His manner seemed to suggest that he imagined it was he who had summoned the baron to his hall. Neufmarché disregarded the inapt remark, even as he ignored the sharp decline evidenced in Cadwgan’s appearance. “A fine day!” the baron declared, his voice a little forced and overloud. “I thought we might make a circuit of your lands.”
“Of course,” agreed Cadwgan. “Perhaps once we have had some refreshment, my son could accompany you.”
“I thought you might ride with me,” replied the baron. “It has been a long time since we rode together.”
“I fear I would not be the best of company,” said Cadwgan. “I will tell Garran to saddle a horse.”
Unwilling to press the matter further, the baron said, “How is your lady wife?” When the king failed to take his meaning, he said, “Queen Anora—is she well?”
“Aye, yes, well enough.” Cadwgan looked around the empty room as if he might find her sitting in one of the corners. “Shall I send someone to fetch her?”
“Let it wait. There is no need to disturb her just now.”
“Of course, Sire.” The Welsh king fell silent, gazing at the baron and then at Evereux. Finally, he said, “Was there something else?”
“You were going to summon your son, I think?” Neufmarché replied.
“Was I? Very well, if you wish to see him.”
Without another word the king turned and padded softly away.
“The man is ill,” observed the marshal. “That, or senile.”
“Obviously,” replied the baron. “But he has been a useful ally, and we will treat him with respect.”
“As you say,” allowed Evereux. “All the same, a thought about the succession would not be amiss. Is the son loyal?”
“Loyal enough,” replied the baron. “He is a young and supple reed, and we can bend him to our purpose.”
A few moments later, they were joined by the young prince himself who, with icy compliance, agreed to ride with the baron on a circuit of Eiwas. The baron spoke genially of one thing and another as they rode out, receiving nothing but the minimum required for civility in return. Upon reaching a stream at the bottom of the valley, the baron reined up sharply. “Know you, we need not be enemies,” he said. “From what I have seen of your father today, it seems to me that you will soon be swearing vassalage to me. Let us resolve to be friends from the beginning.”
Garran wheeled his horse and came back across the stream. “What do you want from me, Neufmarché? Is it not enough that you hold our land? Must you own our souls as well?”
“Guard your tongue, my lord prince,” snarled Evereux. “It ill becomes a future king to speak to his liege lord in such a churlish manner.”
The prince opened his mouth as if he would challenge this remark, but thought better of it and glared at the marshal instead.
“Your father is not well,” the baron said simply. “Have you sent for a physician?”
Garran frowned and looked away. “Such as we have.”
“I will send mine to you,” offered the baron.
“My thanks, Baron,” replied the prince stiffly, “but it will be to no purpose. He pines for Mérian.”
“Mérian,” murmured the baron, as if searching his memory for a face to go with the name. Oh, but not a day had passed from the moment he first met her until now that he did not think of her with longing, and stinging regret. Fairest Mérian, stolen away from his very grasp. How he wished that he could call back the command that had sealed her fate. A clumsy and ill-advised attempt to capture the Welsh renegade Bran ap Brychan had resulted in the young hellion taking the lady captive to make good his escape from the baron’s camp. Neufmarché had lost her along with any chance he might have had of loving her.
Mistaking the baron’s pensive silence, Prince Garran said, “The king thinks her dead. And I suppose she is, or we would have had some word of her by now.”
“There has been nothing? No demand for ransom? Nothing?” asked the baron. His own efforts to find her had been singularly unsuccessful.
“Not a word,” confirmed Garran. “We always knew Bran for a rogue, but this makes no sense. If he only wanted money, he could have had it long since. My father would have met any demand—as well he knows.” The young man shook his head. “I suppose my father is right; she must be dead. I only hope that Bran ap Brychan is maggot-food, too.