The next day he did the same, and the next. He coaxed and cajoled until he grew hoarse, and then Friar Tuck took over, leading our footsore flock in songs. When we ran out of those, he started in on hymns, and little by little, all the urging and singing finally took hold. We walked easier and with lighter hearts. The miles fell behind us at a quicker pace until at last we reached the low, lumpy hills of the southlands.

Caer Wintan was a thriving market town, helped, no doubt, by the presence of the royal residence nearby. Not wishing to risk trouble, we skirted the town and did not draw attention to ourselves beyond sending Tuck and a few men to buy fresh provisions.

We arrived with a day to spare and camped within sight of the king's stronghold-an old English hunting lodge that had once belonged to an earl or duke, I suppose. It was the place where Red William spent those few days he was not racing here or there to shore up his sagging kingdom in one place or another. It reminded me of Aelred's manor, my old earl's house, but with two long wings enclosing a bare dirt yard in front of the black-and-white half-timbered hall. The only defence for the place was a wooden palisade with a porter's hut beside the timber gate.

With a day to spare, we spent it washing our clothes and bathing, ridding ourselves of the road and making ourselves ready to attend the king. At sunrise on the third day after Saint Michael's Day, we rose and broke fast; then, laundered and brushed, washed and combed, we walked to the king's house with Bran in the lead, followed by Angharad leaning on her staff and, beside her, Iwan, holding his bow and a sheaf of arrows at his belt. Siarles and Merian came next, and then the rest of us in a long double rank. I carried Nia and walked with Noin; as we passed through the gate, I felt her slip her hand into mine and give it a squeeze. "I am glad to be here today," she murmured. "I will remember it always."

"Me, too," I whispered. "It is a great day, this, and right worthy to be remembered."

We assembled in the king's yard, and Bran had just asked Brother Jago to inform the king's porter that we had come in answer to the king's summons as commanded and were awaiting his pleasure, when who should appear but Count Falkes de Braose and Abbot Hugo, accompanied by Marshal Guy de Gysburne and no fewer than fifteen knights. They swept in through the gates, heedless of our folk, who had to scatter to let them through.

One look at our straggled lot, and the Ffreinc drew their swords. Our own men set arrows on their strings and took a mark. We all stared at one another, eyes hard, faces grim, until Count Falkes broke the silence. "Bran ap Brychan," intoned the count in his high nasal voice, "Et tous vos compatriotes foule. Qu'une surprise desagreable!"

Brother Jago, taking his place at Bran's shoulder, whispered the count's greeting in our lord's ear. I needed no translation to know that he had insulted Bran by calling us all "filthy countrymen" and a "disagreeable surprise."

"Count Falkes, your arrival is as untimely as it is unwelcome," replied Bran lightly. "What are you doing here?"

"One could ask the same of you," countered Falkes. "I thought you were dead."

"I am as you see me," returned Bran. "But it would seem you still irk the earth with your presence. I asked why you have come."

Marshal Gysburne muttered an oath at this reply when Jago had delivered it, and several other knights spat at us. I saw a flicker of anger flit across the count's face, but his reply was restrained. "We are obeying the king's summons. I cannot think you are here by accident."

"We likewise have been summoned," returned Bran. "Therefore, let us resolve to hold the peace between us for at least as long as we must stand before the king."

With some reluctance, it seemed to me, Count Falkes agreed, although he really had no better choice. Starting a battle in the king's yard would have gained him little and cost him much. "Very well," he said at last. "We will keep the peace insofar as you keep your rabble subdued."

I could not tell how much the count knew about our Bran and his busy doings-very little, I guessed, for his remark about Bran having been killed seemed to signify that Falkes did not recognise Bran as Father Dominic, or as King Raven, either. I thought the whole contest would be over once he recognised me, though, but after bandying words with Bran, he feigned disinterest in us and turned his face away, as if we were beneath his regard. I suppose I appeared just a married man with a child in his arms and a wife by his side.

So now, an uneasy truce was established-but it was that thin, I can tell you, a single lance point or arrow tip could have pierced it anywhere along the line. We waited there in the yard, wary and watching one another. Noin, bless her, stood with her head high and shoulders straight, returning the glare of the marshal and his hard-eyed knights, and little Nia found a pile of pebbles to keep her busy, moving them from one place to another and singing to them all the while.

When it seemed that we must all snap under the strain, the great oak-and-iron door of the king's royal residence opened and out stepped the king's man, accompanied by two other household servants. "His Majesty the king has been informed of your arrival," he announced in good English. "He begs the boon of your patience and will give audience as soon as may be." Taking in the horde of Welshmen standing with Bran in the yard, he added, "It will not be possible for all of you to enter. The hall is not large enough. You must choose representatives to attend you; the rest will wait here."

When Jago had relayed these words to our lord, Bran replied, "With respect, as the king's judgement will serve all my people, we will hear it together. Perhaps the king will not mind delivering his decision to us here as we wait so patiently."

The fella made no answer, but simply bent his head, turned on his heel, and scuttled back inside. "All stand together," sneered Count Falkes. "How very Welsh." The word was a slur in his mouth.

"All hang together, too," observed Abbot Hugo. His eye fell on me just then, and recognition came to him. His ruddy face froze. "You there!" he shouted. "Hold up your hands."

"Don't do it, Will," warned Bran, glancing quickly over his shoulder. "He may suspect, but we need not feed his suspicion."

I stood my ground, silently returning his gaze, but I kept my hands well out of the Black Abbot's sight. It was then I saw Odo, sitting most uncomfortably on the back of a brown mare. He saw me, too, knew me, and-bless him-held his tongue. He would not betray me to his masters.

"I say!" cried the abbot, growing angry. "Order your man to show me his hands."

"As he is my man," said Bran, "he is mine to command. I will make no such demand."

"By the Virgin, it is him," insisted the abbot.

"What are you talking about?" wondered Count Falkes.

"The prisoner!" cried Hugo, jabbing his finger at me. "Scatlocke-the one they called Scarlet. That is him, I tell you!"

Count Falkes turned his gaze my way and studied me for a moment. "No," he decided. "That is not the man." No doubt my haircut and shave, and change of clothes and fleshing out a little on my wife's good cooking, had changed me enough to make them just that little uncertain.

"It is him," put in Gysburne. He looked at Bran and concluded, "And the last time we saw that one, he gave his name as Father Dominic. I would swear to it." He gazed at the rest of us, his eyes passing back and forth along the ranks. "By the rood, they're all here!" He pointed at Iwan. "I know I've seen that one before. I know it."

"You are imagining things," remarked the count. "They all look alike anyway, these Welsh."

"Say nothing," advised Angharad, speaking mostly to Bran, but to the rest of us as well. "Let them think what they will-it no longer matters what they say. Let them rail. We will not stoop to satisfy their accusations."