a look of deepest concern. “What is this I am hearing about you declaring war on Abbot Hugo?”
“It is true,” Bran allowed, and explained how the English king had reneged on his promise to restore Bran’s throne, appointing the abbot and sheriff as his regents instead. “We are on our way north to rally the tribes.”
The ageing bishop shook his head sadly. “Is there no other way?”
“If there was,” Bran conceded, “we are beyond recalling it now.” He went on to tell how the Black Abbot had rebuffed his offer of peace. “That was Tuck’s idea.”
“We had to try,” offered the friar. “For Jesus’ sake we had to try.”
“Indeed,” sighed the bishop.
They stayed with the monks that night, and bidding Odo farewell, they departed early the next morning. They rode easily, passing the morning in a companionable silence until they came to a shady spot under a large outcrop of stone, where Bran decided to stop to rest and water the horses, and have a bite to eat before moving on once more. The going was slow, and the sun was disappearing beyond the hill line to the west when they at last began to search for a good place to make camp for the night—finding a secluded hollow beside a brook where an apple tree grew; the apples were green still, and tart, but hard to resist, and there was good water for the horses. While Bran gathered wood for the fire, Tuck tethered the animals so they could graze in the long grass around the tree, and then set about preparing a meal.
“We should reach Arwysteli tomorrow,” Bran said, biting into a small green apple. The two had finished a supper of pork belly and beans, and were stretched out beneath the boughs bending with fruit. “And Powys the day after.”
“Oh?” Tuck queried. “We are not stopping?”
“Perhaps on the way back,” Bran said. “I am that keen to get on to Bangor. I know no one in these cantrefs, and it might be easier to get men if on our return we are accompanied by a sizeable host already.”
This sounded reasonable to the friar. “How long has it been since you’ve seen your mother’s people?” he asked.
Bran gnawed on his sour apple for a moment, then said, “Quite a long time—a year or two after my mother died, it must have been. My father wanted to return some of her things to her kinfolk, so we went up and I met them then.”
“You were—what? Eight, nine years old?” Tuck ventured.
“Something like that,” he allowed. “But it will make no difference. Once they have heard what we intend, they will join us, never fear.”
They spent a quiet night and moved on at dawn, passing through Builth without seeing another living soul, and pressing quickly on into Arwysteli and Powys, where they stopped for the night in a settlement called Llanfawydden. Tuck was happy to see that the hamlet had a fine wooden church and a stone monk’s cell set in a grove of beeches, though the village consisted of nothing more than a ring of wattle-and-mud houses encircling a common grazing area. After a brief word from the local priest, the chief of the village took them in and fed them at his table, and gave them a bed for the night. The chieftain and his wife and three sons slept on the floor beside the hearth.
The travellers found the family amiable enough. They fed them well, entertained them with news of local doings, and asked no questions about who their guests were, or what their business might be. However, when they were preparing to leave the next morning, one of the younger lads—upon learning that they had travelled from Elfael—could not help asking whether they knew anything about King Raven.
“I might have heard a tale or two,” Bran allowed, smiling.
The boy persisted in his questions despite the frowns from his mother and brothers. “Is it true what they say? Is he a very bad creature?”
“Bad for the Ffreinc, it would seem,” Bran said. “By all accounts King Raven does seem a most mysterious bird. Do you know him hereabouts?”
“Nay,” replied the middle lad, shaking his head sadly. “Only what folk say.”
One of his older brothers spoke up. “We heard he has killed more’n two hundred Ffreinc—”
“Swoops on ’em from the sky and spears ’em with his beak,” added the one who had raised the subject in the first place.
“Boys!” said the mother, embarrassed by her sons’ forthright enthusiasm.