"Might be anywhere," the shepherd replied. His tanned, weather-beaten face cracked into a smile as he tapped his nose knowingly.
"Just what I was thinking," remarked Bran. "Even so, I'll wager that you know, and could tell me if you had a mind to."
"You'd win that wager, Brother, I do declare."
"And will you yet tell me?"
The shepherd became sly. "How much would you have wagered?"
"A penny."
"Then I'll be havin' o' that," the man replied.
Bran dug in his purse and brought out a silver coin. He held it up. "This for the benefit of your wide and extensive knowledge."
"Done!" cried the shepherd, delighted with his bargain. He snatched the coin from Bran's fingertips and said, "Aberffraw is on the Holy Isle, en't it. Just across the narrows there and hidden round t'other side o' the headland. You won't see it this side, for it is all hidden away neat-like."
Bran thanked the shepherd and wished him good fortune, but Tuck was not yet satisfied. "When was the last time you went to church, my friend?"
The shepherd scratched his grizzled jaw. "Well now, difficult to say, that."
"Difficult, no doubt, because it has been so long you don't remember," ventured Tuck.Without waiting for a reply, he said, "No matter. Kneel down and bow your head. Quickly now; I'll not spend all day at it."
The shamefaced shepherd complied readily enough, and Tuck said a prayer for him, blessed his flock, and rode on with the stern admonition for the herdsman to get himself to church next holy day without fail.
At Bangor, they stopped to rest and eat and gather what information they could about the state of affairs in the region. There was no tavern in the town, much less an inn, and Tuck was losing hope of finding a soothing libation when he glimpsed a clay jar hanging from a cord over the door of a house a few steps off the square. "There!" he cried, to his great relief, and made for the place, which turned out to be the house of a widowed alewife who served the little town a passing fair brew and simple fare. Tuck threw himself from his saddle and ducked inside, returning a moment later with generous bowls of bubbly brown ale in each hand and a round loaf of bread under his arm. "God is good," he said, passing a bowl to Bran. "Amen!"
The two travellers established themselves on the bench outside the door. Too early for the alewife's roast leg of lamb, they dulled their appetites with a few lumps of soft cheese fried in a pan with onions, into which they dipped their bread. While they ate and drank, they talked to some of the curious townsfolk who came along to greet the visitors-quickly informing them that they'd arrived at a bad time, owing to the overbearing presence of the Earl of Cestre, a Ffreinc nobleman by the name of Hugh d'Avranches.
"Wolf Hugh is a rough pile," said the ironsmith from the smithy across the square. He had seen the travellers ride in and had come to inquire if their horses needed shoeing or any tack needed mending.
"That he is," agreed his neighbour.
"You call him Wolf," observed Tuck. "How did he come by that?"
"You ever see a wolf that wasn't hungry?" said the smith. "Ravening beast like that'll devour everything in sight-same as the earl."
"He's a rough one, right enough," agreed his friend solemnly. "A rogue through and through."
"As you say," replied Bran. "Here's to hoping we don't meet up with him." He offered his bowl to the smith.
The smith nodded and raised the bowl. "Here's to hoping." He took a hearty draught and passed the bowl to his friend, who drained it.
When they had finished, Bran and Tuck made their way down to the small harbour below the town. A fair-sized stretch of timber and planking, the wharf was big enough to serve seagoing ships and boats plying the coastal waters between the mainland and Ynys Mon, known as Holy Island, just across the narrow channel. They found a boatman who agreed to ferry them and their horses to the island. It was no great distance, and they were soon on dry land and mounted again. They followed the rising path that led up behind the promontory, over the headland, and down to a very pleasant little valley on the other side: Aberffraw and, tucked into a fold between the encircling hills, the settlement of Celyn Garth.
Less a town than a large estate consisting of an enormous timber fortress and half a dozen houses-along with barns, cattle pens, granaries, and all surrounded by apple orchards and bean, turnip, and barley fields scraped from the ever-encroaching forest which blanketed the hills and headlands-it had become the royal seat of the northern Welsh and was, as the shepherd had suggested, perfectly suited to keeping out of the voracious earl's sight.
Bran and Tuck rode directly to the fortress and made themselves known to the short, thick-necked old man who appeared to serve the royal household as gateman and porter. With a voice like dry gravel, he invited them to enter the yard and asked them to wait while he informed his lord of their arrival.
Whatever life the kings of North Wales had known in earlier times, it was clear that it was much reduced now. As in England, the arrival of the Normans meant hardship and misery in draughts too great to swallow. The Cymry of the noble houses suffered along with the rest of the country, and Celyn Garth was proof of this. The yard was lumpy, rutted, and weedy; the roof of the king's hall sagged, its thatch ratty and mildewed; the gates and every other door on the nearly derelict outbuildings stood in need of hingeing and rehanging.
"I hope we find the king well," said Bran doubtfully.
"I hope we find him at his supper," said Tuck.
What they found was Llewelyn ap Owain, a swarthy, nimble Welshman who received them graciously and prevailed upon them to stay the night. But he was not the king.
"It's Gruffydd you're looking for, is it?" he said. "Aye, who else? It pains me, friend, to inform you that our king is a captive." Llewelyn explained over a hot supper of roast pork shanks and baked apples. They were seated at the hearth end of the near-empty hall. Their host sat at table with his guests, while his wife and daughters served the meal. "He's held prisoner by Earl Hugh, may God rot his teeth."
"Wolf Hugh?" asked Bran. "Is that the man?"
"Aye, Cousin, that's the fellow-Hugh d'Avranches, Earl of Cestre-devious as the devil, and cruel as Cain with a toothache. He's a miserable old spoiler, is our Hugh, with a heart full of torment for each and all he meets."
"How long has Gruffydd been captive?" wondered Tuck.
Llewelyn tapped his teeth as he reckoned the tally. "Must be eight years or more, I guess," he said. "Maybe nine already."
"Has anyone seen him since he was taken prisoner?" Tuck asked.
"Oh, aye," replied Llewelyn. "We send a priest most high holy days. The earl allows our Gruffydd to receive food and clothing and such since it whittles down the cost of keeping an expensive captive. We use those visits for what benefit we can get."
Bran nodded; he and Tuck shared a glance, and each could sense the sharp disappointment of the other. "Who's ruling in Gruffydd's place?" asked Bran, swallowing his frustration.
Llewelyn paused to consider.
It was a simple enough question, and Tuck wondered at their host's hesitation. "You must be looking at him, I reckon," Llewelyn confessed at last. "Although I make no claim myself, you understand." He spread his hands as if to express his innocence. "I merely keep the boards warm for Gruffydd, so to speak. I am loyal to my lord, while he lives, and would never usurp his authority."
"Which is why the Ffreinc keep him alive, no doubt," observed Bran. As long as Gruffydd drew breath, no one else could occupy his empty throne, much less gather his broken tribe.
"But people do come to me for counsel and guidance," Llewelyn offered, "and I see it my duty to oblige however I can."