Two days of riotous celebration had followed the rescuers’ triumphant return to Aberffraw with their newly freed captive. King Gruffydd’s homecoming was heralded as a miracle on the order of Lazarus walking out of his tomb; and Bran, Tuck, Ifor, Brocmael, and Alan were lauded as champions and made to recount their exploits time and again to rapturous listeners until they grew hoarse for speaking. The revel was entering its third day before Bran and Tuck finally found the opportunity to speak to Gruffydd and Llewelyn in private.
“Here are men after my own heart!” declared Gruffydd, closing the door on the celebration to join them in his chamber. Bathed and shaved, his matted, moth-eaten locks shorn to his scalp, arrayed in a new wool cloak and fine red linen shirt, the king of the Northern Cymry finally resembled something worthy of the name. “You should have seen them, Llewelyn,” he bellowed. “They were mighty giants doing battle for me. It’s true!” Swaying unsteadily, he draped an arm across Bran’s shoulders. “I am forever in your debt, my friend. Hear me, Bran ap Brychan, may God blind me if I should ever forget.”
“That would be most uncomfortable for you,” allowed Bran with a smile, “but, never fear. I have a way to help you.”
“Then speak it out, man, and see how quickly it is accomplished,” said Gruffydd. Reeling slightly, he looked around for his cup, saw one in Llewelyn’s hand, and took it.
Bran hesitated, uncertain whether to take advantage of the king’s ale-induced generosity or wait until Gruffydd was sober once more—which might mean a wait of several more days.
“Speak, man, and if it is in my power to grant, you shall have it before the sun has set on another day,” boasted Gruffydd. He drained the cup and wiped the foam from his moustache. “What will you have?”
“Your friendship,” said Bran.
“That you have in abundance already,” replied Gruffydd grandly. He waved his hand airily.
“What else?” prompted Llewelyn, well aware of Bran’s true desire.
Bran looked to Tuck, who urged him with a glance to ask for the help he had come north to seek. “As I have aided the return of your king to his lands and people,” replied Bran, speaking slowly and deliberately, “I ask the king’s pledge to aid me in the return of my lands and people.”
A shadow passed over Gruffydd’s square face just then. The smile remained firmly fixed, but his eyes narrowed. “Then receive my pledge,” Gruffydd said. “How can I help you?”
“With men and weapons,” Bran said. “Raise the tribes of Gwynedd and the north and ride with me. Together we can wrest Elfael from the Ffreinc and drive them from our lands.”
Gruffydd frowned. He looked into the empty cup as if it had offended him, then thrust it back at Llewelyn. “If that lay within my power,” he said, his voice falling, “you would have it this very night. Alas, I cannot grant such a request.”
Bran’s face tightened. Staring at the king, he said, “You will not help?”
“I cannot,” replied Gruffydd, who seemed to have sobered in the matter of a moment. “You must understand,” he continued, half turning away, “I have been absent from my realm eight years! For eight years my people have been without a king—”
“They’ve had Llewelyn,” Bran pointed out.
“True enough,” granted Gruffydd, “and I am the first to say he has served faithfully and well. But you and I both know that it is not the same thing at all.”
“Then you will not help me,” Bran said, his voice tight.
“I wish you had asked anything but that,” the king replied. “My first duty is to my people and my realm. I cannot resume my reign by running off again as soon as I am home. Much less can I mark my return by forcing my people into a war that does not concern them. If you were in my place, you would see that.”
“My friends and I risked all to save you—”
“And for that you have my friendship and gratitude to my dying breath,” Lord Gruffydd replied.
“It is not your gratitude I want,” Bran said, his tone taking on an edge. “It is your aid in arms.”
“That,” said Gruffydd carelessly, “is the one thing you cannot have.”
Bran made to step closer. Gruffydd held his ground.
“My lord,” said Tuck, insinuating his bulk between Gruffydd and an increasingly angry Bran, “if you knew the precarious hold the Ffreinc possessed, you would see