Crossing the threshold, Bran paused to take in the tumult, collected himself, and then waded into the maelstrom. Here Bran's special genius was revealed, for he strode into the great, loud room with the look of a man for whom all that passed beneath his gaze in this riotous place was but dreary commonplace. His arrival did not go unnoticed, and when he judged he had gathered enough attention, he paused, his dark eyes scanning the ungainly crowd, as if to discern which of the roisterers before him might be the earl.
"By Peter's beard," muttered Tuck, unable to believe that anyone entering the castle could experience so much as a fleeting doubt about which of the men at table was Fat Hugh. Only look for the biggest, loudest, most slovenly and uncouth brigand in the place, he thought, and that's the man. And yet… here's our Bran, standing straight and tall and searching each and every as if he could not see what was plain before his nose. Oh, this shows a bit of sass, does it not?
What is more, Tuck could tell from the curious look on the earl's face that Hugh was more than a little taken aback at the tall dark figure standing before him. For there he was, a very king in his own kingdom, the infamous Wolf d'Avranches renowned and feared throughout his realm, and who was this that did not know him? And here was Bran without so much as a word or gesture, taking the overbearing lord down a peg or two, showing him that he was nothing more than a wobble-jowled ruffian who could not be distinguished from one of his own stablehands.
Oh, our canny King Raven is that shrewd, Tuck considered, a little courage seeping back into his own step. He glanced at Ifor and Brocmael and saw from the frozen expressions on their faces that the two Cymry, appalled by what they saw, were nevertheless struggling to maintain any semblance of calm and dignified detachment. "Steady on, lads," Tuck whispered.
Alan a'Dale, however, seemed at ease, comfortable even, walking easily beside Tuck, smiling even. At the friar's wondering glance, he said, "Been here before, ye ken."
"Often?"
"Once or twice. I sing here of a time."
"You sing, Alan?"
"Oh, aye."
Bran silenced them with a look and turned to address the onlooking crowd. "Qua est vir?" Bran announced in that curious broken Latin that passed for Spanish among folk who knew no better. "Qua est ut accersitus Senor Hugh?"
The seneschal, not understanding him, looked to Alan for explanation. He conferred with Tuck, then replied, "My lord wishes to know where is he that is called Earl Hugh?"
"But he is there," answered the chief servant as if that should be every whit as obvious as it was. He indicated the high table where, surrounded by perhaps six or eight ladies of the sort already glimpsed in the courtyard, sat a huge man with a broad, flat face and hanging dewlaps like a barnyard boar. Swathed in pale sea-green satin so well filled one could see the wavelike ripples of flesh beneath the tight-stretched fabric, he occupied the full breadth of a thronelike chair which was draped in red satin lined with ermine. Dull brown hair hung in long, ropy curls around his head, and a lumpy, misshapen wart besmirched one cheek. He held a drinking horn half raised, his wide, full-lipped mouth agape as he stared at the strange visitors with small, inquisitive eyes.
"I present my Lord Hugh d'Avranches," proclaimed the seneschal, his voice striving above the commotion of the great room.
Alan passed this along to Bran, who made a sour face as if he suddenly smelled something foul. "Et? Et?" he said. That?
Even the seneschal understood him then. "Of course," he said, stiffly. "Who else?"
Without another word, Bran approached the table where the earl sat drinking with his women. A strained silence fell at his approach as attention turned to the newcomers. Bran inclined his head in the slightest of bows and waved both Tuck and Alan to his side. "Adveho, sto hic. Dico lo quis ego detto," he said grandly, and Tuck relayed his words to Alan, who offered: "His estimable lord Count Rexindo greets you in the name of his father, Ranemiro, Duke of Navarre, who wishes you well."
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the earl, his astonishment manifest.
Bran, looking every inch a Spanish nobleman, made another slight bow and spoke again. When he finished, he nodded at Tuck, who said, speaking through Alan, "Count Rexindo wants you to know that word of your fame has reached him in his travels, and he requests the honour of a private audience with you."
"Duke of Navarre, eh?" said Earl Hugh. "Never heard of him. Where is that?"
"It is a province in Spain, my lord," explained Alan politely.
"The duke is brother to King Carlos, who is-"
"I know who King Carlos is, by the rood," interrupted the earl."Heard of him." He passed an appraising eye over the tall man before him, then at his companions, evidently finding them acceptable. "Nephew of the king of Spain, eh? However did you find your way to a godforsaken wilderness like this?"
Tuck and Count Rexindo conferred, whereupon Alan replied, "The count has been visiting the royal court, and heard about the hunting here in the north."
"Eh? Hunting?" grunted the earl. He seemed to remember that he held a cup in his hand and finished raising it to his mouth. He guzzled down a long draught, then wiped his lips on the sleeve of his green satin shirt.
As if this was the signal the room had been awaiting, the hall lurched into boisterous life once more. The earl slapped his hand on the board before him, rattling the empty jars. "Here! Clear him a place." He began shoving his cups and companions aside to make room for his new guests. "Sit! All of you! We'll share a drink-you and your men-and you can tell me about this hunting, eh?"
By Saint Mewan's toe, thought Tuck, he's done it! Our Bran has done it!
Earl Hugh filled some empty cups from a jar and sent one of the women to fetch bread and meat for his new guests. Turning to regard his visitors from across the table, he observed, "Spaniard, eh? You're a long way from home."
Bran gazed placidly back at him as Alan, translating Tuck's hurried whispers, relayed his words.
"That is so, may it please God," replied Count Rexindo. Even speaking through two interpreters his highborn courtesy was clear to see. "We have heard that the hunting in England is considered the best in the world. This, I had to see for myself." He smiled and spread his hands. "So, here I am."
The count drank from his cup while his words were translated for the earl, smiling, looking for all the world like a man at utter ease with himself and his fellows. The women at the board seemed to find his dark looks attractive; they vied for his notice with winks and none-too-subtle smiles. When Alan finished, Count Rexindo indicated his companions and conferred with his interpreter, who said, "Pray allow me to introduce the count's companions. I present to you Father Balthus, Bishop of Pamplona," he said, and Tuck dipped his head in modest acknowledgement. "Also, I give you Lord Galindo of Tolosa"-and here he indicated Ifor-"and next to him is Lord Ramiero of Petilla." Brocmael, solemn as the tomb, inclined his head. "They are favourites among the count's many cousins."