seen us all before, you mule-headed varlet,” muttered Scarlet in Welsh.
“Steady on, Scarlet,” said Bran. “We’re here to listen.”
“Oh, indeed, yes, Sire,” replied Tuck. “We met first in Rouen last year—when my Lord Bran came to warn you of the plot by your brother against your throne.”
William nodded. “Somewhere else, I think.”
“Yes,” said Tuck. “I was at Wintan Cestre when you gave your judgement against Baron de Braose and Count Falkes, and delivered this cantref into the care of Abbot Hugo Rainault and Sheriff de Glanville.”
William squinted his eyes and regarded the little friar with a suspicious look—as if trying to decide if the priest was mocking him in some subtle way. “No . . . somewhere else.” Realization came to him, and his eyebrows raised. “Le Sang Vierge! You were that priest in the church this morning.”
“True, Majesty,” answered Tuck. “That is a fact I cannot deny.”
“Good Lord, Tuck,” whispered Scarlet, “you’ve been a busy fella.”
The king frowned, then said, “C’est la vie—I am glad you are here.” Turning his attention to the task at hand he said to Bran, “Good day for a battle, eh?”
“None better,” replied Bran, through Tuck.
“What is this about you, ah . . . désirer the throne of this godforsaken cantref ? You have caused me the very devil of trouble, my lord.”
“With respect, Sire,” answered Bran, “I want only what is rightfully mine—the throne my family has occupied for two hundred years.”
“Hmph!” sniffed William, unimpressed. “That is finished. Britain is a Norman country now. I made my decision. Can you not accept it?”
Tuck and Bran conferred, and the friar said, “Again, with respect, Sire, my Lord Bran would remind you that the two of you made a bargain in Rouen—a throne for a throne. That is what you said. Bran helped you save your throne; now he wants the one he was promised.”
King William frowned. He took off his helmet and rubbed a gloved hand through his thinning red hair. After a moment, he said, “Your priest here,” he jabbed a stubby finger at Tuck, “says you will swear fealty to me. Is that true?”
“Oui,” said Bran. “Yes.”
“If I restore you to the throne,” William said, “you will cease this rebellion—is that so?”
Again, Bran and Tuck conferred. “That is what I intended from the first.”
“This miserable little cantref has already cost me more than I will ever see out of it,” grumbled William. “What you want with it, God knows. But you are welcome to it.”
“Your Majesty!” gasped one of the barons attending William. “I fear you are making a grave mistake.”
The knight moved up beside the king, and the forest-dwellers recognized him for the first time. “You had your say long ago, Gysburne,” Tuck told him. “Ferme la bouche.”
“You cannot just give it back to them,” insisted Marshal Gysburne, “not after what they’ve done.”
“Can I not?” growled the king. “Who are you, sir, to tell me what I can do? The priest is right—shut your mouth.” Turning to Bran, he said, “It grows hot and I am thirsty. Can we discuss this somewhere out of the sun? I have wine in my tent. Come, let us talk together.”
“I would like nothing more,” replied Bran when Tuck had told him what the king said. “However, I would like to choose the place of discussion.”
“Where, then?”
“The fortress is just there,” said Bran, pointing down the slope to the caer on its mound in the near distance. “We will talk there.”
“But the stronghold is full of your warriors,” the king pointed out.
“Some warriors, yes,” allowed Bran. “But farmers and herders, too—the people who have suffered under de Braose, Abbot Hugo, and Sheriff de Glanville these last years.”
“Am I to go into this den of wolves alone?” said the king.
“Bring as many of your knights as you wish,” Bran told him. “The more who see us swear peace with one another, the better it will be for everyone.”
When King William and his knights rode into the fortress yard at midday, Bran and his people were ready to receive them. Bran, with Mérian on one hand and Tuck on the other, was flanked by Iwan and Siarles on the right, and Will Scarlet and Alan a’Dale on the left. Behind him were other members of the Grellon—Noín, Owain, Brocmael, and Ifor, and most of the forest-dwellers. Baron Bernard Neufmarché stood a little apart, with two of his knights holding Sheriff Richard de Glanville, bound at the wrists, between them. Beside the knights stood Bishop Asaph gripping the