Bran untied the leather laces at the neck of his feathered cloak and hung it on the tine of a protruding antler above one of the baskets; above the cloak, he hung the high-crested hood with its weird mask, then removed the black leather gauntlets and put them in the basket. He knelt over a basin on the floor to splash water on his face and drew his hands through his black hair. Shaking off the excess moisture, he arched his back and then suddenly slumped and sighed, and his body quivered as if with cold. The tremor passed, and Bran straightened. When he turned, he had changed slightly; he was more the Bran whom Aethelfrith remembered.
Angharad invited her guests to sit and stepped out to a barrel beside the door; she dipped out a bowl, which she brought to the priest. "Peace, friend, and welcome," she said, offering him the cup. "May God be good to thee all thy days, and strengthen thee to every virtue."
The priest bowed his head. "May his peace and joy forever increase," he replied, "and may you reap the rich harvest of his blessing."
"It is water only," Bran explained. "We don't have enough grain to make ale just now."
"Water is the elixir of life," declared the priest, raising the bowl to his lips. "I never tire of drinking it." He sucked down a healthy draught and passed the bowl to Bran, who also drank and passed it to Iwan. When the big man finished, he returned the bowl to Angharad, who set it aside and took her place at the fire ring with the men.
"I trust all is well in Hereford," said Bran, easing into the reason for the friar's journey to Elfael.
"Better than here," replied Aethelfrith. "But that could change." Leaning forward in anticipation of the effect his words would have, he said, "What if I told you a flood of silver was coming your way?"
"If you told me that," replied Bran, "I would say we will all need very big buckets."
"Aye," agreed the priest, "and tubs and vats and casks and tuns and barrels and cisterns large and small. And I say you had best find them quickly, because the flood is on the rise."
Bran eyed the stout priest, whose plump cheeks were bunched in a self-satisfied grin. "Tell us," he said. "I would hear more of this silver flood."
CHAPTER
36
The rider appeared unannounced in the yard at Caer Rhodl. The horse was exhausted: hide wet with lather, spume pink with blood, hooves cracked. Lord Cadwgan took one look at the suffering animal and its dead-eyed rider and commanded his grooms to take the poor beast to the stables and tend it. To the rider, he said, "Friend, your news must be grievous indeed to drive a good horse this way. Speak it out, and quickly-there will be ale and warm meat waiting for you."
"Lord Cadwgan," said the rider, swaying on his feet, "the words I have are bitter ashes in my mouth."
"Then spit them out and be done, man! They will grow no sweeter for sucking on them."
Drawing himself up, the messenger nodded once and announced, "King Rhys ap Tewdwr is dead-killed in battle this time yesterday."
Lord Cadwgan felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Only months ago, Rhys, King of Deheubarth-and the man most Britons considered the last best hope of the Cymry to turn back the tide of the Ffreinc invaders-had returned from exile in Ireland, where he had spent the last few years ingratiating himself with Irish kings, slowly eliciting support for the British cause against the Ffreinc. Word had gone out that Rhys had returned with a massive warhost and was preparing to make a bid for the English throne while William the Red was preoccupied in Normandie. Such was the strength of King Rhys ap Tewdwr's name that even men like Cadwgan-who had long ago bent the knee to the Ffreinc king-allowed themselves to hope that the yoke of the hated overlords might yet be thrown off.
"How can this be?" Cadwgan wondered aloud. "By whose hand? Was it an accident?" Before the messenger could answer, the lord collected himself and said, "Wait. Say nothing." He raised his hand to prevent the reply. "We will not stand in the yard like market gossips. Come to my chambers and tell me how this tragedy has come about."
On his way through the hall, King Cadwgan ordered drink to be brought to his room at once, then summoned his steward. With Queen Anora and Prince Garran in attendance, he sat the messenger down in a chair and commanded him to tell all he knew of the affair.
"Word came to our king that Ffreinc marchogi had crossed our borders and set fire to some of our settlements," the messenger began after taking a long pull on the ale cup. "Thinking it was only a few raiders, Lord Rhys sent a warband to put a stop to it. When none of the warriors returned, the alarm was raised and the warhost assembled. We found the Ffreinc encamped in a valley inside our lands, where they were building one of those stone caers they glory in so greatly."
"And this inside the Marches, you say?" asked Cadwgan.
The messenger nodded. "Inside the very borders of Deheubarth itself."
"What did Lord Rhys say to that?"
"Our king sent word to the commander of the foreigners, demanding their departure and payment for the burned settlements on pain of death."
"Good," said Cadwgan, nodding his approval.
"The Ffreinc refused," continued the messenger. "They cut off the noses of the messengers and sent the bloodied men back to tell the king that the Ffreinc would leave only with the head of Rhys ap Tewdwr as their prize." The messenger lifted his cup and drank again. "By this we knew that they had come to do battle with our lord and kill him if they could."
"They left him no choice," observed Garran, quick to refill the cup. "They wanted a fight."
"They did," agreed the rider sadly, raising the cup to his lips once more. "Though the Ffreinc force was smaller than our own-fewer than fifty knights, and maybe two hundred footmen-we were wary of some treachery. God knows, we were right to be so. The moment we assembled the battle line, more marchogi appeared from the south and west-six hundred at least, two hundred mounted, and twice that on foot. They had taken ship and come in behind us." The messenger paused. "They had marched through Morgannwg and Ceredigion, and no one lifted a hand to stop them, nor to warn us."
"What of Brycheiniog?" demanded Cadwgan. "Did they not send the battle host?"
"They did not, my lord," replied the man curtly. "Neither blade nor shield of Brycheiniog was seen on the field."
Speechless with shock, King Cadwgan stared at the man before him. Prince Garran muttered an oath beneath his breath and was silenced by his mother, who said, "Pray continue, sir. What of the battle?"
"We fought for our lives," said the messenger, "and sold them dear. At the end of the first day, Rhys raised the battle call and sent to the cantrefs close about, but none answered. We were alone." He passed a hand before his eyes as if to wipe the memory from his sight. "Even so," he continued, the fighting continued until the evening of the second day. When Lord Rhys saw that we could not win, he gathered the remnant of the warhost to him, and we drew lots-six men to ride with word to our kinsmen, and the rest to remain and seek glory with their comrades." The messenger paused, gazing emptily down. "I was one of the six," he said in a low voice, "and here I am to tell you-Deheubarth is no more."
King Cadwgan let out a long breath. "This is bad," he said solemnly. "There is no getting around it." First Brychan at Elfael, he thought, and now Rhys at Deheubarth. The Ffreinc, it seemed, would not be content with England. They meant to have all of Wales, too.