lead to the river that ran through the middle of Elfael.
This he did, and at first it seemed his determination would be rewarded, for the forest thinned and he glimpsed open sky ahead. Closer, he saw sunlight on green grass and imagined the valley spreading beyond. He limped toward the place and, as he passed the last trees, stepped out into a wide meadow—at the centre of which was a shimmering pool. Dragonflies flitted around the water’s edge, and larks soared high above. The stream he had been following emptied itself into the pool and, so far as he could tell, did not emerge again.
It had taken him the better part of two days to reach another dead end, and now, as he gazed around him, he knew his strength was gone. Hope crushed to a cold cinder, Bran staggered stiff legged through the long grass to stand gazing down into the water, too tired to do anything but stand.
After a time, he lowered himself painfully down to kneel at the water’s edge, drank a few mouthfuls, then sat down beside the pool. He would rest a little before moving on. He fell back in the grass and closed his eyes, giving way to the fatigue that paralysed him. When he woke again, it was dark. The moon was high above a line of clouds moving in from the northwest. Exhausted still, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
It rained before morning, but Bran did not rise. And that was how the old woman found him the next day.
She hobbled from the forest on her stout legs and stood for a long time contemplating the wreck of him. “Dost thou ever seek half measures?” she asked, glancing skyward. “Whether ’tis meet or ill, I know not. But heavy was the hand that broke this reed.”
She paused, as if listening. “Oh, aye,” she muttered. “Aye and ever aye. Your servant obeys.”
With that she removed the moth-eaten rag that was her cloak and placed it over the wounded man. Then she retreated to the forest the way she had come. It was midday before she returned, leading two ragged men pulling a handcart. She directed them to the place where she had found the unconscious young man; he was where she left him, still covered by her cloak.
“We could dig a grave,” suggested one of the men upon observing the wounded stranger’s pale, bloodless flesh. “I do believe ’twould be a mercy.”
“Nay, nay,” she said. “Take him to my hearth.”
“He needs more than hearth care,” observed the man, scratching a bristly jaw. “This ’un needs holy unction.”
“Go to, Cynvar,” the old woman replied. “If thou wouldst but stir thyself to action—and yon stump with thee”—she indicated the second man still standing beside the cart— “methinks we mayest yet hold death’s angel at bay.”
“You know best, hudolion,” replied the man. He motioned to his fellow, and the two lifted the stranger into the cart. The movement caused the wounded man to moan softly, but he did not waken.
“Gently, gently,” chided the old woman. “I have work enough without thee breaking his bones.”
She laid a wrinkled hand against the pale young stranger’s wounded cheek and then touched two fingers to his cold brow.
“Peace, beloved,” she crooned. “In my grasp I hold thee, and I will not let thee go.”
Turning to the men once more, she said, “Grows the grass beneath thy feet? About thy business, lads! Be quick.”
CHAPTER 16
Count Falkes de Braose anticipated the arrival of his cousin with all the fret and ferment of a maid awaiting a suitor. He could not remain seated for more than a few moments at a time before he leapt to his feet and ran to inspect some detail he had already seen and approved twice over. Ill at ease in his own skin, he started at every stray sound, and each new apprehension caused his heart to sink: What if Earl Philip arrived late? What if he met trouble on the way? What if he did not arrive at all?
He fussed over the furnishings of his new stronghold: Were they adequate? Were they too spare? Would he be considered niggardly—or worse yet, a spendthrift? He worried about the preparation of the feast: Was the fare sumptuous enough? Was the wine palatable? Was the meat well seasoned? Was the bread too hard, the soup too thin, the ale too sweet or too sour? How many men would come with Philip? How long would they stay?