Mistaking the baron's pensive silence, Prince Garran said, "The king thinks her dead. And I suppose she is, or we would have had some word of her by now."
"There has been nothing? No demand for ransom? Nothing?" asked the baron. His own efforts to find her had been singularly unsuccessful.
"Not a word," confirmed Garran. "We always knew Bran for a rogue, but this makes no sense. If he only wanted money, he could have had it long since. My father would have met any demand-as well he knows." The young man shook his head. "I suppose my father is right; she must be dead. I only hope that Bran ap Brychan is maggot-food, too. "
Following Merian's kidnapping, the baron had sorrowfully informed Merian's family of the incident, laying the blame entirely at Bran's feet while failing to mention his own considerable part in the affair. All they knew was what the baron had told them at the time: that a man, thought to be Bran ap Brychan, had come riding into the camp, demanding to speak to the baron, who was in council with two of his English vassals. When the Welshman's demands were denied, he had grown violent and attacked the baron's knights, who fought him off. To avoid being killed, the cowardly rebel had seized the young woman and carried her away. The baron's men had given chase; there was a battle in which several of his knights lost their lives. In all likelihood, the fugitives had been wounded in the skirmish, but their fate was unknown, for they escaped into the hills, taking Lady Merian with them.
"Her loss has made my father sick at heart," Garran concluded gloomily. "I think he will not last the winter."
"Then," said the baron, a tone of genuine sympathy edging into his voice, "I suggest we begin making plans for your succession to your father's throne. Will there be any opposition, do you think?"
Garran shook his head. "There is no one else."
"Good," replied Neufmarche with satisfaction. "We must now look to the future of Eiwas and its people."
CHAPTER 14
Odo wants to know why I have never mentioned Noin before. "Some things are sacred," I tell him. "What kind of priest are you that you don't know this?"
"Sacred?" He blinks at me like a mole just popped from the ground and dazzled by a little daylight. "A sacred memory?"
"Noin is more than a memory, monk. She's a part of me forever."
"Is she dead, then?"
"I'll not be telling the likes of you," I say. I am peeved with him now, and he knows it. Noin may be a memory, but even so she is a splendid pearl and not to be tossed to any Ffreinc swine.
Odo pouts.
"I meant no disrespect," he says, rubbing his bald spot. "Neither to you, nor the lady. I just wanted to know."
"So you can run off and tell the blasted abbot?" I shake my head. "I may be crow food tomorrow, but I en't a dunce today."
My scribe does not understand this, and as I look at him it occurs to me that I don't rightly understand it, either. I protect her however I may, I suppose. "So now!" I slide down the rough stone wall and assume my place once more. "Where was I?"
"Returned to Cel Craidd," he says, dipping his pen reluctantly. "It is the night after the raid and it is snowing."
"Snowing, yes. It was snowing," I say, and we press on… It snowed all night, and most of the next day, clearing a little around sunset. Owing to Angharad's timely warning, we were well prepared and weathered the storm in comfort-sleeping, eating, taking our ease. To us, it was a holy day, a feast day; we celebrated our victory and rare good fortune.
Around midday, after we'd had a good warm sleep and a little something to break our fast, Lord Bran and those of us who had helped in the raid crowded into his hut to view the spoils. In amongst the bags of grain and beans, sides of smoked meat, casks of wine, and bundles of cloth that made up the greater part of the take, the Grellon had found two small chests. The heavier goods had been hidden in the wood not far from the road, to be retrieved later when the weather was better and the sheriff far away.
The wooden boxes, however, had been toted back to our snuggery. With a nod from Angharad, standing nearby to oversee the proceedings, Bran said, "Open them. Let's see what our generous baron has sent us."
Siarles, waiting with an axe in his hand, stepped forward and gave the oak chest a few solid chops. The lid splintered. A few more blows and the box lay open to reveal a quantity of small leather bags that were quickly untied and dumped on a skin beside the hearth around which we all stood. The bags were full of silver pennies, which was more or less to be expected.
"Again," said Bran, and Siarles wielded the axe once more and the second chest gave way. In it were more leather bags full of coins, but also three other items of interest: a pair of fine white leather calfskin gloves, richly embroidered on the back with holy crosses and other symbols in gold braid; a thick square of parchment, folded, bound with a blue cord, and sealed with wax; and, in its own calfskin bag, a massive gold ring.
"A fine bauble, that," said Siarles, holding up the ring. He handed it to Bran, who bounced it on his palm to judge the weight of gold before passing it on to Angharad.
"Very fine work," she observed, holding the ring to her squint. She passed it along, saying, "Much too grand for a mere count."
Indeed, the ring looked like something I imagined an emperor might wear. The flat central stone was engraved with a coat of arms such as might be used by kings or other notables for imprinting their seal on important documents. Around the carved stone was a double row of glittering rubies-tiny, but bright as bird's eyes, and each glowing like a small crimson sun.
"A most expensive trinket," replied Bran. Leaning close, he examined the engraving. "Whose arms, I wonder? Have you ever seen them, Iwan?"
The big man bent his head close and then shook it slowly. "Not English, I think. Probably belong to a Ffreinc nobleman-a baron, I'd say. Or a king."
"I doubt if anyone in all Britain has ever worn the like," said Siarles. "Where do you think de Braose got it?"
"And why send it here?" asked Iwan.
"These are questions that will require some thought," replied Angharad as Bran slipped the ring onto his finger. It was far too big, so he put it on his thumb, and even then it did not fit; so he took a bowstring, looped it through the ring, and tied it around his neck. "It will be safe enough there," he said, "until we find out more."
We counted up the silver, and it came to fifty marks-a splendid haul.
"The gloves might be worth twenty or thirty marks all by themselves," Merian pointed out. She had come in during the counting and stayed to see the result. Stroking the gauntlets against her cheek, she remarked that they were the sort of thing a high-placed cleric might wear on festal days.
"What about the ring?" wondered Iwan aloud. "What would that be worth?"
No one knew. Various sums were suggested-all of them fancies. We had no more idea how much that lump of gold and rubies might be worth than the king of Denmark's hunting hound. Some said it must be worth a castle, a cantref, maybe even a kingdom. Our ignorant speculation ran amok until Angharad silenced us, saying, "You would do better to ask why it is here."
"Why indeed," said Bran, his fingers caressing the bauble.
We fell silent gazing at the thing, as at a piece of the moon dropped from the sky. Why had it been sent to Elfael in the bottom of a supply wagon?
"Oh, aye," said Angharad, her voice cracking like dry twigs, "a treasure like this will bring swarms of searchers on its trail." She tapped it with a bony finger. "It might be as well to give it back."