carrying a basket of eggs between them-no doubt bound for the market. They fell in with the traffic moving across the bridge. Two men in short cloaks and tunics loitered at the rail, and as the girls passed by, one of the men, grinning at his companion, stuck out his foot, tripping the nearest girl. She fell sprawling onto the bridge planks; the basket overturned, spilling the eggs.
Bran, watching this confrontation develop, immediately started toward the child. When, as the second girl bent to retrieve the basket, the man kicked it from her grasp, scattering eggs every which way, Bran was already on the bridge.
Iwan, glancing up from the trough, took in the girls, Bran, and the two thugs and shouted for Bran to come back.
'Where is he going?' wondered Ffreol, looking around.
'To make trouble,' muttered Iwan.
The two little girls, tearful now, tried in vain to gather up the few unbroken eggs, only to have them kicked from their hands or trodden on by passersby-much to the delight of the louts on the bridge. The toughs were so intent on their merriment that they failed to notice the slender Welshman bearing down on them until Bran, lurching forward as if slipping on a broken egg, stumbled up to the man who had tripped the girl. The fellow made to shove Bran away, whereupon Bran seized his arm, spun him around, and pushed him over the rail. His surprised yelp was cut short as the dun-coloured water closed over his head. 'Oops!' said Bran. 'How clumsy of me,'
'Mon Dieu!' objected the other, backing away.
Bran turned on him and drew him close. 'What is that you say?' he asked. 'You wish to join him?'
'Bran! Leave him alone!' shouted Ffreol as he pulled Bran off the man. 'He can't understand you. Let him go!'
The oaf spared a quick glance at his friend, sputtering and floundering in the river below, then fled down the street. 'I think he understood well enough,' observed Bran.
'Come away,' said Ffreol.
'Not yet,' said Bran. Taking the purse at his belt, he untied it and withdrew two silver pennies. Turning to the older of the two girls, he wiped the remains of an eggshell from her cheek. 'Give those to your mother,' he said, pressing the coins into the girl's grubby fist. Closing her hand upon the coins, he repeated, 'For your mother.'
Brother Ffreol picked up the empty basket and handed it to the younger girl; he spoke a quick word in English, and the two scampered away. 'Now unless you have any other battles you wish to fight in front of God and everybody,' he said, taking Bran by the arm, 'let us get out of here before you draw a crowd.'
'Well done,' said Iwan, his grin wide and sunny as Bran and Ffreol returned to the trough.
'We are strangers here,' Ffreol remonstrated. 'What, in the holy name of Peter, were you thinking?'
'Only that heads can be as easily broken as eggs,' Bran replied, 'and that justice ought sometimes to protect those least able to protect themselves.' He glowered dark defiance at the priest. 'Or has that changed?'
Ffreol drew breath to object but thought better of it. Turning away abruptly, he announced, 'We have ridden far enough for one day. We will spend the night here.'
'We will not!' objected Iwan, curling his lip in a sneer. 'I'd rather sleep in a sty than stay in this stinking place. It is crawling with vermin.'
'There is an abbey here, and we will be welcome,' the priest pointed out.
'An abbey filled with Ffreinc, no doubt,' Bran grumbled. 'You can stay there if you want. I'll not set foot in the place.'
'I agree,' said Iwan, his voice dulled with pain. He sat on the edge of the trough, hunched over his wound as if protecting it.
The monk fell silent, and they mounted their horses and continued on. They crossed the bridge and passed through the untidy sprawl of muddy streets and low-roofed hovels. Smoke from cooking fires filled the streets, and all the people Bran saw were either hurrying home with a bundle of firewood on their backs or carrying food to be prepareda freshly killed chicken to be roasted, a scrap of bacon, a few leeks, a turnip or two. Seeing the food reminded Bran that he had eaten very little in the last few days, and his hunger came upon him with the force of a kick. He scented the aroma of roasting meat on the evening air, and his mouth began to water. He was on the point of suggesting to Brother Ffreol that they should return to the centre of town and see if there might be an inn near the market square, when the monk suddenly announced, 'I know just the place!' He urged his horse to a trot and proceeded toward the old south gate. 'This way!'
The priest led his reluctant companions out through the gate and up the curving road as it ascended the steep riverbank. Shortly, they came to a stand of trees growing atop the bluff above the river, overlooking the town. 'Here it isJust as I remembered!'
Bran took one look at an odd eight-sided timber structure with a high, steeply pitched roof and a low door with a curiously curved lintel and said, 'A barn? You've brought us to a barn?'
'Not a barn,' the monk assured him, sliding from the saddle. 'It is an old cell.'
'A priest's cell,' Bran said, regarding the edifice doubtfully. There was no cross atop the structure, no window, no outward markings of any kind to indicate its function. 'Are you sure?'
'The blessed Saint Ennion once lived here,' Ffreol explained, moving toward the door. 'A long time ago.'
Bran shrugged. 'Who lives here now?'
'A friend.' Taking hold of a braided cord that passed through one doorpost, the monk gave the cord a strong tug. A bell sounded from somewhere inside. Ffreol, smiling in anticipation of a glad welcome, pulled the cord again and said, 'You'll see.'
CHAPTER
7
Ffreol waited a moment, and when no one answered, he gave the braided cord a more determined pull. The bell sounded once more-a clean, clear peal in the soft evening air. Bran looked around, taking in the old oratory and its surroundings.
The cell stood at the head of a small grove of beech trees. The ground was covered with thick grass through which an earthen pathway led down the hillside into the town. In an earlier time, it occupied the grove as a woodland shrine overlooking the river. Now it surveyed the squalid prospect of a busy market town with its herds and carts and the slow-moving boats bearing iron ore to be loaded onto ships waiting at the larger docks downriver.
When a third pull on the bell rope brought no response, Ffreol turned and scratched his head. 'He must be away.'
'Can we not just let ourselves in?' asked Bran.
'Perhaps,' allowed Ffreol. Putting his hand to the leather strap that served for a latch, he pulled, and the door opened inward. He pushed it farther and stuck in his head. 'Pax vobiscum!' he shouted and waited for an answer. 'There is no one here. We will wait inside.'
Iwan, wincing with pain, was helped to dismount and taken inside to rest. Bran gathered up the reins of the horses and led them into the grove behind the cell; the animals were quickly unsaddled and tethered beneath the trees so they could graze. He found a leather bucket and hauled water from a stoup beside the cell. When he had finished watering the horses and settled them for the night, he joined the others in the oratory; by this time, Ffreol had a small fire going in the hearth that occupied one corner of the single large room.
It was, Bran thought, an odd dwelling-half house, half church. There was a sleeping place and a stone-lined hearth, but also an altar with a large wooden cross and a single wax candle. A solitary narrow window opened in the wall high above the altar, and a chain of sausages hung from an iron hook beside the hearth directly above a low three-legged stool. Next to the stool was a pair of leather shoes with thick wooden soles-the kind worn by those who work the mines. Crumbs of bread freckled both the altar and the hearthstones, and the smell of boiled onions mingled with incense.
Ffreol approached the altar, knelt, and said a prayer of blessing for the keeper of the cell. 'I hope nothing has
