Even though he had known this day was coming, the news caught Baron Neufmarche off his guard. He had just returned from a short trip to Lundein and afterward gone to his chapel to observe Mass and to offer a prayer of thanks for his safe return and a season of gainful commerce. Father Gervais was officiating, and the old priest who usually mumbled through the service in a low, unintelligible drone, perked up when the lord of Hereford appeared in the doorway of the small, stone church tucked inside the castle wall.

Priest and worshipper acknowledged one another with a glance and a nod, as the baron slipped into the enclosed wooden stall which served his family during their observances in the chapel. The priest moved through the various sequences of the daily office, lifting his voice and lingering over the scripture passages so that the baron, whose Latin he knew to be limited, could follow more easily. He chanted with his eyes closed, saying, "Deus, qui omnipotentiam tuam parcendo maxime et miserando manifestas," his old voice straining after the notes that once came so easily.

At those long familiar strains, Bernard felt himself relax; the toil of his recent journey overtook him, and he slumped back on the bench and rested his head against the high back of the stall. He was soon asleep, and remained happily so until some inner prompting woke him at the beginning of the dismissal. Upon hearing the words "Dominus vobiscum," he roused himself and sat up.

Father Gervais was making the sign of the cross above the altar of the near-empty sanctuary. "Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus," he intoned, his deep voice loud in the small, stone chapel; and Neufmarche joined him in saying, "Amen."

The service concluded, the elderly priest stepped down from the low platform to greet the baron. "Dear Bernard," he said, extending his hands in welcome, "you have returned safely. I trust your journey was profitable?"

"It was, Father," answered the baron. He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. "Very profitable." The old man took his arm and the two walked out into the brilliant light of a glorious late-summer day. "And how are things with you, Father?" he said as they stepped into the shaded path between the castle rampart and the rising wall of the tower keep.

"About the same, my son. Oh, yes, well…" He paused a moment to collect his thoughts. "Ah, now then. But perhaps you haven't heard yet. I fear I may be the bearer of bad news, Bernard."

"Bad news, Father?" The baron had not heard anything on the road, nor in the town when he passed through. None of the household servants had hinted that anything was amiss; he had not seen Lady Agnes since his return, otherwise he would certainly have been informed. His wife delighted in ill tidings-the worse the better. He glanced at the old man beside him, but Father Gervais did not appear distraught in the least. "I have heard nothing."

"A rider arrived this morning from your foreign estates-what do you call them? Eye-ass?"

"Eiwas," the baron corrected gently. "It is a commot in Wales, Father, ruled by my client, Lord Cadwgan-a local nobleman enfeoffed to me."

"Ah, your liegeman, yes." The doddering priest nodded.

"The messenger, Father," prompted Neufmarche gently, "what did he say?"

"He said that the king has died," said the priest. "Would that be the same one, King Kad… Kadeuka… no, that can't be right."

"Cadwgan," corrected Neufmarche. "King Cadwgan is dead, you say?"

"I am sorry, Bernard, but yes. There is to be a funeral, and they are wanting to know if you would attend. I asked the fellow to wait for you, but we didn't know when you would return, so he went on his way."

"When is the funeral to be held?"

"Well." The priest smiled and patted his temple. "This old head may not work as swiftly as once it did, but I do not forget." He made a calculation, tapping his chin with his fingertips. "Two days from tomorrow, I believe. Yes, something like that."

"In three days!" exclaimed the baron.

"I think that's what he said, yes," agreed the priest affably. "Is it far, this Eye-as place?"

"Far enough," sighed the baron. He could reach Caer Rhodl in time for the funeral, but he would have to leave at once, with at least one night on the road. Having just spent six days travelling, the last thing he wanted was to sit another three days in the saddle.