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streams and brooks, it lay pleasantly between the high, bare stone crags of mountains to the north and east and the high moorland wastes to the south. Not the largest cantref beyond the Marches, in Bran’s estimation it tendered in charm what it lacked in size.
    In the near distance, the king’s fortress on its high mound, whitewashed walls gleaming in the sunlight, stood sentinel at the gateway to Elfael, which seemed to drowse in the heavy, honeyed light. So quiet, so peaceful—the likelihood of anything disturbing such a deep and luxurious serenity seemed impossibly remote, a mere cloud shadow passing over a sun-bright meadow, a little dimming of the light before the sun blazed forth again. Caer Cadarn had been his family’s home for eight generations, and he had never imagined anything could ever change that.
    Bran satisfied himself that all was calm—at least for the moment—then returned to his mount and swung into the saddle once more.
    “See anything?” asked Iwan. Hollow-eyed, his face was pale and dripping with sweat.
    “No Ffreinc,” Bran replied, “yet.”
    They started down into the valley at a trot. Bran did not stop at the hill fort but rode straight to Llanelli, the tiny monastery that occupied the heel of the valley and stood halfway between the fortress and Glascwm, the chief town of the neighbouring cantref—and the only settlement of any size in the entire region. Although merely an outpost of the larger abbey of Saint Dyfrig at Glascwm, the Llanelli monastery served the people of Elfael well. The monks, Bran had decided, not only would know best how to raise an alarm to warn the people, but also would be able to help Iwan.
    The gates of the monastery were open, so they rode through and halted in the bare-earth yard outside the little timber and mud-daubed church. “Brother Ffreol! Brother Ffreol!” Bran shouted; he leapt from the saddle and ran to the door of the church. A lone priest was kneeling before the altar. An elderly man, he turned as Bran burst in upon his prayers.
    “Lord Bran,” said the old man, rising shakily to his feet. “God be good to you.”
    “Where is Brother Ffreol?”
    “I am sure I cannot say,” replied the aging monk. “He might be anywhere. Why all this shouting?”
    Without reply, Bran seized the bell rope. The bell pealed wildly in response to his frantic pulling, and soon monks were hurrying to the church from every direction. First through the door was Brother Cefan, a local lad only slightly older than Bran himself. “Lord Bran, what is wrong?”
    “Where is Ffreol?” demanded Bran, still tugging on the bell rope. “I need him.”
    “He was in the scriptorium a short while ago,” replied the youth. “I don’t know where he is now.”
    “Find him!” ordered Bran. “Hurry!”
    The young brother darted back through the door, colliding with Bishop Asaph, a dour, humourless drone of advancing age and, as Bran had always considered, middling ability.
    “You there!” he shouted, striding into the church. “Stop that!
    You hear? Release that rope at once!”
    Bran dropped the rope and spun around.
    “Oh, it’s you, Bran,” said the bishop, his features arranging themselves in a frown of weary disapproval. “I might have guessed. What, pray, is the meaning of this spirited summons?”
    “No time to waste, bishop,” said Bran. Rushing up, he snatched the churchman by the sleeve of his robe and pulled him out of the church and into the yard, where twenty or so of the monastery’s inhabitants were quickly gathering.
    “Calm yourself,” said Bishop Asaph, shaking himself free of Bran’s grasp. “We’re all here, so explain this commotion if you can.”
    “The Ffreinc are coming,” said Bran. “Three hundred marchogi—they are on their way here now.” Pointing to the battlechief sitting slumped in the saddle, he said, “Iwan fought them, and he’s wounded. He needs help at once.”
    “Marchogi!” gasped the gathered monks, glancing