'What?'
'Lady Sybil Neufmarche-they were wed in the spring.' She explained about her father's death and funeral, and the match the baron had proposed. 'They are living here-Lady Agnes and Sybil, I mean.'
Bran dropped lightly to the ground. 'They won't let you go. And no matter what you say, you'll never persuade them to join us.' He gestured behind him. 'Scarlet, Tuck, come here.'
'What are you going to do?'
'Free you.'
'Please, Bran, not like this. If I stay here I might yet be able to convince them to join us. If I leave now, it will enrage them-and then you will have Garran and his men against you, too. We cannot risk making enemies of those who should be our friends.'
'Come with me, Merian. I need you.'
'Bran, I pray you, think what this means.'
Bran paused and looked up at her. 'I remember once, not so long ago, when I stood where I'm standing now and asked you to come with me,' he said. 'Do you remember?'
'I remember,' she said.
'You refused to come with me then too.'
'Oh, Bran.' Her voice became plaintive. 'This is not like that. I will come-as soon as I can. Until then, I will work to bring Garran around to our side. I can do this; you'll see.'
Bran started away, fading into the night-shadowed darkness.
'It is for the best,' Merian insisted. 'You will see.'
'Farewell, Merian.' Bran called over his shoulder. 'Come,' he said to Scarlet and Tuck, 'we are finished. There is nothing for us here.'
CHAPTER 27
Saint Martin's
The small steading lay amidst fields of barley in a narrow crook of a finger of the Vale of Elfael north of Saint Martin's-not the largest holding in Elfael, nor the closest to the caer, but one that Gysburne had marked before as a prosperous place and well worth keeping an eye on. Captain Aloin, commander of the knights that had been sent to help the abbot and sheriff maintain order in the cantref, surveyed the quiet farm from the back of his horse.
'Are you certain this is the place?' asked the captain, casting his gaze right and left for any sign of trouble. 'It seems peaceful enough.'
'The calm can be misleading,' replied Marshal Gysburne. 'These Welsh are sly devils every one. You must be prepared to fight for your life at any moment.'
The sheriff and abbot had determined to begin retaliation for the most recent predations of King Raven and his thieving flock. The sack of the Welsh farms and confiscation of all supplies, stock, and provisions would serve as a warning to the folk of the cantref-especially those who benefited from the thievery. To this end, a large body of knights-fully half of the entire force, accompanied by men-at- arms and four empty hay wains-had been dispatched to the holding with orders to strip it of all possessions and kill anyone bold enough to resist.
'And when we've finished here?' Captain Aloin asked.
'We continue on to the next farm, and the next, until the wagons are full. Or until King Raven and his foul flock appear.'
'How do you know he will come?' asked Captain Aloin as he and Gysburne rode out from the caer, each at the head of a company of soldiers.
'He will appear, without a doubt,' replied Marshal Guy. 'If not today, then tomorrow. Attacking one of his beloved settlements raises his ire-killing a few Cymry is sure to bring him out of hiding.'
'If that is so,' surmised Aloin. 'Then why have you not done this before? Why have you waited so long and put up with his thievery and treasons all this time?'
'Because Count Falkes de Braose-the ruler of Elfael before he was driven into exile-had no stomach for such tactics. He thought it important to gain the trust and goodwill of the people, or some such nonsense. He said he could not rule if all hands were against him at every turn.'
'And now?'
Gysburne smiled to himself. 'Now things have changed. Abbot Hugo is not so delicate as the count.'
'And Sheriff de Glanville?'
'What about him?'
'Where does he stand in this matter? It was de Glanville who begged our services from the king. I would have thought he would ride out with us today.'
'But he has,' replied Gysburne. 'He most certainly has-as you shall see.' The marshal lifted the reins. 'Walk on,' he said.
Captain Aloin raised his fist in the air and gave the signal to move out, and the double column of soldiers on horseback continued on. Upon reaching the farmstead, the knights quickly arrayed themselves for battle. While half of the company under the command of Gysburne rode into the yard and took over the holding, Aloin's division fanned out to form a shield wall to prevent any approach to the property and discourage anyone who might be minded to take an interest in the affair.
Sitting on his great warhorse in the centre of the yard, Gysburne gave the command to begin.
Knights and men-at-arms swarmed into the house and dragged out the farmer, his wife and daughter, and three grown sons. There were several others as well, hauled out into the early-morning light to stand in the yard surrounded by enemy soldiers and watch while all their possessions, provisions, and supplies were bundled into wagons. None of the Welshmen made even the slightest attempt to interfere with the sack of their home. The farmer and his sons stood in stiff-legged defiance, glowering with pent rage at all those around them, but said nothing and did not lift a hand to prevent the pillage-which Gysburne put down to their display of overwhelming military might. For once, the superior Ffreinc forces had cowed the indomitable Welsh spirit.
The ransacking of the house and barn and outbuildings was swiftly accomplished. The fact that the soldiers had not had to subdue the hostile natives and the piteous lack of possessions meant that the raid was finished almost as soon as it began. 'It is done,' reported Sergeant Jeremias as the last grain sacks were tossed into a waiting wagon. 'What is your command?'
'Burn it, Sergeant.'
'But Sire-Sheriff de Glanville said-'
'Never mind what de Glanville said. Burn it.'
'Everything?'
'To the ground.'
The sight of torches being lit brought the farmer and his sons out of their belligerent stupor. They began shouting and cursing and shaking their fists at the Ffreinc soldiers. One of the younger boys made as if to rush at one of the knights as he passed with a torch. But the farmer grabbed his son back and held him fast. They all watched as the flames took hold, rising skyward on the soft morning air. The farmwife held her head in her hands, tears streaming down her face. Still, none of the Cymry stirred from where they stood.
When it was certain that the flames could not be extinguished, Marshal Guy gave the order for the knights to be mounted, and the company moved off.
'That went well,' observed Aloin when the last of the wagons and soldiers had cleared the yard. 'Better than I expected-from what you said about the Welshies' love of fighting.'
'Yes,' agreed the marshal slowly, 'in truth I expected more of a fight. Just see you keep your sword ready. We cannot count on the next one being so peaceful.'
But, in fact, the Cymry at the second farm were no more inclined to take arms and resist the pillagers than the first lot. Like those at the previous settlement, the second clan put up no struggle at all, bearing the assault with a grave and baleful silence. If they did not voice their fury outright, their doomful expressions were nevertheless most eloquent. Again, Marshal Guy could not quite credit the odd docility of the natives when faced with the
