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bishop sent his messengers away, saying, “Go now, and with all speed. Tell everyone you meet to spread the word— each to his neighbour. No one is to be overlooked.”
    The monks hurried off, deserting the monastery on the run. Bran watched them go, grave misgivings mounting by the moment. “Now then,” said Bishop Asaph, turning once more to Bran, “you must reach Lundein as quickly as possible. The sooner this error can be remedied, the less damage will result and the better for everyone. You must leave at once.”
    “This is madness,” Bran told him. “We’ll all be killed.”
    “It is the only way,” Ffreol asserted. “You must do it for the sake of Elfael and the throne.”
    Bran stared incredulously at the two churchmen. Every instinct told him to run, to fly.
    “I will go with you,” offered Ffreol. “Whatever I can do to aid you in this, trust it will be done.”
    “Good,” said the bishop, satisfied with this arrangement.
    “Now go, both of you, and may God lend you his own wisdom and the swiftness of very angels.”

CHAPTER 5
    R acing up the ramp, Bran flew through the gates of Caer Cadarn. He leapt from the saddle, shouting before his feet touched the ground. The disagreeable Maelgwnt drifted into the yard. “What now?” he asked. “Foundered another horse? Two in one day—what will your father say, I wonder?”
    “My father is dead,” Bran said, his tone lashing, “and all who rode with him, save Iwan.”
    The steward’s eyes narrowed as he tried to work out the likelihood of Bran’s wild assertion. “If that is a jest, it is a poor one—even for you.”
    “It is God’s own truth!” Bran snarled. Clutching the startled man by the arm, he turned him around and marched swiftly toward the king’s hall. “They were attacked by a Ffreinc warhost that is on its way here now,” he explained. “They will come here first. Take the strongbox and silver to the monastery —the servants, too. Leave no one behind. The marchogi will take the fortress and everything in it for their own.”
    “What about the livestock?” asked Maelgwnt.
    “To the monastery,” replied Bran, dashing for the door. “Use your head, man! Anything worth saving—take it to Llanelli. The monks will keep it safe for us.”
    He ran through the hall to the armoury beyond: a square, thick-walled room with long slits for windows. As he expected, the best weapons were gone; the warband had taken all but a few rusty, bent-bladed swords and some well-worn spears. He selected the most serviceable of these and then turned to the rack of longbows hanging on the far wall.
    For some reason—probably for decorum’s sake in Lundein—his father had left all the warbows behind. He picked one up, tried it, and slung it over his shoulder. He tucked a red-rusted sword into his belt, grabbed up a sheaf of arrows and several of the least blunt spears, and then raced to the stables. Dumping the weapons on the floor, Bran commanded Cefn to saddle another of the mares. “When you’re finished, bring it to the yard. Brother Ffreol is on his way here by foot; I want to leave the moment he arrives.”
    Cefn, wan and distraught, made no move to obey. “Is it true?”
    “The massacre?” Bran asked. “Yes, it’s true. Ffreol and I ride now to Lundein to see the Red King, swear allegiance, and secure the return of our lands. As soon as I leave, run and find Maelgwnt—do everything he says.We’re moving everything to the monastery. Never fear, you will be safe there. Understand?”
    Cefn nodded.
    “Good. Hurry now. There is not much time.”
    Bran returned to the kitchen to find the old cook comforting her young helpers. They were huddled beneath her ample arms like chicks beneath the wings of a hen, and she held them, patting their shoulders and stroking their heads.
    “Mairead, I need provisions,” Bran said, striding quickly into the room. “Brother Ffreol and I are riding to Lundein at once.”
    “Bran! Oh, Bran!” wailed