When the owl called again, memory came flooding back in a confused rush of images: an enemy soldier writhing and moaning, his face a battered, bloody pulp; mailed soldiers swarming out of the shadows; the body of his friend Ffreol crumpled in the road, grasping at words as life fled through a slit in his throat; a blade glinting swift and sharp in the moonlight; Iwan, horse rearing, sword sweeping a wide, lethal arc as he galloped away; a Ffreinc helmet, greasy with blood, lifted high against a pale summer moon…
So it was true. Not all of it was a dream. He could still tell the difference. That was some small comfort at least. He told himself he had to keep his wits about him if he was to survive, and on that thought, he dosed his eyes and called upon Saint Michael to help him in his time of need.
The Ffreinc marchogi broke camp abruptly. Bran was tied to his own horse as the troops made directly for Caer Cadarn. The invaders moved slowly, burdened as they were with ox-drawn wagons full of weapons, tools, and provisions. Alongside the men-at-arms were others-smiths and builders. A few of the invaders had women and children with them. They were not raiders, Bran concluded, but armed settlers. They were coming to Elfael, and they meant to stay.
Once free of the forest, the long, slow cavalcade passed through an apparently empty land. No one worked the fields; no one was seen on the road or even around the few farms and settlements scattered amongst the distant hillsides. Bran took this to mean that the monks had been able to raise the alarm and spread the word; the people had fled to the monastery at Llanelli.
At their approach to the caer, the Ffreinc seneschal rode ahead to inform his lord of their arrival. By the time they started up the ramp, the gates were open. Everything in the caer appeared to be in good order-nothing out of place, no signs of destruction or pillage. It appeared as though the new residents had simply replaced the old, continuing the steady march of life in the caer without missing a step.
The marchogi threw Bran, still bound, into the tiny root cellar beneath the kitchen, and there he languished through the rest of the day. The cool, damp dark complemented his misery, and he embraced it, mourning his losses and cursing the infinite cruelty of fate. He cursed the Ffreinc, and cursed his father, too.
Why, oh why, had Rhi Brychan held out so long? If he had sworn fealty to Red William when peace was first offered-as Cadwgan, in the neighbouring cantref of Eiwas, and other British kings had long since done-then at least the throne of Elfael would still be free, and his father, the warband, and Brother Ffreol would still be alive. True, Elfael would be subject to the Ffreinc and much the poorer for it, but they would still have their land and their lives.
Why had Rhi Brychan refused the Conqueror's repeated offers of peace?
Stubbornness, Bran decided. Pure, mean, pigheaded stubbornness and spite.
Bran's mother had always been able to moderate her husband's harsher views, even as she lightened his darker moods. Queen Rhian had provided the levity and love that Bran remembered in his early years. With her death, that necessary balance and influence ceased, never to be replaced by another. At first, young Bran had done what he could to imitate his mother's engaging ways-to be the one to brighten the king's dour disposition. He learned riddles and songs and made up amusing stories to tell, but of course it was not the same. Without his queen, the king had grown increasingly severe. Always a demanding man, Brychan had become a bitter, exacting, dissatisfied tyrant, finding fault with everyone and everything. Nothing was ever good enough. Certainly, nothing Bran ever did was good enough. Young Bran, striving to please and yearning for the approving touch of a father's hand, only ever saw that hand raised in anger.
Thus, he learned at an early age that since he could never please his father, he might as well please himself. That is the course he had pursued ever since-much to his father's annoyance and eventual despair.
So now the king was dead. From the day the Conqueror seized the throne of the English overlords, Brychan had resisted. Having to suffer the English was bad enough; their centuries-long presence in Britain was, to him, still a fresh wound into which salt was rubbed almost daily. Brychan, like his Celtic fathers, reckoned time not in years or decades, but in whole generations. If he looked back to a time when Britain and the Britons were the sole masters of their island realm, he also looked forward to a day when the Cymry would be free again. Thus, when William, Duke of Normandie, settled his bulk on Harold's throne that fateful Christmas day, Rhi Brychan vowed he would die before swearing allegiance to any Ffreinc usurper.
At long last, thought Bran, that oft-repeated boast had been challenged-and the challenge made good. Brychan was dead, his warriors with him, and the pale high-handed foreigners ran rampant through the land.
How now, Father? Bran reflected bitterly. Is this what you hoped to achieve? The vile enemy sits on your throne, and your heir squats in the pit. Are you proud of your legacy?
It was not until the following morning that Bran was finally released and marched to his father's great hall. He was brought to stand before a slender young man, not much older than himself, who, despite the mild summer day, sat hunched by the hearth, warming his white hands at the flames as if it were the dead of winter.
Dressed in a spotless blue tunic and yellow mantle, the thin-faced fellow observed Bran's scuffed and battered appearance with a grimace of disgust. "You will answer me-if you can, Briton," said the young man. His Latin, though heavily accented, could at least be understood. "What is your name?"
The sight of the fair-haired interloper sitting in the chair Rhi Brychan used for a throne offended Bran in a way he would not have thought possible. When he failed to reply quickly enough, the young man who, apparently, was lord and leader of the invaders rose from his seat, drew back his arm, and gave Bran a sharp, backhanded slap across the mouth.
Hatred leapt up hot and quick. Bran swallowed it down with an effort. "I am called Gwrgi," he answered, taking the first name that came to mind.
"Where is your home?"
"Ty Gwyn," Bran lied. "In Brycheiniog."
"You are a nobleman, I think," decided the Norman lord. His downy beard and soft dark eyes gave him a look of mild innocencelike a lamb or a yearling calf.
"No," replied Bran, his denial firm. "I am not a nobleman."
"Yes," asserted his inquisitor, "I think you are." He reached out and took hold of Bran's sleeve, rubbing the cloth between his fingers as if to appraise its worth. "A prince, perhaps, or at least a knight."
"I am a merchant," Bran replied with dull insistence.
"I think," the Ffreinc lord concluded, "you are not." He gave his narrow head a decisive shake, making his curls bounce. "All noblemen claim to be commoners when captured. You would be foolish to do otherwise."
When Bran said nothing, the Norman drew back his hand and let fly again, catching Bran on the cheek, just below the eye. The heavy gold ring on the young man's finger tore the flesh; blood welled up and trickled down the side of his face. "I am not a nobleman," muttered Bran through clenched teeth. "I am a merchant."
"A pity," sniffed the young lord, turning away. "Noblemen we ransom-beggars, thieves, and spies we kill." He nodded to his attending soldiers. "Take him away."
"No! Wait!" shouted Bran. "Ransom! You want money? Silver? I can get it.
The Ffreinc lord spoke a word to his men. They halted, still holding Bran tightly between them. "How much?" inquired the young lord.
"A little," replied Bran. "Enough."
The Norman gathered his blue cloak around his shoulders and studied his captive for a moment. "I think you are lying, Welshman." The word was a slur in his mouth. "But no matter. We can always kill you later."