of Spaniards in general, as well as his own misguided complicity in a fool-bait scheme which had not only cost him a very valuable prisoner, but also had returned a powerful enemy to the battlefield. “Courage, men,” counselled Bran as they paused before the doors of the hall. “It is soon over.” To Ifor and Brocmael, he said, “Are the horses ready?”
The young men nodded.
“Good. Whatever happens, be ready to depart on my signal. We may have to bolt.”
They entered a hall much subdued from the previous night; where before the walls had reverberated with song and laughter, this night’s supper was taken in sullen silence and bitter resentment. Count Rexindo and his retinue braved the blast of ill-will with stoic silence as they listened to Hugh d’Avranches alternately berating one and all for their gross failure and bemoaning the loss of his captive. As the drink took hold of him, the livid, simmering anger gave way to morose distemper, with the earl declaring loudly for all to hear that he wished he had never laid eyes on Count Rexindo and his miserable company. This, then, was the signal for the visitors to make their farewells and remove themselves from the castle.
The count, having been seen to bear the earl’s complaints and abuse with the good grace of one who could not grasp the more subtle nuances of insult in a foreign tongue, rose from his seat and with the aid of his able interpreter, said, “No one is more sorry than I that we have failed today. Still, it is in the nature of things that the hunter is sometimes outwitted by his prey and must return to his hearth empty-handed.” He gave a slight shrug. “I, myself, blame no one. It happens. We live to hunt another day. But a man would be a fool to remain where his friendship is no longer welcome or valued. Therefore, I thank you for your hospitality, my lord, and bid you farewell.”
Oh, well done, thought Tuck, rising at Bran’s gesture. As bishop, he gave the earl a small, benedictory flourish and, turning, followed the count from the hall.
“What about the hounds?” cried Hugh after the departing count. Too late he remembered the money he hoped to make on the sale of his expensive animals.
Alan, taking the count’s elbow, restrained him and whispered into his ear. Rexindo shook his head, gave a final gesture of farewell, and stepped through the door. “I am sorry, my lord,” Alan said, standing with his hand on the latch, “but the count says that he could not possibly consider buying such ill-trained and ungovernable beasts as the one he witnessed today. He has withdrawn his offer. You may keep your dogs.”
With that, Alan disappeared, following Bishop Balthus, Lord Galindo, and Lord Ramiero across the threshold and into the corridor beyond. As soon as the heavy door shut behind them, they fairly flew to the stable and relieved the grooms of the care of their horses. Rexindo, true to his noble Spanish character, paid the grooms a few silver pennies each—as much to buy their aid as for their unwitting diligence—and with kind words and praise, bade them farewell. The chief groomsman, pleased and charmed by the count’s noble treatment, led the company from the yard and opened the gate for them himself.
As they mounted their horses, Bran reached down a hand to Alan. “If you still want to come with me,” he said. Without hesitation, Alan a’Dale grabbed the offered hand, and Bran pulled him up to sit behind him.
At last, having successfully skinned the wolf in his den, the short ride to Caer Cestre became a jubilant race. In the fading evening light, the company came clattering into a nearly deserted town square, where they dismounted and quickly made their way to the docks to meet King Gruffydd. When a cursory search failed to find him, they split up and, each taking a separate street, began combing the town. This, too, failed. “Perhaps he is waiting at one of the inns,” suggested Alan.
Bran commended the idea and said, “You and Tuck go look there. Ifor, Brocmael, and I will wait for you at the wharf in case he should come there.”
The two hurried off and were soon approaching the first of the river town’s three inns—a place called the Crown and Keys. Despite the somewhat lofty ambitions of its name, it was a low place, smuggy with smoke from a faulty chimney and poorly lit.