Llewelyn was speechless, and all around the board stared in astonishment at the deception so skilfully executed under their very noses. They looked at one another in baffled bemusement. When Llewelyn finally recovered his tongue, he contrived to sound angry-though his tone fell short by a long throw. "How now, Cousin? What is this devilment?"
"Forgive me if I have caused offence," said Bran, finding his own true voice at last, "but I knew no better way to convince you all."
"Convince?" wondered Llewelyn. "And what, pray, are we to be convinced of, Cousin?"
Bran shrugged off the black robe, resumed his place at the board, and poured himself a cup of ale, saying, "That I will tell, and gladly." Smiling broadly, he raised his cup to the men around the board. "First, I would know these kinsmen of mine a little better."
"As soon said as done," replied Llewelyn, some of his former goodwill returning. Indicating the elder man sitting beside him, he said, "This is Hywel Hen, Bishop of Bangor, and the granduncle of young Brocmael beside him; Hywel was brother to your mother's father. Next is Cynwrig, from Aberffraw, and his son Ifor. Then we have Trahaern, Meurig, and Llygad from Ynys Mon. Meurig is married to your mother's younger cousin, Myfanwy."
"God with you all," said Bran. "I know your names, and I see my dear mother in your faces. I am pleased to meet you all."
"We've met before, my boy," said Hywel Hen, "though I don't expect you to remember. You were but a bare-bottomed infant in your mother's arms at the time. I well remember your mother, of course-and your father. Fares the king well, does he?"
"If it lay in my power to bring you greetings from Lord Brychan, trust that nothing would please me more," replied Bran. "But such would come to you from beyond the grave."
The others took this in silence.
"My father is dead," Bran continued, "and all his war band with him. Killed by the Ffreinc who have invaded our lands in Elfael."
"Then it is true," said Meurig. "We heard that the Ffreinc are moving into the southlands." He shook his head. "I am sorry to hear of King Brychan's death."
"As are we all," said Trahaern, whose dark hair rippled across his head like the waves of a well-ordered sea. "As are we all. But tell us, young Bran, why did you put on the robes of a priest just now?"
"I cannot think it was for amusement," offered Meurig. "But if it was, let me assure you that I am not amused."
"Nor I," said Cynwrig. "Your jest failed, my friend."
"In truth, my lords, it was no jest," replied Bran. "I wanted you to see how easily men defer to a priest's robe and welcome him that wears it."
"You said it was to convince us," Llewelyn reminded him.
"Indeed." Hands on the table, Bran leaned forward. "If I had come to you saying that I intended to fetch King Gruffydd from Earl Hugh's prison, what would you have said?"
"That you were softheaded," chuckled Trahaern. "Or howling mad."
"Our king is held behind locked doors in a great rock of a fortress guarded by Wolf Hugh's own war band," declared Llygad, a thickset man with the ruddy face of one who likes his ale as much as it likes him. "It cannot be done."
"Not by Bran ap Brychan, perhaps," granted Bran amiably. "But Father Dominic-who you have just seen and welcomed at this very table-has been known to prise open doors barred to all others."
He looked to Tuck for confirmation of this fact. "It is true," the friar avowed with a solemn shaking of his round head. "I have seen it with my own eyes, have I not?"
"Why should you want to see our Rhi Gruffydd freed from prison?" asked Hywel, fingering the gold bishop's cross upon his chest. "What is that to you?"
Despite the bluntness of the question, the others looked to Bran for an answer, and the success of King Raven's northern venture seemed to balance on a knife edge.
"What is it to me?" repeated Bran, his tone half-mocking. "In truth, it is everything to me. I came here to ask your king to raise his war band and return with me to help lead them in the fight. Unless, of course, you would care to take the throne in his absence…?" He regarded Hywel pointedly and then turned his gaze to the others around the board. No one volunteered to usurp the king's authority, prisoner though he was.
"I thought not," continued Bran. "It is true that I came here to ask your king to aid me in driving the Ffreinc from our homeland and freeing Elfael from the tyranny of their rule. But now that I know that my best hope lies rotting in a Ffreinc prison-for all he is my kinsman, too-I will not rest until I have freed him."
Bran's kinsmen stared at him in silence that was finally broken by Trahaern's sudden bark of laughter.
"You dream big," the dark Welshman laughed, slapping the table with the flat of his hand. "I like you."
The tension eased at once, and Tuck realized he had been holding his breath-nor was he the only one. The two younger Cymry, silent but watchful, sighed with relief and relaxed in their elders' pleasure.
"It will take more than a priest's robe to fetch Gruffydd from Wolf Hugh's prison," Meurig observed. "God knows, if that was all it took he'd be a free man long since."
The others nodded knowingly, and looked to Bran for his response.
"You have no idea," replied Bran, that slow, dangerous smile sliding across his scarred lips, "how much more there is to me than that."
CHAPTER 11
Caer Rhodl
The wedding was all Baroness Neufmarche hoped it would be, conducted in regal pomp and elegance by Father Gervais, who had performed the marriage ceremony for herself and the baron all those years ago. Lady Sybil-resplendent in a satin gown of eggshell blue, her long brown hair plaited with tiny white flowers-made a lovely bride. And King Garran, his broad shoulders swathed in a long-sleeved, grey tunic falling to the knees and a golden belt around his lean waist, looked every inch a king worthy of the name. It was to Agnes's mind a fine match; they made a handsome couple, and seemed unusually happy in one another's company. Garran's French was not good, though better than Sybil's Welsh, but neither seemed to care; they communicated with smiling glances and flitting touches of fingers and hands.
The final prayer caught Lady Agnes somewhat by surprise. When Sybil's attendants-several of the groom's young female cousins-stepped forward to hold the carr over the couple kneeling before Father Gervais, Agnes felt tears welling up in her eyes. The simple white square of cloth was the same one that had been stretched above her head the day she married the baron and which had swaddled the infant Sybil at her baptism. Now it sheltered her daughter on her wedding day, and would, please God, wrap Sybil's baby in turn. This potent reminder of the continuity of life and the rich depth of family and tradition touched the baroness's heart and moved her unexpectedly. She stifled a sob.
"My love," whispered the baron beside her, "are you well?"
Unable to speak, she simply nodded.
"Never mind," he said. "It is soon over."
No, she thought, it is only beginning. It all begins again.
After the service in the rush-strewn hall, the wedding feast began. Trestles and boards, tables, chairs, and benches filled the courtyard where a pit had been dug to roast a dozen each of spring lambs and suckling pigs; vats of ale sat upon stumps, and tuns of wine nestled in cradles; the aroma of baking bread mingled with that of the roasting meat in the warm, sun-washed air. As the newly wedded couple emerged from the hall, the musicians began to play. The bride and groom were led by their attendants in stately procession around the perimeter of the yard, walking slowly in opposite directions, pausing to distribute silver coins among the guests, who waved hazel branches at the royal pair.