'That word Grellon-what does it mean?'
'It is Britspeak, monk,' I tell him. 'It means flock-like birds, you know. It is what the people of Coed Cadw-and that means, well that's a little more difficult. It means something like Guarding Wood, as if the forest was a fortress, which in a way, it is.'
'Grellon,' murmurs Odo as he writes the word, sounding out the letters one by one. 'Coed Cadw.'
'As I was saying, Grellon is what Rhi Bran's people call themselves, right? Can we move on?' At Brother Odo's nod, I continue… So now, Iwan sent someone to fetch Bran's sword; and I was made to kneel in the barley stubble; and as the first drops of rain begin to fall upon my head, I plighted my troth to a new lord, the exiled king of Elfael. No matter that he was an outlaw hunted even then by every Norman in the territory, no matter that he had less in his purse than a wandering piper, no matter that a fella could pace the length and breadth of his entire realm while singing 'Hey-Nonny-Nonny,' and finish before the song was done. No matter any of it, nor that to follow him meant I took my life in my own two hands by joining an outlaw band. I knew in my heart that it was right to do, if only to annoy the rough and overbearing Normans and all their heavy-handed barbarian ways.
Oh, but it was more than that. It felt right in my soul. It seemed to me even as I repeated the words that would bind my life and fortunes to his that I had come home at last. And when he touched my shoulder with his sword and raised me to my feet, a tear came to my eye. Though I had never seen him or that forest settlement before, and knew nothing of the people gathered close around, it felt as if I was being welcomed into the fellowship of my own tribe and family. And nothing that has happened since then in all our scraps and scrapes has moved me from that stand.
The rain began coming harder then, and we all returned to the village. 'Your skill is laudable, William,' said Bran as we walked back together.
'Almost as good as your own,' said the lady, falling into step beside him. 'You may as well admit it, Bran, your man William is as good with a bow as you are yourself.'
'Just Will, if you please,' I told them. 'William Rufus has disgraced our common name in my eyes.'
'Rufus!' Bran laughed. 'I have never heard him called that before.'
'It is common enough in England,' I replied. Willy Conqueror's second son-the rakehell William, now king over us-was often called Rufus behind his back, on account of his flaming torch of red hair and scalding hot temper. His worthless brother, Duke Robert, is called Curthose owing to his penchant for wearing short tunics.
Thinking of those two ne'er-do-well nobles made me that sorry for Thane Aelred who, like all right-thinking men of his kind, had thrown in his lot with Robert, the lawful heir to the throne. Alas, Robby Shortshift turned out to be unreliable as a weathercock, forever turning this way and that at the slightest breath of a favourable wind from each and any quarter. That poor numbskull never could make up his mind, and would never fully commit himself to any course, nor stay one once decided. He was a flighty sparrow, but imagined himself a gilded eagle. The shame of it is that he led so many good men to ruination.
Aye, the only time he really ever led.
Of course, Red William held tight to the throne he'd stolen from his brother, and used the confusion over the succession-confusion he himself caused, mind-to further strengthen his grip. After he seized the royal money mintery, he had himself crowned king, sat himself on the throne, and decreed that what was in truth little more than a family disagreement had actually been a rebellious uprising, and all those who supported sad brother Robert were made out to be dangerous traitors. Lands were seized, lives lost. Good men were banished and estates forfeited to the crown. Only a small handful of fortune-kissed aristos came away scapegrace clean.
Turning to the lady, I said, 'Speaking of names, now that I've given mine…'
'This is Lady Merian,' Bran said. 'She is our…' He hesitated.
'Hostage,' she put in quickly. The way she mouthed the word with such contempt, I could tell it was a sore point between them.
'Guest,' Bran corrected lightly. 'We are to endure the pleasure of her company for a little while longer, it seems.'
'Ransom me,' she said crisply, 'or release me and your trial will be over, my lord.'
He ignored the jibe. 'Lady Merian is the daughter of King Cadwgan of Eiwas, the next cantref to the south.'
'Bran keeps me against my will,' she added, 'and refuses to set a price for my release even though he knows my father would pay good silver, and God knows the people here could use it.'
'We get by,' replied Bran amiably.
'Forgive my curiosity,' I said, plunging in, 'but if her father is only over in the next cantref, why does he not send a host to take her back by force?' I lifted a hand to the patched-together little village we were entering just then. 'I mean, it would not take much to overwhelm this stronghold, redoubtable as it is.'
'My father doesn't know where I am,' Merian informed me. 'And anyway, it is all the baron's fault. I wouldn't be here if he had not tried to kill Bran.'
'Is that Baron de Braose?' I asked.
'No.' She shook her head, making her long curls bounce. 'Baron Neufmarche-he is my father's overlord. Bran took me captive when the baron turned traitor against him.'
'It is somewhat complicated,' offered Bran with a rueful smile.
'No,' contradicted Merian, 'it is simplicity itself. All you need do is send a message to my father and the silver is yours.'
'When the time is right, Merian, I will. Be sure of it. I will.'
'That's what you always say,' she snipped. To me she confided, 'He always says that-it's been a year and more, and he's still saying it.'
The way they talked a fella'd thought they were a married couple airing a grudge nursed through long seasons of living together. There was little hostility in it, and instead I sensed a certain restraint and even a sort of backwards respect. They'd had this discussion so often, I suppose, that the heat had gone out of it long ago and they were left with the familiar warmth of genuine affection.
'Forgive my asking, but why was the baron trying to kill you, my lord?'
'Because he wants Elfael,' said Iwan, coming up behind me. 'No Ffreinc usurper can ever sit secure on the throne while Bran is alive.'
'Elfael is a good place to stand if you're trying to conquer all Cymru,' Bran explained. 'Elfael may be small, but it is a prize both de Braose and Neufmarche want to possess for their own. De Braose has it now, but that could change.'
'Aye,' said Iwan firmly, 'it will and one day soon.'
In this, I began to see the shape of the desperate necessity that had driven them into hiding. As in England, so in Wales. The Welsh now faced what Saxon England had suffered a generation ago. The difference was that now the Normans were far more numerous, far better supplied, and far more deeply entrenched in land and power than ever before. Restless, industrious, and determined as the day is long, the Norman overlords had stretched their long, greedy fingers into every nook and cranny of life in the Island of the Mighty. They are relentless, constantly searching out and seizing whatever they want and, often as not, destroying the rest. And now they had turned their attention to the hill-fast lands beyond the March.
I would not have given an empty egg for Wales' chances of surviving the onslaught. England in its strength, with its massed war host and bold King Harry leading the best warriors the land ever saw, could not resist the terrible Norman war machine. What hope in hell did proud little Wales ever have?
So now. Fool that I am, I had joined my fate to theirs, exchanging the freedom of the road and the life of a wandering odd-jobber for certain death in a fight we could never win.
Well, that's Will Scarlet for you-doomed beginning and end. Oh, but shed him no tears-he had himself a grand time between.
CHAPTER 7
Castle Truan
A little more than a year had passed since Baron William de Braose decreed that a market town would be built
