"And count it out loud so we can all hear," added Siarles.
"Help me," said the priest. "Put them into piles of twelve."
The two fell to arranging the silver coins into little heaps to represent a shilling, and then Brother Tuck began telling out the number, shilling by shilling. Siarles, using a bit of charred wood, kept a running tally on a hearthstone, announcing the reckoning every fourth or fifth stack, and calling out the total at each mark: one hundred… one hundred seventy-five… two hundred…
The women of Cel Craidd brought food-a haunch of roast meat from one of the slaughtered oxen and some fresh barley cakes made from the supplies intended for Abbot Hugo. Bran and the others ate while the counting continued.
After a while, they heard voices outside the hut. "Your flock grows curious," Angharad said. "They have been patient long enough. You should speak to them, Bran."
Rising, Bran stepped to the door and pushed aside the ox-hide covering. Stepping out into the soft night air, he saw the entire population of the settlement-forty-three souls in all ranged on the ground around the door of the hut. Wrapped in their cloaks, they were talking quietly amongst themselves. A fire had been lit and some of the children were running barefoot around it.
"We are still counting the money," he told them simply. "I will bring word when we have finished."
"It is taking a fair sweet time," suggested one of the men.
"There is a lot to count."
"God be praised," said another. "How much?"
"More than we hoped," replied Bran. "Your patience will be rewarded, never fear."
He returned to Angharad's hearth and the counting. "Three hundred fifty..," droned Siarles, making another mark on the stone, "… four hundred…"
"Four hundred marks!" gasped Iwan. "Why were they carrying so much money?"
"Something is happening that we have neither heard nor foreseen," Angharad replied, "and this is the proof."
Tuck, still counting, gave a cough to silence them. And the total continued to grow.
When the last silver penny had been accounted, the total stood at four hundred and fifty marks. Then, turning his attention to the leather bags in the last casket, the friar began to count out the gold coins to the value of ten marks each. The others looked on breathlessly as the friar arranged the golden byzants in neat little towers of ten.
When he finished, Tuck raised his head and, in a voice filled with quiet wonder, announced, "Seven hundred and fifty marks. That makes five hundred pounds sterling."
"Do I believe what I am hearing?" breathed Iwan, overwhelmed by the enormity of the plunder. "Five hundred pounds… " He turned his eyes to Bran and then to Angharad. "What have we done?"
"We have ransomed Elfael from the stinking Ffreinc," declared Bran. "Using their own money, too. Rough justice, that."
Turning on his heel, he moved to the door and stepped out to deliver the news to those waiting outside. Angharad went with him and, raising her hands, said, "Silence. Rhi Bran would speak."
When the murmuring died down, Bran said, "Through our efforts we have won five hundred pounds-more than enough to pay the redemption price Red William has set. We have redeemed our land!"
The sudden outcry of acclamation took Bran by surprise. Hearing the cheers and seeing the glad faces in the moonlight took him back to another place and time. For a moment, Bran was a child in the yard at Caer Cadarn, listening to the revelry of the warriors returning from a hunt. His mother was still alive, and as Queen of the Hunt, she led the women of the valley, singing and dancing in celebration of the hunters' success, her long, dark hair streaming loose as she spun and turned in the rising glow of a full moon.
Nothing could ever bring her back or replace the warmth he had known in the presence of that loving soul. But this he could do: he could reclaim the caer and, under his rule, return the court of Elfael to something approaching its former glory.
Angharad had once asked him what it was he desired. He had suspected even then that there was more to the question than he knew. Now, suddenly, he beheld the shape of his deepest desire. More than anything in the world, he wanted the joy he had known as a child to reign in Elfael once more.
Angharad, standing at his side, felt the surge of emotion through him as a torrent through a dry streambed, and knew he had made up his mind at last. "Yes," she whispered. "This night, whatever you desire will bend to your will. Choose well, my king."
Raising his eyes, he saw the radiant disc of the moon as it cleared the sheltering trees, filling the forest hollow with a soft, spectral light. "My people, my Grellon," Bran said, his voice breaking with emotion, "tonight we celebrate our victory over the Ffreinc. Tomorrow we reclaim our homeland."
Xerian had determined to endure the baron's council with grace and forbearance. Spared the greater evil of having to spend the summer in the baron's castle in Hereford, she could afford to be charitable toward her enemies. Therefore, she vowed to utter no complaint and to maintain a respectful courtesy to one and all in what she had imagined would be a condition little better than captivity.
As the days went by, however, her energetic dislike for the Ffreinc began to flag; it was simply too difficult to maintain against the onslaught of courtesy and charm with which she was treated. Thus, to her own great amazement-and no little annoyance-she found herself actually enjoying the proceedings despite the fact that the one hope she had entertained for the council-that she might renew her acquaintance with Cecile and Therese-was denied her: they were not in attendance.
Their brother, Roubert, cheerfully informed her that his sisters had been sent back to Normandie for the summer and would not return until autumn, or perhaps not even until next spring. "It is good for them to acquire some of the finer graces," he confided, adopting a superior tone.
What these graces might be, he did not say, and Merian did not ask, lest she prove herself a backward hill-country churl in need of those same finer graces. She welcomed Roubert's company but felt awkward in his presence. Although he always appeared eager to see her, she sensed a natural haughtiness in him and a veiled disdain for all things foreign-which was nearly everything in fair Britain's island realm, including herself.
Aside from Roubert, the only other person near her own age was the baron's dour daughter, Sybil. Merian and the young lady had been introduced on the first day by Neufmarche himself, with the implied directive that they should become friends. For her part, Merian was willing enough-there was little to do anyway with the council in session most of the day-but so far had received scant encouragement from the young noblewoman.
Lady Sybil appeared worn down by the heat of the summer sun and the innate discomforts of camp. Her fine dark hair hung in limp hanks, and dark shadows gathered beneath her large brown eyes. She appeared so listless and unhappy that Merian, at first annoyed by the young woman's affected swanning, eventually came to pity her. The young Ffreinc noblewoman languished in the shade of a canopy erected outside the baron's massive tent, cooling herself with a fan made of kidskin stretched over a willow frame.
"Mere de Dieu," sighed the young woman wistfully when Merian came to visit her one day, "I am not… um"-she paused, searching for a word she could not find-"accoutume so much this heated air."
Merian smiled at her broken English. "Yes," she agreed sympathetically, "it is very hot."
"It is always so, non?"
"Oh no," Merian quickly assured her. "It is not. Usually, the weather is fine. But this summer is different." A cloud of bafflement passed over Lady Sybil's face. "Hotter," Merian finished lamely.