eye. Though I had never seen him or that forest settlement before, and knew nothing of the people gathered close around, it felt as if I was being welcomed into the fellowship of my own tribe and family. And nothing that has happened since then in all our scraps and scrapes has moved me from that stand.
The rain began coming harder then, and we all returned to the village. “Your skill is laudable, William,” said Bran as we walked back together.
“Almost as good as your own,” said the lady, falling into step beside him. “You may as well admit it, Bran, your man William is as good with a bow as you are yourself.”
“Just Will, if you please,” I told them. “William Rufus has disgraced our common name in my eyes.”
“Rufus!” Bran laughed. “I have never heard him called that before.”
“It is common enough in England,” I replied. Willy Conqueror’s second son—the rakehell William, now king over us—was often called Rufus behind his back, on account of his flaming torch of red hair and scalding hot temper. His worthless brother, Duke Robert, is called Curthose owing to his penchant for wearing short tunics.
Thinking of those two ne’er-do-well nobles made me that sorry for Thane Aelred who, like all right-thinking men of his kind, had thrown in his lot with Robert, the lawful heir to the throne. Alas, Robby Shortshift turned out to be unreliable as a weathercock, forever turning this way and that at the slightest breath of a favourable wind from each and any quarter. That poor numbskull never could make up his mind, and would never fully commit himself to any course, nor stay one once decided. He was a flighty sparrow, but imagined himself a gilded eagle. The shame of it is that he led so many good men to ruination.
Aye, the only time he really ever led.
Of course, Red William held tight to the throne he’d stolen from his brother, and used the confusion over the succession—confusion he himself caused, mind—to further strengthen his grip. After he seized the royal money mintery, he had himself crowned king, sat himself on the throne, and decreed that what was in truth little more than a family disagreement had actually been a rebellious uprising, and all those who supported sad brother Robert were made out to be dangerous traitors. Lands were seized, lives lost. Good men were banished and estates forfeited to the crown. Only a small handful of fortune-kissed aristos came away scapegrace clean.
Turning to the lady, I said, “Speaking of names, now that I’ve given mine . . .”
“This is Lady Mérian,” Bran said. “She is our . . .” He hesitated.
“Hostage,” she put in quickly. The way she mouthed the word with such contempt, I could tell it was a sore point between them.
“Guest,” Bran corrected lightly. “We are to endure the pleasure of her company for a little while longer, it seems.”
“Ransom me,” she said crisply, “or release me and your trial will be over, my lord.”
He ignored the jibe. “Lady Mérian is the daughter of King Cadwgan of Eiwas, the next cantref to the south.”
“Bran keeps me against my will,” she added, “and refuses to set a price for my release even though he knows my father would pay good silver, and God knows the people here could use it.”
“We get by,” replied Bran amiably.
“Forgive my curiosity,” I said, plunging in, “but if her father is only over in the next cantref, why does he not send a host to take her back by force?” I lifted a hand to the patched-together little village we were entering just then. “I mean, it would not take much to overwhelm this stronghold, redoubtable as it is.”
“My father doesn’t know where I am,” Mérian informed me. “And anyway, it is all the baron’s fault. I wouldn’t be here if he had not tried to kill Bran.”
“Is that Baron de Braose?” I asked.
“No.” She shook her head, making her long curls bounce. “Baron Neufmarché—he is my father’s overlord. Bran took me captive when the baron turned traitor against him.”
“It is somewhat complicated,” offered Bran with a rueful smile.
“No,” contradicted Mérian, “it is simplicity itself. All you need do is send a message to my father and the silver is yours.”
“When the time is right, Mérian, I will. Be sure of it. I will.”
“That’s what you always say,” she snipped. To me she confided, “He always says that—it’s been a year and more, and he’s still saying it.”