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 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