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the servants prepared a meal for all the entourage, the baron and baroness walked up to the top of the nearest hill to stretch their legs after riding in the carriage all day. In the distance they could see the dark, close-crowded hills of Wales, misty with the coming of night.
    “What do you see?” asked Agnes.
    The baron was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I see wealth and power and a throne to rival England’s.” His naked declaration embarrassed him a little; he could feel Agnes’s eyes on him, so he shrugged and added, “At least, it is closer now than it has ever been. The wedding will make a glorious beginning.”
    She returned his smile and took his hand. “That, mon amour , is exactly what I was thinking.”

CHAPTER 4
    I t was five days of anxious travel before Bran and the Grellon reached Coed Cadw. Footsore, weary, and disheartened beyond measure, they sought the safety of their forest keep. As they moved into the lush, green-shadowed solitude of the Guardian Wood, the heat of the day dropped away and they walked a little easier and lighter of step. There among the trees the weary, heartsick band began to heal the wounded memories of the last days—the betrayal of the Ffreinc king, the treachery of the Black Abbot, the fierce and bloody battle, and their anxious flight.
    Though they had escaped the battle without fatality—a few of the men suffered cuts and bruises, one a broken arm, and another a deep sword wound to the thigh—the carnage had exacted a toll that only became apparent in the days that followed. For most of the Grellon the panic and horror of that day was a plague that worked away on their souls, and they were infected with it.
    Thus, soul-sick and exhausted they crept back into the solace of the greenwood to heal the raw, inflamed wounds of their memories, arriving at Cél Craidd to the great relief of those who had been left to look after the settlement in their absence.
    The watchers had seen them on the road and hastened back to prepare a welcome: jars of cool water flavoured with elderflower blossoms and honey seed cakes to restore their strength. But the travellers were in no mood to rejoice, and their stark response to what should have been a glad homecoming soon dashed any notions of celebration. “Something is amiss, my lord,” observed Henwydd delicately; an older man, he had been given the care of Cél Craidd in Bran’s absence. “Forgive me if I speak in error, but the faces I see around me would be better suited to a funeral party, not a homecoming.”
    “How can it be otherwise?” said Bran, his voice thick with bitterness. “The black-hearted English king broke his promise. The realm belongs to the Ffreinc, and we are outlaws still.”
    “Sooner have milk from a stone,” grumbled Iwan, following Bran, “than get satisfaction from a Norman.”
    Angharad arranged her wrinkled face into a sad smile. She thanked Henwydd and the others for their thoughtfulness and accepted a drink from the welcome cup. Then, taking her leave of Bran and the others, she shuffled slowly to her hut.
    “Did Red William not redeem your throne?” asked another, pressing forward.
    “He did not,” answered Bran. “Count Falkes is banished to Normandie with his uncle the Baron de Braose, and Elfael is claimed by the king.”
    “Bloody Black Abbot Hugo and his gutless marshal, Gysburne, are placed over us for our care and protection, ” growled Siarles.
    “Then we won’t be going home,” said Henwydd.
    “No,” Bran replied. “We stay here—for now, at least.”
    “Are we to remain in the forest forever?” asked Teleri, another who had remained behind. An older woman, she had lost all she had to the Ffreinc when the count took her house for the new church. There were tears in her eyes as the meaning of Bran’s words broke upon her.
    Mérian had come to stand beside Bran; she reached out and put her arm around the woman’s shoulders to comfort her. “We have endured the