burned by the touch. She gave a start and shook off Lady Agnes’s hand. “You!” she snarled. “Don’t touch me!”
“Mérian!” said Garran. “Have you gone mad?”
“Why are they here?” demanded Mérian, her voice quivering with pent rage. “Tell me why they’re here!”
Lady Agnes stepped back, her expression at once worried and offended.
“Darling, what do you mean?” asked her mother. “They are living here.”
Mérian shook her head. “No,” she said, backing away a step. “That cannot be . . . it can’t.”
“Listen to you,” replied the queen gently. “Why ever not? Garran is married now. Sybil is his queen. The baroness is spending the winter here helping Sybil settle in and begin her reign.”
Mérian’s horrified gaze swung from the baroness to the slender young queen standing mute and concerned beside her. Garran moved to take Sybil’s hand, and she leaned toward him. “It is true, Mérian,” said Garran. “We were married four months ago. I’m sorry if we failed to seek your approval,” he added, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“My lord,” said Anora, her tone sharp. “That was not worthy of you.”
“Forgive me, Mother,” Garran said, inclining his head. “I think the excitement of this meeting has put us all a little out of humour. Come, Mérian, you are distraught. Be at peace, you are among friends now.”
“Friends, is it?” scoffed Mérian. “Some friends. The last time we met they tried to kill me!”
CHAPTER 16
On your mettle, my lords,” said Alan a’Dale, glancing over Bran’s shoulder across the yard, where the earl of Cestre had just appeared at the stable door.
“Everyone ready?” asked Bran. Ifor and Brocmael nodded, their brows lowered with the weight of responsibility that had been laid upon them. “When we get into the forest,” Bran continued, “find your place and mark it well. If we should become separated, go back to the head of the run and wait for us there. Whatever happens, don’t linger in the run waiting for one of Hugh’s men to see you.”
“We know what to do,” said Ifor, speaking up for the first time since entering the Ffreinc stronghold.
“Count on us,” added Brocmael, finding his voice at last. “We won’t fail.”
“Just you and Alan keep the earl busy, my lord,” the friar said. “Let Tuck and his young friends here worry about the rest. If any of the earl’s men come looking for us, I’ll make sure they don’t twig to the lads’ doings here, never fear.”
Bran nodded and drew a deep breath. He arranged his features into the curiously empty-eyed, slightly bored guise of Count Rexindo, then turned to greet the earl with his customary short bow and, “Pax vobiscum.”
Earl Hugh, waddling like a barnyard sow, came puffing up already red faced and sweating with the exertion of walking across the courtyard. Accompanying him were two of his men: rough fellows in once-fine tunics spattered with wine stains and grease spots, each with a large dagger thrust into his leather belt—nasty brutes by both look and smell. Behind these two trailed three more stout Ffreinc in leather jerkins and short trows with high leather leggings; they wore soft leather caps on their heads and leather gauntlets on their hands with which they grasped the leashes of three hunting hounds. The dogs were grey, long-legged beasts with narrow heads and chests and powerful haunches; each looked fully capable of bringing down a stag or boar all on its own strength.
“Pax! Pax!” said Hugh as Bran stepped to meet him. “Good day for a chase, eh?”
“Indeed,” replied Bran, speaking directly through Alan now. “I am keen to see if the trails of England can match those of Spain.”
“Ho!” cried the earl in joyous derision. “My hunting runs are second to none—better even than Angevin, which are renowned the world over.”
Count Rexindo sniffed, unimpressed when the earl’s boast was relayed to him. He turned his attention to the dogs, walking to the animals and wading in amongst them, his hands outstretched to let them get his scent. It did not hurt that he had rubbed his palms and fingers with the meat he had filched from the supper platter the previous night. The hounds nuzzled his hands with ravenous enthusiasm, licking his fingers and jostling one another to get a taste. Bran smiled and stroked their sleek heads and silken muzzles, letting the animals mark and befriend him.
“Very unusual, these dogs,” he said through Alan. “What breed are they?”
“Ah, yes,” said Hugh, rubbing his plump palms together. “These are my boys—a breed of my