reclaim the caer and, under his rule, return the court of Elfael to something approaching its former glory.
Angharad had once asked him what it was he desired. He had suspected even then that there was more to the question than he knew. Now, suddenly, he beheld the shape of his deepest desire. More than anything in the world, he wanted the joy he had known as a child to reign in Elfael once more.
Angharad, standing at his side, felt the surge of emotion through him as a torrent through a dry streambed, and knew he had made up his mind at last. “Yes,” she whispered. “This night, whatever you desire will bend to your will. Choose well, my king.”
Raising his eyes, he saw the radiant disc of the moon as it cleared the sheltering trees, filling the forest hollow with a soft, spectral light. “My people, my Grellon,” Bran said, his voice breaking with emotion, “tonight we celebrate our victory over the Ffreinc. Tomorrow we reclaim our homeland.”
Mérian had determined to endure the baron’s council with grace and forbearance. Spared the greater evil of having to spend the summer in the baron’s castle in Hereford, she could afford to be charitable toward her enemies. Therefore, she vowed to utter no complaint and to maintain a respectful courtesy to one and all in what she had imagined would be a condition little better than captivity.
As the days went by, however, her energetic dislike for the Ffreinc began to flag; it was simply too difficult to maintain against the onslaught of courtesy and charm with which she was treated. Thus, to her own great amazement—and no little annoyance—she found herself actually enjoying the proceedings despite the fact that the one hope she had entertained for the council—that she might renew her acquaintance with Cécile and Thérese—was denied her: they were not in attendance.
Their brother, Roubert, cheerfully informed her that his sisters had been sent back to Normandie for the summer and would not return until autumn, or perhaps not even until next spring. “It is good for them to acquire some of the finer graces,” he confided, adopting a superior tone.
What these graces might be, he did not say, and Mérian did not ask, lest she prove herself a backward hill-country churl in need of those same finer graces. She welcomed Roubert’s company but felt awkward in his presence. Although he always appeared eager to see her, she sensed a natural haughtiness in him and a veiled disdain for all things foreign—which was nearly everything in fair Britain’s island realm, including herself.
Aside from Roubert, the only other person near her own age was the baron’s dour daughter, Sybil. Mérian and the young lady had been introduced on the first day by Neufmarché himself, with the implied directive that they should become friends. For her part, Mérian was willing enough—there was little to do anyway with the council in session most of the day—but so far had received scant encouragement from the young noblewoman.
Lady Sybil appeared worn down by the heat of the summer sun and the innate discomforts of camp. Her fine dark hair hung in limp hanks, and dark shadows gathered beneath her large brown eyes. She appeared so listless and unhappy that Mérian, at first annoyed by the young woman’s affected swanning, eventually came to pity her. The young Ffreinc noblewoman languished in the shade of a canopy erected outside the baron’s massive tent, cooling herself with a fan made of kidskin stretched over a willow frame.
“Mère de Dieu,” sighed the young woman wistfully when Mérian came to visit her one day, “I am not . . . um”—she paused, searching for a word she could not find—“accoutumé so much this heated air.” Mérian smiled at her broken English. “Yes,” she agreed sympathetically, “it is very hot.”
“It is always so, non?”
“Oh no,” Mérian quickly assured her. “It is not. Usually, the weather is fine. But this summer is different.” A cloud of bafflement passed over Lady Sybil’s face. “Hotter,” Mérian finished lamely.
The two gazed at each other across the ditch of language gaping between them.
“There you are!” They turned to see Baron Neufmarché striding toward them, flanked by two severe-looking knights dressed in the long, drab tunics and trousers of Saxon nobility. “My lords,” declared the baron in English, “have you ever seen two more beautiful ladies in all of England?”
“Never, sire,” replied the two noblemen in unison.
“It is pleasant to see you again, Lady Mérian,” said the baron. Smiling