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fearfully at one another.
    “But why tell us ?” wondered the bishop. “Your father should be the one to—”
    “The king is dead,” Bran said. “They murdered him—and the rest of the warband with him. Everyone is dead. We have no protection.”
    “I do not understand,” sputtered the bishop. “What do you mean? Everyone?”
    Fear snaked through the gathered monks. “The warband dead! We are lost!”
    Brother Ffreol appeared, pushing his way through the crowd. “Bran, I saw you ride in. There is trouble. What has happened?”
    “The Ffreinc are coming!” he said, turning to meet the priest and pull him close. “Three hundred marchogi. They’re on their way to Elfael now.”
    “Will Rhi Brychan fight them?”
    “He already did,” said Bran. “There was a battle on the road. My father and his men have been killed. Iwan alone escaped to warn us. He is injured—here,” he said, moving to the wounded champion, “help me get him down.”
    Together with a few of the other brothers, they eased the warrior down from his horse and laid him on the ground. While Brother Galen, the monastery physician, began examining the wounds, Bran said, “We must raise the alarm. There is still time for everyone to flee.”
    “Leave that with me. I will see to it,” replied Ffreol. “You must ride to Caer Cadarn and gather everything you care to save. Go now—and may God go with you.”
    “Wait a moment,” said the bishop, raising his hand to stop them from hurrying off. Turning to Bran, he said, “Why would the Ffreinc come here? Your father has arranged to swear a treaty of peace with William the Red.”
    “And he was on his way to do just that!” snapped Bran, growing angry at the perfunctory insinuation that he was lying. “Am I the Red King’s counsellor now that I should be privy to a Ffreinc rogue’s thoughts?” He glared at the suspicious bishop.
    “Calm yourself, my son,” said Asaph stiffly. “There is no need to mock. I was only asking.”
    “They will arrive in force,” Bran said, climbing into the saddle once more. “I will save what I can from the caer and return here for Iwan.”
    “And then?” wondered Asaph.
    “We will flee while there is still time!”
    The bishop shook his head. “No, Bran. You must ride to Lundein instead. You must finish what your father intended.”
    “No,” replied Bran. “It is impossible. I cannot go to Lundein —and even if I did, the king would never listen to me.”
    “The king will listen,” the bishop insisted. “William is not unreasonable. You must talk to him. You must tell him what has happened and seek redress.”
    “Red William will not see me!”
    “Bran,” said Brother Ffreol. He came to stand at the young man’s stirrup and placed his hand on his leg as if to restrain him. “Bishop Asaph is right. You will be king now.William will certainly see you. And when he does, you must swear the treaty your father meant to undertake.”
    Bran opened his mouth to object, but Bishop Asaph stopped him, saying, “A grave mistake has been made, and the king must provide remedy. You must obtain justice for your people.”
    “Mistake!” cried Bran. “My father has been killed, and his warband slaughtered!”
    “Not by William,” the bishop pointed out. “When the king hears what has happened, he will punish the man who did this and make reparations.”
    Bran rejected the advice out of hand. The course they urged was childish and dangerous. Before he could begin to explain the utter folly of their plan, Asaph turned to the brothers who stood looking on and commanded them to take the alarm to the countryside and town. “The people are not to oppose the Ffreinc by force,” instructed the bishop sternly. “This is a holy decree, tell them. Enough blood has been shed already—and that needlessly. We must not give the enemy cause to attack. God willing, this occupation will be brief. But until it ends, we will all endure it as best we can.”
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