into her eyes, he grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. Turning quickly, he kissed his daughter on the forehead and rested his hand on her shoulder. “I see you are finding pleasure in one another’s company at last.”
“We are trying,” Mérian said. She offered Sybil a hopeful smile. Clearly, the young woman had no idea what her father was saying.
“I hope that when the council is over, you still plan to attend us in Hereford,” the baron said.
“Well, I . . . ,” Mérian faltered, unable to untangle her mixed emotions so quickly. After all, when originally mooted, the proposition had been greeted with such hostility on her part that now she hardly knew what she felt about the idea.
Neufmarché smiled and waved aside any excuse she might make. “We would make you most welcome, to be sure.” He stroked his daughter’s hair. “In fact, now that you know each other better, perhaps you might accompany Sybil to our estates in Normandie when she returns this autumn. It could be easily arranged.”
Uncertain what to say, Mérian bit her lip.
“Come, my lady,” coaxed the baron. He saw her hesitancy and offered her a subtle reminder of her place, “We have already made arrangements, and your father has consented.”
“I would be honoured, sire,” she said, “seeing my father has consented.”
“Good!” He smiled again and offered Mérian a little bow of courtesy. “You have made my daughter very happy.”
A third soldier came rushing up just then, and the baron excused himself and turned to greet the newcomer. “Ah, de Lacy! You have word?”
“Oui, mon baron de seigneur,” blurted the man, red-faced from rushing in the heat. The baron raised his hand and commanded him to speak English for the benefit of the two knights with him. The messenger gulped air and dragged a sleeve across his sweating face. Beginning again, he said, “It is true, my lord. Baron de Braose did dispatch wagons and men through your lands. They passed through Hereford on the day the council convened and returned but yesterday.” The man faltered, licking his lips.
“Yes? Speak it out, man!” Calling toward the tent, the baron shouted, “Remey! Bring water at once.” In a moment, the seneschal appeared with a jar and cup. He poured and offered the cup to the baron, who passed it to the soldier. “Drink,”
Bernard ordered, “and let us hear this from the beginning— and slowly, if you please.”
The messenger downed the water in three greedy draughts.
Taking back the cup, the baron held it out to be refilled, then drank a little himself. “See here,” he said, passing the vessel to the nobles with him, “de Braose’s men passed through my lands without permission—did you mark?” The nobles nodded grimly. “This is not the first time they have trespassed with impunity. How many this time?”
“Seven knights and fifteen men-at-arms, not counting ox herds and attendants for three wagons. As I say, they returned but yesterday, only—most were afoot, and there were no wagons.”
“Indeed?”
“There is rumour of an attack in the forest. Given that some of the men were seen to be wounded, it seems likely.”
“Do they say who perpetrated the attack?”
“Sire, there is talk . . . rumours only.” The soldier glanced at the two noblemen standing nearby and hesitated.
“Well?” demanded the baron. “If you know, say it.”
“They say the train was attacked by the phantom of the forest.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Remey, unable to stifle his surprise.
The baron glanced hastily over his shoulder to see the two young women following the conversation. “Pray excuse us, ladies. This was not for your ears.” To the men, he said, “Come; we will discuss the matter in private.” He led his party into the tent, leaving Mérian and Lady Sybil to themselves once more.
“Le fantôme!” whispered Sybil, eyes wide at what she heard.
“I have heard of this. It is a creature gigantesque ? Oui ?”
“Yes, a very great, enormous creature,” said Mérian, drawing Sybil closer to share this delicious secret. “The people call him King Raven, and he haunts the forest of the March.”
“Incroyable!” gasped Sybil. “The priests say this is very impossibility, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oh no. It is true.” Mérian gave her a nod of solemn assurance. “The Cymry believe King Raven has arisen to defend the land beyond the Marches. He protects Cymru, and nothing can defeat him—not soldiers, not armies, not even King William the Red himself.”
CHAPTER 44
Dressed as humble wool merchants, Bran, Iwan, Aethelfrith, and Siarles swiftly crossed the Marches and entered England. Strange