Thus, he learned at an early age that since he could never please his father, he might as well please himself. That is the course he had pursued ever since—much to his father’s annoyance and eventual despair.
So now the king was dead. From the day the Conqueror seized the throne of the English overlords, Brychan had resisted. Having to suffer the English was bad enough; their centuries-long presence in Britain was, to him, still a fresh wound into which salt was rubbed almost daily. Brychan, like his Celtic fathers, reckoned time not in years or decades but in whole generations. If he looked back to a time when Britain and the Britons were the sole masters of their island realm, he also looked forward to a day when the Cymry would be free again. Thus, when William, Duke of Normandie, settled his bulk on Harold’s throne that fateful Christmas Day, Rhi Brychan vowed he would die before swearing allegiance to any Ffreinc usurper.
At long last, thought Bran, that oft-repeated boast had been challenged—and the challenge made good. Brychan was dead, his warriors with him, and the pale high-handed foreigners ran rampant through the land.
How now, Father? Bran reflected bitterly. Is this what you hoped to achieve? The vile enemy sits on your throne, and your heir squats in the pit. Are you proud of your legacy?
It was not until the following morning that Bran was finally released and marched to his father’s great hall. He was brought to stand before a slender young man, not much older than himself, who, despite the mild summer day, sat hunched by the hearth, warming his white hands at the flames as if it were the dead of winter.
Dressed in a spotless blue tunic and yellow mantle, the thin-faced fellow observed Bran’s scuffed and battered appearance with a grimace of disgust. “You will answer me— if you can, Briton,” said the young man. His Latin, though heavily accented, could at least be understood. “What is your name?”
The sight of the fair-haired interloper sitting in the chair Rhi Brychan used for a throne offended Bran in a way he would not have thought possible. When he failed to reply quickly enough, the young man who, apparently, was lord and leader of the invaders rose from his seat, drew back his arm, and gave Bran a sharp, backhanded slap across the mouth.
Hatred leapt up hot and quick. Bran swallowed it down with an effort. “I am called Gwrgi,” he answered, taking the first name that came to mind.
“Where is your home?”
“Ty Gwyn,” Bran lied. “In Brycheiniog.”
“You are a nobleman, I think,” decided the Norman lord. His downy beard and soft dark eyes gave him a look of mild innocence—like a lamb or a yearling calf.
“No,” replied Bran, his denial firm. “I am not a nobleman.”
“Yes,” asserted his inquisitor, “I think you are.” He reached out and took hold of Bran’s sleeve, rubbing the cloth between his fingers as if to appraise its worth. “A prince, perhaps, or at least a knight.”
“I am a merchant,” Bran replied with dull insistence.
“I think,” the Ffreinc lord concluded, “you are not.” He gave his narrow head a decisive shake, making his curls bounce. “All noblemen claim to be commoners when captured. You would be foolish to do otherwise.”
When Bran said nothing, the Norman drew back his hand and let fly again, catching Bran on the cheek, just below the eye. The heavy gold ring on the young man’s finger tore the flesh; blood welled up and trickled down the side of his face. “I am not a nobleman,” muttered Bran through clenched teeth. “I am a merchant.”
“A pity,” sniffed the young lord, turning away. “Noblemen we ransom—beggars, thieves, and spies we kill.” He nodded to his attending soldiers. “Take him away.”
“No! Wait!” shouted Bran. “Ransom! You want money? Silver? I can get it.”
The Ffreinc lord spoke a word to his men. They halted, still holding Bran tightly between them. “How much?” inquired the young lord.
“A little,” replied Bran. “Enough.”
The Norman gathered his blue cloak around his shoulders and studied his captive for a moment. “I think you are lying, Welshman.” The word was a slur in his mouth. “But no matter. We can always kill you later.”
He turned away and resumed his place by the fire. “I am Count Falkes de Braose,” he announced, settling himself in the chair once more. “I am lord of this place now, so mind your tongue, and