“Mount up!” Iwan commanded, swinging into the saddle.
Brychan, at the head of his troops, called a greeting in his own tongue, twisting his lips into an unaccustomed smile of welcome. When his greeting was not returned, he tried English—the hated but necessary language used when dealing with the backward folk of the southlands. One of the riders seemed to understand. He made a curt reply in French and then turned and spurred his horse back the way he had come; his three companions remained in place, regarding the British warriors with wary contempt.
Seeing his grudging attempt at welcome rebuffed, Lord Brychan raised his reins and urged his mount forward. “Ride on, men,” he ordered, “and keep your eyes on the filthy devils.”
At the British approach, the three knights closed ranks, blocking the road. Unwilling to suffer an insult, however slight, Brychan commanded them to move aside. The Norman knights made no reply but remained planted firmly in the centre of the road.
Brychan was on the point of ordering his warband to draw their swords and ride over the arrogant fools when Iwan spoke up, saying, “My lord, our business in Lundein will put an end to this unseemly harassment. Let us endure this last slight with good grace and heap shame on the heads of these cowardly swine.”
“You would surrender the road to them?”
“I would, my lord,” replied the champion evenly. “We do not want the report of a fight to mar our petition in Lundein.”
Brychan stared dark thunder at the Ffreinc soldiers.
“My lord?” said Iwan. “I think it is best.”
“Oh, very well,” huffed the king at last. Turning to the warriors behind him, he called, “To keep the peace, we will go around.”
As the Britons prepared to yield the road, the first Norman rider returned, and with him another man on a pale grey mount with a high leather saddle. This one wore a blue cloak fastened at the throat with a large silver brooch. “You there!” he called in English. “What are you doing?”
Brychan halted and turned in the saddle. “Do you speak to me?”
“I do speak to you,” the man insisted. “Who are you, and where are you going?”
“The man you address is Rhi Brychan, Lord and King of Elfael,” replied Iwan, speaking up quickly. “We are about business of our own which takes us to Lundein. We seek no quarrel and would pass by in peace.”
“Elfael?” wondered the man in the blue cloak. Unlike the others, he carried no weapons, and his gauntlets were white leather. “You are British.”
“That we are,” replied Iwan.
“What is your business in Lundein?”
“It is our affair alone,” replied Brychan irritably. “We ask only to journey on without dispute.”
“Stay where you are,” replied the blue-cloaked man. “I will summon my lord and seek his disposition in the matter.”
The man put spurs to his mount and disappeared around the bend in the road. The Britons waited, growing irritated and uneasy in the hot sun.
The blue-cloaked man reappeared some moments later, and with him was another, also wearing blue, but with a spotless white linen shirt and trousers of fine velvet. Younger than the others, he wore his fair hair long to his shoulders, like a woman’s; with his sparse, pale beard curling along the soft line of his jaw, he appeared little more than a youngster preening in his father’s clothes. Like the others with him, he carried a shield on his shoulder and a long sword on his hip. His horse was black, and it was larger than any plough horse Brychan had ever seen.
“You claim to be Rhi Brychan, Lord of Elfael?” the newcomer asked in a voice so thickly accented the Britons could barely make out what he said.
“I make no claim, sir,” replied Brychan with terse courtesy, the English thick on his tongue. “It is a very fact.”
“Why do you ride to Lundein with your warband?” inquired the pasty-faced youth. “Can it be that you intend to make war on King William?”
“On no account, sir,” replied Iwan, answering to spare his lord the indignity of this rude interrogation. “We go to swear fealty to the king of the Ffreinc.”
At this, the two blue-cloaked figures leaned near and put their heads together in consultation. “It is too late. William will not see you.”
“Who are you to speak for the king?” demanded Iwan.
“I say again, this affair does not concern you,” added Brychan.
“You are wrong. It has become my concern,” replied the young man in blue. “I am Count Falkes de