Bran knew which horses he meant. There were four broodmares to which five colts had been born in early spring. The foals were of an age to wean but had not yet been removed from their mothers.
“Bring me the black,” Bran commanded. “She will have to do.”
“What about Hathr?” inquired the groom.
“Hathr threw a shoe and split a hoof. He’ll need looking after for a few days, and I must join my father on the road before the day is out.”
“Lord Brychan said we were not to use—”
“I need a horse, Cefn,” said Bran, cutting off his objection. “Saddle the black—and hurry. I must ride hard if I am to catch them.”
While the groom set about preparing the mare, Bran hurried to the kitchen to find something to eat. The cook and her two young helpers were busy shelling peas and protested the intrusion. With smiles and winks and murmured endearments, however, Bran cajoled, and old Mairead succumbed to his charm as she always did. “You’ll be king one day,” she chided, “and is this how you will fare? Snatching meals from the hearth and running off who-knows-where all day?”
“I’m going to Lundein, Mairead. It is a far journey.Would you have your future king starve on the way, or go a-begging like a leper?”
“Lord have mercy!” clucked the cook, setting aside her chore. “Never let it be said anyone went hungry from my hearth.”
She ladled some fresh milk into a bowl, into which she broke chunks of hard brown bread, then sat him down on a stool.While he ate, she cut a few slices of new summer sausage and gave him two green apples, which he stuffed into the pouch at his belt. Bran spooned down the milk and bread and then, throwing the elderly servant a kiss, bounded from the kitchen and back across the yard to the stable, where Cefn was just tightening the saddle cinch on his horse.
“A world of thanks to you, Cefn. You have saved my life.”
“Olwen is the best broodmare we have—see you don’t push her too hard,” called the groom as the prince clattered out into the yard. Bran gave him a breezy wave, and the groom added under his breath, “And may our Lord Brychan have mercy on you.”
Out on the trail once more, Bran felt certain he could win his way back into his father’s good graces. It might take a day or two, but once the king saw how dutifully the prince was prepared to conduct himself in Lundein, Brychan would not fail to restore his son to favour. First, however, Bran set himself to think up a plausible tale to help excuse his apparent absence.
Thus, he put his mind to spinning a story which, if not entirely believable, would at least be entertaining enough to lighten the king’s foul mood. This task occupied him as he rode easily along the path through the forest. He had just started up the long, meandering track leading to the high and thickly forested ridge that formed the western boundary of the broad Wye Vale and was thinking that with any luck at all, he might still catch his father and the warband before dusk. This thought dissolved instantly upon seeing a lone rider lurching toward him on a hobbling horse.
He was still some distance away, but Bran could see that the man was hunched forward in the saddle as if to urge his labouring mount to greater speed. Probably drunk, rotten sot, thought Bran, and doesn’t realise his horse is dead on its feet. Well, he would stop the empty-headed lout and see if he could find out how far ahead his father might be.
Closer, something about the man seemed familiar.
As the rider drew nearer, Bran grew increasingly certain he knew the man, and he was not wrong.
It was Iwan.
CHAPTER 3
Bernard de Neufmarché stormed down the narrow corridor leading from the main hall to his private chambers deep in the protecting stone wall of the fortress. His red velvet cloak was grey with the dust of travel, his back throbbed with the dull, persistent ache of fatigue, and his mind was a spinning maelstrom of dark thoughts as black as his mood. Seven years lost! he fumed. Ruined, wasted, and lost!
He had been patient, prudent, biding his time, watching and waiting for precisely the right moment to strike. And now, in one precipitous act, unprovoked and unforeseen, the red-haired brigand of a king,William, had allied himself with that milksop Baron