any treasure,” replied the churchman. “They wanted it. I had to give it to them.”
“Fool!” shouted Bran. “In the name of all that is holy, why?”
“Bran, I could not lie,” answered Asaph, growing indignant. “Lying is a venal sin. Love in the heart, truth on the lips—that is our rule.”
“You just gave it to them?” Bran glared at the sanctimonious cleric, anger flicking like a whip from his gaze. “You’ve just killed me; do you know that?”
“I hardly think—”
“Listen to me, you old goat,” spat Bran. “I must pay de Braose the ransom by sunset today, or I will be hunted down and executed. Where am I going to find that money now?”
The bishop, unrepentant, raised a finger heavenward.
“God will provide.”
“He already did!” snarled Bran. “The money was here, and you let them take it!” He growled with frustration and stalked to the open doorway of the chapel, then turned back suddenly.
“I need a horse.”
“That will be difficult.”
“I do not care how difficult it is. Unless you want to see me dead this time tomorrow, you will find a horse at once. Do you understand me?”
“Where will you go?”
“North,” answered Bran decisively. “Ffreol would still be alive and I would be safe there now if we had not listened to you.”
The bishop bent his head, accepting the reproach.
Bran said, “My mother’s kinsmen are in Gwynedd. When I tell them what has happened here, they will take me in. But I need a horse and supplies to travel.”
“Saint Ernin’s abbey serves the northern cantrefs,” observed the bishop. “If you need help, you can call on them.”
“Just get me that horse,” commanded Bran, taking the cleric roughly by the arm and steering him toward the door.
“I will see what I can find.” The bishop left, shaking his head and murmuring, “Poor Ffreol. We must go and claim his body so that he can be buried here amongst his brothers.”
Bran walked alongside him, urging the elderly churchman to a quicker pace. “Yes, yes,” he agreed. “You must claim the body, by all means. But first the horse—otherwise you will be digging two graves this time tomorrow.”
The bishop nodded and hurried away. Bran watched him for a moment and then walked to the small guest lodge beside the gate; he looked around the near-empty cell. In one corner was a bed made of rushes overspread with a sheepskin. He crossed to the bed, lay down, and, overcome by the accumulated exertions of the last days, closed his eyes and sank into a blessedly dreamless sleep.
It was late when he woke again; the sun was well down, and the shadows stretched long across the empty yard. The bishop, he soon learned, had sent three monks in search of a horse; none of the three had yet returned. The bishop himself had taken a party with an oxcart to retrieve the body of Brother Ffreol. There was nothing to do, so he returned to the guest lodge to stew over the stupidity of churchmen and rue his rotten luck. He sprawled on the bench outside the chapter house, listening to the intermittent bell as it tolled the offices. Little by little, the once-bright day faded to a dull yellow haze.
He dozed and awoke to yet another bell. Presently the monks began appearing; in twos and threes they entered the yard, hurrying from their various chores. “That bell—what was it?” Bran asked one of the brothers as he passed.
“It is only vespers, sire,” replied the priest respectfully.
Bran’s heart sank at the word: vespers. Eventide prayer—the day gone, and he was still within shouting distance of the caer.
He slumped back against the mud-daubed wall and stuck his feet out in front of him. Asaph was worse than useless, and he felt a ripe fool for trusting him. If he had known the silly old man had given his father’s treasure to de Braose—simply handed it over, by Job’s bones—he could have lit out for the northern border the moment the count set him free.
He was on the point of fleeing Llanelli when an errant breeze brought a savoury aroma from the cookhouse, and he suddenly remembered how hungry he was. An instant later he was on his feet and moving toward the refectory. He would eat and then go.
Nothing was easier than cadging a meal from Brother Bedo, the kitchener. A cheerful, red-faced lump with watery eyes and a permanent stoop from bending over his pots and steaming cauldrons, no creature that begged a crust was ever turned