Squatting down beside Bran, he put a hand to the young man’s shoulder and said, “We’ll find a way to raise the money, Bran, never fear.”
Bran nodded.
“It will be dark soon,” Iwan pointed out. “We will not reach Caer Cadarn tonight.”
“We’ll lay up at the next good place we find,” said Bran.
He started to climb into the saddle, but Ffreol said, “It is vespers. Come, both of you, join me, and we will continue after prayers.”
They knelt beside the ford then, and Ffreol raised his hands, saying:
I am bending my knee
In the eye of the Father who created me,
In the eye of the Son who befriended me,
In the eye of the Spirit who walks with me,
In companionship and affection.
Through thine own Anointed One, O God,
Bestow upon us fullness in our need . . .
Brother Ffreol’s voice flowed out over the stream and along the water. Bran listened, and his mind began to wander. Iwan’s hissed warning brought him back with a start. “Listen!” The champion held up his hand for silence. “Did you hear that?”
“I heard nothing but the sound of my own voice,” replied the priest. He closed his eyes and resumed his prayer. “Grant us this night your peace—”
There came a shout behind them. “Arrêt!”
The three rose and turned as one to see four Ffreinc mar-chogi on the road behind them. Weapons drawn, the soldiers advanced, walking warily, their expressions grave in the dim light.
“Ride!” shouted Iwan, darting to his horse. “Hie!”
The cry died in his throat, for even as the three prepared to flee, five more marchogi stepped from the surrounding wood. Their blades glimmered dimly in the dusky light. Even so, Iwan, wounded as he was, would have challenged them and taken his chances, but Ffreol prevented him. “Iwan! No!
They’ll kill you.”
“They mean to kill us anyway,” replied the warrior carelessly. “We must fight.”
“No!” Ffreol put out a restraining hand and pulled him back. “Let me talk to them.”
Before Iwan could protest, the monk stepped forward. Stretching out empty hands, he walked a few paces to meet the advancing knights. “Pax vobiscum!” he called. Continuing in Latin, he said, “Peace to you this night. Please, put up your swords. You have nothing to fear from us.”
One of the Ffreinc made a reply that neither Bran nor Iwan understood. The priest repeated himself, speaking more slowly; he stepped closer, holding out his hands to show that he had no weapons. The knight who had spoken moved to intercept him. The point of his sword flicked the air. Ffreol took another step, then stopped and looked down.
“Ffreol?” called Bran.
The monk made no answer but half turned as he glanced back toward Bran and Iwan. Even in the failing light, Bran could see that blood covered the front of the monk’s robe.
Ffreol himself appeared confused by this. He looked down again, and then his hands found the gaping rent in his throat. He clutched at the wound, and blood spilled over his fingers. “Pax vobiscum,” he spluttered, then crashed to his knees in the road.
“You filthy scum!” screamed Bran. Leaping to the saddle, he drew his sword and spurred his horse forward to put himself between the wounded priest and the Ffreinc attackers. He was instantly surrounded. Bran made but one sweeping slash with his blade before he was hauled kicking from the saddle.
Fighting free of the hands that gripped him, he struggled to where Brother Ffreol lay on his side. The monk reached out a hand and brought Bran’s face close to his lips. “God keep you,” he whispered, his voice a fading whisper.
“Ffreol!” cried Bran. “No!”
The priest gave out a little sigh and laid his head upon the road. Bran fell upon the body. Clutching the priest’s face between his hands, he shouted, “Ffreol! Ffreol!” But his friend and confessor was dead. Then Bran felt the hands of his captors on him; they hauled him to his feet and dragged him away.
Jerking his head around, he saw Iwan thrashing wildly with his sword as the marchogi swarmed around him. “Here!” Bran shouted. “To me! To me!”
That was all he could get out before he was flung to the ground and pinned there with a boot on his neck, his face shoved into the dirt. He tried to wrestle free but received a sharp kick in the ribs, and then the air was driven from his lungs by a knee in his back.
With a last desperate effort, he twisted on the ground, seized the leg of the marchogi,