"What is that?" asked Bran, regarding the animal doubtfully.
"My lord," the monk said, "it is the best we could find. Anyone with a seemly mount has sent it away, and the Ffreinc have already taken the rest." The monk regarded the horse wearily. "It may not be much, but trust me, it is this or nothing."
"Worse than nothing," Bran grumbled. Snatching the halter rope from the monk's hands, he clambered up onto the beast's bony back. "Tell the bishop I have gone. I will send word from Gwynedd." With that, he departed on his pathetic mount.
)Bran had never ridden a beast as slow and stumble-footed as the one he now sat atop. The creature plodded along in the dying moonlight, head down, nose almost touching the ground. Despite Bran's most ardent insistence, piteous begging, and harrowing threats, the animal refused to assume a pace swifter than a hoof-dragging amble.
Thus, night was all but spent by the time Bran came in sight of Caer Rhodl, the fortress of Merians father, King Cadwgan, rising up out of the mists of the morning that would be. Tethering the plough horse to a rowan bush in a gully beside the track, Bran ran the rest of the way on foot. He scaled the low wall at his customary place and dropped into the empty yard. The caer was silent. The watchmen, as usual, were asleep.
Quick and silent as a shadow, Bran darted across the dark expanse of yard to the far corner of the house. Merian's room was at the back, its single small window opening onto the kitchen herb garden. He crept along the side of the house until he came to her window and then, pressing his ear to the rough wooden shutter, paused to listen. Hearing nothing, he pulled on the shutter; it swung open easily, and he paused again. When nothing stirred inside, he whispered, "Merian…," and waited, then whispered again, slightly louder. "Merian! Be quick!"
This time his call was answered by the sound of a hushed footfall and the rustle of clothing. In a moment, Merian's face appeared in the window, pale in the dim light. "You should not have come," she said. "I won't let you in-not tonight."
"There was a battle," he told her. "My father has been killed-the entire warband with him. The Ffreinc have taken Elfael."
"Oh, Bran!" she gasped. "How did it happen?"
"They have a grant from King William. They are taking everything."
"But this is terrible," she said. "Are you hurt?"
"I was not in the battle," he said. "But they are searching for me."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm leaving for Gwynedd-now, at once. I have kinsmen there. But I need a horse."
"You want me to give you a horse?" Merian shook her head. "I cannot. I dare not. My father would scream the roof down."
"I will pay him," said Bran. "Or find a way to return it. Please, Merian."
"Is there not some other way?"
He raised a hand and squeezed her arm, "Please, Merian, you're the only one who can help me now." He gazed at her in the glowing light of a rising sun and, in spite of himself, felt his desire quicken. On a sudden inspiration, he said, "I love you, Merian. Come with me. We will go together, you and I-far away from all of this."
"Bran, think what you're saying!" She pulled free. "I cannot just run away, nor can you." Leaning forward as far as the small window would allow, she clutched at him. "Listen to me, Bran. You must go back. It is the people of Elfael who will need you now and in the days to come. You will be king. You must think of your people."
"The Ffreinc will kill me!" protested Bran.
"Shh!" she said, placing her fingertips to his lips. "Someone will hear you."
"I failed to pay the ransom," Bran explained, speaking more softly. "If I go back to Elfael empty-handed, they'll kill me-they mean to kill me anyway, I think. The only reason I'm still alive is because they want the money first."
"Come," she said, making up her mind. "We must go to my father. You must tell him what you have told me. He will know what to do."
"Your father hates me." Bran rejected the idea outright. "No. I am not going back. Elfael is lost. I have to get away now while I still have a chance." He raised a hand to stroke her cheek. "Come with me, Merian. We can be together."
"Bran, listen. Be reasonable. Let my father help you."
"Will he give twenty marks to free me?" Merian bit her lip doubtfully. "No?" sneered Bran. "I thought not. He'd sooner see my head on a pike."
"He will go with you and talk to them. He stands in good stead with Baron Neufmarche. The Ffreinc will listen to him. He will help you."
"I'm leaving, Merian." Bran backed away from the window. "It was a mistake to come here..
"Just wait there," she said and disappeared suddenly. She was back an instant later. "Here, take this," she said. Reaching out, she dropped a small leather bag into his hand. It chinked as he caught it. "It is not much," she said, "but it is all I have."
"I need a weapon," he said, tucking the bag away. "Can you get me a sword? Or a spear? Both would be best."
"Let me see." She darted away again and was gone longer this time. Bran waited. The sky brightened. The rising sun bathed his back with its warming rays. It would be daylight before he could start out, and that would mean finding a way north that avoided as much of Elfael as possible. He was pondering this when Merian returned to the window.
"I couldn't get a sword," she said, "but I found this. It belongs to my brother." She pushed the polished ash-wood shaft of a longbow out to him, followed by a sheaf of arrows.
Bran took the weapons, thanked her coolly, and stepped away from the window. "Farewell, Merian," he said, raising a hand in parting.
"Please don't go." Reaching out, she strained after him, brushing his fingertips with her own. "Think of your people, Bran," she said, her voice pleading. "They need you. How can you help them in Gwynedd?"
"I love you, Merian," he said, still backing away. "Remember me."
"Bran, no!" she called. "Wait!"
But he was already running for his life.
CHAPTER
12
)By the time Bran reached the stream separating the two cantrefs, the sun was burning through the mist that swathed the forest to the east and collected in the hollows of the lowlands. Astride his slow horse, he cursed his luck. He had considered simply taking a horse from Cadwgan's stable but could not think how to do so without waking one of the stable hands. And even if he had been able to achieve that, adding the wrath of Lord Cadwgan to his woes was not a prospect to be warmly embraced. The last thing he needed just now was an irate king's search party hot on his heels.
Despite his slow pace, he rode easily along the valley bottom through fields glistening with early morning dew. The crops were ripe, and soon the harvest season would be upon them. Long before the first scythe touched a barley stalk, however, Bran would be far away beyond the forest and mountain fastness to the north, enjoying the warmth and safety of a kinsman's hearth.
There were, Bran considered as he clopped along, two ways to Gwynedd through the Cymraic heartland. Elfael straddled both, and neither was very good.
The first and most direct way was straight across Elfael to Coed Cadw and then through dense woodland all the way to the mountains. They were not high mountains, but they were rough, broken crags of shattered stone, and difficult to cross-all the more so for a man alone and without adequate supplies. The second route was less direct; it meant skirting the southern border of Elfael and working patiently through the intricate interlacing of low hills and hidden valleys to the west before turning north along the coast.