

TANGWSTYL

Mansel Jones

Goylake Publishing

Copyright © 2010 Mansel Jones

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publisher.

The right of Mansel Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Condition of Sale

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

Goylake Publishing, Iscoed, 16A Meadow Street, North Cornelly, Bridgend, Glamorgan. CF33 4LL

http://www.goylakepublishing.com

This book is dedicated to Daniela

and to

Owain and Rhys, heroes in their own right

Author's note:

This story is a work of fiction based upon historical fact

# Principal Characters

The Vill

Euros - Master of the Hall

Anest - a healer

Madog - Steward of the Hall

Tirion - a servant girl

Tangwstyl - child of prophecy

Lady Meirian - Mistress of Ty Maen

Einion ap Rhiryd - a blacksmith

Branwen - Mistress of Deumay

Rhys Goch - Master of Hevedaker

Cynan ap Gruffydd - Esquire to Rhys Goch

The Castle

Sir Roger de la March \- Constable of Kenfig Castle

Payn de la March - Portreeve of Kenfig Town

Geoffrey de la March \- Bailiff of Kenfig Borough

Matildis - Matriarch of Kenfig Castle

Sir William Scurlag - Constable of Ogmore Castle

Athelena Scurlag - Sir Roger's betrothed

Rig Fitzsimon - Chief Sergeant, Keeper of the Peace

Morgan de Avene - Lord of Avan

The Church

Father John - Abbot of Margam Abbey

Brother Osbert - Prior of Margam Abbey

Brother Leisan - Precentor of Margam Abbey

Brother Blanchigernonis - a shepherd at Llanfihangel Grange

Brother Helias - a herbalist

Brother Jordan - Envoy to the Bishop of Llandaff

Cardinal Francesco D'Orso - Papal Legate

Johanna Wittard - Custorin of the Maladeria

Lords and Nobles

Richard II - King of England

Edward - Duke of Aumerle

Sir Thomas Despenser \- Earl of Gloucester

Sir Reginald Grey - Lord of Ruthin

Owain Glyn Dwr - Lord of Glyndyfrdwy

From an English Chronicle – 'The Welsh habit of revolt against the English is an old-standing madness...and this is the reason: the Welsh, formally called Britons, were once noble crowned over the whole realm of England; but they were expelled by the Saxons and lost both the name and the kingdom. The fertile plains went to the Saxons, but the sterile and mountainous districts to the Welsh. But from the sayings of the prophet Merlin they still hope to recover their land. Hence, it is that the Welsh frequently rebel, hoping to give effect to the prophecy.'

See ye that blazing star

The heavens look down on Freedom's war

And light her torch on high,

Bright upon the dragon's crest

It tells that glory's wings shall rest

When warriors meet to die.

Let Earth's pale tyrants read despair

And vengeance in its flame

Hail! Hail! Ye Bards, the omen fair

Of conquest and fame,

And swell the rushing mountain air

With songs of Glyn Dwr's name.

Iolo Goch, c1402

# Prologue – 13th March 1399

Silence invaded the tavern. Calloused hands wiped excess ale from pensive lips. Eager eyes turned their gaze upon one man and held, transfixed. That man was Madog, steward of the Hall in the manor of North Corneli. He sat, centre stage, square and resolute, his right elbow resting upon the scarred, ale-stained surface of a trestle table, a table that had once served as a church door. A gateway to God for the conversi and the learned brethren, the door had become a battleground, a place for men to test their strength and pit their wits, a surface whereupon reputations could be made together with a sizeable profit, a location where purses could swell with all the indecency of a bloated gourmet.

With his muscular right arm poised, Madog opened his hand, inviting his opponent. His slate-grey eyes remained unblinking, focused; the game could begin.

Sitting opposite Madog was one John Faber, a blacksmith from the town of Kenfig. Burly and squat, he stared intently into the Welshman's eyes. Beads of sweat formed on John Faber's brow, for he knew of Madog's reputation: none had bettered him in ten years of competition; no one had lowered his colours in a decade of combat. And all this despite the fact that Madog felt compelled to fight with his weaker arm, for he had lost the strength of his natural arm, his left, when that limb had been taken from him, severed, from just below the elbow, when serving the king at the battle of Quimperle during the French wars of 1375.

The taverners circled around the two men, creating a sense of theatre. Predominantly burgesses, they were from the nearby town of Kenfig. A few travellers were scattered amongst their number, together with a handful of villeins from the manor of North Corneli. A certain antipathy existed between burgesses and villeins, this stemming from the fact that the town, protected by its castle, represented the citadel of the conqueror. Founded by the Normans, some three hundred years prior, the town, like many others, stood as an English enclave, with its own laws, its own taxes and its own rights. The indigenous population might have been able to live with this imposition, had these laws, taxes and rights not impinged upon their native traditions and customs, for it was written in the town charter that the burgesses had exclusive trading rights in the town and in the neighbouring manors. In practice, this meant that the villeins were forbidden to sell their produce, or trade their goods, save upon market day in the town. And, to rub salt into this economic wound, a toll had to be paid before the villeins could enter this bastion of commerce.

Another source of provocation was the town mill: the burgesses were free to grind their own corn, or pay a suitable miller, whereas villeins were obliged to take their corn to the town mill. And for this doubtful privilege they were forced to pay a handsome price. Little wonder that resentment often flared into open hostility.

Without question, to hold a burgage plot meant to hold privilege. And this privilege was jealously guarded with few outsiders invited in. The natural order had to be maintained, interest had to be protected; those settlers who had risked all, who had gambled with their lives, and with the lives of their kin, expected, indeed, demanded this, and more.

Within the cosy confines of the Angel Tavern, the villeins may well have been small in number but, with contentment, they smiled, for bets had been well placed, wagers made on the outcome of the contest between Madog and John Faber and history, in this circumstance, suggested that they would win.

With the sparring over, the protagonists placed their respective right elbows adjacent to one another. Fingers entwined. John Faber's face contorted into an expression of supreme effort, a nervous tic playing around his left eye. Madog remained impassive, his forearm taking the strain. The silence was broken by a cry of exultation emitted by one of the taverners and soon all had joined in. Both sides urged on their respective champion. Fists were clenched in advocation. Yells gave way to jostling and to open aggression. A lot of ale was spilt.

At God's table, sweat continued to pour from John Faber's brow. The blacksmith bared his teeth as he summoned up the last vestiges of his strength. Again, Madog remained impassive, unflinching, save for his rippling triceps, which bulged as he absorbed the blacksmith's might.

The wooden table creaked and groaned. Imperceptibly, Madog began to take control of the contest; to the delight of his supporters, it appeared as though he was about to win.

Tightening his grip on John Faber's hand, Madog allowed his effort to be displayed upon the contours of his rugged face whereupon the taverners became frantic in their excitement. One, supporting John Faber, made to intervene, to halt the contest, only for others, with bets well placed, to hasten and restrain him. All was lost for the blacksmith. With a thud that echoed like thunder, Madog brought the back of John Faber's hand crashing down, on to the table. God himself doubtless shuddered at the sound. From the victors, cheers and coins filled the air, overwhelming the moans and the sighs of the vanquished.

Holding his right arm in tender fashion, John Faber rose from the table. With a snarl, he turned his back on the contest, seeking instead the comfort and the consolation of his associates. With typical modesty, Madog took the plaudits, the slaps upon the back, the cries of adulation. The winning bets were paid. The villeins had made a good profit from the tavern. Some of the burgesses, not blinded by loyalty or over-burdened by allegiance, had also backed the Welshman. Now, they placed a number of silver coins in front of Madog, a show of thanks and appreciation. As was his wont, Madog uttered a few softly spoken words of recognition, before picking up the coins and placing them in the comfort of his leather purse.

With the arm-wrestling over, dice and merrills now took the gamblers' attention; Joaf, the rat-catcher, proved fortunate with the former, allowing Ernald, the dung-collector, to display a surprising degree of dexterity in regard to the board game. As for the rest, the hard-earned wages of the day were casually frittered away.

As the ale flowed, a sense of bad feeling overwhelmed the tavern. Accusations of cheating ran rife. Words gave way to blows that, in turn, gave way to bloodshed. Madog had seen enough. He downed his ale, collected his sack of victuals, obtained earlier, at the market, and headed out into the cool of the night air.

Madog walked home along a trackway, a road first paved by the Romans; a path trampled for over a thousand years. The walk covered a distance of some one and a half miles, heading southeast, from Kenfig Town to North Corneli Hall. Open fields, woodland and small settlements lined the way. The night was clear, starlit, inviting. The road was quiet. Peace and serenity reigned supreme. Although a man once given to battle, the tranquillity of such an evening now appealed to Madog. He felt at ease with solitude, in the open fields, tending his animals. He thought of his cows, in particular the finest, the one he would present to the Church on the thirteenth of September, this being the feast day of St Cornelius, the patron saint of cattle. He hoped that this animal, along with all the others, would escape the murrain, the virulent disease that was sweeping the countryside. Times were hard; a plague was something they could ill afford.

Madog entered the vill to find lanterns burning. Within the confines of their timber-framed dwellings, womenfolk declined their beds and waited instead for their drunken men to wend their weary way home from the various inns and taverns. Some of them, no doubt, were still licking their wounds, sore from the fight at the Angel Tavern. Wives and lovers would not be impressed. Smiling, Madog reflected that, like the lanterns, many of the women would flare-up at the sight of the diverse cuts and bruises, indignation fuelling their flame; insult would be added to injury as sure as the Church collected its tithes.

With that thought in mind, Madog opened the main gate and entered the courtyard, before striding towards the magnificent structure that was the Hall. Built of stone, with slates upon its roof, the Hall was flanked by stone barns and stone outbuildings. A stairway, also made of stone, led to the living quarters, which were situated upon the first floor, while the ground floor consisted of a large vaulted undercroft, ideal for storage. Generous windows lighted both the main hall and the solar. A high stone wall, positioned opposite the main body of the building completed the rectangle, enclosing the courtyard. Without doubt, the Hall was a building fit for a lord. And, Madog reflected proudly, his lord was fit for such a building.

Madog barely had time to close the main gate when his dog, Ci, leapt towards him. An animal of indeterminate breed and good nature Ci ran towards his master, raising his front paws at the end of his approach. Laughing, Madog took hold of the dog's paws, cradling them in his strong right hand. He patted his dog upon the head before delving into his bag of victuals. From there, he produced a bone, obtained from the town butcher. Sitting upon command, Ci sniffed at the bone, his tongue lolling out in fervent anticipation, a smile seemingly playing around his soft, gentle mouth. Madog uttered, 'Good boy,' then, he tossed the bone, Ci catching it in his jaws before running around joyfully, making the courtyard his playground. The steward laughed even louder as the animal sped in circles, dropping the bone before swooping upon it with a snarl and a growl. His brow creased however when he caught sight of his cattle, housed, as they were, near the frontage. Should he inspect them now, or wait for the dawn? Madog reasoned that the clear light of morning would be a more trusting ally than the gloom of a March night. Besides, he was tired; it was time to rest.

Madog was about to climb the stone steps and enter the Hall, when Ci barked, demanding his attention. At first, Madog thought that this was just another canine game involving the bone. However, when he turned, he discovered that the bone had been abandoned; Ci was at the main gate, barking frantically, the hackles upon his back standing on end. Narrowing his eyes, Madog walked across the courtyard. He bade his dog to silence and, dutifully, the animal acquiesced. Stepping in front of Ci, Madog opened the solid oak door and strode out of the courtyard. His eyes now widened in surprise as before him stood a young woman, late in her teens. She was pregnant, heavily so. Her hair was dark, a rich auburn, but her skin was pallid, an unnatural colour, even allowing for the soft illumination offered by the moonlight. Madog noticed that her feet were bare and that she was wearing a simple threadbare tunic. On her shoulders there rested a veil while, surprisingly, upon her hip, there sat a quillon dagger, a dagger akin to a miniature sword with its protruding hand guards and its finely bejewelled hilt. Her hands were clutching her midriff while her pretty face was convulsed in pain. It was then that Madog caught sight of the blood, droplets of life forming a crimson pool upon the earth. He was about to run, to seek assistance, when the stranger reached out, crying, 'Help me!' before collapsing, unconscious, into the crook of Madog's strong right arm.

* * *

The great abbey of Margam was located some two and a half miles to the north of Kenfig. A Cistercian house, founded in 1147, the abbey followed the Rule set down by the monks of Citeaux. The Order adhered to Benedictine principles with the aim of creating a freedom of the mind, body and heart through a vow of poverty and an austere lifestyle, an essential component of that lifestyle being the daily round of prayer. The day concluded with the singing of the Office of Compline where weary monks gave thanks to God after a long day of prayer, study and toil. Today, as on every other day, Brother Leisan, the abbey's precentor, led the service. Tall, lean and of sombre appearance, Brother Leisan was a quiet, studious man, whose other duties included those of librarian and archivist. He obtained great joy from his singing and he always put his heart and his soul into the psalms at Compline, exalting, as they did, total trust in God.

As the chant of the Salve Regina filled the choir stalls, Brother Leisan cast an eye over his fellow brethren. The numbers were few now; waves of plague, and an antipathy towards the spiritual life, had taken their toll. The first person to catch Brother Leisan's attention was the abbey's leader, Abbot John. The abbot was a man short in stature with an unruly head of tonsured, snow-white hair and dark brown eyes, made watery with age. His face was lined with experience and no little wisdom. He stood at the head of the choir stalls, rubbing his eyes, whether through tiredness or contamination, only he could say. Abbot John had guided his flock for over thirty years now, through times of famine, through times of plenty. Adroit and politically skilled, he was nothing if not a survivor. Beside Abbot John stood his deputy, Brother Osbert, prior of the abbey. As usual, Brother Osbert held a somewhat stern, supercilious expression; his thin lips pursed, his prominent nose protruding, his dark, piercing eyes staring straight ahead. In contrast to Abbot John's hair, Brother Osbert's hair was rich and dark, as black as midnight. A conscientious, disciplined man, with eyes on the great prize of one day achieving the status of abbot, Brother Osbert had his supporters amongst the brethren, though Brother Leisan would be the first to admit that he was not among their number.

Glancing along the stalls Brother Leisan's eyes fell upon those of Brother Helias. The assistant herbalist and infirmarer to his fellow monks, Brother Helias had a dark complexion. In addition, he had a flat nose - the result of a childhood accident - and an unfortunate, somewhat devious expression. A young man under the tutorage of Brother Ithenard, Brother Helias had arrived at the abbey after serving as an esquire to a local lord, the dashing and popular Morgan de Avene. Helias had accompanied Morgan on King Richard's expedition to Ireland, some five years earlier, and had found the experience, the carnage, the bloodshed, disturbing, to say the least. Upon their return, Helias had pleaded with Morgan that he might take his leave and so enter the abbey and his lord, being generous to a fault, had acceded to this request. Unfortunately, for Brother Helias, the horrors of the secular world had given way to disillusionment with the Church. This left him confused: his beliefs and principles had been shattered by his experiences in Ireland; he had entered the abbey in search of a Grail, but he was no longer sure of its shape or its form. Guardedly, Brother Leisan nodded towards Brother Helias. Displaying an equal amount of discretion, Brother Helias inclined his head in turn.

Love for the Blessed Lady had been fully expressed; the Salve Regina had been dutifully intoned. Now, Abbot John moved amongst the brethren, sprinkling them with holy water. Suitably blessed, the monks could retire for the evening and rest until the Night Office of Vigils.

As the monks dispersed, some jostling with their fellow brothers, some telling lewd, scurrilous jokes, Brother Leisan and Brother Helias held back. They waited until the monks had entered the south transept and were well on their way to the dormitory. Secure in this knowledge, Brother Leisan glanced over his right shoulder, ensuring that Abbot John and Brother Osbert were well out of sight, hidden as they were, by the corner of the south transept wall. It was then, and only then, when he was certain that no eyes could be set upon him, other than those of God, that Brother Leisan delved into the sleeve of his vestment, removing a roll of parchment from its copious folds. In a smooth and well-practiced manoeuvre, the dexterity of which would have drawn a conjurer's applause, Brother Leisan transferred the parchment into the sleeve of Brother Helias' habit. The two brothers then traded glances, but no words were spoken. The exchange complete, Brother Helias lowered his dark, sad eyes before quietly, innocently, striding towards his workshop.

The intense brother had taken no more than two steps when Brother Osbert cried out, 'Brother Helias!' filling the south transept with his censorious tones.

It was as if fingers of ice had gripped his shoulder. They held on tight and, slowly, they turned him around. A crimson hue brightened Brother Helias' sombre features. Averting his gaze, he looked down to the tessellated floor. Lost in thought, Brother Helias failed to notice the coat of arms of the family Despenser, they being overlords of Kenfig and generous benefactors to Margam Abbey. Instead, he saw only a blur, a swirling mass of colour, patterns circling on the diminutive floor tiles. His mind racing, Brother Helias could think only that Brother Osbert had caught sight of the transfer, that his piercing gaze would be his downfall.

'Brother Prior.' Brother Helias spoke softly. Slowly, he took a step towards his would-be tormentor.

'Come quickly, brother!' Brother Osbert waved his arms around like some demented windmill, the blades of which had been caught in a storm. 'Father Abbot is in need of your ministration!'

His sense of relief was palpable. Brother Osbert had not witnessed the exchange after all. Instead, Abbot John lay stricken, slumped at the altar, a wrinkled, blood-blotched hand placed against his forehead. If Brother Helias had been of a calm mind, he would have noted that Brother Leisan had remained unmoved throughout the hiatus; he had retained his sanctimonious air, his persona remaining as pure as the abbey's whitewashed walls. For Brother Helias, the urge to run had abated. A sense of decorum and virtue could be maintained after all.

Slipping his right hand into the left sleeve of his habit, Brother Helias clutched at the parchment, holding it tight. Reassured that it was secure, he then hurried towards the abbot.

Brother Osbert was at the old man's side, placing a steadying hand to the abbot's left elbow. 'Father Abbot has been taken by one of his sick headaches.' Brother Helias was dutifully informed. 'He is in need of a balm from your workshop.'

'I am fine.' The abbot waved a weary, exasperated hand towards the prior. 'Get to your bed. Let me rest.'

'You have been working too hard,' Brother Osbert insisted. He placed his thin lips close to the abbot's ear, lowering his voice to a whisper: 'You are worried about the king's visit?'

'The king's visit is in good hands – your hands.' The abbot took hold of the prior's hand, patting it with enough warmth to thaw a thousand frosts. 'Your hands,' he repeated. 'I have no worries there.'

As Abbot John offered his words of reassurance to the prior, Brother Helias noted that the brethren had retraced their steps and that they were now gazing upon their stricken leader. This drew forth a frown of disapproval from the old man, for he loathed over-fussiness and any sense of unwarranted attention; he believed that if a man had to suffer, then he should be allowed to do so on his own terms.

'Get to your beds,' the abbot ordered, whilst making a feeble attempt to ease himself away from the prior's support. 'Hear me all: I am tired, but I am well.'

Reluctantly, uncertainly, the brothers withdrew, taking with them diverse thoughts pertaining to their sickly abbot, thoughts that they would share with each other when resting that night in the comfort of their beds.

Brother Osbert was not so easily dissuaded, however, and he clung on to the abbot's sleeve, frenetically, frantically, fussing around him like a mother hen. 'But you seem troubled,' the prior persisted. 'Let me look into your eyes.' He bent a knee and squatted before the abbot, his ghostly lips pursed as he made his assessment. 'Yes, just as I thought; your eyes are bloodshot. You will not obtain any relief until you allow Brother Helias to make a balm for your head.'

Reluctantly, Abbot John conceded that the prior was correct. Such headaches had pained him since adolescence; they were a periodic cross that he was forced to bear. Relief only came from the balm blended by Brother Helias; the old abbot acknowledged that it was time to call upon his gifts once again.

'You are right, Brother Prior. I shall go to my bed and I shall take my medicine. Brother Helias...' With the bending of his right index finger, all gnarled and crooked, Abbot John summoned his herbalist. 'If you will be so kind as to prepare a poultice...Please bring it to my chamber. I shall lie in wait for you there.'

Reverentially, Brother Helias inclined his head. His fingers were still clutching the illicit parchment, ensuring that it remained secure, that not so much as an inch should reveal itself. He watched as the abbot, supported by the prior, left the altar, both followed by Brother Leisan, who proceeded to walk straight ahead. Not once did the precentor turn to look back at Brother Helias, for there was no need: their plans had been well made and each man knew how to conduct himself.

With that thought in mind, Brother Helias crossed the cloister and hastened towards his workshop, this being situated outside the enclave of the abbey, beyond its imposing stone walls. Normally, Brother Helias' mentor, Brother Ithenard, would have tended to the abbot. However, the elderly brother had taken a fall late in winter and was recuperating in the abbey infirmary. Not that Brother Helias lacked confidence in his task; Brother Ithenard had been a good teacher and Helias an eager pupil; much knowledge and skill had been acquired these past four years.

When he arrived at his workshop, Brother Helias found the place in darkness, save for a soft, suppressed glow from a fire, under curfew. After hiding the parchment in a large earthenware pot, Brother Helias withdrew the curfew. Then, he applied a bellows to the fire, encouraging a bright orange flame. When that flame had risen to a satisfactory heat and light, he fired a lantern and proceeded to search amongst his herbs, placed, as they were, high upon a shelf, out of harm's way. Locating a measure of barley, he sprinkled it into a suitable pot, transferring that pot on to the fire, so that the contents might boil. To the pot, Brother Helias added a handful of betony and vervain. When the concoction had boiled and simmered to Brother Helias' satisfaction, he took a pair of tongs and removed the pot from the fire, draining away the excess water and placing the mash upon a dry, clean cloth. The herbs were then wrapped in the cloth, ready for the whole to be placed upon the sick abbot's forehead. Satisfied with his alchemy, Brother Helias prepared his return to the abbey. He was about to gather up the poultice only for a cold blast of wind to ruffle both his habit and the flames in the hearth. Startled, the monk looked up, his jaw dropping as he found the imposing figure of Rig Fitzsimon, chief sergeant to the borough of Kenfig and keeper of the peace, framed in the doorway.

Entering the workshop, Rig closed the door. He was the bastard son of Simon St Quentin de Orchard, a wealthy lord of dubious moral standing and doubtful character. Rig's mother, a lady with a reputation as vast as any ocean, was said to be free with her favours, having a particular penchant for the rich and the well groomed. Strong and menacing, with a dark, brooding presence, Rig Fitzsimon was exceptionally tall, broad shouldered and powerfully built. He had fair, wavy hair, swept back from his forehead, a long, thin nose and dark, hooded eyes, set close. He was wearing a long, quilted tunic, a deep red in colour. The tunic covered a shirt of closely linked mail, visible at the collar. His shoes and belt were made of leather, his belt sitting low upon his hip, weighed down, as it was, by a particularly heavy broadsword. Like Brother Helias, Rig had also served King Richard in Ireland. Though, unlike the good brother, the mercenary had thoroughly enjoyed his time there, glorying in the bloodshed and the violence, enhancing his reputation through the slaughter, so much so that upon his return to Kenfig he had been offered the position of chief sergeant.

'I was just leaving.' In a somewhat nervous, agitated fashion, Brother Helias fingered the poultice. He offered up the remedy, presenting it to the chief sergeant, as if to indicate its benign nature: after all, he was a law-abiding man; he had nothing to hide. 'I must take this cure to my lord abbot.'

'The abbot can wait.' Rig's voice was hard and imposing. He crossed the workshop floor and he stood, broad and tall, his shoulder resting insolently against the wattle and daub wall. Beside Rig's head, level with his eyes, sat the jar, the earthenware pot containing the scroll of illicit parchment. Brother Helias eyed the pot uneasily; he began to perspire profusely, beads of sweat trickling over his brow. However, Rig remained unaware of this; he had removed a dagger from his belt and was busying himself, cleaning his fingernails. He looked up from his manicure and smiled at Brother Helias: 'We have business to discuss.'

Reluctantly, Brother Helias set the poultice to one side. He averted his gaze, staring into the fire's rich flame. 'We have nothing more to say to one another.' He glanced up, briefly, peering anywhere but into Rig's intimidating eyes. 'I made my feelings plain the last time we spoke.'

'Not one month ago you agreed to make a poison. You swore an oath: to get rid of this accursed king.'

'The only oath that I have taken is to serve My Lord God.'

'You swore that you would make the poison!' Rig's vociferous tones shook the workshop, disturbing the herbalist, shattering a veneer of confidence that was but parchment thin. Cringing, Brother Helias fingered the threads of his habit, his face matching the garment's colour as it faded into virgin white.

'I did,' Brother Helias conceded. 'I said that I would help you. But my heart and my thoughts have changed upon this matter. I bid you, take your leave, let me free from your plan.'

Rig laughed, the laugh of the Devil: wicked, perverted, alluring. 'Oh, that it were that easy. But we have invested time, set our plans around you, brother. You cannot withdraw now.' Sheathing his dagger, the chief sergeant drew his broadsword, placing its tip at the quivering brother's neck. 'I am here to remind you of that fact. I am here to ensure that you proceed.'

'Run me through.' Brother Helias closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer to the Blessed Virgin. 'But what will you gain by my murder? Please accept that I cannot perform the task; my conscience will not allow.'

'Not one month ago, you were keen; you displayed a fervour like no other. Who has changed your mind? With whom have you talked?'

As Rig's broadsword drew blood, Brother Helias had to concede the truth in this statement: when his former lord, Morgan de Avene, had approached him, Brother Helias had been keen to play a part in the matter, for he resented the king with a passion rooted deep within his soul. That resentment still burned, born out of Ireland, fuelled by the king's capricious nature and his disregard for his people. The monk felt that if ever a man deserved to receive the punishment of his peers, then Richard was that man. However, all this had occurred before Brother Helias' conversion, before a chance conversation with Brother Leisan had led him along a more glorious path. True, this path too was strewn with rocks and with boulders; dangers presented themselves at every turn. Nevertheless, Brother Helias felt that these dangers could be faced, that the journey was both noble and glorious. He had found a cause that begged his commitment, one that rested easily upon his mind. And yet, at night, when all was quiet, demons were still wont to torment him. Why couldn't he find peace? Why wouldn't they leave him alone!

Brother Helias opened his eyes only to notice specks of red upon his habit, droplets of blood, born from his trembling, for with each shake of his body Rig's sword had cut a little deeper, until the moment arrived when the monk could stand this torture no more. Taking his courage into his hands, he leapt free of his tormentor, scurrying to the safety of the open door.

Once outside, Brother Helias felt that he could confront the chief sergeant. Calling to mind the strength of the Trinity, he felt sure that he would come to no harm. With this holy shield to protect him, he raised an arm, extended a finger and pointed towards Rig, as if daring him to raise his sword again and take up arms. When this did not happen, Brother Helias felt his breathing return to normal; he felt free to speak, to present a façade of calm.

'I have talked with God. I have found my direction. I can help you no longer. I beg you to go. I will not betray you. Please find another. Rest assured, your plot will lie safe in my knowledge; I will spread its word to no man.'

Grinding his teeth, Rig sheathed his sword before gathering up the poultice. He threw the dressing at the monk, who caught it with juggling hands.

'Return to your abbot!' Rig's face was like thunder, the echo of his tenor resounding just as loud. 'But I remind you again, this cannot be the end of the matter. I shall return,' he informed the monk as he pushed his way beyond him, 'and I shall hold you to our terms, for no man, regardless of his standing, shall present a moat to our plan.'

* * *

Anest gazed at the baby and smiled. Her smile was one of satisfaction, born of assisting the infant into this world. Meanwhile, the baby's mother, Ceinlys, a woman of comfortable build and homely nature, sat upon her bed, nursing the child. A bout of colic had brought forth tears and tantrums, but a soothing cordial, a mixture of cumin and anise provided by Anest, had brought both relief and silence to the homestead. The cordial had been administered to Ceinlys, the act of suckling ensuring that the child had absorbed its goodness.

Sitting beside Ceinlys was her husband, Meredydd. He was a crofter, farming two acres of land in the vill of Ballas, an indigenous settlement situated one and a half miles to the southeast of the Hall. As lean as a hoe and as proud as any father, Meredydd gazed at the baby with a quiet satisfaction, overjoyed that, after producing three grown-up daughters, he had sired a son.

'I don't know how we can thank you.' Ceinlys blushed with gratitude, pulling her shawl close around her baby, keeping out the evening chill. 'Once again, we are in your debt.'

'Your husband has rewarded me well.' Anest nodded in acknowledgement towards Meredydd, holding aloft a silver penny, a good quarter of the hardworking crofter's daily wage. 'I am the one who should be thanking you.' Offering up a phial of medicine and an earthenware cup, Anest trusted both to Meredydd's safe keeping. 'If Medrawd should further complain, take a quarter measure of this linctus, but be sure that four hours should pass between each ministration.'

Ceinlys spoke for herself and for her husband. 'Be assured, we will heed your words well.' She kissed her baby's head, her pride in him palpable, her joy unconfined. More than most, she was a woman born to motherhood, a natural at maternity's skills and demands. When she looked up, however, to face Anest, there was concern etched on her tender face. 'But you must be tired. Your bed calls. Allow Meredydd to walk you home.'

'There is no need.' Anest's natural tone was one of reassurance. Sometimes she wondered if her words, and not her herbs, brought the cure, when it came. 'It is a fine night and the road is safe; I will find my own way home.'

Rising from the bed, Meredydd set down the phial and the earthenware cup before stepping out of the homestead. He walked with Anest, to the dirt track, to the path that led to her home, one mile distant. As they walked, he insisted: 'If at any time we can help you, you will make use of our labours?'

Anest nodded. 'Of course, Meredydd. If I am in need of assistance, for any reason, I know where to come.'

Abashed, the crofter stared down at the ground, his fingers tugging at his clothing, his discomfort preventing him from looking Anest straight in the eye. 'You have been such a strength to us. We could not have coped without you.'

'You would have found a way, Meredydd. But, all the same, your words do bring me great comfort and joy.'

With a diffident shrug, born both of embarrassment and gratification, Meredydd took a step away from the healer. Looking up and down the dirt tack, he found the road to be clear. Reasoning Anest to be safe, he considered that it was time to rejoin his wife and child.

Anest left Ballas with a feeling of contentment, a glow of satisfaction, warming within. She had all but retired for the night when Meredydd had come calling, seeking her knowledge and her skill. And, without hesitation, she had responded, for Anest gained a sense of purpose through helping the likes of Meredydd; her healing facilitated the easing of her own scars, those wounds obtained on the natural journey through life.

Lost in thought, Anest headed east, following the dirt track as it snaked through the woodland, the trees inviting a sense of confinement and enclosure that would have brought a sense of unease to some. However, Anest felt comfortable for the hoots from the owls and the scurrying of the night creatures made her feel secure and at home.

Anest lived on Stormy Down, in the only cot to remain inhabited. The Down was well named for it was indeed a bleak, desolate place. Ironically, the name was a corruption, taken from the family who had first settled upon the Down. They were called Sturmi. However, when the harsh, uninviting landscape had forced the Sturmis to sell and take their leave, the locals had taken to calling the Down Stormy; the name seemed more appropriate, somehow. And it remained, giving accurate description, leaving no one in any doubt as to the nature of the exposed, windswept Down.

As she walked, Anest thought back to the time when she had first travelled through this woodland, sharing its pleasures with her father, less than a year ago. Like Anest, her father had also been a healer. Indeed, she had learned her skills from him, watching his every move, questioning his every action, seeking the reason behind his every decision. Back then, they had been travellers; along with her mother they had sold their wares, plied their trade, moving from town to town. However, on arriving in Kenfig, Anest's mother had succumbed to illness, leaving them with no option but to stop travelling and to settle, at least until a cure had been found.

Most of Stormy Down had been gifted to Margam Abbey. Margam Abbey, in turn, rented out plots of land to anyone imprudent enough, or desperate enough, to make a home there. At this point, Anest's family were close to being beggars, so they knew that they could not be choosers; an agreement was made, the lease was signed and the rent was paid on the first Monday of every month.

All went well in the initial period. However, it soon became apparent that Anest's mother would not recover. Distraught, her father had abandoned his calling and had settled instead for a life tilling the ground. Neither he, nor the landscape, were best suited to the demands of this labour and, within six months, he had followed his wife into God's everlasting embrace. These events were still fresh in the memory, and Anest carried her grief, albeit silently, with her, hiding it well, offering instead a pleasant, spirited disposition to the outside world.

Crossing the Roman road, the road that continued from the manor of North Corneli to the settlement of Laleston, Anest stopped and stared into the night sky. The stars, and their formations, were familiar to her and she took great joy in observing their patterns. However, there was something strange about the sky tonight: an object, unidentified, was seen to be glowing, its tail apparently on fire. Upon any other occasion, Anest would have held her position and tried to make sense of her vision, but tonight she was too tired; the lantern burning beside her cot proved more alluring and the thought of her bed offered more comfort than any celestial form.

Wearily, Anest opened her door. She was soon wide-awake, however, stirred by the view displayed before her, for sitting on her bed was Einion ap Rhiryd, a blacksmith from North Corneli. With a build to match his trade, Einion was a strong, burly man with rugged hands and muscular forearms. Thickset and of medium height, he had a mass of curly brown hair, dark, intense eyes and a heavy beard, speckled with fine hairs of grey. Instinctively, Anest had placed a hand to her mouth, in an effort to disguise her surprise. But now she withdrew that hand and fixed Einion with an accusing stare.

'What are you doing here?' she demanded.

Einion rose from the bed. He offered up his right hand, and a gift held there within. 'I made this for you.' The gift was a beautiful silver brooch depicting a bird in flight; the detail was exquisite, its labour obviously intense. 'It is a thank you, for tending my wounded hand.'

With a sigh, Anest closed the door and entered her cot. She approached Einion and accepted the brooch, taking it from his yielding fingers. The brooch was pretty, that she had to admit. However, Anest had already received payment for tending Einion's hand and she felt uncomfortable in accepting this additional gift.

'Thank you.' Anest ran her fingers over the brooch, outlining the detail of the bird's wings. 'The brooch is lovely and you are very kind. But I feel that you should find another more deserving of such a beautiful gift.'

'You are deserving!' Einion was adamant. He held up his left hand and indicated a scar, a mark that ran deep between his thumb and forefinger, the legacy of a wound self-inflicted during the course of his work. 'Without your skill, I might have lost my hand.'

Anest laughed, a merry sound, a sound sweet enough to charm the birds from the trees. 'You are exaggerating.' She took off her veil and placed it upon her chest of clothes. She was feeling more relaxed now, over the initial shock of finding Einion, uninvited, in her home. 'Your hand was in no danger. Any woman worth her salt would have repaired such a graze.'

'But you were the woman I turned to.' Einion took a step towards Anest, placing his large frame in close proximity to her slender body. He reached down and took hold of her left hand, embracing her delicate fingers so that her palm faced upwards, running his fingers over her soft, pure skin. 'You came to me in my hour of need.'

Disconcerted, Anest removed her hand. She turned her back on Einion; the brief period of calm had given way to a feeling of unease. 'I did no more than perform my duty. I would have done the same for any man.'

'But you did it for me.'

Einion attempted to place his arms around Anest's waist, but she was too quick for him; nimbly, she pulled away. A frown creased her forehead. Tension knotted her shoulders and back. Normally swift of thought and full of resolution, she found herself confused, vulnerable.

'I am tired,' Anest conceded. 'I think you should leave.'

'I will go.' The blacksmith's tone was compliant, yet he showed no sign of departure. 'But first you must hear me out.'

In resignation, Anest took her place upon the bed, sitting close to its edge. Resting her head in her hands she sighed, 'What more do you have to say?'

'I would like you to be my wife.'

Startled, Anest looked up, her eyes as wide as a knight's shield. Was she really holding this conversation? She felt as though she had wandered into a bad dream. It was clear that Einion was both serious and sincere, but Anest wanted no part of his proposal. How to decline the blacksmith's offer without hurting his feelings?

'I am flattered, but I am not well disposed to marriage.'

'Why not?' Einion demanded an answer. 'Explain yourself; make your words plain.'

'Very well.' Anest rose from the bed, drawing herself up to her full height which, even she had to admit, was not all that impressive. 'I made a vow to myself, to marry only for love, to decline all offer of position or money.'

At this, Einion became angry, his face flushing with rage, his temples throbbing in indignation. 'You do not love me? You think me nothing more than a poor smithy? Well, let me tell you, a smith I am, and proud of it. I have built my father's forge into the finest in this land. I have been frugal, careful with my money. I do not have a vast fortune, but I have enough to satisfy any woman's needs. And I can satisfy yours, if you would but let me.'

'You make a strong case, but you appeal to the wrong woman. Now...' Anest took a step towards her door, pulling it open. '...it really is time for you to leave.'

Still incensed, Einion took hold of Anest's hand. Gripping it tightly, he extracted a cry of pain and a shriek of protest from the healer.

'I will not be denied.' Einion placed his lips close to Anest's face, so much so that she swooned at the stench of his stale breath. With his right foot, Einion kicked out, slamming the cot door shut. 'I have made you a part of my plan.'

'Indeed you have,' Anest conceded, 'but with little regard for my feelings. Please...' Wilfully, she tried to free herself from his grip, but he was too powerful and she obtained no satisfaction. 'You are hurting me!'

The atmosphere within the home-cum-workshop had turned ugly. Two determined spirits were pulling in opposite directions, neither willing to yield; Anest considered that, maybe, she should become more compliant. Yet, such an act was anathema to her; she would fight and she would stand her ground, whatever the consequences. The conflict had fired Einion's passion, and he stooped to kiss Anest, only for his ardour to be cooled by a persistent knocking upon the cot door.

Momentarily distracted, Einion released his grip upon Anest. Taking advantage of the blacksmith's confusion, she reached for the door. Upon its opening, her shoulders dropped and the tension drained away from her body, for there, framed in the doorway, stood the solid, reassuring form of Madog. With his granite features impassive, the steward stared at Einion, noting the blacksmith's deep colour and the labour of his breathing.

'Problems?' Madog enquired of Anest.

'Einion was just leaving,' Anest explained, tactfully.

Realising that he had no choice but to take this prudent course of action, Einion stepped out of the cot. Pausing, to adjust his belt, he reassured himself, he made certain that his heavy purse remained upon his person, laden, as it was with the coin of the realm.

'I will see you in the morning,' Einion informed Anest.

The healer lowered her eyes, offering no reply.

When Einion had, at long last, taken his leave, Anest turned to Madog. 'Thank you,' she sighed. 'I am in your debt.'

'A debt that can be repaid immediately. Quickly...' Madog pointed towards Anest's workbench and the rows of phials and medicines. 'Gather together your herbs and your simples; there is a young woman at the Hall in urgent need of your help.'

* * *

An imposing donjon dominated Kenfig castle. Built two hundred years previously by the Normans, the structure contained five floors of solid stone. A strong deterrent to the most radical rebel, the donjon cast a large shadow over a copious inner bailey, containing, as it did, a barracks for the garrison, stables for the horses, a smithy, kitchens, storerooms and a church, dedicated to St Thomas.

All was quiet when Rig Fitzsimon walked beyond the church and through the inner bailey. He climbed a wooden staircase and entered the donjon through a doorway on the first floor. From there, he strode beyond the guardroom, acknowledging the guard's presence, before passing a series of offices: his own, the bailiff's, the reeve's and the ale taster's.

Climbing the inner staircase with its right-hand spiral, Rig arrived at the second floor and the Great Hall. This was the hall where guests were entertained and the Hundred and Borough Courts were held. A hated symbol of seigniorial authority, the Hundred Court was the bane of many a villein; here, he was judged, not by his peers, but by those whom he deemed to be his oppressors.

Alighting on the third floor, a floor set aside for private apartments, Rig walked down a narrow corridor, pausing outside a chamber, the room occupied by Payn de la March, portreeve to the town of Kenfig.

After rapping on the arched door, the entrance to the chamber, Rig was met by silence. He repeated the act, this time with more force. Once again, silence was the only friend to greet him. So, Rig resorted to calling out his name, in an effort to obtain the desired response: 'My lord, it is Rig; I have word from Brother Helias.'

A groan emanated from the chamber. This was followed by the sound of footsteps, hurried movements, as someone approached the door. At that moment, the door opened and a young woman made her exit. Rig recognised her as a prostitute, a wench from the town. She provided favours to lonely soldiers garrisoned within the castle, comfort to lovelorn burgesses and, if rumour were to be believed, services to errant priests.

'This had better be good,' Payn growled. He joined Rig in the doorway. The second son of Matildis and the late Sir Walter de la March, Payn was lean and tall with collar length blond hair, parted in the centre. An easy, seductive smile and eyes of ice blue dominated handsome features. Clean-shaven, Payn could appear angelic, a look vastly at odds with the devil that lurked within.

With a lascivious eye, Payn watched as the prostitute made her way down the corridor, her passing breeze disturbing the flame of a burning candle. The slap of her bare feet could then be heard on the stone as she descended the staircase, echoing in the half-light, fading into the shadows, quietly slipping away.

With the prostitute gone, Rig followed Payn into the darkened chamber, a fire in the hearth and a solitary torch, burning near the north wall, offering scant illumination. Yet, even this fragile light allowed for observation, permitting a shadowy view of the clutter, the general sense of disorder, the chaos rampant within the room: the bed, unsurprisingly, was unmade, clothing was strewn over chairs and tables, parchment littered the floor.

In keeping with the room, Payn himself was somewhat dishevelled. His hair was unkempt and his only item of clothing, a soiled undergarment, hung loosely off his right shoulder. With his left hand, Payn attempted to straighten the garment. But it would not obey him, the shift slipping down as he stooped to gather up a wine jug.

'You have word from Helias.' As he straightened, Payn poured himself a measure of the dark liquid. He drank thirstily from the goblet before, in the act of replenishment, spilling a great deal of the wine on to the floor.

'He will not do the deed,' the chief sergeant intoned, soberly.

'Are you sure?'

'I made every effort, my lord, but I could not persuade him. Brother Helias says that he has found his conscience. I fear that any further cajoling will bring little reward.'

'Bastard!' With his left hand, Payn staunched a rivulet of wine, a trickle of red as it dribbled down his chin. With his right hand, he hurled the goblet, sending it crashing against a tapestry, a hunting scene hanging against the south wall. As the red stain of wine spread over the hounds and the hawks, Payn sought other objects, items on which to vent his anger. He located a chess set, sitting upon a small gaming table, and he proceeded to sweep the pieces on to the floor. 'We cannot allow this bastard son of God to defy us! Helias will have to be dealt with!'

'But what of the king?' Rig asked. 'Who will make the poison?' The chief sergeant remained totally calm, completely unmoved, for he had witnessed Payn's outbursts on numerous occasions.

The two men had first met in Ireland, during King Richard's campaign of 1394. Kindred spirits, an affinity had developed between them, and it was through Payn's efforts that Rig had secured his high office and trusted position.

After a moment of reflection, spent gazing vacantly at the debris littering the floor, Payn brightened, his sanguine features becoming rosy through an iniquitous thought: 'I believe I have found the answer: Morgan de Avene.'

Rig frowned, unable to follow his co-conspirator's line of reasoning. 'Explain, my lord, how can Morgan help us with the poison?'

'Not the poison!' Payn walked over to the chief sergeant, placing his lips close to the strongman's ear, lest his words be lost in the shadows of the room. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper: 'Morgan is the best bowman in the land; agreed?'

'Agreed.'

'He can perform the task with his arrow. We are in need of poison no longer.' Overjoyed at this idea, Payn poured himself a fresh goblet of wine. In celebration, he offered a similar measure to the chief sergeant.

Accepting the wine, Rig took in its aroma; it was bitter, it was stale, but it would suffice. 'What if Morgan shows reluctance? What if he objects to your scheme?'

'Morgan is a driven man, driven by principle as much as by profit. He hates the king with a vengeance. He will consider it an honour to deliver the coup de grace.'

Rig nodded, conceding that Payn had made a valid point; while most of the conspirators were driven by greed, profit being their motive, Morgan was different; he had a conscience, beliefs. Principle fired his dislike of Richard, a principle held so high that it could be exploited for the common good.

'I will talk with Morgan in the morning.' Smiling, Payn was at ease now, jovial, relaxed; a solution had been found to their problem. 'I am sure he will side with our plan.'

'And what of Brother Helias?'

'Brother Helias has become surplus to our requirements. Deal with him.' Payn's smile became a grin, a grin both twisted and malicious, his sadistic nature coming to the fore. 'Allow him to feel the sharpness of your sword. I want him to bleed like a pig, to squeal in death.'

Quaffing his wine, Rig felt his pulse beat in agreeable rhythm, for violence was his lifeblood, the regulator of his heart.

His goblet empty, Rig set down the vessel with a sigh of satisfaction. 'Consider the deed done, my lord. You may sleep soundly upon that fact tonight.'

* * *

The Hall had become a familiar sight to Anest, though she was a stranger to its interior. Pausing outside the main gate, she waited while Madog secured their entrance. As she stood there, in the moonlight, she reflected upon the tiredness, the fatigue that had so bedevilled her thoughts earlier in the evening and on how that tiredness had been washed away by a wave of emotion, a wave of anticipation as she had responded to Madog's request for assistance.

'I carried her into the undercroft.' With a gentle nudge of his shoulder, Madog opened the gate and stepped into the courtyard. He pointed towards the large undercroft doors, standing tall before them. Nodding, he indicated the stone steps, the steps that lead up to the living quarters. 'I felt the steps would only aggravate her condition; the pain she was in, I held fear for her life.'

'You did well, Madog,' Anest nodded, reassuringly. 'I consider the woman blessed in that she fell into your arms.'

The healer joined the steward in the courtyard, offering her hand to Ci as he ran beyond her, his tail wagging, his nose to the ground; it was rare for Ci to ignore his master, but Madog paid no heed to the dog's behaviour, his thoughts being well occupied by the stranger and her suffering.

Gazing up at the heavy undercroft doors, Anest watched as Madog eased them open. She joined the steward in the undercroft and observed as his eyes darted from one bale of straw to another.

'I set her down here.' With enquiring fingers, Madog raised a few strands of straw, only for a bloodstain to leave its mark. Puzzled, he stroked his chin, his eyes wandering as he sought the darker recesses and the whereabouts of the young woman. 'Where could she be?'

Anest was at a loss to provide an answer. Stumbling, she wandered around in the darkness. Not for a moment had she doubted Madog's word but, from his description of her suffering, she wondered what strength had possessed this stranger, what courage or desperation had taken hold of her, what new place of sanctuary had she sought?

The moonlight smiled upon the courtyard, bathing it in gentle illumination. Tiring of the darkness, Anest's eyes sought relief and she turned her head, to look towards the glow. It was then that she caught sight of Ci, nose still to the ground, twitching, sniffing frantically, following a trail that led to the Hall's perimeter. Glancing across to Madog, she observed as he too noticed the dog's movements. In silence, healer and steward joined Ci at the main gate and then beyond as they followed the dog into the manor.

Ci had picked up a trail, a trace of blood and was tracking it, down a dirt road, beyond the church of St Wenduin. He was heading towards a crossroads, the junction of the Roman road and a road that led into the manor of South Corneli. There, Ci veered off into a hedgerow, allowing both Madog and Anest to emit a sigh, a breath of relief, for they had found the stranger: she had apparently fallen from the road and was caught up in the bushes, her hair and clothing a tangled mass, engulfed by branch and thicket.

Pleased with himself, Ci barked, only to fall silent upon his master's command. After praising his dog, Madog knelt, the better to assist the young woman. Feebly, she tried to push him away before gathering enough strength to point towards the manor house in South Corneli.

'I must get to Ty Maen.' Holding her stomach, and clearly in pain, the young woman's voice was barely audible: 'Help me, please.'

'What awaits you in Ty Maen?' Anest asked. Kneeling at the young woman's side, the healer's eyes and fingers engaged in a preliminary examination, reaching the conclusion that the birth was imminent; but the blood loss was extravagant: clearly there were complications.

With a flickering of her long eyelashes, the stranger drifted into unconsciousness, denying Anest an answer to her question. Realising the urgency of the moment, Madog raised the woman to her feet. He supported her with the stump of his left arm, taking her into his right arm, lifting her from the ground. Then, he carried her back to the undercroft.

Once there, Anest got to work, not wasting an instant. She instructed Madog as to her needs: 'Fetch me a blanket, clean water, some honey and a knife.'

After revealing her sack of medicines, Anest proceeded to remove the stranger's clothing: her veil, her tunic and her under-dress. She could not help but notice the quillon dagger, attached, as it was, to the young woman's hip. This caused Anest to wonder at the dagger's significance: was this woman a hunter? A criminal? Or merely wise to the dangers of this world and thus simply protecting herself? Then, there was the question of where she had obtained such a finely crafted instrument, its like normally being the preserve of rich lords.

The stranger groaned, racked by yet another contraction. Anest responded by administering a measure of juniper juice, in the hope that this would promote the baby's swift arrival.

Placing a hand upon the young woman's forehead, Anest took note of her appearance for the first time. She had long auburn hair, reaching to the small of her back. Of medium height, she possessed attractive, seductive features. Her skin could barely have felt the warmth of eighteen summers. However, what concerned Anest the most was her build, this being small, delicate, narrow hipped. Around those hips, and especially around the birthing area, her skin was covered in bruises. Anest was left to conclude that, rather than the baby fighting to get out, someone had been fighting to get in.

'Rest, relax.' Anest did her best to calm and soothe. 'The baby will soon be with us.'

The stranger opened her eyes and, despite her pain, she tried to smile. 'What...what is your name?' she whispered.

'Anest. And your name?'

'Tirion.'

'That's a nice name. Do you have any kin?'

'None.' Tirion closed her eyes. Each word was an effort, a challenge, an exertion. Her blood loss had clearly weakened her and Anest worried that Tirion might not have the strength left, might not have the energy, to deliver the baby. She reasoned that Tirion's kin should be with her at such a vital moment and she wondered if there was any hope of getting word to them.

'What of the baby's father?' Anest probed, gently. 'What is his name? Where is he from?'

'A brooch...' Tirion opened her eyes; they were large, brown, vacant. She waved a hand, somewhat feebly, in the general direction of her clothing, '...in my purse.'

Sorting through Tirion's clothing, Anest located a belt and the purse that hung upon it. Opening the purse, she removed a beautifully crafted, jewelled ornament; a ring brooch set with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. Anest had seen its like on no one save the finest, the richest of ladies, which begged the question: was the baby's father a man of wealth and privilege? Turning the brooch over, Anest noted an inscription upon its reverse: io sui ici en liu dami – I am here in place of a friend.

'It was a gift...' Tirion smiled, as though recalling a distant, pleasing memory, '...from him.'

Lost in thought, Anest returned the brooch to the safety of Tirion's purse. She looked up to find the reassuring figure of Madog towering above her. He was carrying fresh water; his belt was laden with the requested knife and honey; a blanket was thrown over his left shoulder.

'He is a Welshman. A hero. A mighty lord.' Tirion continued her soliloquy, speaking distantly, as though lost in a trance: 'A man of tenderness and love. The only love I have ever known. A seer said my love has returned from ancient times to lead our people; he will be our Prince, he will help us to recapture the lands lost to the Normans and the Saxons, he will restore us to our former glories, for he is the new Arthur, and he is hope.'

In wonder, Anest and Madog exchanged glances. Both had been affected by Tirion's soliloquy. Both knew of Merlin's prophecy. Yet, neither dared to believe that, after close on one thousand years, that prophecy would come true and Arthur would be reborn. But in what form, in what guise? Who was this man? Who would aspire to don Arthur's mantle?

Another contraction suggested that the birth was imminent. On Anest's instruction, Madog placed the blanket over the straw. Then, he knelt beside Tirion, gathering her, holding her close to his chest, carrying her to the birthing bed where, gently, he set her down, her back and her head supported, her hips raised.

'Whatever becomes of me, you must save the baby.' Tirion looked up at Anest, her eyes wide, pleading, praying that her words would be made so.

'I will do all that I can.' Although Anest smiled and patted Tirion upon her hand, her mind was taken, troubled by yet more blood loss: the blanket, so freshly placed, was already stained a deep scarlet; bit by bit, Tirion's life was seeping away.

Experience told Anest that the baby would not appear in the way nature intended; Tirion's small frame and her weakened condition would see to that. There were few options. One was to make a cut, to make the birth in the way of Caesar. However, Tirion had already lost so much blood: could her body absorb a further incision? Anest stared at the knife, its edge sharp and gleaming. She realised that the moment of truth had arrived. The time for decision was nigh.

* * *

Rig's broadsword nestled comfortably in the palm of his right hand, the blade glinting in the moonlight. Concealed within a clump of oak trees, he glanced across to Brother Helias' workshop and found a lantern there, flickering, suggesting that the good brother was at home. At this, Rig pondered: was Brother Helias making another potion for the stricken abbot? Would the monk soon return to the abbey dormitory to sleep the sleep of the just? One thing was for certain, Rig reflected: Brother Helias would sleep this night; Rig's heavy blade would see to that. Moreover, upon his arrival in the next world, he would find himself swaddled in a cloak, a cloak owned by the Devil.

There was no time to lose. Rig resolved to execute the deed and seek his own bed, to dream of the riches born of his actions. He broke cover and strode towards the workshop only to be surprised by Brother Helias' emergence. Blending in with a sturdy oak, Rig watched as the monk glanced furtively about him, first to his left, then to his right. Apparently satisfied, Brother Helias set off along a dirt track, passing the Beggars Bush, the place where alms were distributed to the poor, before stepping on to the Roman road. Sheathing his sword, Rig followed in the monk's footsteps, keeping himself well out of sight, curious to know what Brother Helias was about on such a perfidious night.

Arriving at a great monolith, an ancient standing stone, Brother Helias paused, only to be joined, a moment later, by a woman, tall and well proportioned, angular in her movements. Rig narrowed his eyes, trying to focus upon her features, but they were well hidden by a long, flowing veil. The woman and Brother Helias engaged in brief conversation before the parchment was exchanged. The woman took her half of the exchange and concealed it, unread, about her person. Brother Helias did likewise, hiding his freshly acquired manuscript in the folds of his habit. The two embraced, only for a gust of wind to tear the veil from the woman's face, revealing long, elegant features. Rig recognised her immediately: she was Johanna Wittard, custorin of the maladeria.

Puzzled, Rig stood back in the shadows and watched as Johanna Wittard scurried into the darkness while Brother Helias retraced his steps, following the road from whence he came.

Deciding that the time for confrontation was ripe, Rig stepped into the road, startling Brother Helias. The anxious monk placed a hand to his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed with some difficulty, his eyes wandering to the heavens.

'What are you doing abroad at this hour?' Rig asked, his voice hard, threatening, full of menace.

'Why, nothing,' Brother Helias laughed, nervously, his voice strangled, its pitch painfully high. 'Except... I was delivering a potion; one of the cottars at Margam has been taken ill with pustules.'

'A pain to be sure,' Rig conceded. 'And how was the poor devil to have waged you...in vellum?'

Drawing his sword, the chief sergeant flicked at the monk's habit, cutting the cloth wide open. No sooner had he done so than the illicit parchment fell on to the floor, sending Brother Helias to his knees in an attempt to retrieve the manuscript. But the wind, a zephyr one moment, a gust the next, hindered his efforts, taking the parchment into the trees and into the hedgerows.

Eventually, when all had been safely gathered in, Brother Helias scrambled to his feet. Pitifully, he tried to conceal the parchment, grubby and creased though it was, some of the words stained, obliterated.

Raising his sword, Rig levelled its tip at the monk's chest, pinpointing the parchment. Unable to conceal his delight, he grinned rapaciously: 'What have we here?'

'Nothing of great import,' Brother Helias smiled sheepishly, his feet taking small, backward steps as he tried to move away from the chief sergeant.

'Perhaps I should be the judge of that.' Glancing around, Rig took in the road, the woodland and the sand dunes; apart from the rabbits in the conyger, they were alone: the deed could be done, surreptitiously.

'Please...I have already told you...I am sorry...I can no longer help you.'

'And I too am sorry.' Rig spoke the words, but his vicious expression betrayed their true meaning. With a movement as swift as it was brutal, he thrust his sword deep into the monk's heart, lifting him off his feet, staining his white habit red, killing him instantly.

Standing back to take in the scene, Rig watched as the steam rose from the lesion in Brother Helias' body. Although he had committed murder, he felt at peace, having experienced a great release of emotion, for killing was cathartic to Rig, each new victim lighting a candle within his soul.

With Brother Helias fallen, unseeing eyes staring at the dust, Rig planted one foot firmly upon the road and the other upon the chest of the vanquished brother. Then, he proceeded to withdraw the sword and wipe it upon the monk's bloodstained habit.

Sheathing his sword, Rig knelt so that he could collect the parchment. The words upon the rolls could wait for a more opportune moment before they were given over to close scrutiny. Regardless of their meaning, Rig held the belief that they would be of value, for one thing was assured: the nature of the meeting suggested something clandestine, something underhand, something unlawful. Therefore, Rig would keep the parchment; experience had taught him to value all information; it could be used to bend wills, alter minds, persuade people to your way of thinking.

* * *

'In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Mary gave birth to Christ, Anne gave birth to Mary, Elizabeth gave birth to John the Baptist. Mary gave birth to Our Lord Jesus Christ without shame and without sorrow. In his name and through the merits of St Mary the Virgin, his mother, and of St John the Baptist we ask you to come out, child, whether you be male or female, from your mother's womb, without dying or causing her death. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.'

Anest intoned the prayer, hoping that her words would find favour with St Margaret of Antioch and that she, a patron saint of childbirth, would intercede and smooth the passage of Tirion's labour.

The healer had already decided that if a cut were necessary then Tirion would require some form of sedation. Prepared for such an eventuality, Anest possessed a beverage called dwale, a mixture of lettuce, bryony, opium, henbane, juice of hemlock and the gall from a sow, all mixed in a measure of wine. From her medicines, Anest produced this concoction, handing the phial to Madog. Then, she proceeded to wash her hands, along with the belly and the genitalia of the pregnant woman.

The preparatory stage over, it was time to assist in the birth of Tirion's baby.

Tilting Tirion's head forward, Madog was about to administer the dwale when the young woman's eyes opened. She stared wildly at her clothing: 'The dagger...you must ensure that Payn de la March gets the dagger...promise me...promise.'

Mystified, Anest moved to Tirion's side. 'Does the dagger belong to Payn de la March?'

Crying out in pain, Tirion was unable to answer. She gripped the straw as yet another contraction consumed her. This was swiftly followed by yet more blood loss. The intensity, and the regularity, of the bleeding proved to be far greater than anything Anest had ever seen before. This forced the healer to reconsider her options: dangerous at the start, the cut seemed impossible now; any incision and subsequent blood loss would surely drain Tirion of all life. In conclusion, Anest decided that the dwale would not be required; she would have to find another way.

Sobbing, Tirion took hold of Anest's cloak; her fingers, white, translucent, gripping the cloth with surprising force. 'The baby...will be a girl...and she is to be called Tangwstyl.'

In compliance, Anest nodded. She would carry out Tirion's instructions. But she had so many questions: where was Tirion's home? Why was she trying to reach Ty Maen? And in relation to the baby: what was the father's name? And how did she know of its sex? When Tirion subsequently spoke, Anest considered that, maybe, some of those questions remained, etched upon her face.

'The seer...he told me about the baby...believe, and you will all be saved.'

Consciousness had once again deserted Tirion leading Anest to fear that all hope might soon be lost. She was aware that action had to be taken swiftly, or the baby would not take its place in this world. But what to do? Looking at Madog, she was struck by an idea.

'Can you lift Tirion and stand above me on that straw?' Anest pointed to a series of bales, akin to a set of grain steps, arranged neatly, placed near the undercroft door.

Madog nodded vigorously: 'That will be no problem. Stand clear, we will see this child born yet.'

Anest watched as Madog raised Tirion by her armpits, the stump of his left arm supporting, the strength in his right arm taking the strain. He climbed the straw steps until he found the third level. There, he sat, holding Tirion, dangling her legs over the edge, in a position where the baby's weight would take maximum effect; Anest had come to realise that there was little more that Tirion could do; the baby would have to find its own way out of the womb.

Panting, but unable to respond to the contractions, Tirion remained cloaked in perspiration; lucent, her skin shone like glass in the moonlight.

Anest realised that she too was perspiring. She looked up at Madog, wondering: how much longer could he take the strain. But the ease upon his face told her that, in this quarter at least, she had no need of worry; the labour could go on all night if necessary and he would remain there, as solid as a rock, as secure as the Pope's faith.

However, Tirion could not wait, and it was with relief that Anest saw the first sign of the baby emerging: the bulge of its head pressing against Tirion's pelvic floor. The head itself followed, moving forward with each contraction, only to slip back a little, before making more progress. Then, Anest saw that the umbilical cord had looped itself around the baby's neck and so, carefully, she slipped her fingers under the cord and hooked it over the baby's head. With the head now fully engaged, Anest manoeuvred the baby backwards until first one shoulder, and then the other, appeared. Two more contractions saw the delivery of Tirion's baby and, with only a mild measure of astonishment, Anest noted that the seer had been vindicated; Tirion had indeed given birth to a girl: blue, crying, streaked in blood, Tangwstyl was born.

The birthing process over, Anest took the knife and cut the umbilical cord. Then, she washed Tangwstyl with fresh water before covering her in salt and honey, the better to dry up her humours and prevent any premature loss of moisture. Next, Anest dipped a finger into the honey, rubbing this over the baby's mouth, both to cleanse and to encourage suckling. Finally, she swathed the baby in swaddling bands, offering support to Tangwstyl's unformed and malleable limbs.

Taking the baby, Anest placed her in Tirion's arms. The young mother opened her eyes, smiled and kissed Tangwstyl before lapsing into an everlasting peace.

'She needs to be shriven.' Madog climbed down from his position upon the straw. As Anest took Tangwstyl into her arms, the steward attended to Tirion's body, wrapping her lifeless form in the blanket, providing her with a degree of grace and dignity, showing total respect for her sacrifice. 'The child needs to be baptised; I will seek a priest.'

'She should not have died.' Anest felt a sense of grief, a sense of contrition; she had failed. Yet, had not the Holy Spirit failed them also? After all, Anest had invoked the support of St. Margaret of Antioch. 'I offered up prayers,' she complained.

'Sometimes, our prayers contradict God's wishes. And being wise to those wishes is the ultimate belief.' Stoically, Madog walked over and placed a comforting hand upon the healer's shoulder. He smiled at the baby, who lay oblivious, content in Anest's arms. 'You should not reproach yourself. After all, you saved the child's life.'

Anest cast her eyes down to the ground; she knew that Madog was right but, in that moment, she found Tirion's passing hard to accept. She was reminded of her limitations, reminded that her skills could have only a finite effect.

'Who will care for the baby?' Madog patted Ci upon the head, calming the animal; he had been present at the birth, occupying a place near the undercroft door. Silent at first, Ci now appeared agitated, excited, as if knowing that he had been privy to a special event.

Considering her answer carefully, Anest found an image of Ceinlys, Meredydd and their baby presenting itself. What was it that Meredydd had said: 'If at any time we can help you, you will make use of our labours?' Maybe now was the time to hold him to his word. Not that Ceinlys would be burdened by such a request. Anest had learned through her dealings with Ceinlys just how keen she was to surround herself with children: she would be overjoyed at the prospect of tending a foundling as well as her son. 'I will take Tangwstyl to Ballas.' This solution sat comfortably with Anest, allowing a shaft of optimism to filter into her mind. 'She will be safe there. She will be well looked after.'

'And what of Tirion's vision?' Madog continued to soothe Ci, continued to prevent him from leaping up and so lick the child. 'Is a prince's daughter held within your arms?'

Anest smiled at the notion. 'Do you believe in such prophecies, Madog?'

'I believe in what I can see, in what is real.'

'This baby is real.' Anest held Tangwstyl on high, as if to confirm that fact. Adding her voice to the discussion, the baby emitted a soft gurgle; the talk of a princess, or the talk of a commoner, there could be no sweeter sound.

'What you say is true,' Madog replied, soberly.

'Tirion's words were real.'

'That also is without question.'

'Then who are we to disbelieve her?' Anest spoke with conviction and, she would have to admit, with no little hope, for, whatever the truth of the matter, this much was clear: Tirion believed in the seer's prophecy, for she had been in no condition to invent such a story. If omens were required, Anest could point to the comet, seen burning in the sky earlier that night. Still, more than anything, Anest held on to her intuition: her intuition was her best friend, her greatest ally. Furthermore, her intuition told her that there was something special about Tangwstyl; her intuition told her that the man responsible for this baby's being held a quality, held an aura that few other men could possess. It told her that he might well be the new Arthur. And that thought sent a shiver down her spine.

A thoughtful silence ensued, the peace eventually broken by Madog's deep growl: 'If that is so, and there is a truth to Tirion's story, then the child is in danger.'

Anest nodded in agreement. 'And that is why we must keep the secret to ourselves.'

Ci's whimpering caught Anest's attention and, understanding his disquiet, she knelt so that he could take sight of the newborn child. This pleased the dog greatly, for he sat, mouth open, panting his approval.

'My lord, Euros, he will return from his pilgrimage shortly.' Madog stared to the east, as if anticipating his lord's appearance; he was overdue and it could be only a matter of days before he arrived. 'He is wise, learned; he will know what to do. We will share the events of this night with him.'

Anest complied with the steward's wishes, once again nodding her agreement. Whilst comforting Tangwstyl, she glanced into the undercroft, catching sight of Tirion's clothing and her purse, considering the fancy brooch, held within. That brooch was the link to Tangwstyl's father. And a man who could bestow such a beautiful gift would not wish to be ignorant of such a beautiful daughter. He would learn of her being, and he would appear before them, maybe as himself, maybe in disguise. Nonetheless, Anest would be waiting and, if necessary, she would challenge him, learn of his hopes and his dreams for his child. Learn of his hopes and his dreams for his country, for all his children.

# Day One – 4th May 1399

Euros, Master of the Hall, Lord of North Corneli, was tall for his race, standing five feet plus ten and a half inches in height. Loose-limbed and lithe he had collar-length dark hair, dark, smouldering eyes and proud, noble features. He wore leather shoes, close-fitting black hose and a red short-sleeved overtunic, well-cut and of fine cloth. A green woollen undertunic gave warmth to his muscular chest. Upon his hip there sat a leather belt, hung low, adorned with an empty purse. A heavy sword also sat there while, around his shoulders, a short mantle tied with string offered some protection from the incessant spring rain.

The son of an English noble and a Welsh lady, Euros was proud of his parents. He was particularly proud of his father, a man who had served the third King Edward in three French campaigns, only to lay down his life upon the battlefield of Quimperle in the spring of 1375. Madog had fought at his lord's side throughout that cruel encounter, sustaining his amputation amidst the slaughter. However, the battle had been won. The king, at least, could rejoice in victory. Then came the peace treaty; ill conceived, poorly negotiated, the treaty of Bruges ensured that the fruits of battle were carelessly thrown away.

Deprived of a parent at three years of age, Euros had been fortunate in that he had found a number of mentors to guide him through life. Prime amongst them was Madog. The steward had regaled the young boy with stories of his father's prowess and his bravery. He had also taught him how to fight and how to be chivalrous.

Aware that she had to compensate for the man who was no longer there, Euros' mother had provided love and affection.

She had ensured, through social contacts, that a good education had befallen her son and that he had become well practised in languages, learning Welsh, English, French and Latin. Knowledge of the law, skill with sports and an appreciation of culture had been a part of his curriculum, ensuring an education on par with all, even those fortunate enough to attend university.

In recognition of his mother's efforts, and to sample the adventure of foreign travel, Euros had embarked upon a pilgrimage, following the well-trodden path to Compostela and the shrine of St James. There, at his mother's dying request, he had prayed for her soul, had given thanks that he had been born into such a devoted family. Also, he had made an attempt, a concerted effort, to come to terms with his own faith, or rather, his lack of faith, and better understand God and His mysterious ways.

Tanned from the Iberian sun, Euros stood upon the steps of Kenfig Castle. Removing his hood, he gazed across the bailey, taking in the town and the surrounding borough.

The borough occupied some three thousand acres, with the castle serving as its administrative centre. The development had taken place in three distinct phases: the first phase saw the construction of the castle and a small, stone walled settlement. The second phase saw the town expand to its present glory; an earth and timber wall, together with a ditch, marking the boundary and adding a sense of security. As well as the burgage plots, the town cross and the market square, there were common fields for crops and for grazing and a church, serving the spiritual needs of the burgesses, dedicated to St James. The third phase saw the building of houses outside the town and the establishment of a church dedicated to St Mary Magdalene. Although more vulnerable than their walled neighbours, these plots were highly regarded, offering great opportunities to the entrepreneur. Indeed, the practice of acquiring numerous burgage plots was rife and small empires were being established by the day.

Despite the rain, the burgesses were busying themselves, getting ready for King Richard's visit. They were in good humour, Euros noted, boisterous, anticipating rich profits from the king's men and their caravan. Gazing beyond the town wall, Euros took in the marsh and, beyond that, the pool, a natural lake fed by underground springs. A constant wind, cold, from the east, rippled the waters of the pool, created white horses on the sea and tugged at the sails of the merchant ships as they made their way up the river; whatever the weather, fresh provisions and stores would be brought to the castle and the good people of the borough.

The sweep of this urban vista would have sated many a man's gaze, but Euros had a mind to consider one other factor: the sand. In the year, or more, since his previous visit to Kenfig, the sand had taken an even greater hold upon the borough. It had encroached, whipped up by winter storms, choking a stream known as the Blaaklak, threatening the town walls, laying waste great swathes of land. Euros wondered how the burgesses felt about this threat from nature. Was this God showing His hand, showing His disapproval of the settlers, of their guilds, their impositions, their laws? No doubt, the people of North Corneli would like to think so. However, Euros, by having a foot in both camps, recognised the commercial benefits brought by the town. He also recognised the need for stability and order, for they were the staples of a society divided along ethnic lines. With that thought in mind, Euros climbed the donjon steps, only to be greeted by Rig, standing foursquare, his large frame guarding the entrance.

'We have been expecting you.' The chief sergeant smiled as he leant upon his broadsword, the fingers of his right hand beating a steady rhythm upon the hilt. 'Come,' he added, 'follow me, Sir Roger is in the Great Hall.'

Shaking the raindrops from his mantle, Euros fell into line, following Rig into the donjon and up the spiral staircase, alighting on the second floor. From there, he walked along a spacious corridor before turning left, thus entering the Great Hall.

The door closed. With Rig standing guard, Euros glanced up, taking in the minstrels' gallery and the ornate, vaulted ceiling. To his left and to his right sat long dining tables, bare, save for candles and floral decorations. The Despenser coat of arms hung upon the left-hand wall, denoting that he was the overlord of this castle, while tapestries, depicting colourful scenes of courtly love, decorated the right-hand side of the chamber. Looking straight ahead, Euros noted the hunting trophies, the stags' heads, mounted, while below them hung the crossbows, the weapons that had brought down such noble beasts. The crossbows were primed, the bolts pointing towards the floor. Two ornate windows, one set above the other, allowed light to filter into the Great Hall, illuminating the dais, the top table and its occupants, these being the three brothers de la March, who were holding court. Euros had entered many pleas on behalf of his villeins, these usually centring on land, tax or animal disputes and, as such, he was familiar with the Great Hall. Nevertheless, its majesty never failed to impress him, its grandeur surpassing all, save the abbey at Margam.

Euros had entered the chamber to the sound of earnest conversation, the brothers holding a discussion with their mother, Matildis, upon a subject that was obviously of great import. But now, all lapsed into silence; Euros was the centre of attention; four pairs of eyes turned their gaze upon him.

'Please join us. We bid you welcome. It is always a pleasure to talk with a man of noble birth.' Sir Roger de la March spoke for the brothers. A tall man of healthy build, he had a mane of thick blond hair, playful blue eyes and lips that were quick to a smile. Clean-shaven, with a clear complexion, he was a mirror of good living. The eldest son of the late Sir Walter de la March, Sir Roger had inherited the constableship of Kenfig Castle from his father. As such, his word held sway in the borough; all had to defer to him. Like many a nobleman of his generation, Sir Roger had seen slaughter in Ireland, serving King Richard there in 1394. The campaign had been a great personal success for Sir Roger, culminating in his knighthood and the general acclaim of his peers.

At Sir Roger's right hand sat Payn, slouched in a chair, head lolling to one side, his senses dulled by the common proceedings. His haughty manner presented an aura, suggesting that all life forms were beneath him. Such a thought was, no doubt, dangerous. However, Euros considered, such a belief held an even greater threat.

To Sir Roger's left sat Geoffrey, the youngest of the three brothers. Like his fellow siblings, he too was handsome albeit with dark features, inherited from his father. His eyes were doe-like, sad, evasive, pertaining to an inner disquiet. Although he wore a sword at his side, Geoffrey preferred humour as a weapon: a jester might well have been his calling, had he not been so highborn. Geoffrey served the office of bailiff in the borough of Kenfig, collecting taxes and fines from its myriad manors and vills. As such, he was unpopular, suffering the barbs and the insults of a disgruntled community. A man with a thick skin would have returned such insults tenfold. However, Geoffrey was made of fibre more sensitive, preferring instead to be all things to all men rather than be cast in the role of villain. Unlike his brothers, Geoffrey had not served the king in Ireland; Matildis, protecting her lineage, had kept him, safe, at home.

Before Euros could respond to Sir Roger's introduction, Matildis held sway, her eyes set firmly upon the constable. 'I will leave you,' she bowed, 'so that you may discuss your business.' Slyly, she glanced towards Geoffrey, sharing a knowing look with her youngest son. 'I am sure that you will inform me of a satisfactory outcome.'

The four men watched as Matildis made her regal way out of the chamber, her steps small, as though her feet were bound together with twine.

'It has been many months since we last spoke.' Sir Roger leant forward, placing his elbows upon the high table. As he did so, a medallion swung free, its face depicting St. Hubert, the patron saint of sylvan sport. 'You have been on pilgrimage, I understand.'

'To Santiago de Compostela.'

'Most admirable.' Sir Roger inclined his head in approval. 'I take it your adventures were none but good.'

For some reason, these words caused Geoffrey untold amusement, compelling him to place a hand over his mouth, in an effort to suppress his laughter.

'Ignore my brother.' Sir Roger turned to his left and frowned. 'He has been troubled by a playful muse this morning. Levity has entered his head at the thought of collecting taxes. But, I am sure, my lord Euros, you will advise him that collecting the king's monies is no laughing matter.'

'Especially when those monies have already been waged.'

Euros' accusation caused Sir Roger to sit back, his head resting against the crown of his chair. Reflectively, he arched an eyebrow. Pensively, he placed a thumb to the dimple in his chin. Even Payn was stirred to attention, placing a finger thoughtfully to his lips, a devious smile warming his ice blue eyes. Geoffrey, however, had lapsed into a sulky silence. Upset at Sir Roger's putdown, he remained tangled in his own thoughts, paying little heed to Euros' words.

'Explain yourself.' Sir Roger had coloured a little, uncomfortable at Euros' declaration. 'Make clear your claim.'

Taking a step towards the three brothers, Euros fixed each in turn with a steady gaze. Eventually, his eyes settled upon those of Sir Roger's. Unflinchingly, assuredly, he presented his plea: 'Over many years it has been our agreement that the tax of Commorth Calan Mai be collected on the first of May on alternate years, yet, for the past four consecutive years you, and your brothers, have seen fit to acquire these monies, causing untold hardship and suffering to each and every villein.'

'The explanation for this is simple.' Sir Roger retained his sense of calm, his voice remaining as steady and as unhurried as a summer stream. 'The villeins have continually cried poverty and have declared an inability to pay the warranted taxes. So, the duty has been levied annually, to make good the shortfall.'

At this, Euros smiled even though, inwardly, he felt a sense of disbelief slowly turning to rage; he could stomach many things, but he could not stomach injustice; such inequity cut against his natural grain.

'Your explanation gives credit to your ingenuity, my lord constable, but your words blight you as a man: it is true that each year the Commorth Calan Mai shows a shortfall, but only by some twenty-five per cent. By collecting the tax every year you obtain a fifty per cent profit.'

Shuffling in his seat, Sir Roger displayed mild embarrassment at this revelation. Nevertheless, he held his authority, justifying his actions by presenting his version of the truth: 'If the Commorth Calan Mai were paid in full, there would be no need for this ambiguity. That the villeins see fit to flout this regulation offers them open to punishment: any extra monies obtained are therefore nothing more than a justifiable fine.'

The matter seemingly closed, Payn slumped back into his chair, well satisfied. The instigator of the tax plan, he had masterminded the vill's exploitation. A man feared and totally disliked, Euros held him in little respect.

Talk of taxes stirred Geoffrey, taking him out of his reverie. He stared at Euros with great intent, curiosity smouldering behind soft brown eyes.

Turning his attention back to Sir Roger, Euros continued his plea: 'I see that satisfaction shall not be forthcoming in regard to the Commorth Calan Mai, but I have another matter for your lord's attention. This centres upon the custom of prise and purveyance, goods taken with the promise of future payment, a payment that is never forthcoming. Sadly, this is yet another example of how you exploit my people.'

'Your people?' Sir Roger enquired mildly. 'Surely, you are a lord, not a villein, and we are your people, not they.'

'Your charm is a great virtue, Sir Roger, and I acknowledge that your tact normally holds sway. But,' Euros nodded in the general direction of Payn, 'it seems as though you have fallen under the influence of your brother. Moreover, if that is the case, then I have no wish to be counted amongst your number. A lord I may well be, but my people they shall always remain.'

'I see.' Sir Roger sighed deeply. 'I have to confess that I am saddened by your answer. But let me inform you that any goods acquired from the vill will be paid for in full. And further, I wish to state that I shall not be slandered as a common thief and that I take great exception to your claim.'

'Be that as it may, my lord, but the fact remains that your officers repeatedly remove animals, grain and other victuals from the poorest people and, in return, they offer up but not one penny.'

'The goods... have been taken... to feed the king,' Geoffrey interrupted, his hesitant manner robbing his words of any offence. 'As you well know, he is on his way to Ireland and he has with him a large force; would you have it that these men are not well fed and provisioned?'

'It is my duty to serve the king,' Euros conceded, loyalty standing as his watchword. 'And, as such, I will do all that I can to facilitate his venture. However, as we all know, the practice of prise and purveyance has been used to justify any amount of thievery. And on that, my lords, you may rest assured that I will hold a firm mind.'

'Treason!' Leaping to his feet, Payn brought his fist down hard upon the table. 'You speak out against our liege-lord, you condemn Richard: your words charge him of ill rule and mismanagement!'

'My words suggest no such thing,' Euros replied mildly. 'I speak not against the king, but against his officers. It is you, my lords, that I hold to account, you who pervert justice in his name.'

Payn's bloodshot eyes became wild and aggressive. Eager to confront Euros, he placed his weight upon the table and he was about to vault the barrier when Sir Roger rose to his feet, offering a restraining hand.

'Sit down, my brother.' The constable took hold of Payn's tunic, forcing him into compliance. 'I will not see blood spilt within this chamber. And I warn you, brother, to treat our guests with greater respect.' The reprimand over, Sir Roger de la March inclined his head towards Euros, a look of contrition blessing his face. 'I apologise for my brother's outburst, but I reiterate: we are not in a position to help your people.'

'Despite their hunger? Despite the fact that fever now touches upon every household?'

Sir Roger smiled, disarmingly. 'I am sorry...'

'My lord.' Leaning to his right, Geoffrey sought his brother's attention. Cupping a hand, he spoke softly into Sir Roger's ear.

Looking on, Euros could but guess at the meaning of Geoffrey's intervention, his words remaining inaudible to the noble lord. Only the sound of the rain, driving against the ornate windows, sought the attention of his ears.

Smiling, seemingly satisfied with Geoffrey's contribution, Sir Roger sat forward, tugging at the sleeves of his surcoat, paying careful attention to the miniver, adjusting the rich fur trim. 'I confess that I was hasty in my judgement. I believe that we can help you in regard to the taxes. Providing that you reciprocate, a reimbursement may well be warranted after all.'

Although remaining guarded, Euros inclined his head in appreciation, showing respect and due deference to the constable, acknowledging the power of his position, the authority that lay within his gift. 'Your words offer hope and no little encouragement, my lord. But, tell me, what task would you have me perform?'

Placing a hand to his mouth, Sir Roger cleared his throat. Then, he set out his terms, calmly, directly, with unflinching clarity: 'You are probably aware that one month ago, on the thirteenth of March, a monk, Brother Helias by name, was murdered upon the great Roman road.'

Shrugging his shoulders, Euros frowned, betraying his ignorance, shunning all knowledge of this crime. 'I returned but a matter of hours ago,' he explained. 'Aside from the fever and the restlessness within the vill, all word has escaped me.'

'No matter,' Sir Roger continued. 'It is a fact that this crime took place. Evidence has come to light, incriminating the perpetrator. We would have you seek this man and bring him to justice.'

Not a man easily touched by flattery, Euros mixed caution with curiosity. Unanswered questions had a way of attracting him; the path to solutions was well trodden in his mind. 'I am honoured that you should consider me for such a responsible task, but would not your chief sergeant be more suited to this position?'

All eyes turned to gaze upon Rig, all but Euros aware that he was the man responsible for the murder. However, being a man rarely troubled by his conscience, Rig had no problem in cultivating an air of innocence; serenity hung about his shoulders like a warm cloak.

Rising from his chair, Sir Roger stepped down from the dais. He walked across the chamber, to stand at Euros' side. 'Rig has made inquires and good progress in regard to the murder. But now we are in need of a man of resource, someone who possesses more...er...specialised skills.'

'And what skills have you in mind, my lord?'

'To be able to move freely amongst the Welshry and to ask questions of outlaws. As you are well aware we have long sought their number, only to gain little reward.'

Euros accepted the truth in the constable's statement; outlaws had long roamed the area, their numbers swelling in recent years. Most were outcasts, petty criminals, others were murderers, others still were political scapegoats, enemies of the Crown. All were an indication of the increased level of lawlessness, the breakdown in the structure of society; a sign that respect for the king, and his laws, was well on the wane.

'Tell me the details of this crime,' Euros urged. 'Who do you hold responsible?'

'The details are thus,' Sir Roger explained. 'It appears as though the monk set out that night upon a mission of mercy, to tend a man pained with pustules. Upon reaching the ancient standing stone, he was confronted by outlaws and, within the scuffle, one of their number took the good brother's life.'

'A sad tale to be sure,' Euros conceded. 'But, I am mystified: why would outlaws accost a man of God: what would they hope to gain?'

'As you are well aware, such men of desperation sometimes lack all reason. Doubtless, they saw easy pickings, or the act was no more than wanton thuggery. Whatever, we do not have the means to seek reason or motive. But it remains our task to find the man responsible for this heinous crime.'

'And who is that man?' Euros enquired.

'A lord well known to you, a lord who has been made an outlaw.'

Pausing, Euros considered his reply. Only one man matched the constable's description, only one man came to mind, a man who had clashed with Euros on many occasions, a Welshman with outspoken opinions and a temper fit to make a saint's blood boil: 'Rhys Goch.'

Smiling, Sir Roger de la March nodded. 'The very same. I am aware that the pair of you have had many a disagreement and that the favours you owe him are but few. So why not lend your hand to justice, and see reward for your people at the same time?'

Stepping away from the constable, Euros turned his back on the dais. He considered: why should he place himself at Sir Roger's disposal? Why should he allow a condition to be attached to his claim? He had justice on his side; he had no need to enter into an arrangement, especially one that threatened further confrontation with a lord as fiery as Rhys Goch.

'Rhys Goch is an irascible character,' Euros admitted, 'and hot words I have had with him aplenty, that is true. But we speak of casual murder; are you sure that he is the perpetrator of this crime?'

With due solemnity, Sir Roger inclined his head. 'We have no doubt that he is guilty of the murder. Why, a travelling tinker was forced to flee from the outlaws upon that very night. Evidence will be presented to the court so you need not trouble yourself upon that matter. Your task is to locate Rhys Goch. Bring him to justice and we will reimburse both you and your people. We will make good the excess taxes and, I dare say, the Church will find within its soul a way of showing its gratitude. Go, consider this offer: the life of a rogue weighed against the lives of your people. If you are a man of any standing, there can be but one choice.'

* * *

Euros mounted his horse, Ceffyl, a fine chestnut courser of local breed, and sped away from Kenfig Castle. He followed the Roman road, south, into the vill of North Corneli. Not one mile into his journey, he came upon Hevedaker, the great manor house, once the summer home of Rhys Goch. Built of stone and surrounded by oak trees, Hevedaker contained many of its erstwhile master's qualities: it was strong, refined, foursquare, proud. As Euros gazed upon the building he considered Sir Roger de la March's words and his charge that Rhys Goch was a murderer. The Lord Rhys had killed many men that much was certain: he had served in numerous French campaigns, gaining countless accolades, and great riches. However, the last of these campaigns had been fought half a lifetime ago when Rhys Goch had been in his prime.

Ageing now, Rhys Goch was an outlaw, that fact was beyond question. However, his crime was not murder, but that of offending the Crown. Long outspoken, he had fallen foul of King Richard, taking exception to the king's penchant for issuing 'blank charters', sinecures to loyalty at any price. Despised throughout the land, the blank charters were Richard's way of controlling his rebels. They were a sword of Damocles to hold over the signee, making lands and possessions liable to forfeiture should dissent or opposition present itself. When challenged, Rhys Goch stood on principle and refused to sign such a document, his non-compliance leading to the removal of his lands and his titles. Deemed a 'non person', he was cast into the wilderness.

Putting all thought of Rhys Goch to one side, Euros encouraged his horse and they continued upon their journey. Within moments, they reached the vill, passing a scattering of labourers, pausing to watch as they toiled in the sodden fields.

As he peered through the rain, Euros reflected that for countless generations people had gathered in North Corneli, sharing their skills, trading their goods, creating a community. Hardships had been endured, tragedies had been overcome, prosperity had been celebrated. In that regard, the vill was no different from any other. However, recent generations had encountered a new phenomenon – the Great Pestilence. Wave after wave of plague had swept the area, reducing the population by a good third; for every man, woman and child, one of their number had been condemned to the soil. Perversely, such catastrophe had brought about change, change that had improved the lot of the common man: tenantry had replaced serfdom, the hold and control of local lords had diminished, wages had risen in response to the lack of labour. As such, Euros had inherited a situation far more volatile and fluid than that known by his grandfather; respect for lordship had declined and agitators had become more vociferous. As the peasants of Essex and Kent had recently demonstrated by revolting and sacking much of London, no one, be they lord, bishop or king, could be considered safe from potential rebellion.

Drawing back his hood, Euros eased his way through the vill, Ceffyl making a careful journey down the road as he picked his way through fetlock-deep mud. The road was lined with houses, some thirty all told, with a smaller number scattered about the vales and hillsides. The wooden houses were homes to husbandmen and cottars, craftsmen and labourers as well as those who served at the Hall; all told, they represented a population some two hundred strong. Fresh water was garnered from the Goylake stream while a fishpond lay in the Hall's shadow. The fields were open and communal, save for one, which was owned by Sir Roger de la March. A tithe barn was located near the crossroads, storing a tenth of the vill's produce at the Church's behest. Yew trees bent in the wind, tickling the walls of St. Wenduin's, offering shade to those who lay in the place of final reconciliation, the churchyard. Through the rain, Euros noticed a family as they carried a loved one to this churchyard, swelling its sorrowful number. More would follow, he was moved to reflect: the fever, virulent and vituperative would see to that.

From the Hall, the heartening figure of Madog emerged, Ci at his side. A young woman was with him, dark, attractive, easy on the eye. A playful prettiness she had about her, with shoulder-length hair, a fresh complexion and silky smooth skin. Her eyes held a look of intensity and determination while her walk was proud and dignified. Nevertheless, for all that, her lips held Euros' attention, they being neatly curved, desirable, set in a sweet-natured smile. This must be Anest, Euros reasoned, the healer who was tending the vill. Madog had told Euros good things about her, being fulsome in his praise, championing her skills. He had also mentioned the birth of Tangwstyl and Tirion's extraordinary claim that the child was the descendant of a new Arthur. Initially, Euros had dismissed the idea, considering the notion to be nothing more than a flight of fancy. Now, upon taking sight of Anest for the first time, he was moved to learn more; he would have words with the healer, once his work in the vill was done.

Euros dismounted and Madog and Ci joined him, the dog placing muddy paws upon the young lord's hose. The traditional canine greeting over, Ci turned his attention to Ceffyl's pasterns, the dog's nose twitching frantically, fascinated by the novelty of a foreign odour.

'You gained satisfaction from the Castle?' Madog's tone held a degree of scepticism, for he was nothing if not a realist.

'They were as helpful as a stone in your shoe.' Euros tightened his right fist in annoyance, in frustration at having to deal with the likes of Sir Roger de la March. 'All they could offer was the suggestion that Rhys Goch killed Brother Helias. And the view that I should seek out the perpetrator in return for the money and the food owed.'

Digressing, the lord and the steward turned their gaze towards the churchyard and the mourners, who were returning from the burial. As he witnessed their grief, Euros was touched by their sadness and their sense of rage, for he had experienced similar emotions at the loss of his father, emotions that had been tempered over the years by the knowledge that he had died fighting for a cause, serving his king.

A raindrop, running down Euros' nose, returned him to the moment and the mourners who were winding their way home, somnolent in their movements. 'Sadly,' he reflected, 'we have lost another of our number.'

'Aeddan.' Madog informed his master. 'And I fear that he will not be the last.'

Shifting their gaze from the churchyard to a crofter's homestead, the two men caught sight of Anest, emerging, lifting her skirts as she tiptoed through the mud, her eyes skyward as she sought a break in the clouds and relief from the incessant rain.

'The healer?' Euros sought confirmation from his steward.

'Anest,' Madog avowed.

Before Anest could reach her destination, and tend yet another crofter, she was joined by Einion, who proceeded to buzz around her like an unwelcome fly. Noting her finely boned features and her sylphlike figure, Euros could see the attraction. Moreover, while not wishing to be unkind to the blacksmith, he could sense her unease, this bordering on revulsion.

'I would like words with the healer,' Euros informed his steward. 'Tell her that I would like to talk with her, and see the baby Tangwstyl also.'

Madog nodded, dutifully. 'It will be done.'

Glancing down the road, Euros pointed towards the crofter's homestead, the house that Anest had recently vacated. 'She has been tending Yorwerth and Ysota?'

'Tysilio is sick,' Madog stated, referring to their son.

'Then come, let us pay them a visit. There must be something that we can do, other than stand around in this rain.'

Leading his horse, and with Ci falling in behind, Euros made his way to the home of Yorwerth and Ysota. He waited while Madog gained polite entry before joining his steward in the humble homestead. Gathering around the hearth, the three men watched as Ysota wiped Tysilio's brow. The young boy, making barely ten years, and clearly gripped by the fever, had sweat oozing from his every pore, had suffering etched upon his brow. He moaned and he uttered words in an incomprehensible stream, the flow dammed by occasional shouts of distress.

'Is there anything that we can do?' Euros enquired.

'Nothing, except summon up a miracle,' Ysota replied. There was bitterness in her voice, and tears in her eyes. Both were understandable for Yorwerth and Ysota had already lost two children to illness, both tragedies afflicting them within the past four years; to lose another child to the fever would be a burden too heavy for any mother to bear.

'Tysilio is in God's hands,' Yorwerth intoned, turning his gaze skywards. 'It is within His gift should our son survive or die.'

'He has been remiss when it comes to showering gifts upon this household.' Crying openly now, Ysota took Tysilio in her arms, the better to comfort her son. 'Why should He suddenly decide that we are worthy of His grace?'

Euros could find no answer to Ysota's question. Despite many words spoken whilst on his pilgrimage, many conversations shared with many learned men, he remained ignorant, seemingly barred from enlightenment.

Frustrated, Euros could see that there was little he could do, in a practical sense, to help Tysilio. After conveying his hopes and his wishes to Yorwerth and Ysota, he joined Madog and they stepped out of the homestead, the two men turning their faces once again to the rain.

'They lack food and money,' Madog informed Euros. 'Everyone in the vill is placed the same. Everything has been taken by the Castle.'

'Then we must offer them hope.'

Glancing at Madog's limp purse, Euros reached down and felt the void within his own pouch, raising the question: where was this hope to come from? How could silver be conjured from thin air?

'How much money do you have about you?' Euros enquired of his steward.

'None, my lord.'

'And in savings?'

'None.'

'Then we must sell the plate.'

At this, Madog looked up, staring his lord straight in the eye. Words were not required to express what he was thinking, for to sell the plate, the collection of family silverware, was akin to selling your inheritance, the plate being a guarantor to hold on to in all but the most serve financial storm. Be that as it may, Euros decided that he had no other option, for events had already placed them in the teeth of such a tempest.

'We have no choice. The people of the vill need food and provisions now; they cannot wait. We need fit men and women to prepare the fields for the summer and the autumn crops. Without vegetables and corn we will all be blighted.'

'But it is unlikely that we will get a fair price; the burgesses will look to exploit our misfortune.'

'So be it.' Despite himself, Euros managed to raise a smile. 'Our day will come again. We will make good the loss.'

Taking hold of Ceffyl's reins, Euros was about to walk towards the Hall, when a flash of colour attracted his eye. He turned to look and there, her skirts raised, picking her way carefully through the mud, was the Lady Meirian, the wife of Sir John Lovell and a neighbour of some nineteen years standing.

A lady of style and some refinement, Meirian Lovell was thirty-six years of age, possessing shoulder-length auburn hair, attractive, even features and dark brown eyes, the pupils of which were lost in their richness. Her figure was comfortable without being overbearing and she was well suited to the latest fashion of long, flowing skirts and long, trailing sleeves. Today she was wearing a dress of the deepest scarlet and an embroidered belt, which sat high upon her waist, the belt duly decorated with folly-bells. Her surcoat was trimmed with squirrel, while a soft padded roll, bearing the motif of cut leaves, adorned her head. Euros knew Meirian Lovell as a lady of contrasts: on the one hand, she possessed the harmony of a sweetly plucked harp, while on the other, the hidden temper of a savage storm.

'Stable Ceffyl.' Euros offered the reins to Madog. 'See to the plate, and don't forget that I want words with the healer.' He nodded towards the Lady Meirian. 'It seems as though I have more pressing matters to attend to.'

Although they were neighbours and equals in terms of social standing, the Lovell's of Ty Maen derived greater wealth from their manor and this set them apart. Monies obtained from a quarry, rich in limestone and diverse minerals, augmented their wealth. The quarry was at the centre of a dispute between the Lovell's and Rhys Goch, both parties claiming ownership. To Euros' knowledge, the dispute was ongoing, thus ensuring that the Lord Rhys' name curried no favour in the Lovell household.

'My lady, it is good to see you.' Euros bowed in greeting as he approached the Lady Meirian. 'I am sorry that I have not been able to meet with you before now.'

Smiling patiently, her features tightening with diplomacy, the Lady Meirian bowed in turn. 'Why should you trouble yourself with me when, doubtless, you have other matters to attend to.' She hastened: 'I am just grateful that you have granted me a moment of your time.'

A rumble of thunder and the sensation of water running down the back of his neck made Euros realise that the weather was not getting any kinder. So, he tugged on his mantel and he considered the nearest point of relief. The Lady Meirian, meanwhile, appeared oblivious to the elements. She seemed content to allow the rain to dampen her surcoat and soil her dress. This surprised Euros as such behaviour betrayed the Meirian he had known before his journey, that woman being most fastidious about her appearance.

'Come,' tiring of the rain, Euros extended his left arm, indicating the pathway, the track that wound its way up to the manor house, 'let us alight at the Hall and take shelter from this disgraceful weather.'

Leading the way, the Lady Meirian picked a path through the mud and the puddles. Euros was quick to join her, showing great dexterity as he slipped, only to avoid a fall.

Upon reaching Meirian's side, Euros decided to enter into polite conversation: 'You are keeping well?'

'Thank you, I am in excellent health.'

'And Sir John?'

'He died on Michaelmas Eve.'

This statement, delivered in a matter-of-fact manner, took Euros by surprise, compelling him to break stride as he sought an appropriate response. Despite much thought, he could only voice the conventional words of compassion: 'I am sorry.'

'There is no need to be. It was expected.'

Again, Meirian delivered her words in a flat, unemotional accent. Maybe this was her way of disguising her grief for her late husband, Euros reflected. Or maybe she felt no emotion for him at all, for, on all accounts, Sir John Lovell had been a difficult man to share a home with, preferring alcohol and gambling to courtly pursuits and refinement. A good thirty years Meirian's senior, Sir John had been set in his ways before the marriage and had seen no reason to change thereafter. Euros wondered if love had ever existed between the couple or, as appeared more likely, the rumours had been true and the marriage had been nothing more than a money match. Seen from Sir John's perspective, Meirian had been an excellent catch, a woman easy on the eye and fine enough to parade upon your arm when the occasion demanded. Moreover, from Meirian's point of view, marrying into a family as well established and as affluent as the Lovell's was never going to do her any financial harm. Nevertheless, the arrangement appeared shallow to Euros' way of thinking. And, although she would inherit Sir John's considerable fortune, he could not help but feel sorry for the Lady Meirian and the emptiness she had endured thus far into her life.

Opening the main gate, Euros led Meirian into the courtyard. There, he turned and glanced at the fair lady, only to find tears welling up in her eyes. At first, Euros considered that he had been wrong in his assessment of the Lovell's marriage and that love had existed between them after all. Then he noted that Meirian was staring intently at the undercroft and that the building itself appeared to be the source of her distress.

Perplexed, Euros took Meirian's arm, offering the lady some assistance. Reluctantly, she accepted the support while, at the same time, wiping the tears away from her eyes.

'Are you all right?' Euros asked, solicitously.

'I am fine,' Meirian replied. Then, as if conscious of Euros, aware that he was studying her intently, she brightened, the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes deepening as she broke into a smile. 'Tell me,' she asked, her eyes cast down to her belt, her fingers toying with its folly-bells, 'how went your pilgrimage?'

'Well; it was enjoyable. Though, to be truthful, I feel that I dallied too long upon my journey; I should have shown more haste and returned to the Hall.'

'But you are considering another adventure?'

'Not for some time. I feel sated by travel and recognise now that I have other priorities. Not least, I must resolve this crisis within the vill and ensure that the peoples' needs are well met.'

Pausing, anticipating a reply, a word of support or encouragement, Euros was greeted instead with silence. He realised that Meirian had barely heard his words and that she was entrapped within her own thoughts, staring earnestly at the undercroft, as though captivated, caught up in some kind of trance.

Stepping beyond Euros, Meirian walked towards the undercroft. There, she paused, her eyes cast down. 'I will get to the point,' she mumbled, 'the reason for my calling. That reason is the healer, Anest: she practices the black arts.'

Folding his arms across his chest, Euros adopted a defensive position. He considered Meirian's words and then he dismissed them out of hand. 'I do not believe you. And I would ask you how you arrived at such a concept?'

'It is the talk of the vill,' Meirian insisted. 'She is evil, and she holds us all in a curse.'

'But, I have heard nothing but good things about her. And, from what I have witnessed, the people are keen to procure her help.'

'The people are simple and at times they are stupid. I warn you, my lord, you would do best to banish her. Stand by her and she will cause you nothing but trouble and distress.'

'I will stand by her. And I would add that your words are inflammatory; should they reach the wrong ears, they would be used as an excuse for persecution and violence.'

At this, Meirian Lovell scowled, displaying her displeasure, adding ten years to her appearance in that brief instant. Exasperated, she extended her arm, pointing a finger at Euros, making no attempt to control its quivering. 'It is you who are playing with fire, my lord! And it is you who will follow her into the flames of hell!'

Then, without further pause for reply, the Lady Meirian crossed the courtyard. She walked out of the Hall, without once glancing back. Standing alone, Euros was moved to reflect upon Meirian's outburst and the truth in one of Madog's sayings, namely, that a black cloud is rarely seen on its own.

* * *

Sir Roger de la March sat in his chamber. He was at his chessboard, hunched over the pieces. A puzzle had been placed before him, a puzzle presenting him with three moves in which to trap the king. His brother, Geoffrey, who was good at games and such diverse amusements, had set the puzzle and it taxed the constable greatly, for, try as he might, he could not find the solution.

Rising from the chessboard, Sir Roger realised that he had become preoccupied, his thoughts residing elsewhere. He could not think of chess and puzzles. Instead, his mind was centred on the arrival of his guests: Morgan de Avene, Sir William Scurlag, constable of Ogmore castle, and the constable's daughter, Athelena. Morgan would kill the king, that much had been agreed. Sir William would bring news of Richard's travels while Athelena was Sir Roger's betrothed. Although he loved her greatly, his heart could not rise at the prospect of seeing his beloved, the responsibility of ensuring Richard's downfall removing all concept of joy.

A gentle breeze suggested that the chamber door had been pulled open and Sir Roger turned to see his mother poised on the threshold.

'Can I come in?' Matildis enquired.

Before Sir Roger could reply, Matildis stepped into the chamber. Closing the door, she shuffled into the room, disturbing the floor rushes, releasing the sweet scent of crushed herbs. Locating a luxurious chair, the finest in the chamber, Matildis proceeded to wipe its cushion clean, blowing the accumulated dust from her right hand. Then, she sat, wiggling her bottom, not resting until a position of optimum comfort had been found.

'I have spoken with Geoffrey. He has informed me of your plan to involve Euros. I think the idea sound, and that our troubles will soon be at an end.'

'Really, mother?' Sir Roger wished that he held Matildis' conviction; from where he stood, the whole issue remained clouded in doubt. 'Do you really think that we can trust Euros? Do you really think that he will go along with our plan?'

Shrugging her delicately boned shoulders, Matildis placed a hand to her finely braided hair, ensuring that not one strand had strayed from its rightful position. 'He has no option but to comply with our wishes. The people of the vill are dying in great numbers. He will consider it his duty to secure food and money for them.'

Unconvinced, Sir Roger crossed the room, to stand with his back to the fireplace. Fed with sea-coal, the smoke from the fire spiralled up the chimney, blending with darkening skies, drifting on the cold east wind, the wind that was at Richard's back, driving him upon his journey, speeding him towards his moment of destiny.

'Besides,' Matildis let her words slip from the corner of her mouth, which was her propensity, 'I have heard good things of Euros; maybe he could be persuaded to join us and add his skills to our quest.'

Scoffing, Sir Roger laughed at such a notion: 'Euros is a man of integrity. Why should he sacrifice all principle just to appease us?'

Dismayed, Matildis shook her head, arching her eyebrows in the process. She looked up to the brightly painted ceiling, its red glaze adding warmth and rich colour to the chamber. 'Really, Roger. Why must you always look on the bleak side? If your father were alive, he would not dream of uttering such words. If your father...'

'Were alive we would not be engaging in this foolish enterprise. What merit is there in killing Richard? Surely, it would be better to allow him to sail to Ireland. Then Bolingbroke could return from exile and claim the crown.'

'And what of the opposition? What of the people loyal to Richard? Where is the guarantee that Henry of Bolingbroke will be successful? Where is our reward in such a plan? When we kill Richard, Henry will show his gratitude. He will reward us with lands and titles. We can escape from this blighted town and this damnable sand. I am tired of the sand; it gets into my bed, my food, my clothing...we deserve better! You deserve better, Roger. And, I would remind you that Richard promised your father better in return for his support all those years ago. Had the king kept his promise we would be bidding him welcome and we would be singing a much prettier tune. Besides, the people deserve better. For too long they have put up with Richard's moods and foibles. And I would further remind you of your father's rage when Richard failed to keep his side of the bargain. To say that he would not support our plan is nothing but a falsehood. I am sure that he is watching over us, smiling, pleased that his sons are seeking to right such a wicked wrong.'

As Matildis spoke, so Sir Roger's mind drifted, his gaze wandering, his eyes picking out the detail of the wall decoration, depicting, as it did, scenes from Le Roman de la Rose, Sir Roger's favourite poem of courtly love.

When silence finally prevailed in the chamber, Sir Roger had to concede the truth in his mother's statement: Richard had promised his father land and titles, reward for his support during the tumultuous events of 1388, a time when parliament had destroyed many of Richard's friends and had threatened to depose the king himself. Deeply scarred by such events, Richard could do no more than bide his time and, some nine years later, he duly gained his revenge: the people whom he saw as the ringleaders, the Duke of Gloucester, the Earl of Arundel and the Earl of Warwick, were either killed or, in the case of the latter, banished from the realm. True, some promises had been kept and some allies had been richly rewarded. But why trouble yourself with minor nobility like the de la Marches? Why go out of your way to satisfy them? As for Henry of Bolingbroke, cousin of King Richard, would he be inclined to show the de la Marches' more favour? True, Sir William Scurlag held the castle of Ogmore in Henry's name and he could be counted upon as a loyal supporter. By definition, Sir Roger's marriage to Athelena would draw him into Henry's political circle. Richard had no heir. He was married to a child bride and so, for the foreseeable future, he had little prospect of producing a son. Henry was popular amongst the English, his claim to the crown, though tenuous, was genuine; many considered that it would sit easily upon his head. However, Henry was in France, banished for ten years for inciting the king's displeasure. What faith had they in him? Should they trust all to a man who knew little of them?

Coming out of his reverie, Sir Roger turned to face his mother, his expression impassive, a path to resolution still no clearer in his mind. Somehow, he had to secure the moral high ground. 'If your words be true, then surely my father would acknowledge that Kenfig is my castle, and that my edict holds sway here.'

Smiling, Matildis inclined her head. 'But of course, my dear son.'

'Then I beg you, please control Payn. There would be no need to involve Euros in any of this but for Payn's hot-headed actions; there was no need to kill Brother Helias and Payn had no right to sanction such an act without first consulting me.'

'Payn was only doing what he thought was right. But you are right and you should have been consulted. I will have words with Payn. Rest assured, such a mishap will not occur again.'

Rising from her chair, Matildis walked over to Sir Roger. There, she placed her hands upon his shoulders, obtaining leverage, before standing on tiptoe and kissing him upon both cheeks. Matildis often said that she loved her sons in equal measure. However, Sir Roger doubted that this was so. Indeed, he felt that love and understanding had been absent for most of his life. This was true of Payn also. In that respect, Sir Roger felt some empathy towards his brother. Nevertheless, he could not condone his behaviour, or understand the sadistic streak that sometimes held sway.

Unaffected by Matildis' attention, Sir Roger left his mother's side. He walked over to the chessboard where, ironically, the solution to Geoffrey's problem now presented itself: a simple knight sacrifice allowing a pawn to trap the king; if only Richard could be dealt with in such a simplistic manner.

'Sir William, Athelena and Morgan are at the main gate.' Matildis had moved over to the window and she was gazing down, peering beyond the bailey to the party of lords and servants, watching as they made their way through the milling crowd, admiring as in stately pageant they closed upon the donjon. 'We must greet our guests. But, before we do, I would remind you that your father was a man of many parts, and faults he had aplenty. But the one quality he did have was leadership. If you want people to follow you, Roger, to believe in your ideas, to remain in your trust, then you must show leadership. Emulate your father. Have the courage of your convictions. Strive for what is right. And, above all, banish these silly doubts.'

* * *

Euros and Anest walked to Stormy Down in easy silence. The amity shared between them made words appear superfluous. Two strangers, they had reached a point of mutual harmony, both realising that they had no need to fill the void with empty words.

Although the rain had eased a little, conditions underfoot remained treacherous. On climbing the hill, the steep bank that led to Stormy Down, Anest slipped continuously, only to be rescued on the final occasion by Euros' offered hand. As she took hold of Euros' hand, Anest watched in mild fascination as his arm, sinewy and well tanned, took the strain, pulling her beyond the young lord, up the bank and on to the Down.

'Thank you.' With a smile, Anest acknowledged Euros' gesture.

'My pleasure.' Bowing in his best chivalric style, Euros accepted her thanks.

Both turned and looked back, admiring the view across the valley. In the far distance, the hills, known as Margam Mountain, rose from the sea like sculptured waves of clay. Covered in forest, Margam Mountain was as wild and as natural now as it had been upon the day of nature's creation. Within its shadow resided the abbey of Margam, well appointed, the location selected for its peace and its solitude. To the northwest could be seen the conyger, home to a thousand rabbits. And, running alongside this warren, the beach and the sand dunes with their undulating banks, their waves of gold. Kenfig Castle was visible, but Euros paid the edifice little attention. Instead, his eyes followed the Roman road, through the countryside, green and lush from the spring rain, beyond coalfields, excavated by the monks of Margam, on to the quarries of South Corneli and their rich limestone. Even under glowering skies, Euros still found this scene awe-inspiring, sighing at the sight of his home.

'It's beautiful,' Anest murmured in appreciation.

'Yes,' Euros agreed, his gaze now firmly fixed upon her.

Together, they turned and followed the path until it met with a branch road. There, Anest pointed to the east, indicating her home. 'I need medicines,' she explained. 'Do you mind if we make a diversion?'

'Tangwstyl is sick?' Euros enquired.

'No, the linctus is for Medrawd, Ceinlys' son.'

With Anest in the lead, the two companions followed the branch road, Euros taking in the barren landscape as they trampled their way along the sodden path. Apart from a grange, sighted in the far distance, Anest's home was the only dwelling to be occupied, the rest duly abandoned a long time ago. The monks of Margam farmed the grange; they tended sheep there, as well as the arable land. Such a bleak location suited the monks' needs and their form of devotion, but Euros was moved to reflect upon Anest's needs, wondering how she coped with such unbridled isolation.

'Don't you find it lonely,' Euros asked, 'living in solitude upon this Down?'

'I have the monks as neighbours,' Anest reminded the young lord.

'True. But they are some distance away. And they are a community within themselves. Where do you turn for entertainments, companionship?'

In response, Anest looked down, her expression one of deep reflection. They had reached the threshold of her home and her hand was poised, ready to open its door. 'Since the loss of my father and my mother I have had no need of entertainments, no craving for companionship.' She looked up, her face warming with its customary smile. 'I have found the solitude rewarding, the time for reflection beneficial. For the past year, I have been well suited to this Down.'

'But what of the danger?' Euros persisted, his eyes taken by the quillon dagger, the fine blade worn about her waist. 'You feel in need of protection?'

Following Euros' gaze, Anest glanced down to the dagger. With care, she removed the bejewelled weapon from her belt. 'This blade belongs to another. It came into my possession via Tirion, Tangwstyl's mother. She asked that I present it to Payn de la March and I told her that I would do so. But now another thought is occurring: Payn de la March moves within your social circle and it is far more likely that you will meet with him than I. This being so, could I burden you to uphold my promise?'

Taking the bejewelled dagger from Anest's open palm, Euros admired the blade, the sharpness of its edge, the balance of its weight and the ornate nature of its style. Unmistakably, the work of a skilled craftsman, Euros wondered how Payn had acquired such a prize; through theft, no doubt, the cynic in him suggested, the pragmatist reinforcing that thought.

'I will keep your promise to Tirion,' Euros informed Anest. 'Payn will receive the dagger, rest assured of that.'

Inclining her head in gratitude, Anest invited Euros into her homestead. She waited while he placed the dagger about his person before seeking the herbs, the cumin and anise, which would ease Medrawd's colic.

As Anest set about her herbs, Euros took in the detail of his surroundings. He noted that the building itself was made of wood, daubed with a muddy mixture of earth, straw and dung. The roof was made of straw, corn stalks snapped off at the first frost, gathered and placed upon wooden rafters. A single room, measuring some twenty-four feet by eighteen feet represented the living quarters. As well as the hearth, there was a bed with its home-woven blankets and its mattress of flock. A wooden chest fitted snugly into one corner, while upon a small workbench, herbs were placed in preparation, neatly laid out, the better to dry. The dominant features of the cot, however, were the numerous shelves, each containing neat rows of phials. Euros watched as Anest selected one of the phials. Turning, she appeared ready to seek Tangwstyl.

'You have what you require?' Euros asked of the healer.

'Yes. This cordial best suits Medrawd.'

'Then let us make haste to the child.'

Standing to one side, Euros waited while Anest opened the door. He observed, with some disquiet, as the pattern on her face changed, from one of mild pleasure to one of deep concern. Stepping out from behind her, Euros witnessed the source of that concern, for striding purposefully towards them was the hirsute form of Einion ap Rhiryd.

Einion approached and Euros became aware of the blacksmith's heavy breathing. Whether this was due to his exertions, or eager anticipation, it was impossible to tell. Puffing out ruddy cheeks, he stood before Anest, running a hand through his tousled hair, his stubby fingers grooming his thick beard. With intensity in his eyes, he peered at the healer, all consideration of Euros absent, his mind occupied by one, obsessive, thought: 'Do you have the answer to my question?'

Unable to suppress a sigh, Anest cast her eyes skywards. Her shoulders dropped, both in weariness and in supplication. 'I have told you, Einion...please...take heed of my words; I think of you as a good man, but not as a marriage partner.'

His cheeks becoming darker, the vein at his temple pulsating with rage, Einion took a step towards the healer. Clenching his fists, he strove for her consent: 'You cannot reject me. I will not accept your words of refusal. I have saved for this moment. I have prepared for many years. The time is now right. I have everything waiting for you. You must be my wife!'

'You cannot choose a wife as you choose meat from the market. You cannot buy me with fancy baubles or sweet promises.' Pushing beyond the blacksmith, Anest allowed herself a show of indignation. Tiring of Einion's attentions she came close to shouting her words: 'I have work to do. I demand that you leave me in peace.'

'Demand!' Unable to contain himself, Einion took hold of the healer. He was about to spin her around, so that he might spear her with his gaze, when Euros interceded; drawing his sword, the young lord placed its tip against the blacksmith's jowls, metal resting against sagging flesh.

'I think you have said enough,' Euros advised, calmly.

Alarmed, Einion withdrew, releasing Anest, his eyes taking on the appearance of cartwheels, so large were they, so round. 'What is the meaning of this?' the blacksmith blurted. 'Who called for your interference?'

'No one asked that I should interfere, save for my conscience. And I suggest that you listen to your conscience, Einion, and leave Anest well alone.' Withdrawing his sword, Euros stood between the blacksmith and the healer. Glancing at the latter, he sensed a glow of embarrassment, wounded pride as opposed to any physical hurt. 'Anest has spoken, and I advise you to heed her words. I advise you to consider prudence and to countenance her wishes, both out of respect and out of true affection. Also, I caution you that, should you choose otherwise, you risk losing your place within the vill.'

'You would banish me and take all that I have worked for?'

'If need be, yes. If you continue with this action, you will leave me with no choice.'

'But I love her!' Einion cried out in desperation. 'How could you consider such cruel counsel?'

'You bring the matter upon yourself, Einion. Now go, before you raise my temper even further.'

Realising that he was beaten, the blacksmith withdrew, slinking away, his features sullen, his posture bent. Calling out from over his shoulder, he allowed himself one final retort: to Anest, he shouted, 'You will regret this.' To Euros, 'A plague on your house, my lord.'

Allowing a moment, so that calm might settle over proceedings, Anest turned to Euros, her face still coloured with anger and embarrassment. 'I am sorry,' she apologised. 'You should not have been drawn into my troubles.'

'This matter was no trouble,' Euros reassured the healer. 'I can handle the likes of Einion. And I will make good my promise and see him banished, should he inconvenience you further. Now come, let us make haste to Ballas.'

Euros and Anest arrived at Ballas to find the settlement consumed with activity: men were working the fields, women were busy about the home, children were assisting both, or interfering, as the mood took them.

Approaching Ceinlys' cot, Euros turned to Anest, seeking enlightenment, answers to questions that were forming in his mind. 'Advise me, what have you told Ceinlys about Tangwstyl?'

'Only that she is the daughter of a great lord and that it would not be prudent for him to look after her at this moment.'

'And, without question, Ceinlys accepts your words?'

'Why shouldn't she?' Anest explained: 'After all, it is common for many a lord and a lady to seek the services of a wet nurse.'

Nodding his understanding, Euros accepted the truth in Anest's words: the majority of lords and ladies were of a mind to farm out their offspring. They were content to allow the lower classes to feed and raise their children, happy to be free of such a burden, untroubled that such a primary bond should be broken at such a tender age. Euros considered that fear played a part in this process, fear that the child would be taken by illness, fear of building up an attachment only to see the baby cruelly snatched away. As Euros considered this scenario, his mind was taken to Yorwerth and Ysota, to their son, Tysilio, and his fight against the fever, to the hope that he was making good progress and the wish that he would win his individual battle.

The door to Ceinlys' cot was open so Euros and Anest took the liberty of stepping inside. The crofter greeted them with a warm smile; she was cradling her baby, rocking him into a restful sleep.

'I have brought more of the cordial,' Anest announced, holding up a phial. She took a step towards the baby, pulling a blanket from his chin, observing a healthy glow upon rounded cheeks. 'The medicine clearly agrees with Medrawd. It is a pleasure to see him looking so fine.'

'Indeed,' Ceinlys agreed. 'If he keeps on developing at this rate, we will soon have him out in the fields, helping his father!'

Smiling at Ceinlys' words, Euros allowed his gaze to wander over to a crib, situated near the hearth. There, a baby slept, content, ignorant of the troubles of this world. She was clearly comfortable: warm, happy, well fed. Although not an expert on such matters, Euros had to concede that the baby did have a somewhat superior air about her, as though she already knew that she was destined for greatness. Ever the pragmatist, Euros put such thoughts down to his imagination, to the prophecy made at Tangwstyl's birth.

'She is beautiful, isn't she?' Ceinlys had placed Medrawd in his crib and was peering at Tangwstyl, the crofter's face beaming with admiration and no little pride. The look on her face could not have been any warmer, not even if Tangwstyl had been the product of her own labours. 'She is such a joy, so easy to tend.'

Anest smiled. 'We are pleased that you could assist us in our hour of desperation.'

'Our?' Ceinlys switched her gaze to Euros, taking him in for the first time. Her eyebrows arched in inquisition, a thought clearly forming in her mind. 'Your companion...is he...?'

'No.' Anest laughed at the perceived notion: 'Euros is not the father; though he is keen to see the baby, being a friend of the family and sharing close bonds.'

'I see.' Ceinlys wiped her hands upon her apron, her attention taken by a hoe, her mind clearly at ease with Anest's story. 'I must take this hoe to Meredydd, but I am loathed to leave the babies...would you mind...?'

'Go to your husband,' Anest instructed. 'We will keep the children under close eye.'

With the hoe securely in her possession, Ceinlys left the cot. She exchanged civil greetings with her neighbours before joining her husband in the communal field; the men of Ballas worked their own strips for most of the season, banding together at ploughing time to share the cost of hiring oxen.

Alone with Tangwstyl, Euros gazed at the baby, as if expecting her to talk, to provide answers, to relieve some of the uncertainty from his mind. 'Just who is she?' The young lord turned to the healer: 'Who is her father? Where is he now?'

'The answer is clear: her father is the new Arthur. He is blessed with our prince's mantle; Tirion said so, and I see no reason to doubt her word.'

'But where is the proof?' Euros insisted. 'Where is the man? If he is the new Arthur, then why isn't he here?'

'He is amongst us,' Anest asserted. 'But we are too blind to see him. When we open our eyes, he will appear.'

'How can you say such things? How can you be so certain?'

'You must remember,' Anest reminded Euros, 'I was at the birth; Tirion was in no condition to invent such a story. Also, I believe in the seers when they say that Arthur will return and save his people. What is more, the portents are right: the stars are bright and the century is turning.'

'Some people might regard such talk as dangerous. Some might consider that dabbling with the mystical is akin to dabbling with the black arts.'

Anest shrugged, a show of indifference, giving the impression that she had been plagued by such words for such a long time. Glancing up, she sought the truth in Euros' eyes. 'And what do you consider, my lord?'

'I believe you to be innocent of any such crime, if crime be a suitable label. But I would caution you to be careful and to hold your tongue. There are those who would do you harm, those who would consider such talk to be incitement to rebellion; many men and women have been condemned for less.'

'I will be careful with whom I speak, both for my sake and for that of the baby. But I will not be deflected from my beliefs and from the prophecy. I will hold on to the notion that Arthur will reappear in a new guise and claim his child.'

Such was the strength of Arthur and the prophecy; such was the reverence and esteem in which he was held. Like Anest, Euros had been brought up on such tales of Arthur. He had been told that Arthur lies sleeping and that he, the true Prince of Wales, would awaken and restore pride to all Welshmen. However, Euros had always considered such tales to be just that, stories, with no substance, no reality, stories to move the spirit and keep hope alive. A sceptic with a logical mind, Euros saw no reason to veer away from his interpretation and yet...a doubt lingered, a thought that Anest could well be right, that this could well be Arthur's time. From where had this thought arrived? Gazing at the healer, the answer appeared obvious: she was an enchantress. Something about her, her appearance, her voice, altered beliefs long held in his mind.

'So be it,' Euros conceded. 'But I urge you: speak of Tangwstyl to no one. And, should this Arthur appear, inform me, and no one else.'

Bowing dutifully, Anest concurred with Euros' wishes: 'If that is your desire, my lord.'

The baby stirred, a flexing of her arms and a flickering of her eyelids. At that moment, Ceinlys appeared, smiling, as cheerful as ever, as radiant and as optimistic as the breaking dawn. Euros could do no more than admire the spirit of such people; they gave him strength, made him realise that good could be done. These people deserved more; they deserved justice. Furthermore, Euros resolved that justice would be served; the Welsh would have no need of Arthur, for justice would be obtained, if not from the Castle, then directly from King Richard himself.

* * *

Geoffrey de la March loved capons; with relish, he tucked into the fattened cock, his well-ground teeth chewing upon the greasy meat, his tongue savouring the flavour of the saffron-tinted stock. As he chewed, and with cinnamon sauce dribbling down his chin, he looked up, taking in the scene about him. Being a lover of music, as well as his food, Geoffrey was first drawn to the minstrels. Staring directly ahead, he watched as they plied their trade, showing off their skills from the lofty environs of the gallery, the combination of tabourets and lutes, rebecs and psalteries making a most mellifluous sound.

Below the minstrels' gallery, seated at the parallel dining tables, were the distinguished nobles and guests. Among the guests and wealthy burgesses were lords, many of whom had travelled to Kenfig to unite with the king, arriving early in their eagerness, keen to accompany him upon his quest, seeking glory in the subjugation of the Irish insurgents. Enjoying the fruits of the banquet, these lords were vociferous in their chatter, lecherous in their gaze, generally displaying all the good grace and order of a drunken rabble.

A shrill laugh, emanating from his right, made Geoffrey glance in that direction. As he did so, he observed the guests seated at his table, those people enjoying the privilege of being afforded a position on the dais. On his far right sat Rig, head bent, talking through a mouthful of food, exchanging intense conversation with Payn, his habitual companion. Next to Payn, sat the distinguished form of Sir William Scurlag, Constable of Ogmore Castle. A widower, embarking upon the winter of his years, Sir William was beginning to show his age: his hair, thinning at the front and worn long over his ears, had turned a silvery grey, his prominently arched eyebrows and his goatee beard being similarly afflicted. His hazel eyes retained a certain sparkle however, and his lips, thin and pink, were permanently puckered, as though primed for a kiss. However, more than this, Sir William still carried about him an air of prominence and position, an authority few would dare question. A confidant of Henry of Bolingbroke, he was scrupulously loyal to the exiled lord. The family de la March did not possess such credentials, but through Sir William, and his courtly contacts, they had been drawn into the plot to assassinate King Richard.

Beside Sir William Scurlag sat his daughter, the fair Athelena. She had eyes only for her betrothed, Sir Roger de la March. They sat together, the central figures at the table; the king and queen of romance, the perfect couple, Geoffrey reflected, the lovers who inspired the poets to golden verse. Although a touch jealous of his elder brother – and what hot-blooded male would not feel such an emotion? – Geoffrey had to concede that Sir Roger had made a good match. Aside from her wealth and her position, Athelena Scurlag was a woman of great beauty conforming to the prescribed notion of comeliness, possessing narrow shoulders and hips, rounded breasts, long, slim arms, graceful hands, small, regular facial features, rich hazel eyes and welcoming, sensual lips. She also possessed long, fair hair, which today was braided at the sides. Feeling his sap rising, Geoffrey was drawn to her dress, which was simple enough in its design; long and trailing, it was worn off the shoulder with a low-cut bodice. Tight-fitting on top, the garment gathered at the waist before flowing down, luxuriously enveloping Athelena's slender hips and her fine comely thighs. Geoffrey sighed: Sir Roger was indeed lucky to have won her affection; no man could have wished for a greater prize. So, why wasn't he laughing and making merry, Geoffrey wondered. Why present a countenance of torment and angst? Although he had a penchant for playing the fool, Geoffrey possessed his fair share of perspicacity and he knew the reason for Sir Roger's malaise: the plot to kill King Richard. Reluctant at the start, Sir Roger had long voiced his concerns regarding the venture. However, Geoffrey considered that his elder brother would see the matter through, so long as the idea retained favour in Athelena's mind.

The remaining guest at the top table was Morgan de Avene, the Lord of Avan. Widely regarded as the best bowman in the land, Morgan was short in stature. Finely groomed and sporting a neatly trimmed goatee beard, Morgan had handsome features; he possessed soft blue eyes that hinted at compassion and a noble nose, which suggested a distant Roman ancestry. Due to his time, serving with Sir Roger de la March in Ireland, Morgan had been drawn into the constable's courtly circle. Forsaking his Welsh roots, he had aligned his colours with those of the castle. The Lord of Avan had arrived with Sir William Scurlag carrying news of Richard: the king had reached Burford and was resting; he was making good progress upon his journey and he would arrive at Kenfig at the appointed time.

The complement at the top table was completed by the presence of Matildis. She sat next to Geoffrey, keeping a close eye on her favourite son, generally frowning whenever he attracted a favourable gaze from a fair maiden, voicing disapproval should he be so bold as to return a flirtatious glance. Geoffrey loved his mother, but he feared her suffocation. He craved more freedom and he trusted that his desires would be well met upon Richard's demise. Then, Geoffrey would be elevated to a new position within the castle and, for the first time in his life, he would be his own man.

Just about all had been sated by the feasting. So, the servants moved among the tables, dutifully removing the excess food. The Great Hall still reverberated to the sound of music and chatter, and a new sight, a saltatrix, an acrobatic dancer, took to the floor. Dressed in the skimpiest of clothing, she proceeded to turn somersaults and contort her body into a series of outlandish and provocative poses, the like of which had rarely been seen before. Geoffrey, who had become drowsy due to over-consumption, sat upright, his back as straight as a sword, his eyes revolving as he followed the circular movements of the saltatrix's breasts.

Needless to say, Matildis was not so taken by the salacious nature of the entertainment. Wearing a frown of disapproval, she turned to glare at her youngest son. 'You will go blind if you continue to stare at her like that,' she chided.

'Yes, mother.' If such an affliction were to overtake him, then let it be so; Geoffrey was beyond caring. His senses had been taken on a ride and he intended to see this journey through to its climax. Sadly, for Geoffrey, and for the majority of the menfolk present, that moment arrived all too soon with the saltatrix holding a dramatic pose; legs split, head bent, her golden hair cascading all over her shimmering body.

The crowded hall rose to applaud. Then, one by one, various suitors sought the ladies of the hall, each offering an invitation to dance, the minstrels providing a suitably sensuous backdrop, decorating the lavish occasion with notes of romance.

Rising from his seat, Sir William Scurlag took to the floor. He strode to the front of the dais whereupon he paused before bowing, bending a knee towards Matildis. 'My lady, would you do me the honour of joining me in this dance?'

Fluttering her long eyelashes, Matildis averted her gaze in a show of mock shyness. Her cheeks were aglow in response to Sir William's flattery and she rose, steadily, carefully, accepting his outstretched hand. 'Why, that would be a pleasure, my lord.'

As Sir William and Matildis danced, joining the mass of general merriment, Geoffrey picked at a chicken bone, nibbling its remains. At the far end of the table he noticed that Rig had vacated his seat and further inspection found him in the body of the hall, talking to the saltatrix. Payn, meanwhile, was consuming copious amounts of wine, slowly drinking himself into oblivion. Sir Roger and Athelena were sitting close together, holding hands, fingers entwined. She gazed adoringly into his eyes while he stared somewhat vacantly into the middle distance, his thoughts apparently lost in the vastness of the hall.

'Morgan.' Payn had stirred himself from his drunken stupor. 'Please save our family honour and rescue my mother from the clutches of Sir William.'

Geoffrey smiled as he looked across to his mother. Sir William's attentions had become somewhat more intimate and he was trying, without great success, to plant amorous kisses upon Matildis' finely boned cheeks. Initial adoration had clearly given way to aversion and Matildis was trying to wrestle herself free of Sir William's grasp. Nevertheless, manfully, the old knight held on, determined to maintain his prize. He was wasting his time, Geoffrey reflected for, although Matildis enjoyed the attentions and the fine words of other men, her heart still belonged to her late husband: no man could replace Sir Walter and Sir William was a fool if he thought otherwise.

'I will do my duty.' Chivalrously, Morgan rose and walked over to the dancing couple. As he did so, Geoffrey was taken by how relaxed and at ease the Lord of Avan appeared to be. Clearly, here was a man comfortable to be cast in the role of assassin. Nevertheless, Geoffrey wondered if Morgan's attitude might change, should he discover the truth behind Brother Helias' murder, should he realise that Rig had been responsible for his ex-esquire's demise. For reasons of expedience, Morgan had been told that Rhys Goch had murdered Brother Helias; this was a deception within a deception and, Geoffrey reflected, such trickery could be no more than a store of potential trouble, another obstacle to overcome, another rickety bridge to cross.

A dancer of great elegance, Morgan had no problem in sweeping Matildis off her feet, though it has to be said that Sir William looked more than a little crestfallen when the old matriarch was prised from his arms.

Returning to his seat, sweating profusely, breathing in laboured fashion, Sir William reached for a silver goblet and he duly consumed a measure of wine. 'A fine woman,' he informed anyone with an ear to listen. 'She is wasted on her own; she should be somebody's wife.'

'Is that a proposal?' Payn enquired. 'Only...' He cast a mischievous eye towards Athelena and Sir Roger. '...wouldn't that mix the blood of our two families? Wouldn't you be inviting my brother to marry his stepsister and thus bring incest into his life!'

Offended, Athelena shot Payn a glance clearly intended to wither. With no love lost between them, she was more than content to meet his sly look with fire in her eyes. 'And what of you, my lord?' Her voice rose an octave above its natural contralto, her lips, normally so soft and so inviting becoming all aquiver, her cheeks, peach-like in their perfection, taking on the complexion of a cardinal's cape. 'Isn't it time that you found a wife?'

'Assuming that someone would have him.' Quietly, Geoffrey picked the last vestiges of meat from his chicken bone before flicking the bare bone towards his drunken brother, only to be met with a shower of wine in reply.

'Sometimes you play the fool to your own detriment, my dear brother.' Rising, Payn placed his hands upon the stained cloth of the dais table, a look of twisted evil burning in his bloodshot eyes. 'Next time, why not consult your brain before allowing your words to race hither. That way, I shall not waste a good goblet of wine.'

'Still,' Sir William sighed, oblivious of the siblings' banter. 'Matildis does look radiant tonight.'

'Indeed, that is true,' Sir Roger agreed. Adding, somewhat tersely: 'But then, ambition has always coloured her cheeks.'

The moment over, and with Matildis and Morgan making their way towards the dais table, the fractious brothers returned to their own thoughts, holding their own counsel. Geoffrey proceeded to wipe the wine stains from his mantle, paying careful attention to its fur collar, whilst Payn's interest was taken by the local harlots and consideration as to which one he would bed tonight.

As she positioned herself carefully upon her seat, ensuring that creases and folds played no part in her dress, Matildis looked up and smiled at Morgan: 'Thank you for the dance, my lord. Your company is most enjoyable.'

Morgan bowed graciously in reply: 'It is a pleasure to partner such an elegant lady. It is an honour to be a member of such a noble household.'

'Is there not one thing that he does badly?' Payn turned to Rig and mouthed the aside. 'Best bowman, best dancer, best lover...and a cursed Welshman to boot!'

Rig laughed through sipped wine. He had abandoned the saltatrix and had rejoined his friends at the dais table. He would have been the first to admit that forced pleasantries and courtly banter were not his style; indeed, both left him cold. However, there was a game to be played, moves to be made, and he was determined to seize this chance of career advancement, reap the riches on offer through playing a part in the regicide. In Rig's experience, men had found many gods to worship, but the god of mammon remained the most alluring god of all.

'Maybe Morgan would like to dance with the saltatrix,' Rig suggested, somewhat mischievously. 'After all, they are the best performers in the hall.'

'Maybe Morgan would like to do more than just dance with the saltatrix,' Payn ventured, adding to the jest. 'A night spent with her might do wonders for his aim!'

'Morgan would not debauch himself with such behaviour,' Matildis countered, her expression the epitome of decency, her distaste evident for all to entertain. 'He is too much of a gentleman.'

Scoffing, Payn rose to his mother's challenge, eager to deny her supposition, taking great pleasure in disputing her words. 'Gentleman or not, I would vouchsafe that Morgan has other motives, sound reasons for keeping his distance.'

'These being?' Athelena enquired, her curiosity getting the better of her.

'I suggest that Morgan shares Richard's persuasion! That the saltatrix is of the wrong gender to warm his bed!'

At that, all the guests at the dais table erupted in a bout of hearty laughter. Even Morgan, the butt of the joke, was forced into raising a smile. Only Sir Roger remained stern-faced, calling the assembly to order: 'I will not hear such scurrilous talk at my table.'

'Why ever not?' Payn challenged. 'After all, such words are uttered in every inn and in every tavern!'

Smiling, Geoffrey had to concede that there was a grain of truth in Payn's humour; discussion as to Richard's manner and behaviour was the talk of every town. True, he had taken a queen, Anne of Bohemia, but she had died childless and rumours persisted that they had been no more than close companions. That assumption was challenged by Richard's show of public grief upon his wife's passing; even his most ardent enemies had to concede that he had shown true emotion there. Now Richard had taken a child bride, Isabella, daughter of Charles, the sixth man of that name to be crowned king of France. The marriage had been made to secure the peace between their respective countries and, to that end, there was merit in the match. However, the lack of mistresses, and even the lack of bastard offspring, gave voice to the feeling that the king was more at home with young men about his person, that he preferred their company to the ladies at court. 'So be it,' was the reaction of many. 'But it is not the done thing,' came the cry from those who would do Richard harm.

'Morgan will not lie with the saltatrix because he has designs upon another,' Geoffrey piped up, joining the conversation. 'He is a man deeply in love.'

'Really?' Payn leaned forward, glancing to the far end of the dais table, the better to view his younger brother. 'Who is the object of his desire? Do tell; we are all ears.'

'Branwen,' Geoffrey informed the assembled lords and ladies, 'mistress of Rhys Goch; she is the one who fires Morgan's passion.'

'Is this true, Morgan?' Payn taunted the embarrassed bowman: 'You would bed Branwen? Why, you old goat, you kept that to yourself!'

As the evening wore on, the humour became cruder in character. Nevertheless, the steady flow of wine ensured that all responded with laughter at some juncture. Rig, consummate in his consumption and his handling of the grape, remained sober, alert, ready to react should he receive a clarion call. Payn excused himself and made off with a prostitute, while Athelena became sleepy and was wont to allow her head to rest upon Sir Roger's shoulder. Sir William Scurlag, meanwhile, lapsed into a deep silence. The sweating and the heavy breathing that had first shown itself when he had been dancing continued to afflict him and cause him distress. Eventually, he could tolerate the discomfort no longer, and he rose, making ready to excuse himself.

'You are leaving us, Sir William?' Sir Roger de la March eyed his future father-in-law, unhappy at the countenance presented before him, a furrowed brow highlighting his concern.

'Yes. I feel a little...' Before completing his reply, Sir William fell against the edge of the dais table, eliciting cries and gasps from the assembled guests.

Sir Roger de la March was the first to react. Moving swiftly, he was at Sir William's side, offering support and assistance. Sir Roger was joined by Rig, who took hold of the elderly lord, bearing his weight by placing his arms under saturated armpits.

It took awhile, but eventually the blush on Sir William's cheeks faded to something resembling his natural colour. Drawing a hand across his sodden brow, the old knight took a few fragile, faltering steps.

With Sir Roger and Rig supporting, Sir William Scurlag made his way through the crowd of drunkards and merrymakers. On locating the north door, he exited the Great Hall only to rest his back against the thick stone wall of the donjon, the better to catch his breath.

'Help me to my quarters,' the old knight pleaded to his supporters. 'I am in need of air.'

'Father!' Athelena, struggling through the melee, came running to Sir William's side. She offered her hand and, instinctively, father clasped the fingers of daughter. Taking strength from her presence, and with Sir Roger and Rig assisting, the wheezing knight started up the stairs.

Back in the hall, Morgan rose from the dais table. He bowed towards Matildis. 'Thank you for your hospitality, my lady, but now I must seek my bed. It is my intention to be up early in the morning; I must practice my bow at first light.'

'In that case,' Matildis smiled, 'we had better wish you easy slumbers. We carry the hope that your aim remains true and that God blesses your each and every arrow.'

'It will and He will,' Morgan assured Matildis. Then, he took leave of his hosts.

Gazing through the debauchery, Geoffrey was left to reflect that it had been a mixed evening: the entertainment and the food had been splendid, but Sir William's illness had dampened proceedings. He knew that he could do nothing but trust that all would be well in the morning and rest assured that no more complications would arise.

'Time for bed,' Matildis informed her son, as though instructing a child and, patiently, Geoffrey smiled. However, when all this was through, he would be a man of means, a man of great land and honour. And such a man could claim a wealthy wife. And that is what he would do; Geoffrey would break free from his mother's shackles. When all this was through, he would claim such a wife.

# Day Two - 5th May 1399

Euros was dreaming. In his dream, he was standing before the statue of St James in Compostela, Meirian of Ty Maen at his side. She was talking frantically, but Euros remained oblivious to her chatter; he was looking up at the statue, perturbed to find that St James had taken on Anest's slender form. Then, he was in a tavern, the location being Kenfig. Yet, the tavern held the interior of a hostelry, an inn he had visited in Bordeaux. There, a man sat at his table claiming to be Arthur. However, far from discussing rebellion, this man was espousing the worth of jewelled daggers and gold rings. Then, there came a cry from within the tavern, only for Euros to realise that dream had blended into reality and that he had been jolted awake.

Rubbing the backs of his hands across his eyes, Euros tried to make sense of the dream, only to find no satisfaction. Only the cry remained, emanating from the vill. Pulling on a pair of hose and throwing a tunic and a mantel over his naked torso, Euros walked over to the solar window, whereupon he pulled back the wooden shutters and gazed out at the vill.

Needless to say, it was still raining, a steady torrent pouring from the heavens. Ignoring the elements, Euros made his way towards Yorwerth's cot, making light of the ankle-deep mud. Outside the cot, a small crowd had gathered, kin and close friends of Yorwerth and Ysota. Euros judged that the cry had come from one of their number. Inside the cot, he found the reason for this outpouring of distress: resting peacefully, eyes closed, arms straight at his sides, was the deceased form of Tysilio, a further victim of the fever. His mother was wailing uncontrollably, her tears dampening Anest's veil. The healer's expression screamed incomprehension; rhythmically, she patted Ysota on the back, offering words of comfort, trying, with all her might, to facilitate grief's bitter tide.

'I am sorry.' Euros realised that his words were inadequate, but he could think of none better.

'It is God's will,' Yorwerth intoned, somewhat unconsciously, his bewildered expression speaking volumes for his state of mind.

As relatives and friends mingled in and out of the cot, Euros found himself to be an intruder, his presence there serving no purpose whatsoever. He realised that he could not ease Yorwerth and Ysota's suffering and he found anger and guilt tugging at his mind. Anger, because he felt that a merciful God should not have allowed this to happen, guilt, because he considered that he had failed Tysilio in some way. If that were so, then he would fail no other. He would push principle to one side and accept the Castle's offer: he would locate Rhys Goch in exchange for money and food.

On leaving Yorwerth's cot, Euros joined Madog. No words were exchanged, only a solemn understanding as to Tysilio's fate, a moment of shared reflection as to the fragility of life.

Wagging his tail, Ci stood on hind legs, placing his front paws on Euros' mantle. The young lord took hold of Ci's paws, placing the dog in a sitting position before bending a knee, the better to fondle the canine's floppy ears.

'Have you received an offer for the plate?' Euros enquired, glancing up at Madog.

'An offer has been forthcoming, from a merchant in Kenfig. But the money presented is a good third of the plate's true value.'

'Take it,' Euros replied instantly. 'Distribute the money to those with most need. Ensure that they buy food for their families and that they are not tempted to waste but a farthing upon cheap ale.'

Madog nodded in solemn fashion. 'It will be done, my lord.'

As the two men talked, both became aware of a presence, of someone approaching from the middle-distance, Ci's wagging tail confirming that fact. Looking south, towards Groes-y-Gryn, the debating point within the village, man and dog watched as the Lady Meirian made her way towards them, her skirts raised, hitched up out of the mud and the slurry, the toes of her leather shoes reluctantly testing the ground as she sought an elusive, drier path. Despite the difficulty, Meirian maintained a certain poise and dignity, a fact not lost upon Einion, the blacksmith paying the lady close attention as he too came into view.

'I would like words with Rhys Goch,' Euros informed his steward. 'But first I must find the old lord; where do you believe him to be hiding?'

'I do not wish to be intrusive, my lord, but I feel that I can answer that question.' Smiling, presenting a cheerful countenance, a vision in sharp contrast to the gloom of the previous day, the Lady Meirian stood before the two men, the fingers of her right hand absently toying with Ci's muzzle. 'But before we talk about the Lord Rhys, I would like words with you, in private.'

Taking his cue, Madog called his dog and they set off for the Hall and their obligations; like-minded companions, they showed no offence at the slight, for both knew their place.

'I have come to apologise for yesterday,' Meirian informed Euros as they walked towards St Wenduin's, seeking the lee of the church and a rare place of shelter. 'My behaviour was unacceptable and my words ill chosen.'

'The matter is over,' Euros announced, abruptly. 'Much water has flowed into the sea since then.'

Relieved, the Lady Meirian lowered her head in a show of gratitude, a wisp of her auburn hair caressing her pale cheek as she did so. 'Thank you; I am indebted to your understanding.' Looking up, she glanced towards Einion, the blacksmith duly hiding within the orchard in an attempt to eavesdrop. 'It appears as though we have company, that someone is keen to listen.'

Euros raised a smile, despite the fact that Einion was causing him great irritation. 'Pay no heed to the blacksmith; he can see us, but he cannot hear us; he is well out of earshot.'

'Very well. Then I shall continue; I will tell you what little I know of Rhys Goch and his whereabouts. Suffice to say, I have no intimate knowledge of the man, or of his location. But, if I were you, I would have words with Branwen of Deumay, for she may offer an opinion.'

'I shall call on Branwen. But, tell me, what lies behind your reason?'

'It is said, and I wish to emphasise here that this is court fact and not mere gossip, that her heart still beats for Rhys Goch.'

While Euros digested this piece of information, Einion took leave of his position, either through boredom or the recognition of a more pressing matter. Either way, Euros had been proved right, he had been sound in his judgement, for the blacksmith left the orchard none the wiser for his excursion, feeling a touch more frustrated into the bargain.

'Now that I have made my peace I shall not detain you any longer.' Gathering up her skirts with her left hand, the Lady Meirian extended her right hand, taking hold of Euros' forearm, squeezing it in affectionate fashion. 'I trust that we part on good terms and with mutual understanding.'

'Rest assured, my lady, that is so.'

On that final note of reassurance, the Lady Meirian turned and made her slippery way back to Ty Maen, seeking the dry of her solar. As she walked, Euros had to admit that he was at a loss, unable to fully understand the meaning of her visit. Was she showing genuine remorse for her behaviour, for her unkind words and her accusations against Anest? Or was there something more menacing at play, something beyond Euros' comprehension? Euros concluded that the Lady Meirian would bear watching, at least until he uncovered the reason for her initial outburst.

Leaving the shelter of the church, Euros set off in search of Branwen. To that end he headed north crossing an area known as Dane's Vale. This meant walking beyond Rhys Goch's fine house, Hevedaker, before joining the stream known as the Goylake. From there, Euros climbed a grassy hill leading to Deumay.

Branwen's home was well appointed. Situated on top of the hill, the smallholding consisted of a stone farmhouse and stone outbuildings, modest in size, all covered in thatch. A low bank and a ditch, which marked the boundary, enclosed the buildings, while the Goylake stream twisted and rushed by at the foot of the incline.

Branwen could be seen near her door, feeding her chickens. A buxom lady of medium height she had green eyes, blonde hair and a rosy complexion. She was wearing a long, trailing skirt of green, patterned with gold upon her neckline. The bodice was tight-fitting, cut low, revealing her ample bosom. On her head there sat a veil, while a decorative leather belt encircled her hips. She had about her a quiet sensuality, a look and an attitude that stirred the blood of every passionate male; it was easy to see how she had attracted the affections of both Rhys Goch and Morgan de Avene.

'My lady.' Euros paused at the gate, bowing in customary greeting.

'Good day, Euros.' Branwen uttered the salutation without looking up. Her husky voice lacked its customary warmth and passion. Her eyes too were cold, favouring her chickens' eager pecking to Euros' countenance. 'I would invite you in, to share my potage, but...'

'I am not welcome.'

Sighing, the freewoman frowned, her features pinched and painful, her natural ebullience veiled from view. It was clear to anyone who knew her that she was suppressing her true emotions that she was hiding them away, storing them in the deeper recesses of her mind.

'You and Rhys are hardly bosom companions.'

'True,' Euros acknowledged. 'And I understand your loyalty towards him.' Pausing, the young lord ran his fingers through his hair, untangling a matted mass of dampness. He continued, 'For I have been told that your heart still beats for the Lord Rhys.'

Branwen shrugged her rounded shoulders, an act of feigned indifference. 'What do they say...' she searched amongst the grain as if searching for wisdom, '...distance lends enchantment? That may be true, but it does not keep you warm.'

Leaning on the gate, Euros felt a degree of sympathy for the freewoman, for the loneliness she must feel these long days and cold nights. At one time, she had been a lady-in-waiting at Hevedaker; she had served the needs of Rhys Goch and his elderly mother. Whilst there, she had captured the Lord Rhys' affections, becoming his mistress and social partner. For a young woman, whose original ambitions had been no more than to secure a living from her farm and to hold on to her freewoman status, such elevated company and lordly attention represented manna from heaven. And, doubtless, the adventure would have continued, had Rhys Goch not been made an outlaw. With the old lord's lands seized, Branwen had been cast out of Hevedaker. She had returned to Deumay and had settled back into a more humdrum lifestyle. However, having once dined with the nobles it was only natural that she would want to return to the high table. Having once been feted and admired it was easy to appreciate her sense of frustration and her isolation. Indeed, her mood spoke of little else, her manner adding a sad echo.

'Have you received recent word from Rhys Goch?' Euros enquired, politely.

'Why do you ask?' Branwen looked up, the first spark of interest appearing in her large green eyes.

'Kindly, allow me to step out of this rain and I will give you my reason.'

The bait cast, the lure was about to be taken, the thoughtful look on Branwen's face indicating that curiosity now held her in its devilish grip. Inclining her head in invitation, she dispensed the last of her grain, scattering the seed amongst her chickens. Then, she entered the barn, placing the wicker feeding basket upon a shelf.

Opening the gate, Euros followed in Branwen's footsteps. Once in the barn, he enlightened her as to the covenant proposed by the Castle; he told her of their promise: the offer of money and food in exchange for knowledge of Rhys Goch. Throughout, Branwen remained rapt by Euros' story, feeling the need to sit upon a bale of straw and stare reflectively into the recesses of the shelter. From time to time she pressed her hands together, as if in prayer, her eyes glancing upwards, as if in supplication. Euros supposed that such gestures were well practiced and had been employed many times during her months of isolation, her years of waiting and wondering just what the future might hold.

'Rhys would never kill a monk,' Branwen asserted at the close of Euros' story.

'He is an outlaw,' the young lord pointed out.

'Maybe so, but he is not a murderer.'

Were these the words of a loyal lover, or an expression of the truth? Either way, Euros had his doubts. The answer resided with Rhys Goch and his explanation regarding Sir Roger's story. All else was incidental; Euros had to speak to the accused.

'Someone committed this crime,' Euros reminded Branwen. 'If not the Lord Rhys, then I wish to understand why he has been accused.'

'The answer to that is simple: the accusation suits the Castle's needs.'

'If that is so, then even greater need to establish the truth.' Euros walked over to the barn entrance. There, he watched as Branwen's chickens manoeuvred for position, their heads bobbing up and down as they searched for food. Thankfully, there was enough grain to keep them all happy, which led Euros to reflect that the same should be true for people too. Stepping back into the barn, the young lord implored the freewoman: 'I ask for your help, Branwen. And I promise you that if Rhys Goch is innocent, then I shall not betray him.'

'He is innocent!' Branwen avowed, her voice full of conviction, her gaze, meanwhile, hidden from view.

'Then let me prove that fact.'

Sighing, the freewoman rose from the straw. She walked away from Euros only to pause at the barn entrance. There, she gazed out, beyond Cae Pwll-y-Ceffylau, the field of the horse's pool, to the town of Kenfig and its imposing donjon. The rain was still falling; the clouds were black and glowering, offering perfect reflection of her mood.

Turning back to face Euros, Branwen showed her exasperation; rolling her eyes to the heavens, she flapped her arms at her sides. 'I would like to help you, but how can I trust a man who sides with the Castle?'

Surprised, Euros arched an eyebrow, giving the freewoman a look as much quizzical as it was incongruous. 'Who asserts that I side with the Castle?'

'The words are whispered throughout the vill. All those months you spent away; they have been taken as a sign of your indifference. The imposition of the Castle's laws; you have raised not one word in protest.'

Annoyed, aware that his innermost thoughts had not been translated into actions, conscious that he had made mistakes, Euros was ready to speak out. However, he held his tongue judging, quite rightly, that Branwen was not deserving of its lash. Instead, Euros opted for reason. Following his natural path, that of the diplomat, he spoke in soft, engaging tones:

'Would you prefer that I speak out and follow Rhys Goch's example? Would you have me condemned as an outlaw? It is true that I have been away for too long, true that I should have been more assertive when arguing my case with the Castle. But I have always believed that I am at my best when building a bridge between Castle and vill. Maybe I am mistaken and I need to reassess my position. If that is so, then it will be done. However, I promise you this: if not me, then the Castle will find another to locate your beloved. And that man will have no qualms over Rhys Goch's innocence or guilt.'

With the colour draining from her face, Branwen felt compelled to swallow, a sudden burst of coughing suggesting that Euros' words had been trapped in her throat. Her composure regained, she turned and gazed up at the young lord, tears forming in her eyes, tears of sadness, tears of realisation and, because it was hidden somewhere deep within her nature, tears of hope.

'Have words with Brother Blanchigernonis.' Branwen's voice was now nothing more than a husky whisper. 'It is through him that I obtain word from Rhys Goch.'

'Thank you. Do you have a message that I might take to your beloved?'

'Only this: tell him that I grow weary through frustration and that I pray each and every day that he will find a way back to my hearth. Tell him that my love for him will never diminish, that he holds my heart captive, that I will wait for him until my dying day.'

* * *

Payn awoke to the sound of gulls squawking. Lifting heavy eyelids, he peered into the darkened room. Glancing to his right, he saw the naked form of a young woman, her hair splayed over a pillow. To his left, lay another woman, slightly older, plumper, a tangle of dark hair obscuring her face. Blinking, a sense of realisation dawning, Payn understood just where he was: in his chamber. However, how he had arrived there and the events preceding his slumbers remained a blur to him.

As Payn sat up, he disturbed the two women. Groaning in unison, they came to their senses. Stirring, they smiled at their host, allowing licentious fingers to toy with the fair mane of his chest hair.

'No!' Irritated, Payn slapped the playful fingers. Sated from the tumult of the night, he had other things on his mind this morning; he had no need of their company. 'Go,' he ordered. 'Leave me alone.'

Slowly, wearily, the women rose from the bed, kicking back a stained bed sheet in the process. Gathering up their clothing, they threw cheap tunics over their careworn bodies before leaving the chamber, their incessant giggling echoing in Payn's mind long after they had gone.

Yawning, Payn tried to recall the events of the night, but that proved elusive. Nevertheless, it had been a good night; at least, Payn was left with that impression. Whatever, a new day had dawned and there were people to see, business to attend to.

Rising from the bed, Payn walked over to a trestle table and a basin of cold water. He proceeded to pour the icy water over his head, shivering into full consciousness. Pulling back the shutters on the windows, he peered out, glancing down to the inner bailey. There, the day had long started; merchants were trading, money was changing hands, profits were being accounted: the castle chanted to prosperity's refrain.

Locating a pair of discarded hose and picking up a miniver-trimmed tunic, Payn proceeded to dress. His clothing was black, his favourite colour. He pulled on a pair of sharply pointed boots before declaring himself satisfied: he was ready to face the day; he felt confident; he would surmount any potential challenge.

Upon leaving his chamber, Payn skipped down the donjon steps, said a cheerful 'good morning' to the guards in the guardroom before emerging into the sea mist and drizzle. Conditions were far from ideal, but Payn located Morgan de Avene just where he expected to find him, in a cordoned off section of the inner bailey, an area set aside for the practicing of archery.

A number of targets had been placed against the town wall, and a few archers, common men who had arrived early, keen to join the king's company, were taking advantage of this arrangement. However, their numbers were light this morning thus ensuring that Morgan de Avene had a target all to himself.

Standing back, Payn observed as Morgan loosened his arrows. All hit their target, a bundle of straw hewn into the rough form of a human being. Indeed, all were so closely grouped together that only one hand was required to free them from the target. After this initial cascade, came the crowning glory: the aiming of a single arrow at an apple. The fruit had been placed on top of a conventional target and, from a distance of some eighty yards, Morgan proceeded to split the apple with alacrity. Payn was left with the impression that no man could shoot straighter, no man could demonstrate greater accuracy; he was certain that this man could bring down the king.

'Well done, my lord.' Grinning, Payn approached the bijou figure of Morgan, tapping him upon the shoulder. 'I would vouchsafe that no man has ever demonstrated such skill with the longbow.'

'Thank you for the compliment.' Morgan bowed in elegant and graceful fashion. 'But I hope that conditions improve when the king arrives, for this dampness plays havoc with the drawstring and such an impediment might determine the chances of our success.'

Payn made a mental note to pray for dry weather. Not that he believed that the Lord God would be listening; He seemed to be ignoring the pleas of saints these days, so what hope was there for Payn, the ultimate sinner?

'I am sure that the sun will shine upon the king when he arrives in Kenfig. After all, isn't it said that our sovereign lord has control over everything, including the weather?'

In response to Payn's comment, Morgan strained his Roman features into a something akin to a smile. A man not without humour he, nevertheless, found it difficult to joke about the assassination. Although he loathed the king with a vengeance, considering him responsible for untold suffering, Morgan also respected the authority of the Crown. That he was prepared to compromise this principle demonstrated the depth of Morgan's feeling: it spoke volumes apropos his desire for political change. Moreover, this willingness to be used as an instrument of change illustrated his belief, his conviction that both he and his people would benefit from such a drastic course of action, from the hope that power would be transferred into hands considered more benevolent. Upon that thought, he mused:

'Doubtless Richard would consider your words to be true. He holds an opinion of himself greater than that of the Holy Roman Emperor. And, I dare say, given freewill, he would elevate his position to that of Our Lord God Himself.'

Digressing, the archer tended to his bow, removing the sodden drawstring. Then, he located a dry drawstring from under his hat and proceeded to attach that to the stave. Accompanied by Payn, Morgan walked the length of the range. Pausing beside the target, he withdrew his arrows from their tightly grouped location before placing them into his quiver.

'You have everything ready?' Morgan glanced up sharply, his soft blue eyes sombre, the hairs on his chin bristling with concern. 'Everything is as planned?'

'Don't worry.' Payn folded his arms, allowing them to rest nonchalantly across his chest, his shoulder leaning easily against the stone of the town wall. 'All is arranged. You will take your position on top of the battlements, hidden behind the crenulations. When the king arrives he will walk down that path.' Turning, Payn indicted a path that lead from the main gate to the donjon steps. 'Halfway down that path Roger will greet Richard. The moment they stop and talk is the moment you strike. Naturally, there will be a commotion. The king's Cheshire guard will doubtless loosen their arrows and seek to entrap you. So, after you have loosened your arrow, you must return to the donjon. Go to your room, only to join the throng when they rush up the stairs. You will find me on the battlements, sword drawn, having slain the assassin.'

'And what poor mite will pass for the victim?'

'He is a poacher, a vagrant, secured in our prison. I will kill him just before the king arrives and secrete his body in a storeroom, in close proximity to the battlements. I will place the bow in his hand, arrows at his side, and I will bear witness to the atrocity.'

'You appear to have thought of everything, my lord.'

'Rest assured,' Payn tapped his temple with his right index finger, 'nothing escapes my keen mind.' After pausing, to allow a group of archers to walk safely out of earshot, Payn pointed to Morgan's well-crafted longbow, an instrument standing as tall as the man himself. 'And what of you; this will be your weapon?'

'Indeed. A ninety-pound bow, made from the finest yew, strung with silk: only the best to topple a monarch. I will use a needle bodkin made from the finest steel.' Morgan took an arrow from his quiver and handed it to Payn, drawing close attention to its long, tapered head. 'Such a bolt should have no trouble in passing through the king's finery.'

Well satisfied, Payn smiled and nodded. He stooped and gathered up the half of the split apple, crunching the fruit with delight. 'Then we are all set and in good order.' Pieces of apple dribbled down Payn's chin causing him to remove the excess with the back of his blotched right hand, a hand scarred with pink stains from the moment of his birth. 'I only wish that Richard should arrive tomorrow and that the deed could be done then; I am impatient for change and the realisation of our ambitions.'

Taking another bite from the apple, Payn noticed his brother, Geoffrey, talking with a young lady near the stables. As they talked they walked and Payn was struck by the notion, by the idea that Geoffrey always seemed to be walking on air, as though his head and his thoughts were up in the clouds. Today he was wearing a padded tunic with a high collar and hose of bright blue and pink. A wide leather belt encircled his midriff while a prominent codpiece, exaggerated in size, jutted out from between his legs.

'My younger brother,' Payn muttered, more to himself than to his companion. 'I must have words with him. You must excuse me, Morgan.'

Without waiting for a reply, Payn went in search of his younger brother. As he strode towards Geoffrey, the faltering form of Sir William Scurlag came into view. The old knight staggered towards Payn, appearing lost or in a state of confusion. Eventually, he paused. Leaning on his sword, he placed his free hand to his forehead.

'My Lord Scurlag.' Payn took a slight detour, joining his co-conspirator. 'You are feeling better today?'

'A little.' Sir William Scurlag then gave lie to his comment, coughing with some violence, bringing up a measure of phlegm, spitting the bile on to a grassy area of the inner bailey. 'I am just troubled with this ague.' After pausing to catch his breath, Sir William continued in a conspiratorial whisper: 'Did you hear the talk in the Great Hall last night, about the sorceress?'

'What sorceress?' Payn gave the old knight only half a mind, his attention taken by his brother, watching as Geoffrey engaged in flirtatious conversation with his lady friend, drawing giggles of admiration and the occasional whoop of delight.

'The woman on Stormy Down; it is said that she practices the black arts.'

'Really?' This time, Sir William Scurlag had Payn's full attention, for talk of devilment was wont to unsettle him. He put this down to his mother, and the superstitious nonsense she had filled his head with when he had been but a child. 'Then we would do best to keep an eye on her.'

'Indeed,' Sir William acknowledged. Raising his head, the old knight glanced around, as if unsure of his bearings, his excessively arched eyebrows disappearing under his hat and its fur trim. 'I am looking for your mother...'

'I believe that she is at prayer.' Payn pointed to his left, to the church of St Thomas. 'If you should find her, kindly inform her that I will call upon her as soon as I have attended to my duties.'

'I will do that,' Sir William Scurlag grunted.

'Stupid old goat,' Payn hissed, sotto voce, when the old knight had staggered from view.

Putting all thoughts of Sir William to one side, Payn continued in search of his brother. His female companion was about to leave him, taking a coy expression with her, a wont to glance repeatedly over her shoulder and a need to giggle from time to time; why do all women present themselves as empty-headed tartlets, Payn thought, disparagingly.

'My brother.' Approaching Geoffrey, and using unnecessary force, Payn slapped his sibling upon his back, causing him to splutter. 'I trust that I find you in good health this morning?'

'I am fine,' Geoffrey replied, regaining his composure. Then he frowned, somewhat suspiciously. 'You appear to be in cheerful mood.'

'And why shouldn't I be cheerful; after all, I am on the brink of realising all my ambitions.' Pausing, Payn watched as, hand-in-hand, Sir Roger de la March and Athelena Scurlag made their graceful way down the donjon steps, emerging into the bailey. Nudging his younger brother in the ribs, Payn winked in somewhat salacious fashion. 'And what would you give to realise a few ambitions with her?'

'She is a fine lady,' Geoffrey confirmed, feigning indifference.

'She is a whore.' Payn spat out the words: 'A whore wrapped in finery.'

'You do not like her, do you?'

'I do not like the influence she is exerting over Roger.'

'What influence?' Geoffrey asked, innocently.

'Surely you can sense that he has become somewhat distant?' Payn watched as Sir Roger and Athelena engaged in earnest conversation, talking with a local goldsmith, a man who had received the commission to make a ring in celebration of their wedding day. 'Surely you can sense that his mind has strayed somewhat from the detail of our plot?'

'If that is so,' Geoffrey argued, 'then it is none of Athelena's doing; after all, her father proposed the plot to us in the first place.'

'That may be so,' Payn reasoned. 'But don't you sense that Roger would wash his hands of us, if he were able?'

'Roger would never do such a thing,' Geoffrey scoffed aloud at such a suggestion, though worry lines upon his forehead betrayed his concern, his anxiety that such an act might come to pass. 'He is loyal to us. He loves us too much.'

'He loves Athelena now; we are secondary to his needs. You must accept, Geoffrey, that Roger is a changed man, you must realise that he has grown soft: I no longer trust him.'

The pebble had been dropped into the pond. Payn stood back and watched as the ripples took effect. He watched as Geoffrey paid close attention to Sir Roger and Athelena, watched as a variety of emotions played across his younger brother's face. A keen student of manipulation, Payn reckoned that he could wrap Geoffrey around his little finger; he reasoned that he had done so since childhood and considered that the boy in Geoffrey was still ripe for exploitation. He knew that Geoffrey was eager to please, that he was desperate to remain inoffensive, he believed that Geoffrey craved nothing more than laughter and applause. If Payn said the right words, then Geoffrey would do his bidding: that was the ethos of his plan, the philosophy behind his scheme to destroy Sir Roger.

'If you are right,' Geoffrey ventured, 'and Roger is acting purely out of self-interest, then what would you have us do?'

'Just this.' Smiling, Payn placed an arm around Geoffrey's shoulder. In close company, he led his brother towards the donjon, whispering soft words of perfidy into his ear. 'Imagine: if Roger were no longer a part of our plan, you would have no need to aspire to the post of portreeve; instead, you could set your sights on becoming constable of Kenfig. All this would be yours.' In a grandeurs gesture, Payn inscribed an arc, waving an arm in the general direction of the donjon. 'All the land that goes with the castle, all the money that goes with the land. Think of your status then, dear brother.' Again, Payn indulged in a salacious wink and a playful elbow into Geoffrey's ribcage. 'Just think of all the women you could attract then.'

Eyes rolling, it was clear that Geoffrey's mind was wandering down such Elysian avenues; it was obvious that he was enjoying the view and that Payn's cajoling had taken effect.

'And what of you?' Abruptly, Geoffrey snapped back to the present. 'I thought that you had designs upon becoming constable of Kenfig.'

'Indeed I had,' Payn confessed. 'In the original plan Roger would move on, leave Kenfig to me, secure Sir Thomas Despenser's lands and, in time, the constableship of Ogmore, for himself. But, in my plan, I see myself taking Roger's share of the spoils: Sir Thomas Despenser's lands and the constableship of Ogmore Castle. I would have no need of Kenfig and, to thank you for your co-operation, dear brother, I would gladly reward you with such a prize.'

'And Roger would get nothing?' Geoffrey's eyebrows disappeared, up under his shaggy fringe.

'He is against us, brother. He deserves nothing. And nothing he shall get.'

'But what would mother say?' Geoffrey screeched the words, drawing attention to himself and his brother, halting the march of passing soldiers and tradesmen. A group of the former stared simply to realise that it was 'only' Geoffrey. Laughing, they continued upon their merry way, making crude jokes at his expense.

Taking hold of Geoffrey's tunic, Payn dragged his younger brother to a quiet corner of the donjon. Finding perfect solitude, he continued with his plan. 'It is time, dear brother, that you moved out of our mother's shadow. It is time that you were your own man. You are her favourite anyway. Once she hears of Roger's treachery she will be only too pleased to see you as constable of Kenfig.'

'Help! Help!'

With their heads turning, both Payn and Geoffrey sought the source of the plea, quickly realising that their mother had emitted the cry. Running across the bailey they reached the Church of St Thomas to find Matildis at the door, a hand placed to her throat, her mouth open, her eyes staring in wide surprise.

'What is it, mother? What upsets you so?' Geoffrey was ridden with angst, near tears at his mother's distress. He placed a hand upon her shoulder, as much as to steady himself as to offer her comfort. 'What has happened?'

'Sir William...in the church...he collapsed.'

Rig, Sir Roger and Athelena swiftly joined Payn, Geoffrey and Matildis; Morgan too had been roused by the call. In the background there gathered a crowd of causal onlookers, drawn by the cry, curious as to its cause.

'Disperse the crowd.' Sir Roger took immediate control of the situation. 'Rig: tell the burgesses to go about their normal business. Geoffrey: mother is upset; escort her to her chamber.'

'I am all right.' Irritated, Matildis brushed Geoffrey's attentions aside. Her poise returning, she stepped into the church. 'Sir William is the one in need of assistance. Come, quickly, lend him your aid.'

Leading the way, Sir Roger entered the simple structure that was the Church of St Thomas whereupon he made his way down the aisle, finding Sir William, stricken, his spare frame slumped upon the floor. Easing the old knight on to his back, Sir Roger established that Sir William was still breathing, albeit in laboured fashion, his body being warm to the touch. His forehead was bathed in sweat while his clothing had absorbed a great deal of moisture. All could see that Sir William no longer had about him an air of prominence and position, an authority that few would dare cross. Ill health had sapped him of all dignity, had stripped away all measure of decorum; even his sword, a symbol of his power, hung loosely at his side.

'The fever?' Athelena joined Sir Roger and knelt beside Sir William. Trembling with worry she placed a hand to her father's cheek, her long, delicate fingers offering gentle caress.

'He showed signs of suffering yesterday evening. I have to confess,' added a doleful Sir Roger, 'that I feared the worst, even then.'

'If it is the fever,' Matildis ventured, 'then we shall require assistance.'

'I want someone now!' Athelena demanded. 'And I only want the best!'

As the plotters considered Athelena's command, they stared at each other. Sir William was all but ignored, save for his daughter's ministrations. With the silence hanging heavy in the air, it was left to Morgan de Avene to propose a way forward:

'I suggest that we go to the maladeria, seek the help of the custorin, Johanna Wittard; it is said that she possesses a cure for the fever.'

'But can we trust her?' Matildis posed this delicate and most important question, for a prime symptom of the fever was a delirious babbling, and no one could be sure as to what tales Sir William might tell.

'We have to take that chance.' Athelena left no one in any doubt as to her priorities: 'I will not compromise my father's health.'

Steeling himself, it was clear that Sir Roger would have to make an onerous decision: to tend Sir William from within their number, or to seek Johanna Wittard's well practiced help? One glance into the depths of Athelena's rich hazel eyes removed all doubt regarding this question: whatever she wanted, he was at her behest.

'Seek her out, Morgan,' the constable instructed. 'Tell the custorin of our needs and of our urgency. Tell her that both she and the maladeria will be amply rewarded. Inform her that all her requirements will be met.'

Looking on, Payn was consumed with mounting anger and frustration. He had lost control and he feared further subversion. He considered that Sir William had been struck by a curse and he blamed Anest, the sorceress. He concluded that she would bear watching and, should further mishaps befall the plotters, instant elimination lest she be responsible for further enchantments; if she was not destroyed, then she could bring about their downfall, the total ruin of all their ambitions.

* * *

According to local wisdom, Brother Blanchigernonis had been born with white hair. In truth, his hair had turned white at an early age, as had the beard on his chin. The white whiskers had lent themselves to his nickname, Blanchigernonis, a name the white monk had carried with him when entering the cloister, some five years ago to the very day.

Born into a merchant family, Blanchigernonis lost his parents to the plague when its first wave swept the country in 1349. Sixteen years of age and despairing, he was received into Margam Abbey. Serving as a novice, he duly applied himself to both his studies and his prayers, reaching his late teens a well-rounded, well-educated individual. It was at that time, when hormones were gushing and his eye for the outside world was becoming sharper and ever keener, that Blanchigernonis had to choose between taking his final vows and taking his chance in the maelstrom of the secular world. At that point in his life, with grief easing to acceptance and his mind becoming more settled, there could be but one choice. And so it was that Blanchigernonis absented himself from the security of the abbey and its brethren, opting instead for a path of opportunity and adventure.

Blanchigernonis' skills and intelligence were soon recognised and a local merchant offered him employment as a clerk. A skill, studied at the abbey, that of writing and copying manuscripts was developed as a sideline and soon he came into his own as a copyist of the highest order. And it was through this craft of writing that Blanchigernonis first came to Euros' attention, the young lord's earliest memory of the white monk being the manuscripts Blanchigernonis brought to the Hall, words of learning commissioned by his mother. Euros could still recall pouring through page after page of vellum, being mesmerized by the knowledge at his fingertips, awe-struck at the discoveries he was making. It was a time he would never forget, a period in his life that opened up his mind to endless possibilities; it was at that point that he learned to search for answers to every conceivable question.

As for Blanchigernonis, time moved on, he fell in love, married and fathered four children. Arthritis took hold, his quill became tranquil and he learned to accept that he would write no more. However, over the years, he had absorbed every detail, each word written, he had stored a lifetime of accumulated wisdom, he had acquired knowledge rich in its variety and depth. He considered himself to be truly blessed. Then, fate, in the shape of a card dealt by the Devil, lent a hand, robbing him of his wife when the plague struck again, in the spring of 1394. It was at that point that Blanchigernonis turned his back on the secular world and re-entered the abbey. This time, his vows were taken and he resolved to spend the rest of his days serving God.

Having travelled north from Deumay, Euros crossed the River Kenfig at Howletsford; before him stood Llanfihangel Grange, a farm owned by Margam Abbey. The grange consisted of some thirty acres of meadow, half-a-dozen carucates of arable land, a curtilage, a watermill and a fulling mill. A chapel served the needs of the brethren and the conversi. The grange's main purpose was the management of sheep, a vast number of whom roamed before Euros' eyes, sampling the delights of the lush, moist grass. The sheep were tended by the conversi, lay brethren who worked the land in exchange for food and shelter. Low-born and illiterate, the conversi took vows of chastity and obedience, but they were barred from the brotherhood due to their subordinate status. Their purpose was to till the land and tend the sheep, so that the monks could devote themselves to prayer. This arrangement was of great financial benefit to the abbey, both in the profits gained from the livestock and in the monies obtained from the nobility; preoccupied with secular matters, the nobles found contentment in rewarding those monks who prayed on their behalf. It was Brother Blanchigernonis' task to supervise the conversi, a duty he performed with a benevolent eye and a munificent hand.

Picking a path through the sheep, Euros soon located a knot of conversi. They were standing beside Brother Blanchigernonis, receiving instruction from the white monk. Clear as to their duties, they dispersed into the meadow, leaving the way open for Euros, who duly made his approach.

Standing beside a stone barn, Brother Blanchigernonis leant upon a wooden staff, his fingers entwined as they rested upon its apex, his chin quiescent upon his fingers. On catching sight of Euros, the monk's dark brown eyes twinkled with amusement. He puffed out his barrel-shaped chest while a smile broadened his ruddy cheeks.

'Good day to you, brother,' Euros announced as he stood at the white monk's shoulder. 'How are you keeping? I feel it is fair to say that you are looking well.'

'I am in good health,' Brother Blanchigernonis confirmed, before straightening his back and shrugging his shoulders. 'I could complain,' he added, 'but to what purpose?'

The preliminaries over, the lord and the monk wandered towards the river, entering an area of thicket and light woodland. As they walked, Euros noted that Brother Blanchigernonis' limp had become ever more exaggerated and he concluded that the arthritis, bedevilling his hands, now troubled his right knee as well.

'I received word of your return.' Brother Blanchigernonis paused at the riverbank, watching as the water rushed by on its way to Kenfig. 'But I had no idea that you look so well.' Again, a cheerful smile warmed his expression: 'Following God's path obviously suits you!'

'The path that I followed wasn't always associated with the saints,' Euros admitted. 'Truth to be told, the occasional trackway saw Satan's footprints indelibly stamped.'

The white monk laughed, doubtless recalling his days of youthful exuberance. 'Well, you are young but once. But tell me,' his melodic voice dropped to no more than a whisper, 'was your spirit moved by your pilgrimage?'

'I saw a number of wonderful sights...in Paris, I saw a relic, I saw the crown of thorns. In Chartres Cathedral, I saw a shift worn by the Virgin Mary when giving birth to Christ; believe me, brother, it was made of the finest silk. In Orleans, I saw a fragment of the true cross. Along the way, people were most hospitable and friendly; where they could, they gave me food and shelter, where accommodation was scarce, I slept with goats in barns. I arrived at Compostela with bloody, bandaged feet yet, upon my return, my feet are free of blisters. However, have I moved closer to the cloister? Maybe I am being greedy, given my adventures, but I would like a greater proof of God's existence.'

'A greater proof comes through faith,' Brother Blanchigernonis intoned.

'Faith?' Euros mused. 'I must tell you that I held many an interesting conversation in a variety of tongues, all tripping up when we deigned to discuss the subject of the two Popes.'

Euros was referring to the schism that was affecting the papacy, the fact that Benedict XIII pontificated from Avignon while Boniface IX held court in Rome. Each Pope had his supporters, each man claimed to be God's true representative on Earth. It was political, of course. Euros would have found the whole thing laughable, but for the devastating effect the division was having upon the Church: belief and support were at an all-time low, understandably so, for how could a man be expected to learn of God's reason when his earthly representative spoke with a divided tongue?

'There is only one true Pope,' Brother Blanchigernonis asserted.

'Of course,' Euros agreed. 'But which one?'

The two men continued their walk, downstream, away from Llanfihangel Grange, towards the borough of Kenfig. The dampness in the air produced a fine mist that hovered above the river. The gush of water drowned out the birdsong as the river rushed by over boulders and stones. The moisture upon the ground and on the trees ensured that clothing soon became damp and uncomfortable. It was little wonder, Euros considered, that Brother Blanchigernonis was wont to pause from time to time, to rest upon his staff and flex his aching right leg.

'I also heard a manner of talk,' Euros ventured, 'that some would consider rebellious, heretical, even.'

The white monk gave his companion a cautious, reflective glance before resting upon his wooden staff, his attention taken by a fallen branch as it floated towards the swirling spiral of a whirlpool. 'Go on,' he invited, 'your words will not cause me any offence.'

'Many people expressed the thought that the Church is losing touch with the common people, that there is a greater interest in moneymaking than in the saving of men's souls.'

'Such talk flowers with each generation. And, like love, each generation believes that they are the first to discover such fruits.'

Euros laughed, genuinely amused by Brother Blanchigernonis' comment. 'I bow to your superior knowledge and wisdom. But,' he continued in more sober tones, 'I would add that I heard such sentiments expressed in Compostela, in England and in the French region.'

'And the detail of these sentiments?'

'The people say that the masses should have a direct path to God without need of Church or clergy, they say that the Bible should be translated from Latin into the local tongue, they assert that everyman should be free to read the Bible, and they insist that everyone should have the chance to interpret God's word for themselves.'

'A radical and dangerous step.'

'Maybe so,' Euros conceded. 'But where does the danger lie: in trusting in God's strength and the faith of men, or in losing control over the thoughts of men and their minds?'

Brother Blanchigernonis turned his gaze towards his companion, losing sight of the floating branch just as it disappeared into the depths of the whirlpool. 'I must say,' he reasoned, 'for a sinner, you do pose the most difficult of questions.'

'That is my nature,' Euros admitted, 'and, I admit, I find it hard to rest; I need to seek, find, discover the right answers.'

Smiling, the white monk waved his staff, suggesting that they should continue upon their journey, their stroll along the riverbank. And so, without haste, the two men followed a muddy track, arriving at a bridge, the boundary of borough and grange. To the west, lay Portland and the town of Kenfig, to the north, the maladeria and, beyond that, the abbey of Margam. From this point on, a series of springs enhanced the river, each one said to contain a specific healing property. Sadly, to Euros' knowledge, there was no spring yet that could heal the divisions of men.

'There was another common theme that occurred upon my journey: talk of Henry of Bolingbroke, whispers that he may return to England, bearing arms.'

'Really?' Brother Blanchigernonis absorbed this piece of information without breaking stride. 'He is out to reclaim his late father's lands?'

'I feel that you offer a fair supposition. And many consider Henry's cause to be just; they believe that he has been treated most unfairly.'

'And what if he should regain those lands; surely that would weaken Richard's position?'

'Undeniably. Which leads me to think that there may well be conflict.'

Pausing to stroke the whiskers upon his chin, Brother Blanchigernonis allowed his expression to become grim, his mood to become ever more sober. 'And conflict has a way of building upon itself, like a snowball rolling down a mountain. And who knows how big that snowball might become, whom it might consume in its wake. Who knows where it might come to rest; somewhere close to the Crown?'

'If there is open rebellion, who do you think the nobles of Wales will support?'

'Many have done well out of Richard; I daresay they will stay loyal to him. On the other hand, Henry holds land in Wales, which should ensure a good following.'

'And what of the villeins; who will they choose to support?'

Brother Blanchigernonis waved his staff, indicating that the two men should follow a curve in the track and make their way back to the meadow. 'You want my honest opinion?'

'But of course, dear friend.'

'Many will take a lead from their lord. Others will see an opportunity and will act with an independent spirit. However, I daresay, the majority will consider this to be the Devil's choice, a choice between Satan and his shadow. Look around you: what have these villeins gained under Richard? On the other hand, why should they believe in a usurper?'

'You talk as though all nobles have failed the peasantry.'

The white monk shook his head in flat denial. 'I suggest only that those nobles should look to their laurels, and not rest upon them.'

'Point taken,' Euros conceded. 'But what of Arthur? What if someone should step forward and claim to be Arthur reawakened? What if someone should step forward and say that he is ready to fulfil Merlin's prophecy?'

Brother Blanchigernonis smiled, a secret smile bordering on contentment. 'Why do you raise such a spectre?'

'If there is civil war, surely the time will be ripe for such a man?'

'Indeed it will,' the white monk acknowledged. 'And I believe that the villeins of this country will flock to such a man.' He waved his staff, inscribing an arc, making a general sweep of the landscape. 'You have intelligent eyes, you see what is real; you can see the suffering. There is grievance and there is hatred. Merlin's prophecy promises a door, a gateway to paradise; what man would not be seduced by such a prospect be he Welsh peasant or Welsh lord?' Sighing and laughing at the same time, Brother Blanchigernonis shook his head in wonderment. 'I can tell: this is not what you wanted to hear.'

'I wanted to hear the truth,' Euros insisted.

'And you have heard the truth, the truth of an old man.'

As they emerged from the trees, leaving the river far behind, Euros reflected upon Brother Blanchigernonis' opinions. As much as he respected the white monk, he could not believe that conflict, be it through the rallying cry of Anest's Arthur, or through civil war between Richard and Henry, would provide the common man with anything in the way of good. He acknowledged to himself that this was due to his upbringing: the principle of respect for the Crown regardless of its wearer. It was also due in large measure to the belief that his father had died for the Crown and thus had died for a noble cause. However, Euros had the intelligence and the insight to recognise that the vills were ripe for rebellion; it had been over one hundred years since the Norman king, Edward, had invaded and instigated the suppression of the Welsh people; it had been over one hundred years since the Welsh had been served by a true Prince of Wales; the countryside had seen over one hundred years of growing resentment: should the spark of rebellion ignite, the fire would be in danger of burning out of control.

'I have detained you for long enough,' Euros announced, as they arrived at the meadow's fringe. 'But, before I go, I must express the true reason for my calling.'

'This being?' Brother Blanchigernonis asked.

'The murder of Brother Helias.'

The white monk shook his head in solemn fashion. 'A sad event, to be sure.'

'What can you tell me about the good brother?'

'Little, save that he was a quiet man, burdened with thoughts. I believe that he entered the abbey in a quest to find answers, only to lose sight of his original questions.'

'Did he have any enemies?'

'None that I am aware of.'

'So, you have no idea as to his murderer?'

'In that,' Brother Blanchigernonis stated, in resolute fashion, 'I am as wise as you.'

'The Castle insists that Rhys Goch be held responsible.'

'Really?' The white monk raised an eyebrow, indicating his surprise. 'On what grounds?'

'He was seen; witnesses caught him in flagrante delicto. I have been charged with locating Rhys Goch. If I complete my task, the vill will be rewarded with money and food. Rest assured,' Euros hastened into explanation, 'if the Lord Rhys is innocent, then I shall not betray him.'

'You speak the truth,' Brother Blanchigernonis judged, shrewdly.

'Branwen suggested that I talk with you; she hinted that you may have a path to Rhys Goch.'

'If I do, it will be a dangerous path.'

'So be it.' Euros affirmed with total conviction: 'It is a path that I am prepared to follow.'

The two men were standing in the middle of the meadow, sheep grazing at their feet, conversi engaging in their manual labour, the rain becoming a fresh torrent as it poured down from a leaden sky. Euros was soaked to his skin, as was his companion. The rain had been incessant since his return to Wales; had it always been so? Memory suggested no. Euros wondered if the inclement weather held an omen; if so, what did it suggest? A damp greeting for Richard, maybe. Or a soggy welcome for Henry, should he choose to usurp the Crown.

'Meet me at the standing stone after Compline,' Brother Blanchigernonis announced after careful consideration. 'I will see what I can do for you then.'

'Thank you.' Euros placed a hand upon his friend's shoulder. Then, he delved into his purse, producing a pewter badge, a token obtained in Compostela. After cleaning the badge upon his mantel, he handed the gleaming icon to the white monk. 'As always, it has been a pleasure talking with you, brother.'

Accepting the badge, Brother Blanchigernonis tilted his head back and laughed: 'Maybe you are not such a sinner after all, Euros. I hold out the hope that you will find God's true path.'

* * *

Sir William Scurlag had been carried from the church of St Thomas. Sweating profusely and breathing in laboured fashion, he lay upon a bed of straw on the ground floor of the donjon in a room annexed from the main storeroom. Conditions in the annex were far from ideal, but at least the room offered easy access for those wishing to tend to Sir William, as well as privacy; the one item the plotters were agreed upon was that an outbreak of fever in the castle would be most undesirable; therefore isolation of its only victim, to date, was deemed sensible. Carrying Sir William to his quarters had been considered, but the narrow, spiral staircase proved prohibitive, while thoughts of the old knight residing in the maladeria had been dismissed, the public nature of the building having been judged inappropriate for a man of his rank.

The plotters had nominated Rig Fitzsimon as guardian of Sir William Scurlag. His job: to ensure that the old knight held his tongue and uttered but not one word of their conspiracy. This was a tedious task for a man of action and Rig spent his time resting against the annex wall, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes becoming heavy through inertia.

The third person squeezed into the tiny annex was Athelena. She sat beside her father, wringing her hands in anguished fashion, sobbing from time to time as she gazed at his stricken form. Her perfectly formed features were creased with worry; her normally vibrant eyes lacked all manner of spark. Rig acknowledged that Athelena possessed great beauty, but he considered her too delicate, too refined to be a companion of some interest.

The old knight coughed and groaned for the umpteenth time that hour. Athelena fretted; leaping to her feet, she placed a soothing hand upon his fevered brow. Rig remained impassive. He would have fallen asleep, but for the creak of an old hinge and the appearance of a figure, framed in the doorway.

To Rig's pleasure, the figure was that of a woman, attractive, tall, with a fair complexion and wide speckled eyes. She had long, fluttering eyelashes and a fine, slender nose. Her movements were somewhat angular, nervous in their execution suggesting an anxious personality. She was wearing a blue cape around her shoulders and a simple, ankle-length, dress of red. A plain, white veil sat upon her head, holding back a mass of fair, wavy hair.

'Good evening, my lord, my lady.' Johanna Wittard smiled at Rig and Athelena as she made her entrance. 'I have been summoned to tend Sir William Scurlag.'

'Thank God,' Athelena sighed. Taking hold of Johanna's hand, the fair beauty pulled the custorin towards her father. 'Quickly,' she implored, 'you must hasten his recovery.'

'I will do all that I can,' Johanna announced in a shrill, agitated manner. She smiled, somewhat nervously before adding honey to her words: 'If God is willing, I am sure that your father will soon return to robust health.'

Freeing herself from Athelena's frantic grasp, Johanna set out her medicines, arranging them upon the floor. Then, she knelt beside Sir William, the better to assess his needs.

Like many a man and woman in her position, Johanna Wittard believed that the body consisted of four contraries: hot, cold, moist and dry. These contraries combined to form the four humours: choleric, phlegmatic, melancholic and sanguine. One glance at Sir William Scurlag told her that he was suffering from an imbalance in all four of his humours. Therefore, theriac would be applied. A universal cure-all, and commonly known as treacle, theriac was imported from the continent of Europe at great expense. Contacts within the Church, who had established, and now administered, the maladeria as a secular practice, ensured that this panacea was never far from Johanna's grasp. And with good reason, for theriac could prevent swellings, could clear the skin of pustules, cure fits, dropsy and fevers and even remove a dead child from its mother's womb. It could also cleanse the soul and purge the body of sin. Johanna firmly believed that the ingestion of theriac, along with confession and sustained prayer, offered the best path to recovery.

Rig had encountered theriac and had taken its cure to ease a wound sustained on the battlefield. However, at that moment, he was more interested in Johanna Wittard and her secrets; as the custorin went about her ministrations, he studied her intently, her every movement stalked by his watchful gaze. His thoughts went back to the murder of Brother Helias and the devious monk's encounter with the custorin. He recalled, in vivid detail, the exchange of the parchment and the furtive way in which Johanna Wittard had disappeared into the night. Rig had hidden the bloodstained parchment with the intention of returning to its detail. However, events had overtaken him and the parchment had been neglected. Rig would be the first to admit that he was not a man of letters but, from the little he had read, he felt sure that the parchment carried some religious significance. The exact nature of the text he would determine, the moment someone relieved him from this wearisome duty.

Using rosewater as a conduit, Johanna administered the theriac to Sir William. The old knight duly coughed and spluttered, but a good measure of the medicine was consumed. Athelena took a moment to sit back, close her eyes and sigh. Rig, meanwhile, thought of the saltatrix; he wondered if he might pay her a visit, before she and her troop left town.

Such daydreams and reflections were rudely interrupted when, once again, the old hinge creaked and the annex door swung open, Sir Roger de la March entering and striding to Athelena's side. Reaching out, Sir Roger placed a comforting arm around his beloved's shoulders. She, in turn, accepted his embrace as a child accepts a warm blanket, snuggling into the softness and comfort provided.

'How is Sir William?' Sir Roger enquired of Athelena.

'He is comfortable and accepting his medicine,' Johanna interjected, depriving Athelena of her reply.

'Your eyes look tired and strained,' the constable observed, while running the back of his hand ever so lightly over Athelena's flawless complexion.

'I recommend rest,' Johanna blurted, unable to hold her tongue or hide her natural anxiety.

Accepting Johanna's words at face value, Sir Roger concurred, nodding his agreement. 'The custorin is right. She is best placed to tend Sir William. You would serve your father well by securing your own rest.' Easing Athelena to her feet, the constable glanced towards the annex door. 'Come; allow me to escort you to your room.'

Yielding, Athelena accompanied Sir Roger, only to turn and glance back on reaching the doorway. 'You will send word,' she begged of the custorin, 'the moment Sir William regains consciousness.'

'Rest assured, my lady.' Johanna smiled: 'You shall be the first to know, the moment Sir William becomes lucid.'

With Athelena on his arm, Sir Roger entered the storeroom. Together, they ascended the stairs, the stone steps that led to the guardroom, before making their way towards the east tower and the spiral staircase. They were about to ascend a further three flights of stairs when they were alerted by Morgan de Avene, concern creasing the archer's face as he raced to their side.

'My lord.' Morgan extended his right hand towards Sir Roger, offering his co-conspirator a letter held within. 'I feel that you should read this.'

Puzzled, Sir Roger accepted the letter. Glancing at its seal, he noted that it bore the imprint of Thomas Peverel, the Bishop of Llandaff. 'When did this arrive?'

'A moment ago; via an ecclesiastical herald.'

'What on Earth does Thomas Peverel want? Why is he writing to us at this particular time?'

Breaking the seal and unfurling the letter, Sir Roger could answer his rhetorical question; however, he kept the information to himself, deferring all knowledge.

'Thank you, Morgan.' Sir Roger folded the letter before concealing it about his person. 'You can return to your duties. But, first, would you be so kind as to escort Athelena to her chamber?'

On accepting Athelena's proffered arm, Morgan bowed in courtly fashion. 'That would be a pleasure, my lord.'

Although on good terms with Morgan, Athelena showed reluctance; she had no immediate wish to accompany the archer. Instead, she held her ground, her face burdened and bewildered. 'What is it?' she asked. 'What is in the letter?'

'Nothing of great import,' Sir Roger smiled, making light of the letter's contents this, despite the fact that he was raging inside. 'Please accompany Morgan. Rest and only think good thoughts of your father. I must talk with my brothers. But I shall call on you, the moment we are through.'

Sir Roger waited, until Morgan and Athelena had ascended the staircase, until his temper had been brought under control. Then, he made his way to the Great Hall and a showdown with his brothers; questions would be asked; Payn would be put in his place; Sir Roger would reassert his authority.

Pausing at the entrance to the Great Hall, Sir Roger took a deep breath in an attempt to regain his composure. Then, he threw open the heavy oak door and strode into the chamber. Matildis and Geoffrey were sitting at the dais table, drinking wine and eating fruit. Payn had taken one of the crossbows from the wall and was loosing arrows into Sir Thomas Despenser's coat of arms, showing scant respect for his overlord, for the man whose lands they hoped to acquire, for the man who was heading for a downfall, his fortunes being intrinsically linked with those of the king.

'What do you think you are doing?' Angrily, Sir Roger marched across the chamber. He placed a hand upon Payn's arm, just as the latter was about to loosen another bolt. 'Have you no respect for anyone or anything?'

Just as Sir Roger snatched the crossbow, the bolt flew and struck the wall. He had a mind to brandish the weapon across Payn's face, only to hold back in a moment of civility.

'What plagues you so?' Disgruntled, Payn left the constable's side. He strode over to the dais table whereupon he located a wine jug, pouring its contents into a silver goblet. 'Why don't you relax? Enjoy yourself a little.'

Fuming, Sir Roger pulled the ecclesiastical letter from his tunic, slamming the parchment upon the table. 'This is why I cannot relax.'

'What is it?' Geoffrey peered over the wine jug in an attempt to view the letter. As he did so, he took another bite from his apple, ignoring a rivulet of juice as it trickled down his chin.

'It is a message,' Sir Roger replied, curtly, 'from the Bishop of Llandaff.'

'What does it say?' Matildis joined the conversation, the kink at the bottom of her nose twitching as she sensed an impending dilemma.

'It says that the Bishop of Llandaff's envoy, Brother Jordan, is due to arrive in Kenfig this very evening.' As he spoke, Sir Roger handed the letter to his mother and she duly confirmed the facts.

'For what reason?' Geoffrey set down his apple, his doe-like eyes widening in concern.

'For matters relating to Church and State.' Accepting the letter from Matildis' outstretched hand, Sir Roger crushed the parchment in the palm of his right hand. Then, he turned and rounded on Payn: 'Now what, dear brother, do you make of this?'

Drinking from his goblet, Payn kept all thoughts to himself. Turning away from the constable, he ensured, at all times, that Sir Roger remained within his periphery vision; never losing sight of his antagonist, he prepared to strike, should the need arise.

'What does the letter mean?' Geoffrey asked, clearly struggling with its concept.

'The meaning is clear,' Sir Roger explained: 'the envoy will investigate Brother Helias' murder.'

'You speculate!' Casting his goblet aside, Payn took a step towards the constable. His right hand went to his sword; imperceptibly, the blade inched into daylight, its fine edge glinting in the treacherous afternoon light. 'The envoy could be journeying here to meet the king.'

'If his wish is to meet the king,' Matildis reasoned, 'he would do that in Cardiff. It is a shorter journey from Llandaff and, therefore, a more logical location.'

'Mother makes a fair point.' Agreeing with Matildis, Sir Roger made a mental note, for this moment represented a rare instance of family accord. He continued: 'Consequently, we have no option but to be on our guard.'

'We will need to be more than on our guard,' Geoffrey insisted. 'If Brother Jordan has a mind to discover who murdered Brother Helias, I think it essential that we trick him; we need to be devious, stay one step ahead at all times.' As ever, the Fool de la March turned to Matildis for the sheen of her approval. 'What do you say to that, mother?' he asked.

'Land is what I say.' Matildis placed her hands upon the frame of the dais table and eased herself to her feet. Adjusting her necklace of fine amber beads, she walked over to Sir Roger, pausing at his side. 'I suggest that we make a present of a parcel of land to the Bishop of Llandaff. Land is all he is interested in, land is his favourite topic of conversation; a gift of a parcel of land and some sweet talk should satisfy the envoy.'

'You might well be right,' Sir Roger intoned, a hint of sarcasm entering his voice. 'Present the Church with a parcel of land from a parcel of rogues; what a tangled web we are wont to spin!'

Sensing his moment, Payn entered the fray. With his right hand still resting upon his sword, he moved to Sir Roger's side. 'It sounds as though you grow cool on our little scheme, brother.'

'On the contrary, I grow hot at your impetuosity. Why not consult with me before condemning Brother Helias to slaughter? Who gave you the authority to act over my head?'

'Consult with you?' Payn threw his head back and scoffed at such a suggestion. 'How could that be possible when you are busy composing love letters to your whore? Your mind is full of nothing but her. She has clouded your judgement.'

Seething with rage, the normally sanguine Sir Roger abandoned all reason. With his thick blond hair falling over his face, he stood toe-to-toe with Payn, the pupils in his eyes dilating, his nostrils flaring as he stared into his brother's ice-blue eyes, viewing a degree of callousness and a cruelty that chilled him to the bone. How could they be so different? How could they have flourished from the same seed? Then, the most chilling thought of all: was he looking into a mirror and viewing a malicious side to his personality? Sir Roger hoped that this was not so. Then, he reflected, what man would take pleasure in observing his own imperfection?

Annoyed with himself, annoyed with Payn, Sir Roger gave voice to his mounting anger; carried forward on a wave of emotion, he lashed out: 'I would have you retract those words or lose your tongue in punishment!'

'I made every effort to contact you,' Payn insisted, 'but you were not available. So, I took the decision upon myself and resolved to act in our best interests. In short, brother, I demonstrated a quality, one that you will never possess; I demonstrated leadership.'

'You engage your tongue without first applying reason! But I will have more than your tongue...' stepping back, Sir Roger drew his sword. '...I will have your head!'

Anticipating the constable's reaction, Payn pulled his sword free from its scabbard. Taking a step back, he gathered his momentum before thrusting forward, blades clashing in mighty cacophony as both men moved in for the kill.

Doubtless, blood would have been spilt and life taken but for Matildis' swift intervention. Showing bravery, and surprising strength, she stepped between the two brothers, forcing them apart.

'Halt!' Matildis demanded. 'I will not stand by and see my sons killed or injured. We are united in this matter, or we are nothing at all. And I would remind you that Sir William is our leader and that all must defer to him.' Pausing for breath, the matriarch glanced up at the two brothers, both of whom were now showing signs of remorse; chastened, they hung their heads in shame. 'In our bile,' Matildis continued, 'we are overlooking one important consideration, namely, that we already have a solution to the murder: Rhys Goch. Once he is captured, the entire matter can be put to rest. In the meantime, I suggest that you allow me to deal with Brother Jordan and any matters of his choosing. For now, I advocate that we bow our heads in prayer and offer the hope that Sir William will make a swift recovery.' Then, she turned to the constable, seeking his accord. 'What say you to that, Roger?'

Sheathing his sword, Sir Roger took on the role of dutiful son, bowing before Matildis. 'As ever, mother, I acknowledge that you know best.'

* * *

Euros arrived at the standing stone at the appointed time. Located midway between Kenfig and Margam Abbey, the standing stone, a great monolith some eight feet tall and six feet wide, represented a landmark of some conjecture, for it was said that the stone walked to the sea each morning to drink from the salty water. Furthermore, if a man should view such a spectacle, he too would become no more than a boulder. Euros had heard such superstitious talk as a child and had dismissed it. Safe in that knowledge, he felt comfortable to lean against the rock, accepting its shelter.

In the half-light of evening, every shadow brings suspicion, the more so when their numbers multiply. Alerted by such spectral visions, Euros shifted his position, gazing round the monolith to the Roman road. Instinctively, his right hand went to his sword, only to relax upon observing a pair of monks as they went passing by. They were making their way to Ty'n-y-Seler, the house of the cellarer, doubtless to gain supplies for the morning. Such a thought made Euros' stomach rumble, a reminder that he had eaten but a minuscule amount all day.

Hunger could wait; Euros was well versed in the daily struggle for sustenance, well used to abstinence in times of famine. However, Brother Blanchigernonis' arrival could be delayed no longer, not if Euros was to succeed in his quest, in his aim of reaching Rhys Goch by nightfall.

To Euros' great relief, the white monk made his appearance, hobbling into view, his weight supported by his trusty staff, his stride lengthening as he approached the monolith.

'You are late,' Euros growled, accusingly.

'It is a wonder that I am here at all,' Brother Blanchigernonis announced, wearily. He took time to rest upon his staff, to recover a measure of decorum, his breathing gradually returning to normal. 'I tell you,' he sighed, 'I am at an age when I should be taking my rest, not gambolling like some furtive lamb amongst the meadows.' Shaking his head at his own rebelliousness, he continued: 'I take it that your mind remains fixed upon this venture.'

Smiling, in disarming fashion, Euros displayed a measure of charm. 'You know me, brother.'

'Indeed, I do.' A shake of the head and a look of resigned incredulity were quickly replaced upon Brother Blanchigernonis' face by a smile of admiration. 'So, I shall not waste my time in trying to dissuade you from your task.' Reaching into his habit, the white monk produced a gift, handing it to Euros. 'I know that your feelings towards the Church are, shall we say, somewhat ambivalent, but I would ask you to carry this, as a protector.'

Touched by Brother Blanchigernonis' sentiment, Euros accepted the wooden object, the hand-hewn cross. Straightening a length of finely woven string, he placed the sacred object round his neck. 'Thank you, brother. I take this gift and, in return, I ask that you receive my gratitude.'

Smiling, Brother Blanchigernonis slapped Euros upon his back. Raising his staff, he pointed in a north-easterly direction. 'Come,' he added, 'now that we have exchanged tokens, let us be on our way.'

The two men left the standing stone. They crossed the Roman road and headed into a meadow. There, they picked up the course of the Coal Brook, following it upstream, beyond Shepe's Mill, a fulling mill that provided wool for the monks' habits, on to land owned by Morgan de Avene. There, they paused, Brother Blanchigernonis nominating a tree as their haven.

'And now?' Euros asked.

'Wait. Show patience,' the white monk counselled. 'All will be revealed.'

The monk's word held true, for it was only a matter of moments before a figure appeared, a short, squat man, suffering from a curvature of the spine. He was known as Y Bwa Bach: the Little Hunchback.

'Brother, you have more for me today than a simple letter,' the hunchback observed, raising his eyebrows, making no attempt to hide his surprise.

'Indeed, I have brought along a friend; I entrust you to escort him, safely, to Rhys Goch.'

'You are sure?' Again, an incredulous look from the little man, his weather-beaten features appearing as creased as old hide.

'I am sure. Kindly inform the Lord Rhys that he should treat my friend as a guest and, furthermore, he should hold him in no fear.' Upon delivering his instructions, Brother Blanchigernonis turned to face Euros, a look of regret, a look of frustration, appearing in his eyes. 'Unfortunately, I cannot go with you.' He glanced back, towards Margam Abbey. 'God calls me. And, as you are aware, He can be a demanding master.'

'I understand.' Euros' tone was equitable and even. 'You have done all that I could have asked, and more.' The young lord extended his right hand and the white monk took it, hands clenching in a show of solidarity. 'Thank you, brother.'

'Pax vobiscum.' Brother Blanchigernonis stepped back and made the sign of the cross. Then, he disappeared into the mists of the night.

'You will wear this,' the little man informed Euros, tearing a measure of cloth from his tunic and holding the stained strip before the young lord's eyes.

'Whatever you say.' Without complaint, Euros accepted the cloth and applied the blindfold. 'Now, delay me no longer: lead on!'

Removing his mantel, Euros handed one corner to the little man so that the cloak might provide a link between the two and act as a guide. Suitably bonded, leader and led left the tranquillity of the meadow, recrossing the Roman road as they strode towards Rhys Goch.

Euros judged that he was heading in a north-westerly direction, the distinctive camber of the road surface telling him that he had crossed the Roman road and the rain at his back indicating that he was moving west. The blindfold was effective in that it offered no hope of vision. Not that Euros considered its application as strictly necessary, for its stench of stale fish threatened to scramble his senses to the point of disorientation. Nevertheless, Euros sought to gain his bearings, partly out of curiosity, so that he might discover the whereabouts of Rhys Goch's hideout, and partly because he desired to know where he was going, as in his travels, so in his life.

Being disabled by the blindfold, it was only natural that Euros should stumble from time to time. When such mishaps occurred, Euros sought to make the best of them; applying his sense of touch, he discerned that they had travelled beyond the woodland and the meadows, indeed they were now entering a clearer landscape, possibly devoid of trees; the soil was softer and it ran through his fingers with ease, suggesting sand dunes, possibly the conyger.

After crossing an area of severe undulations, Euros sensed both the sounds and the smells of the sea; he could not be sure, it was possible that his mind was playing tricks on him, but he would have placed a fair bet that they were close to the beach.

Further stumbles revealed a rocky and a sandy outcrop, before a steep descent led to a sudden halt.

'Wait,' the Little Hunchback instructed. Euros could hear him as he moved about in the darkness; he could feel his hands upon his arms as he guided him through a narrow cleft and then over a particularly jagged area of rock. 'We have arrived. You can remove the blindfold.'

Euros did as instructed. Blinking, so that his eyes could become accustomed to the half-light, he looked around.

They were in a cave, a vast cavern carved out of sandstone. Looking back, over his shoulder, Euros could see that the entrance had been fashioned, and then disguised with local vegetation and rock. Looking up, he saw only darkness, so it was impossible to judge, with accuracy, the exact height of the cave. Suffice to say, Euros considered it safe for a man to stand upon his shoulders, with room for a further companion. The depth of the cave was more determinable, a light emanating from a large fissure suggesting a distance of some fifty feet, if not more. Instinctively, Euros took a step towards the light, only to be held back by the hunchback's outstretched hand.

'Wait here,' the little man instructed. 'I will return. But first, I need words with Rhys Goch.'

Alone, in silence, save for the sound of water dripping as it made its way from the roof to the floor of the cavern, Euros reflected that Rhys Goch had found a home amongst his ancestors, for he was certain that, for centuries, men had found solace in this cave. However, how much comfort the Lord Rhys derived from his surroundings remained a mute point; Hevedaker, this was not. And Euros did not require a drop of water to fall into his eye to remind him of that fact.

'Come this way.' The Little Hunchback had reappeared, carrying a brushwood torch. 'Mind your step,' he cautioned. 'You would not be the first to fall in this cave and be made to look a fool.'

The illumination from the torch provided sound navigation and Euros had no trouble in tracing the little man's footsteps. They had travelled some ninety feet, along narrow fissures, into the bowels of the Earth when the scene opened up before them. There, gathered around a low burning hearth, sat a group of impoverished individuals: men, women and children.

The cave people were a mixed bunch: the dispossessed, the persecuted; the sick, the deformed; common criminals and thieves. Most turned away from the hearth to look up at Euros, the interloper. Doubtless, there were those who coveted his clothing, his sword. Nevertheless, all remained silent, still, their attention returning to the pot of boiling frumenty.

Then, from out of the darkness, Rhys Goch appeared, his features dominated by a mass of tousled red hair, his face covered in a thick, red beard. Even in this darkness, Euros could see that Rhys Goch's eyes had lost none of their fight, none of their intensity. He remained broad shouldered, solidly built, with powerful arms and thighs. He wore a simple mantel about his shoulders and a short-sleeved overtunic, split at the sides and reaching down, to just below his waist. A plain under-gown warmed his body, as did a pair of thick woollen hose and well-worn ankle boots. As was his custom, he wore a broadsword at his side, a blade shaped and scarred by the heat of battle. Euros had been uncertain as to what he would find in regard to Rhys Goch's demeanour. However, if first impressions were anything to go by, then it was clear that this period of exile had hardened him, had made him ever more determined.

The same could be said of Rhys Goch's companion, Cynan ap Gruffydd. Carrying less than half his master's years and close on half his weight, the esquire stepped towards Euros. Beckoning with his right hand, he indicated that he would have the young lord's sword.

'I am sure that you understand,' the old lord smiled in validation, his teeth gleaming in the darkness.

'But, of course,' Euros concurred. Freeing his sword from its scabbard, he handed the weapon to Cynan.

Taller than Euros, and leaner, Cynan ap Gruffydd had shoulder-length fair hair, wavy in character, bright blue eyes, a long, slender nose and narrow shoulders. He was long in the leg, a larch to Rhys Goch's oak. His period of exile had seen him develop a wispy beard and blotches upon his skin. He wore a hooded overtunic, scarlet in colour, the customary woollen hose and a pair of somewhat inconsequential leather shoes, high on fashion, low on practicality, the shoes being long and sharply pointed. In addition, he wore a leather belt around his waist and a sharply pointed dagger, its size and weight hinting at meaning and purpose.

'You will join me?' Holding out his right hand, Rhys Goch indicated a small, secluded chamber, leading Euros to assume that this cavity represented the old lord's personal quarters.

With Cynan holding his sword, and making great play out of levelling its tip at Euros' waist, the young lord could do no more than accept the invitation. Consequently, he followed Rhys Goch, deeper into the cave, into an area furnished with two rudimentary benches, a bed and a table. Candles burned on the table, illuminating a well-thumbed manuscript. Euros could not be sure of its contents, but a treatise on hunting would have been his best guess. Clearly, the cave made no pretence towards paradise but, to Rhys Goch, it had become a home.

'Please be seated.' Rhys Goch pointed towards one of the benches, easing himself on to the other, this being an item of far sturdier construction. He smiled graciously: 'Let it be said that the Lord Rhys is nothing if not hospitable.'

'This is not Fforest yr Ysbrydion,' Euros observed, referring to the Forest of Ghosts. He made himself comfortable, noting that Cynan was to remain standing, guarding the entrance to the chamber.

'You are correct. We had a mind to encamp there, but...the place is full of outlaws!'

'Talk has it that you are hiding out there, in Fforest yr Ysbrydion.'

'Rumours, fuelled by ale flowing in the taverns.' Rhys Goch's chestnut eyes twinkled with mischief: 'We do our best to promulgate them.'

Nodding his understanding, Euros smiled, acknowledging Rhys Goch's cunning. 'Very clever, my lord.'

The moment of appreciation over, Euros delved under his mantle, only for Cynan to step forward, sword levelled, its tip resting against the young lord's heart.

'May I?' Euros enquired of Rhys Goch, while, at the same time, cautiously sliding his fingers into the recesses of his cloak.

'Please, continue,' the old lord consented. 'But, keep in mind, Cynan will run you through should you try to trick us.'

'No trick,' Euros promised. He waited for Cynan to step back before withdrawing his hand, producing a barrel of ale, a miniature, though large enough to fill a man's outstretched palms. Leaning forward, Euros offered the ale to his host. 'A gift,' he informed Rhys Goch, 'gathered on my travels.'

Accepting the ale, Rhys Goch eyed the vessel with suspicion. He withdrew a stopper before, cautiously, placing the protruding neck to his nose. The aroma emanating from the barrel told him immediately that this was his favourite brew: Shrewsbury Ale, the finest ale in all the land. Like a man who had been in the desert for weeks without tasting water, Rhys Goch placed the barrel to his lips and drank thirstily, exhausting a good third of its contents in one swig. Belching in satisfaction, he drew the back of his hand across his lips before grinning at Euros: 'Thank you. You don't know how good that tastes.'

Glancing around the cave, and its assortment of basic amenities, Euros made an observation: 'You lack for finery, but not essentials.'

'We get by,' Rhys Goch replied, succinctly.

'With food from the forest?'

After first raising the barrel and consuming another measure of ale, the old lord nodded. 'And fish from the sea.'

Euros recalled the path he had taken with the Little Hunchback and the aromas that had tickled his nostrils. 'I thought I could smell the ocean as we made our way here.'

Setting the barrel to one side, Rhys Goch grimaced. He gave Euros a barbarian stare, a look full of threat and menace. 'I would advise caution. Remember: ignorance can be a virtue.'

Taking the hint, Euros decided that it would be prudent to change tack and bring a new subject into their conversation. The exact location of Rhys Goch's hideaway could await a more opportune moment. Suffice to say, Euros judged that the cave lay to the north of Kenfig, along the coast, offering swift access to the sea.

'I have word from Branwen,' the young lord offered, hoping that talk of his amour would placate the old scoundrel.

Looking up sharply, Rhys Goch shuffled towards the edge of his seat. 'How is she?'

'In good health and fair spirits.'

'Her spirits are only fair?' Clearly upset, the old lord tightened his grip upon the ale barrel, so much so that his knuckles threatened to break through his skin.

'She misses you,' Euros explained, reasonably.

'And I miss her.' Sitting back, allowing the barrel to slip through his fingers and drop on to the floor, Rhys Goch sighed: 'I miss Hevedaker; God, how I wish I were back there!'

'You will return,' Euros ventured, 'one day.'

'Some days I believe...I picture myself at my hearth, Branwen at my side. Other days...' Becoming angry, the old lord placed his hands upon his thighs and pushed himself away from his seat. Standing, he gazed at the fallen barrel and was about to take aim, was about to vent his frustration through his right boot, when reason descended and common sense prevailed. Clearly, he was not so incensed as to waste the remainder of his fine ale. 'But enough. Such maudlin talk depresses me.' Stooping, he gathered up the barrel and drank the balance of its contents. 'Tell me,' he burped, 'why are you here?'

'I have need to question you about a murder; the Castle insists that you killed Brother Helias.'

'The Castle talks through its collective arsehole!' This time, Rhys Goch did bestow expression to his feelings. The barrel, now empty, became an acceptable target and it was duly dispatched across the rock-strewn floor. The old lord's face took on the hue of his beard. Cynan too stepped forward, clearly upset at the accusation levelled against his lord.

Not wishing to remain at a total disadvantage, Euros eased himself to his feet. The threat of his own sword, held in Cynan's angry hand, remained pertinent, but he could see no reason to hold back now; the questioning would continue; the truth would find its way out.

'You deny the murder?'

'Of course I deny the murder! What do you take me for, a madman?'

At that moment, whilst consumed with anger, the description would have passed muster in the mind of many a fair man. Euros could but wonder at Rhys Goch's temper upon that murderous evening and his motive for such a brutal act.

'When was this murder supposed to have taken place?' Cynan entered the conversation, his body turning, so that he viewed Euros from over his right shoulder, his right arm, and the sword, poised, held parallel to the floor.

'On the thirteenth of March,' Euros replied, 'upon the Roman road, near the ancient standing stone.'

In both relief and amusement, Cynan smiled, displaying an abscess upon his left eye-tooth. 'Then my lord is innocent! Throughout March he was troubled by a fever. He could barely walk, let alone venture from this cave!'

'But now he has fully recovered,' Euros noted, his tone measured, devoid of any sarcasm. 'A testimony to a man of great strength.'

Stepping forward, Rhys Goch stood foursquare before Euros, his presence filling the cave, his battle-hardened face graced with sincerity, his inner shield lowered to a level Euros had not seen before.

'This existence drains me,' the old lord admitted. 'But it will not rob me of all my strength. As Cynan states, I am innocent of the murder. I confess: I have done many things in my time, but a monk I would not put to slaughter.'

'Do you believe us?' Cynan added in eager anticipation.

'I would like to,' Euros affirmed.

'I have a question for you: why would my lord kill a monk, why would he strike down a man of God?'

'You make a fair point, Cynan. And, I confess, I have been troubled by that very same question.'

'Then why come here?' Rhys Goch demanded.

'I come here because I want to hear your denial; I want to gaze into your eyes as you utter your words.' Extending his right hand, Euros made a polite request for the return of his sword. Unsure as to his next action, Cynan glanced across to Rhys Goch, seeking guidance. Sure enough, the old lord duly nodded and the sword was returned to the young lord. 'Thank you. I will be honest with you: I have been offered a reward, should I bring you to trial.'

'Trial?' Rhys Goch was scathing, banging his fist upon the wooden table, disturbing the candle's flickering flame as he returned to his seat. 'A lynching, you mean!'

'I seek justice, not persecution; no man shall suffer prejudice from my hand or my mouth.'

'What is your plan?' Cynan enquired.

'I shall inform the Castle of my findings, and I shall give them my opinion as to the truth.' Euros shrugged, acknowledging to himself, and to anyone who sought to appreciate his situation, that he could do no more.

'Can we trust him?' Cynan asked of his lord.

Gazing up from his position at the table, Rhys Goch took a moment to consider his answer, doubtless reflecting upon the differences he had shared with Euros and his family, doubtless taking into account the character of the man and the values he held dear.

'We can trust him,' the old lord uttered upon reaching his conclusion. 'But, if he should fail us, and we should find the Castle's men at our door...'

'You will have only yourself and your companions to blame.' Sheathing his sword, Euros took a step towards Rhys Goch, so that the old lord could see his determination, the look of deep intent upon his face. 'Such treachery will not be placed at my door.'

Unable to look Euros in the eye, Rhys Goch felt compelled to wave a hand in dismissive fashion, his eyes gazing down to the ground, his thoughts as dark as the recesses within the cave. 'Get him out of here!' he yelled. Then, in reasonable tones: 'Escort him to a safe location.'

'A word for Branwen?' Euros asked, as Cynan's hand sought to drag him towards the egress.

'Tell her...' The old lord glanced up, his face reflective, his thoughts no longer in the cave, but back at Hevedaker. 'Tell her that, someday soon, we shall be as one again.' Then, an explosion of anger and pent-up frustration: 'And tell your friends at the castle that we too shall meet again, and that they will feel the edge of my sword!'

* * *

Brother Jordan had been appointed envoy to Thomas Peverel, the Bishop of Llandaff, during the August of 1398. The youngest son of a wealthy wool merchant, he had learned the skills of commerce from watching, and listening to, his father. He had grown to appreciate wealth and the power of capital. He saw no contradiction whatsoever in the Church taking from the poor and lining its own vaults. If pushed to respond, he would doubtless confess that he was not a man of deep faith. However, he was a man who felt pride in serving God. He was denied a profitable future in the family's wool business due to the expedient fact that he was the youngest of three brothers, so he had sought advancement elsewhere and had answered the Church's call. Being a swift learner, he had adopted a popular maxim: if spirituality should find its way into a young man's heart, then so much the better. But if a man should find himself serving God and sharing less than sacred beliefs, then he should be diligent about his work and keep such thoughts to himself. And so, at the age of eighteen, with a clear mind, and a steely determination, Brother Jordan had turned his back on the secular world and had entered the aisles of power. And, through hard work and dedication he had progressed, to a position of influence and respect.

Respect was the last thing on Rig's mind as he watched a line of torches, orange and yellow flames, trailing gentle plumes of white smoke, as they wound their way through the streets of Kenfig. The curfew had long been called and the burgesses had long emptied the taverns; to a man, and a woman, they were safely tucked up in their beds. The torches were held at such a height as to suggest that the bearers were riding mules. And, as the column came into view, passing through the castle's main gate, Rig could see that that was indeed so. He recognised Brother Jordan instantly, the brother being a man of heavy build with large, rotund features. Indeed, his detractors would go so far as to say that he possessed a face, a countenance, that closely resembled an inflated ox bladder. The line of servants and secretaries accompanying the monk were strangers to Rig however, as was the mysterious man wearing a red robe and a red, circular hat.

'It seems as though our guests have arrived,' Sir Roger de la March noted, in less than enthusiastic fashion. 'I suppose we had better step out and greet them.'

Leaving his position beside an arrow slit in the west tower, Sir Roger de la March led the welcoming party of himself, Rig and Morgan de Avene beyond the castle offices and guardroom, down the retractable wooden steps and out into the bailey. The night was dark and cold and Rig was not alone in pulling a cloak tightly about him, the better to secure a measure of warmth.

'Brother Jordan!' Sir Roger made a valiant attempt to conjure up a mood of enthusiasm. 'It is a pleasure to meet with you again.'

'You too, Sir Roger,' Brother Jordan effused effortlessly, dropping the reins on his mule, bringing the animal to a halt.

With conversation engaged, the stranger stepped out of the shadows, a torch held by one of his secretaries illuminating his face and his dress. Rig noted that, along with the circular hat and the long flowing robe, this man wore a sub-tunica which, like the robe, possessed a fur lining. Rig also noted that the man was slim, of small build, with tight features distinguished by close-set, piercing eyes, a long, narrow nose and a small, severe mouth. The few strands of hair that were visible were touched with grey. His expression was intense, his posture rigid. He had the look of a man who knew what he was about. He was confident, assured, arrogant. Rig had seen this look on men of influence and power; it was a look that spoke of intimidation.

Turning to his companion, Brother Jordan first smiled and then bowed. 'Allow me to introduce Cardinal Francesco D'Orso, Archbishop of Florence, emissary to the Pope in Rome.'

There was a sharp intake of breath from Sir Roger, an involuntary action of surprise and no little alarm. What was this man doing here? What could he want from the castle of Kenfig? Why was he wandering, this far from home? Whatever the answers to these, and a myriad other questions, one thing was assured: the cardinal's presence would only complicate the plot to murder King Richard; it was one thing to engage in regicide, quite another to incite the Pope's displeasure.

'It is a pleasure to meet with you, Cardinal D'Orso.' The effort was immense but, somehow, Sir Roger de la March managed to raise a smile, avoiding the cardinal's gaze as he did so. He introduced Rig and Morgan, then he continued: 'I trust your journey has been both pleasant and rewarding.'

'Pleasant, yes,' Cardinal D'Orso replied, somewhat diffidently. 'Rewarding?' He shrugged his bony shoulders. 'Time alone will tell.'

Clearly ill at ease, taken by surprise at the cardinal's calling, Sir Roger sought relief by turning to Brother Jordan, taking comfort from the bulky brother's more familiar, relaxed form. 'How is the bishop?' the constable asked, applying the social graces. 'Keeping well, I trust?'

'Indeed. He sends his prayers.'

'And yourself?'

The bishop's envoy beamed with pleasure, his large bushy eyebrows meeting the deep creases on his forehead. 'I have rarely felt better!'

The cold and the damp were providing no welcome, so Sir Roger de la March stepped to one side; raising his right hand, he welcomed his guests into the donjon. 'Please, join us. I would be deeply gratified if you should meet my family. And I feel sure that they would consider it an honour to meet with a man as eminent as yourself.'

Easing themselves down from their mules, Cardinal D'Orso and Brother Jordan followed Sir Roger into the castle, Morgan and Rig bringing up the rear. In single file, they marched beyond the guardroom, and the castle offices, walking above the annex where Sir William Scurlag lay stricken, the old knight engaged in his greatest battle of all.

Sir Roger had placed but one foot on the spiral staircase, when Brother Jordan sought his attention. Glancing down to a mound of sand, grains that had been swept in by the wind and had since gathered in a corner, the envoy shook his head and announced in solemn tones: 'I note that your problems with the sand are not abating.'

'When the wind blows in certain directions we are wont to suffer. But we are taking steps; planting grasses, ensuring that the animals stay free of the common.' Confident in his own mind, and pleased with his answer, Sir Roger started up the staircase, his feet crushing small deposits of sand as he did so. 'I, and the burgesses, feel that the problem is in hand.'

In ascending order, the assembled churchmen and nobles gained entry into the Great Hall. There, they caught sight of Payn, Geoffrey and Matildis, all of whom were sitting at the dais table. In addition, they noted that the room was immaculate, the side tables being free of the evening's feasting and resultant debris, the servants having swept the excess food and wine from the tables and floor.

'Allow me to introduce my mother, Matildis, and my brothers, Payn and Geoffrey.' While Sir Roger was busy, playing the host, Cardinal D'Orso allowed his attention to wander to the wooden beams in the vaulted ceiling, the cardinal enjoying a great interest in architecture and all things structural. He would have taken great pleasure in studying the beams for the rest of the evening, only for Brother Jordan's discreet cough to capture his attention, to return his focus to those people, gathered in the hall. Taking his cue, Sir Roger continued: 'Brother Jordan, you all know. His companion is Cardinal Francesco D'Orso, emissary to the Pope in Rome.'

The announcement was akin to throwing a bucket of water over the family now standing at the dais table; at least, each and every expression implied this to be so. Lost in their thoughts, Payn and Geoffrey went without a rejoinder, but Matildis was swift to react, stepping forward to greet Cardinal D'Orso.

'A cardinal,' she enthused, 'how wonderful!' The statement was a lie, her choice of words gratuitous. Like Sir Roger, she considered the cardinal's presence to be both intrusive and undesirable; they would have to make light of him, ensure that he was made welcome, but given little scope to trouble their plans. While offering an insincere smile, Matildis continued: 'I have met with many a man of high position, but never with a cardinal.'

Sensing that his mother was about to turn on her charm, and all that that implied, Sir Roger chose to steer a fresh course. 'I am sure that Cardinal D'Orso must be tired, and hungry; perhaps he would do us the honour of eating at our table?'

Stepping back, the constable drew his guests' attention to the lavish spread, the food adorning the dais table. Unlike the side tables, the dais table still contained a selection from the feast, dishes such as capon soup, lamb, duckling and chicken, fish set in jelly, frumenty and a pasty stuffed with hare.

'For us?' Brother Jordan drooled, producing enough saliva to fill a moat.

'For you, brother,' Sir Roger de la March stooped, adopting a sycophantic pose, 'and for your friend, the cardinal.'

Unaffected, Cardinal D'Orso ran a cursory eye over the spread before turning his back on both table and fare. 'I am not hungry,' he announced. 'And, besides, we have no time to eat.'

The moment of rejection turned into a moment of relief, reflected in the smiling features of Sir Roger de la March. Unseen by the cardinal, the constable exchanged a grateful glance with his mother and his brothers before slipping into diplomatic mode: 'I understand that you wish to reach the abbey before Vigils?'

'We are not staying at the abbey,' Cardinal D'Orso informed his hosts, inflicting upon them his customary abrupt tones. 'We shall take rooms at the almshouse within the town.'

'The cardinal is keen to sample all aspects of Church life,' Brother Jordan explained. 'But we shall visit the abbey, of course.'

Stepping forward, Matildis chose this moment to ingratiate herself with the churchmen. After bowing before the cardinal, she approached Brother Jordan. 'We have a gift for you, brother. The details are yet to be finalised, but we would like to make a present of a parcel of land to the Bishop of Llandaff.'

'Excellent!' Brother Jordan rubbed his hands together in unbridled glee. Subsequently, realising the need for decorum, he adopted a more businesslike pose. 'And where resides this land?'

'At La Marle, running south to the Goylake.'

'Excellent.' With a great deal of contentment, the bishop's envoy placed his hands upon his ample girth, as if to hug himself with joy. 'The place is free of sand,' he muttered to Cardinal D'Orso in a muted aside. To the general assembly, he bellowed: 'We shall finalise the details before we return to Llandaff, rest assured.'

Tiring of the joviality and his family's ingratiating behaviour, Payn decided to make his presence felt. Although he did not intend to use it, his hand went automatically to the hilt of his sword and it remained there as he stood before the cardinal. 'I wish to ask: what brings you to Kenfig?'

'I would have thought that that is obvious,' Cardinal D'Orso replied with equanimity; 'the murder of Brother Helias.'

Circling his brother, and the cardinal, Sir Roger betrayed his surprise: 'And for the murder of a monk you have travelled all the way from Rome?'

'The length of a journey is irrelevant,' the cardinal stated in all piety, 'if truth be your purpose.'

Realising that they were heading into dangerous territory, Sir Roger sought to divert the cardinal: 'I would hate to say that you have wasted your journey, Cardinal D'Orso, but the murder of Brother Helias is well in hand; we know the culprit; his name is Rhys Goch. He is a known outlaw and he will be apprehended within days.'

'I compliment you on your efficiency,' the cardinal stated, offering warm tribute. 'But I would have you know that the details of the murder are of little interest to me, per se.'

Confused, Payn became angry, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword, his features twisting into an unpleasant grimace. 'If not the murder,' he demanded, 'why are you here?'

'I am here to rid this country of heretics, to purge each and every mind of heresy's invidious sin.'

As the cardinal spoke, he looked up to the vaulted ceiling, all eyes following him, albeit involuntarily. Rig envisaged a host of angels, fluttering among the crossbeams, such had been the cardinal's saintly tone.

'Are you suggesting that Brother Helias was a heretic?' Morgan de Avene was the first to react, giving voice to collective thought.

In response, the cardinal turned slowly, frowning, as if stirring from a restful slumber. 'Indeed, that might well be so.'

'But...' Morgan shook his head, unable to contain his incredulity. 'How do you know?'

'We have ways,' Cardinal D'Orso replied, mysteriously.

'I find this difficult to believe.' Sir Roger was standing before the cardinal, having eased both Payn and his mother to one side. 'We took Brother Helias to be a good man. Now you cast aspersions upon his soul. Pray, tell us, what is the nature of this heresy?'

'The heretics are the greatest sinners in all hell!' Cardinal D'Orso roared, warming to a theme, to a subject that lay close to his heart. 'For, each and every one of them distorts the Word of God.'

'The cardinal is right,' Brother Jordan affirmed, adding his weight to the discussion. 'These men are sinners beyond redemption. It is their wish to destroy the Pope, to dismiss the doctrine of transubstantiation. Given free rein, they would flood each and every market square with their interpretation of the Bible; words mark you, written not in Latin, but in the local tongue! Can you imagine, common men in the taverns dissecting sacred texts, manipulating the Word of God until such glory coincides with their aspirations. Can you sense the cry of disorder as they challenge the teachings of the Church and the very State itself!'

Rig could imagine such a scene. He could picture the chaos; he thought that wonderful. He could see the emptying of the monasteries as the people sought their own path to God, free of the priests. He could see a land free of Church control and Church dogma. Although a Christian in name only, he could understand the Church's desire to hold on to its power, that power being derived from the Bible and the fact that it was written in Latin, a language understood and spoken by the few. Therefore, priests were required to interpret and to present God's word to the masses, a fact he resented with a passion bordering on the homicidal. The more Rig reflected, the more he realised that he had chosen his path, part in rebellion against the father who had disowned him, part in rebellion against the Church, whom he considered to be callous and cruel. That realisation did not forgive him his sins, but it did provide them with a meaning. He would remember that, the next time his blade tore through a man's heart.

'The hour is late.' Cardinal D'Orso fingered the heavy cross resting against his chest. He adjusted the drawstring on his hat, until it sat more comfortably upon his head.

'Indeed,' Brother Jordan concurred with his superior. 'Thank you for the land gift, Sir Roger.' He bowed graciously as he walked from the chamber, only to pause and stare longingly at the lavish, untouched, spread. With eyes rolling, he sighed: 'And thank you for your hospitality.'

The cardinal and the bishop's envoy rejoined their baggage train, scrupulously watched over by their troop of servants and secretaries. Taking their leave of the bailey, they entered the town of Kenfig, seeking Monekin Street and the town's almshouse.

Rig left his co-conspirators to mull over the cardinal's words and the purpose of his visit. Unseen, he made his way up the spiral staircase, alighting on the fourth floor, entering his private room. There, he knelt before a wooden chest, a treasure trove of illicit trinkets. Many of the items had been stolen from his victims; others had been accepted by way of a bribe. The item he was looking for was hidden at the bottom of the jumble, his dark, hooded eyes spying it as a hawk spies its prey. With a malevolent grin upon his face, Rig extracted the parchment, wiping away the dry bloodstains, blowing the remnants of Brother Helias to the four winds. His mind went back to the herbalist and his meeting with Johanna Wittard, the image of their clandestine rendezvous shining brighter than sunlight illuminating a church window. If Brother Helias was a heretic, then what of Johanna Wittard? The answer was about to reveal itself. Casting his eyes over the neat script decorating the parchment, Rig soon realised that it did contain heresy, for sacrilegious doctrine dripped from every word. Sections of the Bible had been copied into English; tracts, decrying conventional Church teaching, had been set down; criticism of Church policy abounded. So, it appeared as though Cardinal D'Orso had been vindicated; what would he give to capture the hand, to capture the mind that lay behind these words? Johanna Wittard was clearly implicated; what would she give in return for Rig's silence? Folding the parchment and concealing it under his mail shirt, Rig considered that he would take great pleasure in discovering the answer to that question.

# Day Three – 6th May 1399

Euros awoke to the sound of thunder. As he lay on his bed, he reflected upon the night's events: the meeting with Rhys Goch and the blindfolded journey back to the conyger, accompanied by Cynan ap Gruffydd. The former had been profitable while the latter had provided little in the way of clues, hard evidence suggesting the hideout's location. Euros considered that, had he a mind to, he could follow the likes of Cynan back to the cave, and so gain knowledge of its location. That option lay open to him in the future. For now, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Easing himself from his bed, Euros sought his clothes, selecting a well-cut tunic and close fitting hose. He noted that the quillon dagger remained attached to his belt and he reminded himself that he must fulfil his pledge to Anest and hand the jewel-encrusted weapon over to Payn de la March. If he were honest, he would have to admit to a deceitful thought, namely selling the weapon and putting the money obtained to good use. But it was only a fleeting thought. He would honour his pledge, as much as he disliked Payn de la March, as much as he considered him unworthy, undeserving of possessing such a fine weapon.

Stepping into the vill, Euros noted the lack of activity. In better days, men and women would labour in the fields, repairs would be made to farmsteads and cottages, children would play with sticks and leather balls. Today, because of the fever, there was nothing, save for a few men working their strips and various animals, standing around, looking forlorn as the rain continued to fall upon them.

Then, a shaft of sunlight, the appearance of Anest as she emerged from one of the cottages. To Euros' surprise, Branwen of Deumay was with her, the two women inclining their heads against the rain as they engaged in earnest conversation. To Euros' total lack of surprise, Einion ap Rhiryd acted as Anest's shadow, his footsteps encroaching upon her every footprint.

The two women paused so that Anest might hand Branwen a phial of medicine. Einion, seizing his opportunity, circled Anest so that he could stand in front of her and demand her attention. Euros could not hear what was being said, but the conversation appeared to take the form of light banter. At one point, Anest smiled, and then she laughed and Euros was moved to consider that she might well be developing feelings for the blacksmith. Maybe his persistence had worn her down. Or maybe she was reacting out of politeness. To his consternation, Euros fervently hoped that the latter was so, recognising within himself more than a pang of jealousy.

Clearly pleased and uplifted, Einion left Anest's side, returning to his workshop. As he walked across the dirt road, his ankles sank deep into the mud. Water lay everywhere. The fishpond had overflowed and the walkways and gutters had turned into rivers. Euros could not recall a time like it. Surely the weather had to turn soon? Maybe. And with the sunshine he would recognise a sign of improved fortune.

With the needs of an ailing cottar clearly pressing, Anest disappeared into one of the farmsteads. Branwen, clutching the medicine phial closely to her bosom, made her way towards Euros. Even in the cold and the wet, she still maintained her rosy complexion. The veil upon her head soaked into her blonde hair, making her tresses appear darker than usual. Her penchant for low cut dresses and her buxom figure ensured that the rain found its way into her clothing, soaking the front of her dress, turning the garment a dark green in colour. Even so, she appeared cheerful, as evidenced by her warm smile.

'Good day, my lord,' the freewoman greeted Euros.

'Good morning to you, Branwen.' With a nod of his head, the young lord drew attention to the medicine phial. 'You have decided to help us?'

'Yes. Since your visit I have had time to reflect.' Casting her eyes down to the ground, Branwen adopted a sombre expression, pursing her lips, sucking one under the other. 'Too much time,' she echoed. 'Living alone is upsetting my humour. So...' She glanced up, the sparkle returning to her eyes, so much so that they shone like emeralds. 'I have decided to seek company, and offer what help I can.'

'And we are grateful for that,' Euros confirmed in all sincerity. 'I am sure that your assistance will prove a blessing to many lives.'

After escorting Branwen beyond the bakehouse and the midden, Euros paused so that they might take shelter under an oak tree. There, they huddled, like conspirators or long lost lovers, to the casual onlooker, whispering words of treachery or seduction.

'It might please you to know,' Euros waited while a rumble of thunder pealed away into the distance, 'that I have spoken with Rhys Goch.'

'And?' The word came out as a husky whisper.

'He is in good spirits.'

Branwen sighed: 'Then I am pleased.'

'In fact,' Euros confirmed, 'he is as fiery as ever.'

At this, Branwen laughed: 'Do you know of anything, or anyone, who can quench the flames within his soul?' The moment of merriment faded as quickly as the thunder and the freewoman was left with her thoughts, her fingers outlining the curve of the medicine phial, her rounded features pensive as her mind played its old trick of tying her thoughts up in knots. A flash of lightning in the far distance acted as a scythe, freeing her from her entanglement, enabling her to give voice to her feelings: 'You talked of the murder?'

'We did.'

'And...your conclusions?'

'The Lord Rhys protests his innocence,' Euros reiterated. He reflected, allowing the spectre of Rhys Goch's indignation to flourish in his mind. 'After due consideration, I am inclined to believe him.'

Placing a hand to her chest, Branwen felt the swell of her bosom. It rose in mighty fashion before falling as she exhaled. 'Then I am relieved.' Joyfully, she held up the phial, brushing a raindrop from its pitted surface. 'I must get on with my work; I promised Anest that I would deliver this tonic to old man Trefor.'

'Then please, make haste; I am sure that Trefor will be more than grateful.'

Without further ado, Branwen crossed the dirt track and made for Trefor's homestead. Euros waited while she gained entry before retracing his steps. With feet squelching beyond the bakehouse, he rounded a corner, only to catch sight of Anest.

Head bowed, against the rain, she was scurrying for shelter, only to slip in the mud and drop a medicine phial.

'Thank you,' she offered, as Euros stooped and retrieved the elixir. He noted that the stopper had been well placed and that no harm had been done. 'This phial is all but empty,' she added. 'I must return to Stormy Down and make a fresh measure.'

Showing his concern, Euros' forehead rippled into a frown. 'The fever's grip becomes ever more vengeful?'

'Sadly,' Anest confirmed, 'it shows no sign of abating; I fear that we shall have to endure its sting for a few days yet.'

With rain dripping from their noses and soaking every thread of their clothing, the notion of seeking shelter appeared superfluous. In any event, Euros felt a rare sense of peace, as if wrapped in the healer's aura; it was a wonderful sensation, one he thought possible only in dreams.

'And what of Tangwstyl?' Euros enquired, through the mist of his reverie.

'She continues to flourish; Ballas remains unaffected.'

'And what of her father? Has there been any sign of the man, the one you call the new Arthur?'

'He has not appeared, as yet.' Anest's fingers went to her purse. There, they traced the outline of the beautiful ring brooch owned by Tirion. Anest recalled its inscription: io sui ici en liu dami – I am here in place of a friend. A man steeped in romance must have gifted such a brooch; that being so, he would wish to see Tangwstyl. Therefore, Anest remained confident that one day this man would materialize. 'He will not disappoint us. We must be patient and have faith.'

'It must be wonderful,' Euros mused, 'to have such belief.'

'Belief is open to everyone,' Anest reasoned, 'including you, my lord.'

'I will find belief when I find love,' Euros stated boldly.

At that, the corners of Anest's mouth angled upwards and the beginnings of a smile warmed her eyes. 'You talk now as an echo of Einion.'

'That is because my feelings and his are not that far apart.'

The direct nature of Euros' statement all but removed the breath from Anest's body. Possibly, she gasped, but her recollection could not hold the truth. The warmth on her cheeks informed her that she was blushing, and it was with some embarrassment that she stared down to the ground, forcefully averting her gaze.

'My lord!'

A glance to the left saw Madog's arrival, closely followed by Ci, his faithful companion. On catching sight of Euros, the dog overtook his master, running to greet the young lord.

'I must go.' Euros took a reluctant step towards his steward. 'I shall call on you later. If you should need me...'

'I know where you are.'

Holding his ground, Euros watched as Anest disappeared into an adjacent cottage. He reflected upon the tumult all around him and the restlessness within his mind. He felt close to something unique, something previously deemed ethereal. That thought excited him, frightened him, but he determined to make it real; whatever happened, he would not be denied.

'The Lady Meirian awaits you at the Hall,' Madog informed his lord, whose attention had been taken by the playful animal. 'She says it is vital that she sees you, and that time is of the essence.'

Squatting on his haunches, Euros took time to fondle Ci's muzzle and return the affection offered by the animal. Nose to nose, they gazed into each other's eyes. In that instant, the demands of the world and the calls for his attention dissipated; it was as if he had been removed to a simpler time.

Straightening, Euros returned to the moment. And, with Ci and Madog at his side, he went in search of the Lady Meirian. He found her, as Madog had stated, waiting, agitated, standing at the Hall's main gate.

'My lady.' Euros bowed in greeting. 'You are well?' he enquired.

'I wish to have words with you.' Meirian's tone and expression held a certain tension, as did her fingers as they toyed with an embroidered belt and its parade of folly-bells. 'In private,' she added, looking at Madog askance.

A knowing glance from Euros suggested to Madog that he should continue with his duties. And so, with Ci at his side, the steward entered the courtyard and walked towards the barn. Meanwhile, Euros led the Lady Meirian to the main body of the building. They climbed the flight of stairs, the steps that led to the first floor entrance and then, indoors, they climbed again, until they reached the solar.

Gaining her bearings, Meirian Lovell looked round in a state of admiration; the room was neat, large, but well maintained. A gallery traversed the south wall while, below this wooden colonnade, a fire smouldered in a great stone fireplace. Tapestries, tastefully located, fought the draught, the breeze brought on by deep, spacious windows, while an oak table, resplendent with richly decorated wine jugs and drinking vessels, bid welcome to the invited visitor.

'It has been so long since I have been here,' Meirian recalled in childlike wonder. 'In fact, the last time I stood in this room your mother was alive...'

'We have both experienced much since then,' Euros concluded, walking towards the oak table. There, he paused, to pour a measure of wine.

'Indeed we have,' Meirian concurred, her voice hard with emotion. 'I sometimes wonder how we have managed to survive.'

Raising a goblet from the table, Euros stared into its liquid depths before offering the wine to Meirian. Still lost in deep thought, he poured himself a measure.

'Thank you.' Meirian smiled as she accepted the goblet. After taking a brief sip, she retired, to sit near a window. The wind, finding gaps in the window frames and the criss-cross of the lead moulding, ruffled the ermine on Meirian's surcoat and disturbed the precision of her rich auburn hair. Relaxing, the lady sighed, tackling the wine with greater gusto, so much so that her goblet was well drained before Euros could wet his lips.

'More wine?' Euros enquired.

'Yes, please,' Meirian nodded, offering up her goblet with thanks.

Taking a wine jug from the table, Euros presented its lip to Meirian's goblet. Earthenware met with earthenware in a subdued kiss. As Euros poured, Meirian stared into his dark eyes, as if searching for answers. Equally, he sensed that a question was forming on her wine-stained lips.

'You met with Rhys Goch?'

'Indeed, we shared some time together.'

'And the meeting was to your satisfaction?'

'Most certainly, it was.'

'Then I am happy.' Pausing, the Lady Meirian ran a finger around her goblet, tracing the outline of its rim. Looking up, she appeared more determined, her features set, intense. 'I am happy,' she repeated, 'but I would be happier still if you would grant me but one favour.'

'If that favour rests within my power, my lady, then it is yours.'

'It does,' Meirian asserted, 'or I would not ask of you this kindness: please, without question, take me to Rhys Goch.'

'I met with the Lord Rhys,' Euros pointed out, 'but I have no idea as to his location.'

'But you have a route of communication?'

'I do. However, before I go any further, I would ask you but one question: what is your interest in Rhys Goch?'

'Business. That, and nothing more.' Placing her goblet upon the wide window ledge, Meirian turned to stare, wistfully, into the vill. She failed to notice the ducks, enjoying the fishpond's waters, a young boy, relieving himself into a gutter and a cart, its axles spinning in deep mud; all were a blur to her, so wrapped up was she in her own thoughts. 'As you know, Rhys Goch robbed us, me and my late husband, out of our share of the quarry and all the rewards that go with it. I wish to right that wrong, both for my sake and for Sir John's memory. In recent weeks I have discovered a document, a document that proves that we are in the right and that he is in the wrong; I wish to present that document to Rhys Goch.'

'Rhys Goch's camp is no place for a lady.'

'Candidly, my lord; without the quarry's wealth, I shall not be a lady for much longer.' Her story told in tones of humility and sadness, the Lady Meirian turned, her dark brown eyes beseeching Euros. Had he a heart of stone, the young lord would have dismissed her request and attended to his duties, but he felt a certain sympathy for his guest, the more so when she walked over to his side and placed a hand upon his arm. With eyelashes fluttering, she whimpered: 'You will take pity on me?'

'I am of little consequence,' Euros conceded, 'for Rhys Goch is the man you have to convince.'

'Please send word to him.' Meirian's hand gripped the young lord's shoulder, exerting a force surprising in its intensity. 'Please arrange a meeting.'

The grip, Euros could tolerate, but not the doe-eyed sadness. After draining the last of his wine, he nodded his compliance: 'I will do what I can.'

Satisfied, the Lady Meirian smiled, giving life to tired, careworn features; clearly, something weighed heavily upon her mind for it advanced her into middle age. Placing soft lips close to unshaven skin, her hot breath warmed Euros' cheek as she whispered: 'Thank you, my lord.'

As Meirian Lovell hitched up her skirts and made her careful way down the solar staircase, Euros was moved to reflect: after years of neglect, the Lord Rhys had suddenly become very popular. Coincidence? Or conspiracy? Euros would send word to Brother Blanchigernonis and would allow him to add his wisdom to this matter. It was possible that Meirian had told the truth and that she had been totally sincere in her pleading. On the other hand, Euros was reminded of her penchant for duplicity. Whatever her intrigues, he would seek to understand her motives. And, with the white monk's help, he felt sure that he would get to the bottom of this mystery.

* * *

Cardinal Francesco D'Orso was a skilled horseman; he had little trouble in manoeuvring his plodding mule along the great Roman road. The son of a master stonemason, he placed his birth in the year 1349, the year the great pestilence swept through his hometown of Florence. He had had the misfortune of losing his mother to that great sweep of plague and had spent many years blaming her for his all-consuming sense of sorrow, for he believed that she had sinned, sin being the cause of all pestilence and the reason for God's retribution. The passing of time had brought about acceptance allowing D'Orso the grace, the serenity, to make his peace with his mother; whatever the nature of her sins, he had found it within his heart to forgive her. In contrast, his father had survived the plague and had been in great demand as a stonemason; with fewer skilled men available due to the great pestilence, wages had subsequently risen and skilled artisans had prospered. The young Francesco had been suitably schooled and suitably inspired by the wonderful buildings – the great churches and cathedrals – his father had helped to create. From there, it required but a small step to enter those buildings and then enter the priesthood. Strong on discipline and ardent in attitude, Brother D'Orso soon gained endorsements, eventually becoming Archbishop of Florence. The lure of a cardinal's hat and robes became all-consuming and, once achieved, it proved only a matter of time before Cardinal D'Orso became a close ally of Pope Boniface IX.

The cardinal might well have been a skilled horseman, but the same could not be said of Brother Jordan. His mule strayed from side to side and thus their progress to Margam Abbey was both slow and laborious. This frustrated Cardinal D'Orso but appeared not to trouble Brother Jordan. Men of contrasting build and character, they maintained good relations, through the recognition of their mutual aim of best pleasing God.

After passing the almonry and securing their mules at the stables, the holy men made their way through the main gate. There, they duly noted the bold letters, the words proclaiming the abbey's motto: porta patens esto, nulli claudaris honesto – gate be open, and be closed to no honest man – before walking towards the welcoming party of Abbot John, Prior Osbert and Brother Leisan.

'My lord cardinal...' Abbot John took a painful step forward, favouring his left hip. Like Brother Blanchigernonis, the abbot was discovering that his bones were developing numerous and various ways to pain him as he advanced into old age. '...it is a pleasure to welcome you to our abbey,' he added in greeting.

Observed by Prior Osbert and Brother Leisan, the abbot attempted to kneel before the cardinal. But his hip locked and he was unable to bend or straighten, his features colouring as a result of this embarrassing hiatus. Brother Leisan rescued the moment; bending a knee, he took hold of the abbot's elbow, easing the old man to his feet.

'You had a good journey, my lord cardinal?' Prior Osbert made a reasoned attempt to restore sanctity and decorum.

'Tolerable,' came the cardinal's disdainful reply.

'And your accommodation?'

'Adequate; it is basic, that and no more.'

'We can offer you rooms at the abbey,' Abbot John tendered, 'should you seek more comfortable surroundings.'

'Comfort?' The cardinal scowled, his tight features sharpening to an arrow point. 'Tell me where St Benedict mentions the word "comfort" within his rule.'

Unable to placate the cardinal or furnish him with a suitable rejoinder, the welcoming party were reduced to shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot. The heavy silence only served to increase their collective embarrassment, so much so that God would have heard prayers, requesting that He take pity on such simple brethren and accept them, at that very moment, into his heavenly bosom.

'You arrive at a most opportune moment.' Shaking his head, as if to clear it, the abbot determined to reassert his authority and demonstrate a measure of control. He turned to face the abbey, pride reflecting in his watery brown eyes; his smile became a mirror of satisfaction as he admired the gleaming white walls. 'We have just repainted the abbey in readiness for the king's visit.'

Cardinal D'Orso duly noted the handiwork of Margam's conversi, running a meticulous eye over the whitewashed walls; the rain had created streaks and blemishes on certain parts of the sacred structure, but the cardinal accepted these abstract patterns, considering them a part of God's grand design. 'I am sure that the king will be most impressed,' was his only comment.

'I am sure,' the abbot echoed, 'for he has an eye for such detail, I would have you know.'

Crooked and bent, with windswept hair as white as the abbey's walls, the abbot looked as old as the sanctified structure. He was a pleasant man, albeit a little nervous at meeting the Pope's emissary, was Cardinal D'Orso's instant assessment of the abbot. A respecter of age, but not of ineptitude, he could not help but wonder if Abbot John had slipped past competence. His investigations at the abbey would determine the truth of the matter. Moreover, his report to the Pope would spare no one, regardless of reputation.

'The morning passes,' Abbot John observed astutely. 'Maybe we should all retire to the guest house?'

'I would prefer to walk around the gardens,' Cardinal D'Orso announced, his attention taken by the vast assemblage of abbey buildings, assessing, quite rightly, that some twenty separate components made up the complex.

Shaking the moisture from his sodden habit, and the agitation from his limbs, Abbot John looked to the sky, offering the slate-grey clouds a most painful grimace. 'But, what of the rain?'

'The rain is a gift from God,' the cardinal stated in tones unequivocal, 'all should be pleased to absorb its power.'

Bowing with due deference, the abbot ceded to the cardinal's wishes, leading the party of religious men around the cloister's quadrangle. From there, the cardinal admired the majesty of the church, a simple structure that made up the west range, the warming house and the two-storey block of dormitories. The architecture was uncomplicated, straightforward, mirroring countless abbeys across the Cistercian world. Entering the tree-lined gardens, the cardinal strolled beyond the refectory, before pausing beside the orchard.

'I trust that our abbey meets with your approval?' Confident that Cardinal D'Orso would respond in the affirmative, Abbot John allowed a playful timbre to creep into his voice.

'It is most pleasing,' the cardinal confirmed.

'I must confess,' the abbot chuckled, 'maintaining the abbey to the high standards set by our mother house is proving a task, one that would challenge Sisyphus, what with fewer men taking to the cloister and would-be conversi preferring the distractions of the secular world.'

'That would explain why the church of St James has developed a hole in its roof,' Cardinal D'Orso intoned, his voice as dark as the Devil's.

His confidence draining, Abbot John turned to Prior Osbert, only to find the prior in careful devotion, his attention taken by an imagined stain on the left shoulder of his habit, the prior's prominent nose turning up in distaste, his midnight-black head bending low, giving the abbot a full view of his freshly tonsured crown.

'I apologise.' The abbot's face remained frozen in an embarrassed half-smile. 'The matter will be attended to.'

'It should have been attended to!' Cardinal D'Orso scowled, making no attempt to hide his anger. 'Long before now!'

'You are right, my lord cardinal.' Bowing, Abbot John turned to his precentor: 'Brother Leisan; take the matter in hand.'

'Yes, my lord abbot.' Viewing the scene with some distaste, and taking great exception to Brother Osbert's haughty manner, Brother Leisan felt some sympathy for the abbot. Brother Jordan too considered that a more temperate approach might have been in order, but neither man gave voice to his opinions.

'Brother Helias, sadly departed, was responsible for the herb garden.' Attempting to win back lost favour, Abbot John drew attention to the wide expanse of the herbarium, noting, with sadness, that a number of weeds now tangled with the flowers. Even so, the garden offered an impressive vista, a sensual delight of colour and aroma. 'I am sure that you will agree; the garden remains as a testament to his skill.'

'It flourishes,' Cardinal D'Orso conceded, 'by God's grace.'

'Brother Helias was of great help to me. I do miss him,' the abbot added, wistfully.

'So,' Cardinal D'Orso frowned, his nose twitching, as if sniffing an opportunity, 'you miss the company of heretics?'

'Heretics?' Abbot John made light of the accusation, offering the cardinal his customary friendly smile. 'You will not find a single heretic under my roof.'

'Not even your friend, Brother Helias?'

'Brother Helias was no heretic,' Abbot John avowed. 'Why, his commitment to God stands scrutiny to my own.'

Turning to Brother Jordan, Cardinal D'Orso indulged in a knowing look, a stare, tinged with an element of satisfaction. 'That statement has been duly noted, my lord abbot.'

Sensing that his reputation had been placed in the stocks, Abbot John recognised that this was one conversation he could not win with charm and joviality; the discussion demanded a more sober tone: 'Surely, you do not seriously suggest...Brother Helias...a heretic? But, how...?' With the cardinal offering no explanation, the abbot felt compelled to turn and face Brother Jordan, only to be met with an analogous, solemn stare. Brother Leisan, meanwhile, cast his eyes down to the ground. Only Brother Osbert remained, his dark eyes half-closed, as if to hide his culpability, his swarthy features etched with guilt. At that moment, Abbot John felt as though he had been offered a beacon of understanding, a shaft of light that made everything clear. 'Why not approach me with your suspicions, Brother Osbert?'

'I felt it better to save you from the strain, my lord abbot.' Brother Osbert's face assumed a mask of piety; he could have been standing in the choir stalls chanting the Salve Regina. 'I thought first of your health...'

'In all my years!' Cardinal D'Orso's voice thundered with condemnation, a demonstration of capability over quantity, the sound coming, as it did, from such a small man. 'How could you show such neglect!'

'My lord abbot has not been in the best of health,' Brother Leisan ventured, feeling obliged to offer his spiritual father some support.

'Then it is time for him to abjure his glorious position.' Eyeing the abbot as one would eye a flea-infested rat, the cardinal turned away in a state of revulsion. 'Should our suspicions be proved, you will be banished from this house, my lord abbot.'

'You will not find a single heretic in my abbey, my lord cardinal.' Despite his aches and pains, the abbot showed a fair turn of speed as he circled the cardinal, kneeling before him, touching the hem of his vestment.

'Time, and my investigations, will be the judge of that.' Snatching up his vestment, pulling the garment free of the abbot's clutches, Cardinal D'Orso strode towards the main gate. 'I will see you at None,' he stated, without once looking back. Had he bothered to do so, he would have found the abbot bent, on his knees, his watery eyes staring vacantly as the puddles gathered around him upon the ground.

* * *

'Can we murder the cardinal?' Geoffrey de la March steadied his horse before looking towards Windmill Hill. There, he observed as the weather-beaten blades swept by, creaking and groaning, driven on by the strong easterly wind.

'Geoffrey.' Sir Roger de la March shook his head. He eased his mount, a destrier of majestic build, away from the stream - the rivulet of rainwater that had formed in the gutter – on to the firmer ground of the great Roman road. 'Stop; for once in your life, think, consider what you are saying.'

'Why can't we kill the cardinal?' Geoffrey frowned, perplexed. 'After all, we are planning to kill the king.'

'We are,' Sir Roger agreed, guiding his horse down the gentle incline, the gradient that led from Kenfig to North Corneli. 'But we have the support of the most powerful barons in the land. If we kill a cardinal, do you think that these barons will remain firmly behind us?' A shake of his golden mane gave a clue as to what Sir Roger was thinking. 'Do you seriously wish to challenge the might of Rome?'

'It was just a thought,' Geoffrey mumbled, his head bowed, as if to hide his morose expression. 'It's just that the cardinal makes me feel so uneasy.'

'That is understandable,' Sir Roger sympathised. 'After all, he is an exceedingly powerful man.'

'So...' Tentatively, Geoffrey glanced up, still cowed, but sensing that Sir Roger was considering his opinion and that, rarity of rarities, a family member was not laughing up his sleeve or dismissing him out of hand. 'You feel uneasy also?'

'We will deal with the cardinal. But we will deal with him in the way I choose.'

Warming to the conversation, Geoffrey ventured to smile, producing a lopsided grin, an expression more in keeping with a drunkard than with a man in his exalted position. 'And what is your way, brother?'

'We will do all that we can to please him. We shall certainly not antagonise him. It is important to remember that his interest remains with the heretics and with the abbey, not with the murder of Brother Helias.'

Nodding sagely, as if elevated to a position on the king's council, Geoffrey straightened his back and rode on in some style. He guided his horse so that he might unite with Sir Roger and he considered, in a moment of blissful abstraction, that the constable was his favourite brother after all.

'I have been talking with Payn,' Geoffrey ventured, as they emerged from an area of light woodland, closing in on the vill of North Corneli.

Sir Roger scoffed, making no attempt to hide his disgust. 'Do you consider that wise?'

'He would see you disinherited. He would betray you and take what is rightfully yours.'

'To attempt such an action would be most unwise,' Sir Roger counselled.

'I know,' Geoffrey smiled. 'That is why I am telling you this. That is why I told mother; she knows of our brother's plan.'

When they arrived in the vill, they found the people wandering around in a melee of desperation. Yet another villein had succumbed to the fever, creating a pall of grief and sadness. The poor soul was being carried to the church of St Wenduin; friends and relatives were in attendance, making no attempt to hide their distress. Sir Roger found the scene most distasteful. Geoffrey was touched with sadness but, quickly, he moved to suppress such an emotion, reminding himself that these people were here to serve him and his peers; they had not the intelligence or the character to be deserving of a nobleman's sympathy; they were the conquered, the vanquished; they were third-class denizens, little more than slaves. And, what is more, they were deserving of their status.

'Good day, my lord constable.' Euros stood at Groes-y-Gryn, the debating point within the village. 'As you can see,' he nodded towards the funeral procession, 'there is no end to the vill's suffering.'

'Good day, Euros.' After steadying his horse, Sir Roger de la March lowered his reins; bending forward, he caressed the beast's head. 'Powerful though I may be, I cannot control the elements or any ailments that God might choose to render.'

'True, but you can, and you do, control these fine people's purse strings.'

Allowing Sir Roger to take the lead, Geoffrey hung back in mild trepidation, noting that their arrival had enticed a number of villeins from their homesteads. To a man, they looked dirty and unkempt, shabby in their appearance; the women looked unattractive, the children, at best, mischievous: Geoffrey would sooner give the Devil himself houseroom. Then, he reflected: in Payn, the Devil was already in residence.

The crowd's number swelled with the arrival of Einion and Branwen. She was good looking, Geoffrey considered and he could see why Morgan de Avene was keen to remove her dress. Madog joined his lord, Ci standing in close attendance. The dog took one look at Geoffrey and proceeded to bark with a vengeance. Geoffrey's horse became nervous at this and threatened to rise on to its hindquarters. It was left to Madog to soothe the situation; with casual amusement, he called the dog to heel. Even their animals are insubordinate, Geoffrey reflected; he could not wait to kill the king, collect his share of the spoils and be done with each and every one of them.

'The people will get their money,' Sir Roger promised, eyeing the villeins with distain, 'when I get the criminal, Rhys Goch.'

'Fine talk, Sir Roger.' Euros took a step towards his adversary. 'But I am not sure that the Lord Rhys is yet ready for the taking.'

'You have had words with him?' His interest clearly aroused, Sir Roger sat high in the saddle, his bearing grand, his posture imposing, intimidating to those standing on the ground.

'Indeed,' Euros confirmed, 'I have spoken with the Lord Rhys.'

'Excellent,' Sir Roger smiled, well satisfied. 'Then you can provide me with his location.'

'A blindfold was placed upon my eyes,' Euros explained, 'try as I might, I could not see a thing.'

'But you must have some idea, enough to offer up an opinion.'

'That part is true, and I would seek to oblige you, but for one salient fact.'

'This being?' Sir Roger frowned.

'Rhys Goch is innocent of the crime; his hand did not claim Brother Helias' life.'

At this, a general murmuring emerged from among the villeins, followed by an audible sigh of relief from Branwen. Doubtless she was pleased that her paramour's reputation had been salvaged from the flames. A round of nodding suggested a consensus: Euros spoke the truth. Rhys Goch was an innocent man; false men had falsely accused him.

Like the moon obstructing the sun, so Sir Roger's temperate expression was eclipsed; further, it was cast asunder, only to be replaced by a scowl, a glare as pointed as his broadsword. 'I think that you men of the vill are wont to move above your station; I would remind you that I am the judge of guilt and innocence in this borough.'

'You judge a man, weak with the fever, to have the desire to go out killing? For what reason?' Euros challenged. 'For what purpose? For, I tell you, my lord constable, that the reason must be very strong indeed when a man is battling with death itself.'

Spontaneous cheering from the crowd told Sir Roger that his words were superfluous, his opinions of no value; years of opportunism and corruption had darkened the views of all but the most sanguine of villeins and, as such, Sir Roger could have announced the arrival of the Second Coming and the villeins would have considered his words to be no more than bluster, wind passing through his anus.

'Take me to Rhys Goch,' the constable demanded. 'Allow me to be the judge of his condition.'

'He is well now,' Euros pointed out, 'restored to good health.'

'Then he has fooled you.' Sir Roger's tone was unequivocal: 'Clearly, he lies about the fever.'

'I fear that it is you who lies, my lord constable, you who bends the truth.'

Sensing his master's indignation, Sir Roger's horse bridled at the accusation, rising on to its hindquarters, its hooves kicking out. It required skilful horsemanship from Sir Roger to bring the animal under control; taking hold of the reins, he dipped the horse's head to the right before completing a tight circle. When they came to rest, the horse's nostrils flared, within nodding distance of Euros' head.

'I feel that you have overstepped the mark, my lord Euros.' Sir Roger gripped the reins with his ire mounting, the horse mimicking his master's snarl, baring its teeth and whinnying, so much so that it appeared as though man and beast had become one. 'If I had a mind,' the constable shouted, 'I would bring you to task!'

Holding his ground, Euros appeared to be unaffected. He merely smiled, displaying the patience of the just. 'Tell me but one thing, Sir Roger: why are you so keen to place this murder upon the Lord Rhys' shoulders?'

'Take me to him!' Sir Roger yelled, close to losing all reason. 'Take me to him! Now!'

'That was not a part of our bargain.'

Provoked beyond restraint, Sir Roger drew his sword. It was a moment of hot-blooded impulse and Geoffrey had to confess that he had rarely seen his brother display such anger; he had rarely seen him lose all control. Vaguely, he recalled the beatings and the chastisements meted out by his father, the punishments and the torments should his sons put but one foot wrong. Since that time, Geoffrey had learned how to walk on eggshells. But he was aware that Payn and Roger were made of altogether firmer matter and that they would crush anyone possessing the impudence, the impertinence to present them with an unnecessary problem, they would sweep aside anyone possessing the temerity to do them wrong.

Levelling his sword at Euros' forehead, Sir Roger watched as the blade quivered, blithely unaware of the communal intake of breath. 'I could make you talk,' the constable threatened.

'You could try,' Euros agreed. 'But I doubt that the spilling of my blood would take you closer to Rhys Goch.'

For a moment that spiralled into eternity, the two men stared at each other, neither blinking, neither daring to look away. The rain beat down, a dark cloud producing a particularly heavy shower, the hailstones bouncing off the people's noses, splashing into puddles, covering the ground in a dirty white blanket. The two men might have remained there, locked in ocular confrontation, but for Geoffrey, who lost control of his horse; the animal, startled by the hailstones, leapt forward, causing Sir Roger's mount to shudder. In that moment of diversion, Sir Roger felt compelled to avert his gaze as he struggled to bring his horse to order. Resuming total control, he wheeled to the left, backing away from Euros.

'You have not heard the last of this,' Sir Roger informed both lord and steward.

'Neither have you, my lord constable.' Stepping forward, Euros placed himself between Sir Roger and the road to Kenfig; before the constable could make his escape, the young lord had more words to impart: 'I have kept my part of the bargain,' he announced in a voice loud enough for all to hear. 'Now, I trust, you will keep yours.'

Everyone in the vill was now aware of the situation. One glance at Sir Roger's ashen face foretold that he knew this all too well. The crowd had taken their cue from Euros and, as a man, they had moved forward. Suddenly, their pitchforks and their hoes took on a menacing new meaning and Geoffrey found himself silently pleading with his brother, wishing that he would submit to the mob's anger so that they might return to the safety of the castle.

After absorbing the crowd's hatred, Sir Roger turned to his younger brother: 'Geoffrey, tell Morgan de Avene to oversee the release of both oats and grain. Tell him to consult the exchequer so that he might determine the measure and inform him that he is to release but not one ounce more than the amount due.'

'Both grain and oats will be most welcome,' Euros acknowledged, 'but what of the livestock and the money owed?'

'You will take the victuals and be thankful that you have escaped a beating.' Snatching up his horse's reins, Sir Roger made to depart.

'There was a time when we spoke with civil tongues,' Euros recalled, his tone bordering on the wistful.

'If such a time existed, then it was long ago.'

And so it seemed as though all words had been spoken and that town and vill were drifting even further apart. Geoffrey considered that Euros was behaving like a peasant, that he had more in keeping with the villeinous rabble than with men of noble birth. So be it; that was his decision. Geoffrey put this down to Euros' lack of pure breeding, to the fact that his mother had been Welsh and that he was of mixed birth.

'My lord; before you go.' Euros had one last message to deliver. Reaching down to his belt, he removed Tirion's bejewelled quillon dagger, offering the weapon to Sir Roger, hilt first. 'A gift,' he announced, 'for Payn, your brother.'

'What is this?' Puzzled, Sir Roger studied the dagger, drawing the blade, turning it over in his gloved palm. 'Who is it from?'

'Give the dagger to Payn,' Euros instructed. 'I feel sure that he will understand its meaning.'

Nodding, Sir Roger concealed the weapon about his person. Then, without further ado, he sped towards the town of Kenfig leaving a bemused Geoffrey to trail in his wake.

* * *

As Sir Roger de la March and Euros traded comments, Johanna Wittard and Sir William Scurlag engaged in conversation, the former uttering soft, soothing words of comfort while the latter spouted garbled invective, mostly directed at King Richard. Johanna could make no sense of Sir William's tirade and she was loath to ask Athelena for an explanation, the dutiful daughter being present and yet somewhat distant as she sat beside her father, her head bowed in apprehension and fatigue.

'Kill the bastard!' Sir William bellowed a few moments later with a force and strength that surprised Johanna, his words taking her aback, puzzling her as to why the ailing knight should consume his energies with such abuse, as to why he should use up what little strength he had on a man he was supposed to respect. A glance at Athelena suggested that the long wakeful night had induced overwhelming tiredness, her long fair hair falling forward as she staggered into sleep. Sir William's words had jolted her, but only to the extent of engendering a sigh and a shudder; it was as though she were dreaming, or experiencing some kind of nightmare.

Taking pity on the fair lady, Johanna stooped and gathered up a blanket before, gently, placing it around Athelena's narrow shoulders, offering her some warmth and comfort, a barrier against the cool of the afternoon air. After mopping Sir William's brow, Johanna realised that he was still in high fever and that he would require more theriac. She would return to the maladeria and obtain the elixir, leaving father and daughter together, hoping against hope that Sir William would respond to her ministration, praying that her efforts would result in a successful outcome.

As Johanna descended from the donjon and entered the bailey, her thoughts were centred on Sir William Scurlag, so much so that she nearly collided with a congregation of monks. Looking up, she noted that they were Cardinal D'Orso's secretaries, doubtless securing supplies and provisions for their master as well as tending to their mules before embarking upon their long journey home. Then it dawned on Johanna that they had only just arrived; they had no intention of leaving, wishing them away was just playful thinking on her part. The cardinal was here to stay at least until he obtained satisfaction, until he was sure that each and every heretic had been called to account. Then she cried as she realised that she was one of their number, the ultimate sinner, the woman who dared to blaspheme before God. Yet, she considered herself an angel. Why was there such a contradiction? What had gone wrong?

Scurrying across the bailey, Johanna left all thought of Sir William Scurlag behind; her mind now centred on Brother Leisan and her desire to speak with him. So consumed was she with this yearning that she failed to respond to Rig's greeting or notice his inquisitive look as his eyes followed her every step.

Leaving the town of Kenfig behind, Johanna skirted round the maladeria before following the Roman road north towards Margam Abbey. So obsessed was she with the thought of meeting Brother Leisan that she failed to look over her shoulder; she gave no mind to being followed or to other people's potential suspicions. All she could see were the flames of hell, consuming her in satanic fire; everything before her eyes burned red; her mind was aflame, her thoughts in fever; she felt like screaming. Then, in that instant, she understood the torment suffered by Sir William Scurlag, though, as to his choice of words, her mind remained in doubt.

With a stumble and a sigh she caught sight of Margam Abbey. With a sob, she told herself that peace lay close at hand. Gathering up her skirts, she ran towards salvation, slowing a little as she approached Beggar's Bush and the crowd of unfortunates gathered there. These people were the poor of the poor, the sick of the sick, the physically and the mentally lame, cast into social oblivion. Johanna was relieved to see Brother Leisan standing among their number, distributing alms in his own avuncular manner, handing out leftovers from the monks' recently consumed dinner, meats and vegetables rejected by those of a more discerning palate. Was her mind playing tricks, or did he conform to her image of Jesus? In his white robes he was a saint, tall and lean, with a curly tonsured head of fair hair. His eyes were light and as blue as the summer sky. He was long in the arm and the leg, somewhat uncoordinated, and yet, his fingers were delicate with their touch. It was with a sigh that Johanna recalled the caress of those fingers, her mind recalling their teenage years. Mere youths consumed with a passion for each other, they would doubtless have married and produced many children, but for her father's intervention, for Leisan was Welsh and not welcome within a burgesses' household. True, Leisan could ply his trade as a carpenter and construct a workshop for her father, a potter, but he could not marry her or obtain a burgage plot within the town. Johanna's father shared the majority's belief, namely that town burgesses should not mix with common villeins, not even when love had built its bridge between vill and town.

And so, thwarted in romance, Leisan had proposed an alternative course of action: they would serve God and share their love through Him. Leisan took the first step, entering the abbey. With the absence of a nunnery close by, Johanna entered the maladeria. The Church had founded the maladeria and all women serving there were required to take vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. The regular round of nursing, laundering, cooking and cleaning could be hard, but Johanna found solace in the care ministered to her charges; she also took great comfort from the moments spent deep in prayer.

Having caught sight of Brother Leisan, Johanna realised that her mind had become calmer; her thoughts had become clearer and not so consumed with visions of hell. Even so, she was desperate to talk with her one-time lover and it came as a relief when all the alms had been distributed and, despite grumbling with the pains of their collective curses, the crowd had resolved to disperse.

'I must talk with you.' Johanna pushed aside a blind man, though she did take the trouble to bite her lip in self- admonishment, in reproach for her carelessness in nearly knocking him over, before rushing to Brother Leisan's side.

'Later,' the precentor replied calmly. He reassured himself that the blind man had recovered from the shock of being disturbed by Johanna, that he had regained his bearings and the arm of a supporter, before turning and walking towards the abbey. 'I must attend None; this moment is not opportune.'

'I cannot wait.' Forgetting herself, Johanna took hold of Brother Leisan's habit, pulling a sleeve from his shoulder, exposing bare flesh.

'You must.' Brother Leisan gave Johanna a glare, a scowl, a look both hurtful and reproachful before, with a firm tug, he adjusted his dress.

'Please.' Johanna would not be denied and the plaintive look in her speckled eyes sought to win Brother Leisan over; whether conscious or not of their power, she determined to hold her gaze.

'Very well.' Relenting, Brother Leisan glanced towards the abbey. Unseen, and unseeing, the brothers were gathering for prayer, congregating behind the spiritual barrier of the perimeter wall. 'Meet me at the usual place, beside the Coal Brook, after the service; we can talk openly then.'

Without waiting for a reply, Brother Leisan entered the abbey, leaving Johanna alone at Beggars Bush. She paused for a moment, watching as the lame returned to their shelter, thanking God that she was not one of them.

Drawing strength from Margam's sweeping hills, the forests of trees and the sweet scents of the flora, Johanna made her way to the Coal Brook. As she walked, she gathered flowers from the meadows, dying daffodils, which she formed into a posy, holding them up to her nose, the better to take in their aroma, squeezing the stems mercilessly in the tight clasp of her hand.

A thinning of the trees suggested that she was nearing the river. The feel of coal under her feet told her that the water lay close at hand.

Undoubtedly, the monks had selected Margam because of its sylvan properties, only to find that nature had its rewards waiting for them in abundance; scratch the surface of the land and coal would appear; equip the conversi with suitable axes and picks and you were well on the way to creating an industry. Never slow to seize a viable opportunity, the monks were fast turning the green fields into a black land.

Placing her flowers to one side, Johanna knelt beside the river. Protrusions of coal dug into her knees, but her mind disavowed any thought of discomfort. With the fingers of her left hand overlapping her right fist, she concentrated on her prayers; head bent, eyes closed, she prayed for herself and for Brother Leisan.

'You are praying for us?'

So absorbed was Johanna that she failed to hear the precentor's approach. Startled, she placed a hand to her throat - as if to prevent her heart from leaping into the river - before widening her eyes and glancing up.

'Yes,' she smiled, relieved to see the precentor, 'and for the sick knight, Sir William Scurlag.'

'How is the old lord?' Pulling up his sleeves, Brother Leisan knelt beside the river. Bending down, he cupped a handful of fresh water, splashing it over his face.

'In delirium.' Johanna frowned, clearly perplexed. 'He talks incessantly, in strange tongues.'

'What about?' Brother Leisan enquired.

'The king.' Johanna paused, her eyes rolling, as if searching her mind for a lost thought. 'And murder.' Sharply, she looked up. 'What can it mean?'

'What does it matter?' Turning his back on the river, Brother Leisan proceeded to dry his hands upon his habit. 'His babbling is of no concern to us.'

Adopting a sitting position, Johanna allowed her legs to dangle over the riverbank. She placed her hands at her sides, supporting her lean frame. The water sped over the gold and the black, the sand and the coal of the riverbed, racing towards the ocean. Johanna envied the sea its freedom and often she considered offering herself up to its munificence. Then self-doubt and a fear of rejection would creep in, along with the certainty of being drowned.

'You said that you wanted to talk with me.' Stepping towards Johanna, the precentor stood over her, his back arched like a well exposed willow; being physically and intellectually taller than most, he frequently complained that he had to stoop in order to meet his peers.

'Yes,' Johanna replied, a little hesitantly.

'What about?'

'Brother Helias. They say that he was a heretic; it's the talk of the castle.'

'Brother Helias was God's loyal servant.'

'I know.' Glancing down, Johanna felt her fear and her self-doubt rising. In search of an instant remedy, she tensed her muscles and bit her lower lip. 'But Cardinal D'Orso and Brother Jordan would condemn him to hell and all his associates to damnation.' With her eyes becoming as wet as the river, she glanced up. 'You promised that there would be no trouble. You said that you had a vision of us appearing in heaven.' Her shoulders shaking, she pulled her cape tightly about her before burying her head deep in her hands. With a shudder, she cried: 'How has it come to this?'

'Don't cry.' Brother Leisan knelt beside the custorin. With a sigh, he placed a comforting arm around her shoulders. 'Please.' He joked: 'You will frighten the birds.'

'What else is there to do, but cry?' Clearly, Johanna was in no mood for humour. 'You said that God would guide us, you said that He would be pleased with our work.'

'He is.' The precentor gave the custorin's shoulder a squeeze, intending reassurance. However, the action only served to induce more tears and a pained yell:

'Then why is the cardinal tormenting us so?'

'The cardinal speaks for the wicked, those who have corrupted our Church, those who have abandoned its ideals for the lure of gold. You must remember, understand, that our task is to help the people in their quest to find God. How can He fail to reward us for our endeavours? We are but guides upon the path to righteousness. In all judgement, where in this resides our sin?'

When Johanna had first entered the maladeria life had been so simple. She was at peace. She was in love, both with Leisan, and with God. As time moved on, her reputation grew and she was given greater responsibility, culminating in her rise to the status of custorin. Brother Leisan's career had followed a parallel path; hard work and diligence had seen him placed in the role of precentor. It could be only a matter of time before greater honours blessed him. Then time seemed to stand still and it became clear that Brother Leisan had arrived at his ultimate station. No explanation was given, but he suspected that it had something to do with the fact that he was Welsh. Only two Welshmen had risen to the position of abbot in one hundred years of recent abbey history. Brother Leisan had to concede that he was an optimist in the extreme if he expected to reverse that trend. If not a total optimist, he remained cautiously hopeful, until the day reality set in, and he confessed to Johanna that he would have to find contentment with his lot.

Acceptance proved difficult but, with time, it became a possibility, only for Brother Leisan's mind to turn again, the day he read a set of papers, judiciously placed for the curious to find within the confines of the abbey. The person responsible for those papers would forever remain a mystery to both Johanna and Brother Leisan, suffice to say that the written word created a spark in Brother Leisan's mind and from that moment on, he was converted to the teachings of John Wyclif. This was all well and good, save for those who considered John Wyclif's words to be nothing short of heresy. If anything, such talk only served to strengthen Brother Leisan's resolve and he set about the task of secretly copying and distributing Wyclif's words with an even greater zeal. Johanna had been draw into this seditious world on account of her position at the maladeria; Brother Leisan had considered her role there to be most expedient: the text could be copied, conveyed to the maladeria, hidden, and then collected by a well informed and well appointed traveller. He, in turn, would leave fresh tracts to be copied and the circle would repeat itself. At first, Johanna had shown reluctance and had shunned the prospect of any involvement. However, Brother Leisan had talked her round, guiding her, controlling her, playing the role of all-consuming mentor. There were times, Johanna had to admit, when she believed in what they were doing and such moments created genuine excitement. However, there were occasions, periods of reflection, when her mind became vexed and filled with self-doubt.

'The cardinal would condemn us as sinners,' Johanna mumbled, giving voice to her darkest thoughts.

'That is because the cardinal does not understand. He does not appreciate what the people really want. They want to be close to God. They want to study His message and engage in a personal dialogue. They want to understand what God wants of them. They want to turn to Him, and His Word, when they are in times of trouble. They want Him in their lives as a friend, a confidant, an advisor. They want Him in their hearts. And He can be all of these things, and more, when a man has possession of a Bible. But first, that Bible must be written in the common man's tongue. What good is a Bible in Latin when only the monks and the court officials can understand it? What purpose does it serve when it is hidden from study and daily view? I tell you then of its purpose: it is reduced to no more than cant for our masters, so that they can twist God's Word, bend it to suit their needs, distort it in any way they choose. We pray for the knights and the esquires, not out of love, but out of financial consideration. Do you think that that is what God wants from the monks who populate his Church?'

'You are right.' Drying her tears upon her cape, Johanna bowed to the latest breeze that was blowing in her direction; as so often in the past, she agreed with, and took to heart, the latest words spoken to her. 'You are always right.' With a half-smile threatening to brighten her face, she looked up at the precentor. 'Please,' she begged, 'tell me what to do.'

'Trust me,' Brother Leisan instructed, 'and I will not betray you. Trust me, and we will come to no harm.'

Accepting Brother Leisan's offered hand, Johanna allowed herself to be pulled from her sitting position. Straightening her dress, her veil and her cape, she followed in the precentor's footsteps. He led her away from the river, through the trees and the meadows, only to pause when in sight of the abbey.

'We must deliver another roll of parchment tonight,' Brother Leisan informed his accomplice. 'I will bring the document to the river and you must place it within the maladeria. A traveller, purporting to be sick, will call by and will collect the parchment. You have no need to worry about him, for he will be gone long before dawn.'

'But,' Johanna hesitated, finding it impossible to swallow, 'what of the danger? What of the threat posed by Cardinal D'Orso?'

'The danger lies in keeping the parchment within the abbey; safety lies in ensuring that the parchment reaches trusted hands.'

The crack of a twig caused the precentor to look towards the forest; he had seen no sign of a person walking through the woodland and so he put the disturbance down to an animal's movements. Without giving the incident any further thought, he walked on.

'After tonight,' he continued, 'we shall rest; at least until Cardinal D'Orso has left the borough. At Vigils, even though we are apart, we shall be together, in prayer. Pray for me, pray that God will bless us and reward us with a place in paradise. Pray also that Cardinal D'Orso will be purged of all sin.'

With his expression resolute and his eyes set only on the abbey, Brother Leisan left Johanna to her task. Alone, she felt cold and vulnerable. Then Sir William Scurlag came to mind and she resolved to return to him. First, she would make a path to the maladeria; she would collect the theriac. To that end, she made her angular way towards the Roman road.

As Johanna walked, she failed to notice a figure as he emerged from the shadows. Caught up in her own world, she was blissfully unaware of Rig, unaware that he had followed her and heard her every word. With a thoughtful look etched upon his face, the chief sergeant made his way towards the castle, eager to share his discovery with those housed within.

* * *

The bailey's workshops were closing with the dusk. Payn de la March watched as blacksmiths dampened their fires, horses were led to their stables and soldiers headed for the conviviality of the taverns. As he observed the throng, Payn felt calm, in control, a rare feeling, he had to admit, a feeling brought on by the message he held, secure, in the palm of his right hand, for word had reached him that King Richard had left Gloucester. Before the week was out, the king would arrive in Kenfig. Before the week was out, the king would be dead. And before the week was out, Payn would be a very rich man.

Because of the pleasure derived from reading the messenger's missive, Payn decided to feast his eyes upon it once again. He had all but read the closing words when something compelled him to glance up, some instinct, or vague pattern of recognition. Then, levelling his gaze, he caught sight of Johanna Wittard's angular frame. She was scurrying towards him, head bowed, hair bobbing, apparently lost, deep in thought. Payn could see that she would narrowly miss him, and so avoid an awkward collision, should he hold his current position. However, not wishing to pass up an opportunity, he decided to step forward and stand in her way.

'Ouch!' Johanna yelped as her fine bones bumped into Payn's sinewy frame. Then, she glanced up and realised with whom she had collided. Embarrassed, stuttering, she placed a hand to her throat: 'My lord...I am...so sorry.'

'Think nothing of it.' Payn had placed his hands upon Johanna's waist, as if to steady her. With his fingers feeling more than comfortable in that position, he allowed them to linger. 'It was my fault,' he admitted, somewhat bashfully. 'I should have stepped out of your way.'

Johanna emitted a nervous giggle, a sound that was soon followed by a moment's hesitation. Payn took this as a sign of consent and he allowed his fingers to wander over, and under, her cape.

'You are a very attractive woman.' Breathing heavily, Payn's ale-fed fumes caused distaste to register upon Johanna's fair face. 'I daresay you have been party to many an invitation and lewd suggestion.'

'I am custorin of the maladeria,' Johanna reminded her would-be suitor. 'My vows, I did take.'

'Then add this to your promise.' Vigorously, Payn slapped Johanna across her rump, freeing her from his embrace. Laughing, he added: 'And remember that a vow of chastity adds spice to the chase!'

Red with embarrassment, Johanna scurried towards the donjon and her rendezvous with Sir William Scurlag, her recently acquired theriac held tightly in her perspiring palms.

Watching her go, Payn smiled at his own amusement; he really did have a way with women; none could resist his charm, his magic spell.

In continued good humour, Payn wandered through the bailey, only to meet with Rig, as he entered the main gate. 'I have received word of the king's location,' Payn stated, handing the parchment to his co-conspirator. 'As you can see, the word is most pleasing, satisfying to all.'

With his lips moving as he deciphered the text, Rig was quick to show his pleasure; grinning hugely, he slapped Payn upon his back, leaving an imprint upon his ermine-lined cloak, a garment well chosen due to its extra measure of warmth.

'Excellent,' the chief sergeant approved. 'The moment awaits us. And, I am pleased to say, I arrive with words of satisfaction for you too, my lord.'

Delighting in their togetherness, and their shared pleasure, the two men grinned like juveniles at the May Fair. Payn's countenance was the first to be darkened, however, when he caught sight of his brother, Sir Roger, the constable sparing no effort as he urged his horse towards the donjon.

'Trouble,' Payn muttered, his tone all-knowing, his senses recognising a pattern that had stretched back over twenty-seven winters, his instinct informing him that hot words would soon fill the air. 'What I would give right now for Morgan's accuracy with a bow.'

Tugging on the reins, Sir Roger brought his horse to a halt with something of a slither, the animal's shoes slipping on the wet turf. Dismounting, the constable headed straight for the donjon, looking neither to his left nor to his right as he hollered his command: 'I want everyone in the Great Hall, in one instant. Rig: find Morgan. Geoffrey: locate mother.'

Geoffrey's arrival had been pale by comparison. Almost unnoticed, he had galloped into the bailey. His horse was sweating and Geoffrey was panting through exertion. In apologetic fashion, he flopped to the ground, his shoes too slipping on the grass as he displayed a measure of indecent haste.

Payn showed no such speed, however. He would obey Sir Roger's command, but he would do so in his own time. Sauntering towards the donjon, he gained entry, making his way towards the Great Hall. Once there, he found Sir Roger, his back turned on his brother, his eyes staring indignantly at the tapestry of courtly love.

'Problems, my dear brother?' Payn smiled somewhat sardonically as he strode towards Sir Roger. Making himself comfortable, he rested easily against the frame of the dais table.

'My only problem is you.'

'Come, come' Payn laughed, 'is that any way to talk to your brother? Especially one who has demonstrated such loyalty to you.'

Unable to contain himself, Sir Roger swivelled on his heel so that he might face his tormentor. His hand raised, he pointed an accusatory finger: 'You lie so much, sometimes I think that you think you are telling the truth.'

The pall of anger that hung over the chamber was as thick and as threatening as any thunder cloud; lightning might well have struck, but for the appearance of Matildis; with her feet close together, in measured fashion, the matriarch shuffled into the room.

'What is the matter? With her eyebrows arching markedly, Matildis looked first to Sir Roger and then to Payn. Neither had the audacity to look their mother straight in the eye; both sought compromise, content to put their battle to one side and so determine the outcome upon another day.

'Euros has located Rhys Goch,' Sir Roger informed the assembly, for Geoffrey had followed his mother into the room, a pace ahead of Morgan and Rig.

'Excellent.' Matildis placed her hands together in gratification, her smile demanding harmony, her glare daring defiance. 'Then our problems are at an end.'

'If only that were so!' Tearing off his gloves in indignation, Sir Roger strode towards his mother, taking a deep breath as he did so, making a Herculean effort to keep his temper in check. 'Euros located Rhys Goch and had words with him, only to fall for the outlaw's charm and his plea of innocence.'

'How could this happen?' Morgan enquired.

'The outlaw swore that he had the fever the day of the murder.'

'What does it matter?' Matildis appeared determined to play the role of May Queen and ensure that all was sunshine and light. 'Now, we can learn of Rhys Goch's location and resolve the matter for ourselves.'

'We can,' Sir Roger admitted, 'if we can persuade Euros to talk.'

'He will talk,' Payn asserted, confidently. 'Give me half a day with him and he will be free with his tongue.'

'I am not so sure,' Sir Roger countered. 'We are dealing here with a man who has a mind of his own. A mind, mark you, a great deal sharper than any in this room.' Pausing for effect, the constable took time to stare at his younger brother, his eyes filled with flame as they transferred the look of blame. 'This is your fault, Payn; your plan has failed.'

'Involving Euros was no plan of mine,' Payn avowed, his words ground out like corn on a quern stone. 'I would have chosen a more direct course of action, but I bowed to Geoffrey's brilliant idea.'

'It was not my idea, it was mother's idea,' Geoffrey added in high-pitched, hasty tones, his sheepish look suggesting regret, a wish to retract such cowardly words.

'Whatever, whatever.' Matildis refused to be downhearted. Spreading joy as one might spread rose petals, she moved amongst her sons, blessing each of them with a smile. 'All this bickering,' she pondered, 'where does it get us? Nowhere,' she affirmed. 'If Rhys Goch can prove his innocence, and remain hidden from view, then we shall have to be more creative and devise another plan.'

'This being?' Sir Roger enquired.

'You have always been such a clever boy.' Whilst patting her eldest son upon his cheek, Matildis' look wavered between the patronising and the deferential. 'I am sure that you will think of something.'

'I am sure,' Sir Roger echoed. 'What is more, I promised Euros the victuals owed to the vill; we must make arrangements for their release.'

'Whatever did you do that for?' Payn was scathing in his criticism, his twisted features displaying his contempt.

'We had an agreement; remember? Even though it might prove distressing, brother, there are times when a man must honour his word.' Turning his back on Payn, Sir Roger summoned Geoffrey: 'Follow the instructions issued at the vill; Morgan is to oversee the allocation of the provisions.'

'Yes, my lord,' the archer replied, dutifully. Bowing in acknowledgement, Morgan trailed Geoffrey out of the chamber. Sir Roger took a determined step, as if to follow their lead.

On reaching the door, the constable paused, a smile softening his features, his reaction suggesting a pleasant surprise, implying that he had been the recipient of a most welcome gift. 'Oh!' he exclaimed. 'Before I go; a present for you, brother; from Euros, no less.'

Stepping forward, Payn approached his brother. Cautiously, he extended a hand, accepting the gift. Turning it over in his palm, Payn studied the quillon dagger, captivated by its jewels, but puzzled as to its source.

'What is the meaning of this?' Payn held the blade on high, so that the light might reflect off the dagger, noting that each jewel had been placed with precision, each stone had been lovingly crafted and, in addition, observing that the weight of the weapon had been keenly balanced.

'I have no idea.' Sir Roger toyed with his brother: 'I assumed that you would have foreknowledge; Euros said that you would understand.'

'Well, I do not understand.' Lowering the blade, so that its tip pointed towards Sir Roger, Payn felt confusion swirling in his mind. That confusion gave strength to his demons, those devils that were apt to torment him, plague him through his every waking hour. When those devils found their full voice, Payn felt compelled to carry out some sort of action. Calmness always descended, once the devils had been appeased. 'I have not set eyes on this blade before. I have no idea as to its meaning.'

'I will be with Athelena,' Sir Roger replied, unhelpfully. 'Hopefully, our prayers will offer comfort to Sir William.'

Turning on his heel, Sir Roger left the chamber allowing Payn to stand, centre stage. His mother flanked him whilst Rig, in familiar furtive fashion, withdrew, blending into the milieu.

'You have upset your brother.' Matildis shook her head sadly, as if unable to comprehend the rivalry that existed between her sons.

'It was your plan,' Payn reminded his mother, his eyes still focused on the blade, his mind wandering down dark corridors, his thoughts turning to blame.

'I talk not of the plan to involve Euros. I talk of your plan to remove Roger from the plot.'

'Who told you this?' Sharply, Payn looked up, his ice-blue eyes cold and distant, his inner-self engaged in a rampant dialogue.

'Geoffrey.' Matildis circled her son in a slow, playful manner, almost as though she were engaging in an ancient ritual, a primeval dance. 'We had a little chat.'

'You know Geoffrey.' Payn spoke the words, but they sounded somewhat distant, disembodied, echoing, belonging to a different tongue. 'He fantasises, embellishes...'

'True,' Matildis conceded. 'But I feel he spoke the truth on this occasion.' Pausing, the matriarch looked up, as if to capture Payn's attention; disturbed as he was this proved a thankless, near impossible task. 'What were your plans for Roger? Did you intend to kill him? Run him through with your sword?'

'I discussed, with Geoffrey, Roger's reluctance regarding the plot and possible ways to encourage him.' As Payn spoke, he stared at the dagger's edge, wondering: what was Euros playing at? Why had he proffered such an expensive, well-crafted gift? What was his motive? 'We spoke of encouragement,' Payn continued, 'that, and nothing more.'

'I am your mother,' Matildis stated in weary fashion. 'Do you forget so easily? I squeezed you out from between these thighs, and what a fight that was. Do you think that I am oblivious to your lies? You do not like Roger. There are times, I must confess, when I fail to understand him. Nevertheless, you must remember: we are in this together. And that is how it shall remain. Together, we shall stand or together we shall fall.'

'Yes, mother.'

Anest, the sorceress; it was her fault. She had cast a spell on the family, she had placed a curse on Payn and this dagger was a symbol of his downfall. Why would she do such a thing? Such a question remained incomprehensible to Payn's distorted way of thinking. But calm was descending, for a solution lay at hand. He would destroy the sorceress and so remove her threat forever. He would choose a method and apply it with relish.

'I must go.' Matildis placed a hand to her hair, adjusting her braids and her nebul`e headdress; all was neatness and confinement; not one wisp dared stray from its rightful place. 'I must call on Sir William and offer my prayers.' She smiled before caressing her son's cheek, a show of tenderness and affection, her fingers tracing the smooth outline of his jawbone in a wistful, almost regretful embrace. 'I trust, that from now on, you will be a good boy.'

With feet shuffling and head held high, Matildis absented the chamber; Payn was left to reflect upon yet another scolding, upon yet another embarrassing episode in his life. Nevertheless, he would overcome this just as he had overcome all the others. And, what is more, his plans were grander this time; there was more to fight for, more to win.

'Bitch! She-devil!' Even though he uttered the oaths sotto voce, Payn felt better for having the last word.

'Fear not, my lord, for I have a solution.' Emerging from the shadows, Rig approached his friend and confidant. 'I have just followed the custorin to the abbey, whereupon I became engrossed in a most colourful tale. Her words warmed my heart and, I trust, those words will remove all manner of vexation, for I believe she can deliver Rhys Goch's head upon a platter, and serve as our plaything, until such time as we determine her fate.'

* * *

Ty Maen's wealth was based on limestone. Thus, huge caverns, dug deep into the ground, dominated South Corneli's landscape. Dust from those caverns hung in the air, only to be blown on the wind, turning green leaves silver. Walls, buildings, even the furniture there within, all suffered the same fate. The manor house itself was built of stone, whitewashed to such an extent that it shone like a beacon. Its range was immense; the sprawling complex of buildings cut a swathe through the trees, supplanting nature. Prime amongst the buildings were the bakehouse, a chapel, the retainers' hall, a dovecot and numerous barns. Euros could only look and admire as he made his way along the road, the track that curved beyond the outbuildings; he considered the Hall to be the height of luxury, and yet, he had to concede that Ty Maen made real those dreams, those ideals that were altogether grander.

With Madog and Ci at his side, Euros approached the eastern wall of the manor house. Entry could be obtained via a flight of steps, alighting on the first floor. The ground floor was given over to storage, whereas the east and the west wings contained the solars. A hall occupied the central part of the building, its facade dominated by large, glass-panelled windows, offering both light and a sense of spaciousness. As Euros walked beyond the sheep pen, he glanced up to the foremost of these windows. There, illuminated by a wall torch, he saw the shapely figure of Meirian Lovell, glancing down as though on tiptoe, her gaze furtive, her movements fretful, this made clear even through the opaque nature of the glass.

'She has been waiting for you,' Madog observed, shrewdly.

'Then let us hasten our step and deliver words that will gladden her heart.' As Euros spoke, he could not prevent a smile from warming his features. There was something about Meirian that he found incongruous, misleading, something in her manner that he was willing to dismiss. And yet, he knew that that would be a mistake and that, furthermore, respect was in order, conceding that due deference would have to blend with a measure of suspicion, especially in relation to her request to meet with Rhys Goch.

Madog grinned: 'I lay odds that she will run out to greet us before we reach the building.'

'I will keep my money in my purse,' Euros informed his steward, 'for I have no wish to be fleeced by you, again!'

As expected, Madog was proved right and the Lady Meirian duly bounded down the stairs in order to meet with the lord and his steward; she crossed the courtyard in haste, barely troubling herself to raise her skirts as they trailed through the mud.

'My lord, Euros.' She paused, placing her hand to her breast in dramatic fashion, hinting that her desperation might well move her to swoon before them. 'You have received word from Rhys Goch?'

'The Lord Rhys will meet with you, but you are to travel under cover of darkness.'

'I am ready,' Meirian insisted. 'I will travel now.'

Brother Blanchigernonis had stipulated the condition when he had met with Madog. Euros understood his reasoning and considered the terms to be just. Although, he could vouch from first-hand experience the effectiveness of the Little Hunchback's blindfold. Nevertheless, it was sensible to take precautions, and Euros was pleased to note that Rhys Goch did not intend to lower his guard on account of his guest being a woman. Even so, he wondered just what the outlaw expected to gain from the meeting; was the reunion no more than a show of vanity on his part, a demonstration that he could still, even in exile, hold court?

'Are you sure that you are prepared for this venture?' Euros asked of the lady.

'I am more than prepared. In fact, it is essential that I carry out this task.'

'Very well; then I shall detain you no longer, save for imposing one condition of my own.'

'State your condition,' the Lady Meirian announced boldly. 'I feel sure that I can surmount any of your demands.'

'I insist that Madog is to travel with you, to guarantee both your safety and your wellbeing.'

'It will be an honour to journey with such a trustworthy companion.' The Lady Meirian smiled and bowed in Madog's general direction. 'I accept your condition and I leave Ty Maen with a joyous heart.'

All was harmony and accord, save for Ci's dissenting growl. Either the animal sensed something beyond human comprehension, or he judged that he would be superfluous to this task. His master would depart upon his venture; the dog would be left to guard the sheep and chase the rats.

'I do not know how I can thank you.' The Lady Meirian coloured a little, as though bashful. Then, taking her courage in both hands, she leaned forward and kissed Euros upon his cheek.

'Deliver your thanks upon your safe return,' the young lord replied while tempted to remove Meirian's moisture from his bristle. However, remaining true to his chivalric code, he refrained from such an act.

'I will require a cape.' Meirian placed a hand to her brow, as if to jolt her memory. 'And some perfumes.' She laughed: 'It is not right that a woman should travel with nothing but her standing clothes.'

'Obtain your cape and your perfumes,' Euros instructed. 'We shall take shelter by the chapel and await your return.'

As Meirian busied herself amongst her perfume bottles, Euros and Madog sought the cover provided by the chapel's west wall. With the rain falling steadily, the young lord turned to his steward: 'Observe all her actions closely, listen intently to all her words.'

Madog duly nodded: 'It will be done, my lord.'

'I am ready,' the Lady Meirian announced upon her return, a free-flowing cape now trailing from her shoulders; secured by a chain, and by a brooch adorned with a circle of rubies, the cape hung open at her breast. A large, heavy purse hung low from her girdle, doubtless containing her perfumes and sundry other items deemed essential for her quest. However, the purse was finite in size, suggesting a short period of engagement; that fact would doubtless please Madog and bring delight to the ever-loyal Ci.

'I knew that I could trust you,' Meirian informed Euros. 'I knew that you would not fail me.'

'God speed.' Euros offered a layman's benediction to the travelling couple; they would meet with Brother Blanchigernonis, the Little Hunchback and, ultimately, Rhys Goch. Euros would return to the Hall and a tryst with a consignment of grain, delivered by the Castle; his stomach rumbled at the thought whilst his smile broadened with delight. Was he being naive, or did he sense an end to their troubles? Did the future offer gentle undulations in the road, or stones in his shoes? One consignment of grain suggested no more than the promise of a rainbow. However, surely, one day soon, the rain would stop and the sun would shine.

* * *

The cart swayed from side to side as it sped along its journey. Flanked by soldiers from the castle, it entered the vill. Glancing down, Morgan de Avene ran an eye over its precious cargo; there was enough grain there to feed each and every villein for the best part of a week.

Looking up, Morgan noticed that Euros and Ci were approaching, striding along the road, the track that led from South Corneli. 'To Groes-y-Gryn,' Morgan instructed, and a soldier duly complied with the order; encouraging the carthorse, they continued at a steady clip.

Morgan and the cart were the first to arrive at the crossroads. Euros and a handful of villeins joined them there. The villeins had been roused by the commotion and, somnolent, they emerged at the disturbance, only for initial caution to give way to alertness and shouts of delight. The ruckus encouraged all the able-bodied men from their houses. Soon, they had congregated around Groes-y-Gryn. Not to be outdone, the womenfolk swelled their number; eager to establish the rightful pecking order, they pushed their way to the front.

As the crowd jostled, Morgan's eye settled upon Branwen. So taken with her was he that he barely noticed Anest, the two women having joined the throng. She looked radiant, comely, a picture of sensual vitality. Gazing upon her, Morgan felt nothing but love.

Stepping forward, Euros sought to contain the excitement. Raising his hands, he begged for quiet; he insisted that order should prevail. Obeying their lord, the crowd displayed due deference, the barbed remarks and the well-practiced insults dying, the taunts, directed at the soldiers, giving way to an expectant silence.

'As you can see, my lord,' Morgan informed Euros, 'the castle of Kenfig keeps its word.'

'Maybe,' Euros ventured, 'but only after some persuading.'

Jumping down from his horse, Morgan strode through the circle of villeins, meeting with Euros at the standing stone, Groes-y-Gryn. Once there, he stood upon the boundary marker, both to intimidate the crowd and to look down on Euros. Throughout his life, Morgan had been pained by his lack of stature. Possibly, that gave the reason for his flamboyant dress; his clothes were an attempt to impress. He loved bright colours and had a penchant for wearing a prominent codpiece. Long, slim shoes, with their jingly-jangly bells, also attracted his attention. At all times, he ensured that he was well groomed and that his fine beard was so crafted as to emphasise his noble, refined features. Nevertheless, it was left to the longbow, and Morgan's prowess with such a weapon, to secure him a measure of standing, though a man of his build had no right to be so powerful, so accurate. From an early age, Morgan realised that to surpass the best he would have to apply himself, devote himself to ten times their endeavour. And this he did, until his peers were moved to acknowledge that, at his craft, he was the best.

With a hand upon his hip, Morgan glared at Euros. He demanded: 'Why do you adopt such a truculent manner?'

Smiling, Euros shrugged: 'Why do you side with brigands and thieves?'

'What about the grain?' someone shouted, and the duelling lords duly acknowledged that it was time to move the cereals to a drier location.

With ease, the soldiers manoeuvred the cart, its wheels churning the mud as it rolled towards the tithe barn; all and sundry followed, grateful to find shelter, a refuge from the rain. Once in the barn, Euros issued his instructions: 'Anest, Branwen: oversee fair distribution of the cereals. Should there be grievance, I shall hear such complaint at the Hall. And mark well: should any man seek to claim unfair advantage, he shall be the subject of my wrath.'

Taking heed of the warning, the villeins gathered round the cart, patiently waiting whilst Anest and Branwen performed their duty; to a man, they showed admirable restraint and a forbearance bordering on the stoic.

Assured that all was in order, Euros joined Morgan, the young lord following the archer as they sought a quieter, more private path. To this end, they wandered away from the tithe barn, bypassing the meadow owned by Sir Roger de la March.

'I must say,' Euros stated, his eyes wandering over the meadow's expanse, 'I thought you a better man, Morgan.'

Offended, the archer made no attempt to hide his chagrin: 'Why must you look so darkly upon everyone associated with the castle? Why must you criticise and chide me so?'

'Why must every man there rob and steal?' Euros replied, in even fashion. 'Are they not aware that a man who overindulges is oft left to carry a wearisome burden?'

'Your words are unworthy and heap disgrace upon a lord of your standing.'

'Whereas you consider it just that a noble should weight his purse with coin stolen from the common man?'

'The common man has his place, and he is aware of that fact,' Morgan asserted. 'And, as for wealth being a wearisome burden, I would contend that a man who is tired of counting his money is tired of living his life.'

'In our views,' Euros contended, 'we are clearly contrary and I, for one, can rest easily with that, Morgan.'

'But in our ancestry,' the archer replied, 'we are cousins, sharing a common kin. Let us not forget the ties that bind us, the common cause we have espoused over many generations. Let us not forget the advantages gained by such mutual alliance.' Pausing, Morgan glanced furtively over his left shoulder. Confident that they were unobserved, he led Euros towards the woods. 'It would be to your advantage if you were to change your opinion,' he continued in a conspiratorial whisper. 'Greatly so, I might add. I would urge you: join us, put aside all these petty differences. Join us in common cause, and reap the rewards.'

Euros remained silent, his gaze thoughtful; Morgan, ever keen to view the partially downed tankard as half full, deemed that a success. So lifted were his spirits that he considered broaching a subject altogether more personal. Buoyed with enthusiasm, he led Euros into the woodland.

'You spoke with Rhys Goch?' Morgan ventured, his tone light, carefree.

'We had words.'

'How is the old lord keeping?'

'He is bearing up under the strain; he keeps remarkably well.'

'And what of his fever?'

'The danger has passed; his health is stable.'

'And his plans for the future?'

'He kept them to himself.'

Morgan laughed: 'What, he is free of dreams, all aspirations?'

'I would not know; to his dreams and his aspirations, I am not privy.'

'I am surprised that he allows himself to dream; I would have thought that the hangman's rope is the stuff of nightmares.'

'Why should he hang?' Euros contended. 'After all, he has not committed a hanging offence.'

'He killed my erstwhile squire; he took the life of the monk, Brother Helias.'

'You are free to hold that opinion, but I would beg to differ.'

Morgan paused, his soft blue eyes reflective, a thoughtful frown troubling his forehead. 'In all sincerity,' he asked, 'you believe Rhys Goch to be innocent?'

'Indeed I do. And I would swear that belief before the king.'

Having walked free of the woodland, the two men were closing on the tithe barn. The cart and the soldiers were in the process of leaving, their duty done, the grain suitably distributed. Accompanied by further jibes and insults, the soldiers turned their backs on the villeins; they would get their revenge through more subtle, surreptitious action; they would seek out the main protagonists and teach them a lesson. Such beatings carried out in dark corners and shaded woodland were the stuff of legend; such stories kept the garrison warm on cold winter nights. Nevertheless, for now, the villeins were past caring; they had a measure of food; they could indulge themselves and feed their families. For the first time in many months, they would sing with hwyl round their hearths.

Meanwhile, Morgan eyed the villeins with a distaste bordering on revulsion. 'They are a rabble,' he asserted, 'not worthy of your attention.'

'They are the backbone of our society,' Euros countered. 'And, without them we would stoop, never to rise.'

As the villeins made their laden way home, Euros excused himself and joined Anest. Morgan, sensing that the moment was right, collected his horse before skipping to Branwen's side.

'My lady.' Morgan bowed, bending his knee as if stooping before his sovereign.

'My lord.' Branwen was more stilted, smiling briefly as she inclined her head.

'I see that you are on the path to Deumay; that being so, may I have the privilege of walking you home?'

'The privilege will be mine,' Branwen laughed, as though to hide her embarrassment. 'I can think of no greater pleasure this night than to walk at your side.'

And so, the archer and the freewoman walked together, in silence at first, save for the embarrassing squelch of feet being drawn from mud. Morgan had to concede that the walk was hardly the stuff of poets, but it represented an opportunity, one he determined to take. A thought went through his mind, namely that it would be easier to pin Branwen's heart with an arrow; he felt confident that such a target could be claimed, even at a distance of one hundred yards. However, he realised that words were required to win this beauty; he would pour out his heart and hope that the lady would delight in his sincerity. He was a man better suited to the bow, but he considered himself the man for this task.

'It is truly a delight to share in your company.' Morgan adjusted his hold on the bridle so that his horse might have greater rein, so that, more pertinently, he might move closer to Branwen. 'We have been strangers for too long. I miss the times, the evenings when you adorned the castle. I miss our dances and our jovial conversations.'

Unsure of herself, uncertain as to where she should place her gaze, Branwen veered towards the roadside. There, she paused, one step away from the ditch. 'As you are aware,' she stated, 'I am no longer invited to the castle. Like my love, I have been cast into the wilderness.'

'But,' Morgan affirmed, 'there is a big difference between you and the outlaw; he is destined never to return, whereas you would be most welcome at the high table.'

'Alone?' Branwen smiled. 'Or upon someone's arm?'

'Your place is at the high table,' Morgan avowed, 'not with those peasants.'

'Those peasants are my people, I would have you not forget.'

The flash of spirit became evident in a flash of colour that spread over Branwen's ample bosom, moving Morgan to reflect that red went well with the green of her dress and the green of her eyes. He felt a strong desire to run his hands through her luxurious blonde hair, to place his ear close to her lips so that he might delight in her husky whisper. His romantic soul demanded that he should place his lips upon hers and that he should hold her in a fiery embrace.

'You are such a fine lady.' His voice fractured in his moment of passion. 'I must confess that from the very start, you captured my heart.'

'You forget,' Branwen swallowed, hesitating, 'that my heart belongs to another.'

'If that were true, then you would join with him in his wilderness.'

Taking fright, Branwen stepped into the darkness. She would have fallen into the ditch and its slurry but for Morgan's restraining hand. Pulling her to his side, he felt the warmth of her skin; he also felt her body soften; was she about to yield to his touch?

'You can do better,' he insisted, 'and I am here to offer you a proposal: forget the past, forget Rhys Goch; be my wife.'

Lowering her head, Branwen allowed her soft blonde hair to fall forward. Her hair rested against Morgan's cheek, engendering a spark of delight.

'You speak as though such things are easy.'

'On the contrary, my lady; I do not doubt the pain involved; all I ask is that you allow me to be the balm.'

A shiver: a frisson of anticipation or a reaction to the cold of the evening? Morgan felt Branwen's body tremble and he considered that she was about to yield to his will. However, to his profound disappointment, he discovered that his optimism had been misplaced and that she had no desire other than to escape his clutches. Transferring her weight into strength, she broke free of his grip.

'You talk in riddles, my lord; I must hurry to my homestead.'

'Riddles? Hear me out, my lady, for I beg to differ. Please, allow me to make clear my words.' Reaching out, Morgan placed his hands upon Branwen's shoulders. Turning her round, he gazed straight into her eyes. 'How much plainer can a man speak other than to ask his love to be his wife? On the other hand, would you prefer to give your heart to a ghost, for a ghost Rhys Goch will forever be, whether hidden away or brought to justice. There is no prospect in waiting for him, no hope. Rhys Goch is an aging man whose future extends no further than the gallows. I am sorry to be blunt, my lady, but you must hear the truth. I would have sought you out sooner and articulated these opinions, but I have been well occupied and, for that, I will gain great reward. I ask that you share in these riches, riches, mark you, beyond all comprehension, wealth, beyond the imagination of all, `cept those who dare to dream.'

For the first time, an ember of interest burned in Branwen's emerald eyes. Her pupils dilated, her eyebrows arched inquisitively, her heart beat in rapid time; salient facts keenly observed by Morgan.

'And how are you to get hold of all these riches?' Branwen asked, her head turning towards the ditch in a show of mock indifference.

'Trust me,' Morgan pleaded. 'I will not disappoint you. Think on, my lady, for I promise that no man will make you a finer offer. I beg you; choose a future with me, a future of opulence; turn your back on drudgery and false hope.'

Seizing the moment, Morgan took hold of Branwen's hands. Pulling the buxom lady towards him, he landed an awkward kiss. Pleased, Morgan noted that the lady was wont to linger and not draw away in haste. As she entered Deumay, Morgan mounted his horse and rode towards the castle, his spirits floating high above the clouds, his belief in romance firmly avowed.

# Day Four - 7th May 1399

Brother Leisan flexed the fingers of his right hand. Bent with cramp, those fingers carried the scars of his craft: nodules of hard skin, calluses that had built up over the years. He regarded such calluses as badges of courage wrought by a quill that moved to defy conventional teaching, a quill, penning words ordained to pour scorn upon his masters and so-called betters, those abbots and bishops who made a mockery of his Church.

With only the sound of the Coal Brook to accompany his thoughts, Brother Leisan studied his scars. No sooner had life returned to his fingers than he delved into his habit, removing a roll of parchment. Studying the script, he felt God's power resonate in every word. He pictured a scene: beside a hearth, a man of humble education reading to his family, his wife commenting upon the content, sons and daughters debating the true meaning of God's word. Tears of joy welled up in the precentor's eyes, for he had been truly blessed; he could think of no greater honour, no greater prize and he thanked God for His guidance, for His insistence that he should perform this task.

Doubtless, Brother Leisan would have remained in a state of ecstasy, but for a noise, a disturbance in the bush. Fear compelled him to hide the parchment about his person, but then, reason took hold: why should he hide God's true word? Why should fright deny him involvement in God's work? Such questions held his hand fast, his fingers frozen to the parchment, the roll poised on the cusp of his habit.

As though made of marble, Brother Leisan remained rigid in that position, only to move when Johanna Wittard appeared through a gap in the trees. Breathless, she rushed to the precentor's side, arriving with her cheeks flushed, her pupils dilated, her breath hanging in the cold of the night air.

'You are late.' Brother Leisan's tone was nothing if not reproachful.

'I am sorry,' Johanna Wittard mumbled in restrained apology. 'I was detained by Sir William Scurlag,' she added, offering an explanation. 'The fever troubles him so. And his shrieks have become more vocal and more intense. He begs God's forgiveness. And he begs the king's exculpation. Why does he plead in such a way? What sin has he committed that would so distress the king?'

'I do not know.' Brother Leisan gazed down to the roll of parchment; deep in thought, he placed its edge close to the dark, angular apex of his chin. 'Maybe these words are no more than the rants of a man on the threshold of purgatory. Maybe he feels genuine remorse. It is to be remembered that a lord as privileged as Sir William Scurlag would doubtless have broken many a commandment during the course of his ascendancy. It is only natural that he should seek absolution before climbing the highest ladder, that he should seek to purge his soul before joining the Holy Ghost.'

Johanna nodded, as though concurring with the precentor's logic. It was like old times, when they would debate philosophical and religious ideas, a direct replica, in fact, in that those conversations invariably closed with Johanna agreeing with Brother Leisan; she absorbed and she lived by his ideals, she convinced herself that this was the only way to be.

'You are alone?' Brother Leisan asked, returning to more pertinent matters. 'No one saw you embark upon your journey?'

'I made my own way here, free of any shadow.'

'Then take this.' The precentor offered the custorin the parchment. 'You know what to do. A traveller will call at the maladeria and collect the parchment. And God's word will spread and enlighten yet more souls. We are on a quest, a quest blessed by the Almighty Father. Do you feel His energy? Do you feel His excitement?'

Dropping to her knees and holding the parchment close to her chest, Johanna smiled with radiance and vitality. 'Indeed, I do.'

Upon moments like these, Brother Leisan felt a surge of great passion, passion for his quest along with a reminder that he was made of flesh and bone. It would be so easy to sweep Johanna on to her feet and into his arms. However, such moments had occurred in another life, he reminded himself; he had made a commitment to God; such moments would never occur again. Upon reflection, Brother Leisan felt comfortable with that thought. He assumed that the same held true for Johanna, the question of her needs not beginning to trouble his mind.

'What was that?' Startled, the precentor looked towards the woodland; something had stirred, disturbing the bush. Someone was moving around.

Anxiously, Johanna climbed to her feet. Surreptitiously, she moved to Brother Leisan's side. Staying close, she inched her way to the rear, until her form had been completely assimilated; to the casual onlooker, two had now become one.

'Who is there?' Brother Leisan asked of the phantom. Peering to the west, he sought to identify its form. 'Come out, show yourself. You have no need of fear.'

'And neither have you,' came a voice from the east, compelling both precentor and custorin to turn and look in that direction. 'What manner of tryst is this?' The phantom asked, his feet, heavy and powerful, snapping branches as others might snap twigs. 'A monk meeting with a custorin! Two people who have sworn themselves to celibacy and the Word of God!'

From indignity came courage and Brother Leisan deigned to move forward and challenge his tormentor, but Johanna's grip was strong, offering ample restraint. Little by little, the figure emerged from out of the darkness, until he came into view, the pale moonlight illuminating his face.

'Good evening, chief sergeant.' Summoning up all the civility he could muster, Brother Leisan bowed before Rig. 'You forget that we were friends long before the taking of our vows. And you would be unaware that we remain in the practice of unburdening our souls to each other.'

'Call me a heathen,' Rig challenged, 'but I thought a man was supposed to unburden his soul before God. If this is not so, then why should we trouble ourselves with a divine being? Why give the Church all our gold when we could share such riches amongst ourselves!'

Laughing, Brother Leisan tried to make light of his predicament; frantically, he searched his mind, seeking extrication from this particular woe. 'Your argument interests me greatly and I could long debate it. However, if you will forgive us, we must take our leave and seek shelter this chilly night.'

'Not before you interest me,' Rig responded. Closing in on his prey, he drew his sword. 'Turn round, lady,' he demanded of Johanna. 'Pull open your cape; I lay claim to your charms.'

Hesitating, Johanna looked towards Brother Leisan for guidance. Biting her top lip, she trembled on the spot. Her cape, she pulled tightly about her, the parchment, she held close to her breast. Her heart beat in rapid time against Brother Leisan's heretical words while her eyes filled with tears as she awaited her fate.

'You seek to deny me?' Rig bristled at the presumed challenge. Cleaving his sword, he tore through Johanna's cape.

Taking fright, the custorin screamed. Rooted to the spot, she watched as her fingers loosened their grip on the parchment, the heretical document falling, end over end, until it reached the earth.

'Pick it up,' Rig insisted of Brother Leisan. 'Read aloud the message contained there within.'

Reluctantly, Brother Leisan moved towards the parchment. Bending his long back, he stooped to retrieve his words. Then, haltingly, he intoned: 'Whoever may read these words, greeting. Before you, you have God's word, translated from the Latin; glory in His word, take it to heart. Furthermore, remember that a man does not require a crucifix or ceremony or a priest or knowledge of Latin, for belief alone is enough, belief alone will carry your words to God.'

'Enough!' Reaching across, Rig snatched the document from the precentor's hands; with great care, he eased the parchment under his belt. 'Rarely have I heard such profanity! Your words offer succour to the Devil! Imagine Cardinal D'Orso's reaction!'

Brother Leisan's drawn and pale face made it abundantly clear that he was doing just that. He could foresee the end of this particular adventure. He could foresee the end of his life.

'I have long suspected you,' Rig continued, fixing his gaze upon the trembling Johanna, 'ever since the night I viewed you and your meeting with Brother Helias. I am aware that the sad brother was no more than a heretic and now it would appear that you are one and the same. What should I do regarding this discovery? Kindly, could you present me with a solution?'

Crying openly now, Johanna dropped to her knees before the chief sergeant. Reaching up blindly, she took hold of his cloak. Her fingers gripped the material with an intensity, a desperation, that suggested she was holding on to salvation. Like a person dangling over a cliff's edge, she was holding on for dear life.

'I beg you,' Johanna implored. 'Show mercy. We will do anything for you, anything at all.'

Looking on, Brother Leisan swept aside all feeling of foreboding. Overtaken with disgust, he sought an end to this torment. 'To your feet,' he instructed of Johanna. 'Show fortitude. God stands beside us. Moreover, there is no need to beg; the chief sergeant has a task in mind.'

Nodding, Rig smiled in acknowledgement. Clearly, the moment offered him great pleasure and no little amusement, the sadist taking great joy from the suffering of the meek. 'Your friend has insight,' Rig conceded. 'And, I trust, great wisdom. But I will get to the point: it is well known that the outlaw, Rhys Goch, killed Brother Helias. Witnesses saw the act, yet none have shown the courage to step forward. Doubtless they are fearful of the outlaw. Doubtless, some hold him in respect. In short, my friends, I am in need of a witness; someone who will testify before the cardinal at the castle this noon.'

'I was with the abbot at the time of the murder. Therefore,' Brother Leisan explained, 'I cannot offer myself as a credible witness.'

Unconcerned, Rig shrugged his broad shoulders. Displaying his wolfish grin, he turned and faced Johanna. 'Then the task falls upon you, my dear custorin.'

'But...' Johanna hesitated. 'To lie...before the cardinal...I cannot do such a thing.'

The wolf gave way to the serpent as Rig's features turned dark and ugly. Grabbing hold of Johanna's dress, he pulled the custorin to her feet. 'Your life is a lie and so you should have no trouble in perpetuating such a falsehood. Besides, I would remind you that you have little choice in the matter. You will do what I say and be grateful that I place no further demands upon you. You would do well to recognise that I am your master now.'

With Rig's spittle replacing her tears, Johanna turned away in revulsion. Brother Leisan, meanwhile, sensed a moment of hope. Possibly, they could extricate themselves from this dreadful position. With cunning, they could form an alliance, a coalition that would advantage their quest.

'We will do as you ask,' the precentor informed the chief sergeant. 'But upon one condition: namely, that you offer us a guarantee; pledge that you will not betray us to Cardinal D'Orso.'

'If I betray you,' the chief sergeant pointed out, 'I undermine the character of my only witness.' Smiling at Johanna, he ran a hand over her cheek. 'This lady is to be protected and to be offered all manner of indulgence. Why, I would go so far as to say that I place her head above that of the king!'

'Nevertheless,' Brother Leisan ventured, 'I would prefer a greater assurance. I would feel a sense of mutual trust should I hold the parchment in my own hand.'

'The parchment is yours,' Rig promised, 'after the custorin has spoken. She is to state that she saw the murder, that Rhys Goch was the culprit and that fear held her tongue 'til now.'

'The story will be carried, with conviction; of that, I promise.'

'I know. I know,' Rig reiterated. 'I know that all too well.' Thrusting Johanna to one side, Rig betrayed his true feelings towards the custorin. She ran into Brother Leisan's arms, staining his habit with her tears. 'Until the morrow,' Rig avowed. 'I bid you goodnight and few sorrows. Sleep well, my friends.'

* * *

Cynan ap Gruffydd warmed his hands over a steaming pot. Seated by the hearth, he glanced round the cave, observing as the outlaws slept, their snores and their groans harmonising with the constant drip-drip of falling water, their more basic bodily noises providing a counter-point to this human melody. It was enough to move Cynan to whistle a soft tune, a paean to youth and unrequited love, a tune that could well serve as his theme song, such had been his adventures when he had been free.

However, that was in the past and Cynan was keen to focus on the present, particularly as he had guests, in the form of Madog and the voluptuous Lady Meirian Lovell. Cynan wondered idly why Rhys Goch had decided to provide the steward and the lady with shelter. Doubtless, he had good reason and that reason would be made plain, in the fullness of time. It was Cynan's position to serve, and not ask probing questions of his master, and, to that end, he would prepare a true outlaw feast, for in the pot resided joints of rabbit, captured and skinned on the conyger, along with a mixture of herbs and spices, garnered from the woodland, or stolen from the fields. These included hyssop, parsley, thyme and cloves. Added to the mixture was a measure of red wine, acquired from a loyal hostelry. All went to make a meal, if not exactly classical in nature, then at least warming and filling to those who had learned to survive on fruits and their wits.

The aroma from the potage soon reached the outlaws' noses. One by one, they rose, stretched aching muscles and reached for a dish. In good order, they formed a line, each accepting the portion offered by Cynan ap Gruffydd, for to complain carried the risk of being cast asunder, and where could a man go, having already been tossed into the wilderness?

Taking care to maintain good measures for himself, his lord, Madog and the Lady Meirian, Cynan divided the remaining potage into four even portions, save one, the excess duly added to this dish. The weightier meal would be presented to the Lady Meirian; Cynan would demonstrate his knowledge of how to entertain and win a lady's favours; he would recall former glories and flirt with the lady, should that be her wish.

With the warming dish in his hand, Cynan approached the Lady Meirian. She had secured a place for herself somewhat distant from the outlaws. Hidden in a natural alcove, she maintained a level of dignity, a degree of decorum in keeping with her social position.

'You slept well?' Cynan enquired of the lady.

Placing a hand to her back, Meirian glanced down to the thin layer of straw, the basic mattress that covered the hard rock. 'Like a dream,' she lied.

'I am pleased,' Cynan smiled. Extending an arm, he offered the dish of potage. 'Here, take this; it will ease your discomfort and warm your insides.'

With gratitude, the lady accepted her breakfast. Sitting, she leaned back against the wall of rock, placing the dish to her lips. Cynan followed her eyeline and noted that she was studying Madog; he too had stirred and had collected his breakfast. Preferring his own company, the steward sat on the fringe of the outlaws, attracting the attention a young family, the children staring at him with inquisition on their blackened faces, curiosity shining in their wide, yet none-too-innocent eyes.

Turning his attention back to Meirian, Cynan observed that she had consumed the greater part of her potage. A thought went through his mind, namely that he should offer up his dish. However, practicality and a rumbling stomach told him that he could ill afford to be so chivalrous; the rabbit had been a bonus; there was no guarantee that it would be safe to go out hunting tonight.

'It is a pleasure to share the company of such a highly respected lady.'

Meirian fluttered her long eyelashes, making great play out of averting her eyes. 'The pleasure is all mine.'

'I only wish that we could have met in more salubrious surroundings.'

'It is the company,' she asserted, 'not the place, that makes for wholesome entertainment.'

'True. And that is just as well, for what kind of place is this!'

'It is your home,' Meirian responded in tactful, easy fashion. 'At least, until the king's injustice has been put to rights.'

'We used to entertain,' Cynan reminisced, 'back in the days when my lord ruled Hevedaker.' He paused, laughing, recalling the occasions when he had served the Lady Meirian at Hevedaker's high table. 'But, of course, of that you are well aware.'

'You must miss those days,' Meirian reflected between mouthfuls of potage.

'I do. I miss the freedom, the ability to roam where and when I please. I miss the respect of my peers.' Cynan ran his fingers through his wispy beard, taking care to avoid the abscess troubling his left eye-tooth, pausing to scratch one of the many blotches that now scarred his skin. 'But my lord was correct in his statement,' Cynan continued. 'He was within his rights when he refused to sign one of Richard's blank charters. Indeed, I would contend that Richard behaves more like an outlaw than any man residing here!'

Smiling, the Lady Meirian lowered her eyes before consuming the remainder of her potage. Licking her lips, she placed the empty dish upon a small rock.

'Truthfully, my lady, I would contend that the king is corrupt, along with all his officers.'

'You demonstrate great loyalty to your lord,' Meirian responded. 'And that, I admire.'

Squatting on his haunches, Cynan allowed his thick wavy hair to fall forward, so much so that it obscured his eyes. It was as though he had pulled a curtain across the windows of his soul, guarding his inner thoughts, his private wishes. In so doing, he allowed himself a rare moment of inner contemplation and reflection, a judgement upon who he was and where he had been. The young man with poetry in his soul had given way to someone altogether more cynical. On his darkest days, he no longer believed in God, barely believed in love and saw nothing in his fellow man except greed and treachery. He lived in hope that one day he would secure his freedom. He remained loyal to Rhys Goch because his lord remained loyal to him. That simple fact he carried as his credo. With that thought in mind, he could survive, day-by-day.

'I would follow my lord anywhere,' Cynan stated, his head held high, his hair parting to reveal lean features. 'I would lay down my life for him.'

'Your lord has sworn to destroy Kenfig Castle.'

'I too,' Cynan avowed, 'given the chance. Given freewill, I would tear down that donjon, stone-by-stone, tile-by-tile. I would be done with their dominion.'

'In that,' Meirian reflected, 'you are lucky, Squire Cynan.'

'Why so, my lady?' Cynan asked, reaching for his potage, satisfying his hunger, freeing its cruel grip.

'You are lucky to be born a man and to have that chance. If I had the strength, I would join with you in such a venture. I would destroy that castle and all the evil contained within!'

The force of Meirian's words made Cynan pause, his dish held frozen before his lips. Why had she talked in such a vociferous manner? What lay behind the ferocity of her words? After all, she had done well via the Castle. She had no obvious reason to chastise them, no obvious wish to see them destroyed.

Cynan chose to ponder that point while he consumed the remnants of his potage. He reached no firm conclusion on the matter. Indeed, the vagaries of Meirian's statement made no sense to him at all.

The esquire was chewing on the last of his rabbit when a torch illuminated the cave. Taking steps towards the light, he saw the diminutive figure of Y Bwa Bach, the Little Hunchback. A larger shadow preceded him, this cast by Brother Blanchigernonis. Both men walked with care, picking a path through a trail of fallen rubble, the old monk making the greater pace, aided by his trusty staff.

Cynan was about to offer civil greeting when Rhys Goch emerged from his chamber. The old lord looked tired and dishevelled, his mass of tousled red hair proving particularly unruly, moving Cynan to reflect that his lord had endured a somewhat troubled night.

'We have another guest,' announced Y Bwa Bach. 'I trust that you will make him welcome.'

'Indeed we will,' Rhys Goch avowed. 'Of that, have no fear!'

As Rhys Goch offered civil greeting to Brother Blanchigernonis, Meirian and Madog stepped forward both, no doubt, sensing that business was at hand.

'I suggest that we retire to my chamber,' Rhys Goch advised, casting an eye towards the hearth and the outlaw horde. All were looking on, pensive, questioning, wondering what meaning lay behind this gathering. Doubtless, gossip and rumour would soon spread; threads for webs of intrigue to be spun. Cynan reflected that the atmosphere might well prove civil and conducive to lordly manners should he and Rhys Goch set up camp together. However, in truth, that had been attempted and they had discovered that there is only so much that two men can say to one another. And so, loneliness had compelled them to broaden their group.

Following Rhys Goch's lead, Cynan, Meirian, Madog and Brother Blanchigernonis entered the chamber, Y Bwa Bach making his way to the warmth of the hearth. The little man knew his place and he had proved a trusty servant. True, he carried a curse, a curse he shrugged aside, providing an example of man's indefatigable spirit.

On Rhys Goch's instruction, Meirian took a seat upon one of the two benches, Madog and Brother Blanchigernonis placing themselves opposite her. Rhys Goch and Cynan remained standing, their figures looming large in the close confines of the chamber, their shadows engulfing those present, their eyes offering reflection to the candles, their pupils dilating as they adjusted to the gloom.

'To business,' Rhys Goch announced, banging his fist upon the table. 'Let us proceed without any further ado.'

There was a general pause before the Lady Meirian deigned to speak. Inching forward, adjusting her weight on the rickety bench, she cleared her throat. 'Excuse me, my lord, but could you explain as to why we have an additional guest?'

All turned to gaze upon the scrupulous face of Brother Blanchigernonis. With a look of least concern, the white monk merely gazed back in turn.

With a sense of irritation, Rhys Goch sought to answer the lady's question. Leaning on the table, he glowered at her. 'You mentioned upon your arrival that you wished to talk commerce. Commerce between you and me can only mean one thing: the quarry. So, I have invited the learned brother along to act as our arbiter. In that way, this matter might be settled once and for all.'

Smiling, the Lady Meirian was clearly at ease with Rhys Goch's explanation; feeling no need to hide her pleasure, she readily displayed that fact. 'Your logic satisfies me,' she announced. 'I shall be content to abide by Brother Blanchigernonis' decision.'

'That being so, my lady, what exactly do you want?'

'Why, you have already answered that question, my Lord Rhys: the quarry at South Corneli; that, and nothing more.'

'Why trouble yourself asking for something that is undoubtedly mine?'

'The quarry belongs to the Lovell family. Here...' Meirian paused, only to dip her fingers into her purse; glancing up, she extracted a document. '...I have a deed pertaining to that fact.'

'I have no wish to look upon that deed!' Rhys Goch bellowed, turning his broad back on the assembly. 'It is no more than falsification!'

Begging to differ, the Lady Meirian rose to her feet. Extending her arm, she waved the document, as one might wave a rag at a somnolent bull. 'You forget that witnesses stepped forward to uphold this document; they swore before God that it contains the truth.'

'Those witnesses were bought by your late husband.' Spurred on by rage, Rhys Goch turned to face the pretender, his well-lined face turning a dark shade of puce. 'In their version of the truth they spoke nothing but lies.'

'Those witnesses were honest men and they stated the truth as they saw it.'

'They were brigands and rogues and they spoke nothing but lies!'

Sensing that the meeting was degenerating into something of a rabble, Brother Blanchigernonis politely cleared his throat. As earlier, all turned to gaze expectantly upon the brother, eager to hear his pronouncement, keen to perceive the wisdom of the oracle.

'What do you have to say, brother?' Rhys Goch challenged. 'Surely, it is clear to all that truth resides upon my side.'

'Truth?' Still waving the document, it was clear that the Lady Meirian was far from finished. Indeed, a hand placed on her hip suggested that she was warming to her task. 'Why, my Lord Rhys, you would not know the truth if it jumped up and bit you!'

'Ah! And this coming from the woman who married the biggest rogue in all of Wales!'

Had there been room, Rhys Goch would doubtless have overturned the table. As it was, he had to content himself with a kick, aimed at a small rock. If this action caused his toe pain, he did well to hide it, his only emotion being that of a frown and the placing of a hand to his hirsute chin.

'True,' he continued, 'your late husband bought the quarry from my late father; however, he, Sir John, failed to part with any gold. Therefore, my father took the quarry back into his possession only for Sir John to present false witnesses in an attempt to play the rogue. These are the bold facts, are they not, my learned brother?'

'As I understand them,' Brother Blanchigernonis stated. 'I believe that is so.'

'Be that as it may,' Meirian Lovell challenged, 'I feel that we are missing the point of our deliberations: I do not wish to claim possession of the quarry. My only requirement is that you should pay me for the right to hold the quarry in your name.'

Bemused, Rhys Goch shook his head as if to clear it, his expression offering the hint that a poleaxe had battered him senseless. 'Let me further my understanding of your position,' he muttered, slowly: 'You want me to pay you for land that I already own?'

'I would dispute that statement. But, if that is your judgement then, yes, it is so.'

'Verily, my lady, you have more balls than all the men in this camp to dare offer such a proposition.' Returning to his senses, Rhys Goch sat heavily upon the makeshift bed, his elbows resting upon his thighs, his head cupped in his hands. His expression was pensive, his colour dark and threatening. Cynan had seen this look many times before, this brooding presenting itself at its most intense when thinking about the king and Hevedaker. 'I would remind you of one salient fact,' the old lord rumbled: 'In the eyes of the Crown, the quarry belongs to Rhys Goch and therefore it has been confiscated along with all other of my property.' Suddenly, he brightened, appearing unnaturally cheerful. 'Therefore, as you can see, the quarry remains outside my gift.'

'But, if I can prove to the king that the quarry is rightly mine then he would be legally bound to place it in my possession.' Undaunted, the Lady Meirian spoke with passion and conviction, her tone suggesting that she was in the right and that victory was certain.

Idly, Cynan wondered if she were merely deceiving herself or wilfully deceiving others. Either way, he felt himself swayed by her argument, drawn to her beauty. How could this be so, he wondered. Why the absence of attraction when he had served her at Hevedaker? Could he assign these feelings to his isolation and loneliness? Or dare he liberate the dream of love and romance?

'Agree with me,' the lady continued, 'and the problem would be solved and we could all claim triumph.'

'I must say,' Rhys Goch offered whilst shaking his head in bemusement, 'you have a strange perception of triumph.'

'But would it not please you to deprive the king of these lands?' Meirian persisted. 'Surely there is more satisfaction to be gained in that than in bowing to his suppression?'

The sovereign side of the argument appealed, Cynan could sense that, without question. Nevertheless, he felt, it would go against the grain for his lord to agree to such demands, demands that were, at best, impertinent. Rhys Goch had tangled with greater adversaries than Meirian and, what is more, he had won; his will might well have been wounded through the long months of isolation but, Cynan contended, his spirit remained far from broken.

Unable to summon forth a satisfactory reply, the Lord Rhys turned to Brother Blanchigernonis: 'What is your judgment, brother?'

'I believe that this matter goes beyond my authority; only the king can make a true judgement.'

'At least sign this document,' Meirian insisted, holding the deed at arms length so that Rhys Goch could smell the parchment. 'Absolve your claim to the quarry. Allow me to present your signature before the king.'

Once again, Rhys Goch turned his oaken back on the persistent lady. 'You ask for the moon,' he groaned, his heavy sigh extinguishing the flame as it disturbed a nearby candle.

'And why do I choose to reach so high?' Meirian enquired, her face wrought with emotion, her dark brown eyes bright with unshed tears. 'Why do you think I demean myself to place this claim before you?'

Not one to be moved by feminine wiles, the Lord Rhys merely scoffed: 'Uh. That is simple: so that you might gain the riches offered by the quarry.'

'All are not as rapacious as you, my lord,' Meirian contended. 'I claim the rights to the quarry only out of necessity. It is my wish to reward the monks at Margam Abbey. In turn, they have agreed to say prayers in perpetuity for my late husband's soul.'

Moved by the lady's plea, Cynan felt compelled to offer a degree of comfort. However, etiquette and years of observing the social graces ensured that he desisted. Instead, he contented himself with relighting the extinguished candle, offering the flame of its brother to the smouldering wick.

'The day is barely born,' Rhys Goch sighed, 'and already I am tired. I ask that you leave me in peace so that I may think and rest.'

Hesitating, the Lady Meirian held her position. However, upon the inclination of Brother Blanchigernonis' head, she took her leave.

Following the lady's lead, Cynan left the chamber. Brother Blanchigernonis and Madog remained with Rhys Goch, doubtless discussing the lady's plea. Rhys Goch trusted Brother Blanchigernonis, that much was certain. He also held Madog in high esteem, having shared honours with him upon the battlefield. Cynan trusted that common sense would prevail and that a solution would be found to the quarry problem. If not, he would bear the brunt of his lord's dark moods, a burden he would not wish upon his most hated enemy. Nevertheless, for now, Cynan saw an opportunity to serve the Lady Meirian. Furthermore, to that end, he joined her in the main body of the cave.

'What will you do?' Cynan enquired, warming his hands over the embers of the breakfast fire.

'I will stay until the Lord Rhys agrees to my demands.'

'In that case, you might be here forever.'

'Whatever,' she laughed. 'I must succeed and be in a position to meet the king.'

With Cynan looking on, Meirian gazed into the glowing embers of the fire. The tears that had threatened to show themselves now rolled down her cheeks. With a quick, well-practiced flick of her forefinger, Meirian obliterated all show of poignant emotion. Even so, Cynan felt moved to hold her, to demonstrate his affection for her, to release the desire that coursed through his veins.

'You have influence over your lord,' Meirian contended, 'surely you can persuade him to reason.'

Frowning, Cynan felt a sudden sharp pain from his abscess, cooling his ardour to a point bordering on the glacial. The romantic in him suggested that a kiss from this lady would cure his toothache, resolve the problem; the pragmatist insisted that he would have to warm his dagger and lance the boil.

'You ask me to betray the Lord Rhys?' Cynan spoke his words carefully, more out of consideration for the pain in his face than out of risk that his lord might overhear him.

'No. I ask only that you help me secure peace for Sir John.'

'To go to all this trouble,' Cynan mused, 'you must have loved him greatly.'

'Love?' As she adjusted her dress, Meirian glanced down, her shoulders moving in a sad shrug. 'You talk now in a language unfamiliar, for love has never seen reason to call at my door.'

With the throbbing in his cheek subsiding, Cynan felt a fresh flush of ardour. He would serve this lady; he would do his utmost to support her cause. Did this mean the betrayal of his master, the forsaking of all principle? Cynan hoped that this was not so. To give reason to his actions he argued that he was fighting against the king, not Rhys Goch, for Meirian's victory would deprive both of the quarry, a gain substantial to her, but a loss king and lord could easily absorb.

'I will do what I can,' Cynan concluded, adding a note of caution: 'Though, I tell you now, this solemn promise is not mine alone to uphold.'

'The promise is all mine,' Meirian insisted, her lips closing on Cynan's ear, a seductive twinkle brightening her eyes, an impious glow flushing her cheeks. 'Should I walk out of here with Rhys Goch's signature, you can hold in your hand all that is mine.' With that, she took hold of Cynan's hand and placed it to her breast, to emphasise her meaning. Then, she wandered away, seeking her own quiet corner of the cave.

Glancing down, Cynan observed that Rhys Goch's potage remained warming by the fire. He would gather the dish and take it to his lord. Then he would set about securing the lady's favours; he would be subtle and persuasive, he would ensure that his lord fully appreciated the lady's wisdom, he would determine that the Lord Rhys acquiesced to Meirian's request.

* * *

Athelena Scurlag had resumed her vigil. Head bent in prayer, she sat at her father's side. Still sweating, and still breathing in laboured fashion, Sir William Scurlag lay upon his bed of straw within the annex, out of sight to many, out of mind to all but a loving few.

Johanna Wittard had spent a sleepless night but, come the dawn, she had returned to her duties. She had administered the theriac to Sir William and now, as he coughed and moaned, she busied herself, mopping his brow.

Apart from Sir William and his complaints, all remained quiet within the annex. The room was engulfed with a sense of serenity, a stillness normally observed before a coming storm.

The creak of a rusty hinge suggested that the annex door was about to be thrown open. The appearance of a chill wind and Rig, framed in the doorway, hinted that the storm was about to break. One glance at Sir William told Rig that there was no need for enquiry; the chief sergeant had seen the fading of enough men to know that Sir William was waning fast.

Disturbed by the cold blast of air, Athelena had halted her prayer and had turned to face the chief sergeant. With eyes red and face wan, she took only enough time to register his presence. Then, clasping her hands together she placed the tips of her fingers to her elegant chin before returning to her prayers.

With Athelena preoccupied, Rig had no problem in attracting Johanna's attention; a brief show of the bloodstained parchment told her that the time had come; she would have to play her part. Like a performer in a mummers' play, she would have to seek her audience's approval. However, what performer had faced an audience as exigent as Cardinal D'Orso? Nervous as she was, could she complete her task?

With a glance towards the stairway, Rig indicated that it was time to make an entrance. Hesitating, torn between her fears of Cardinal D'Orso, her fears of the consequences should she not act and a sense of abandoning her duty towards Sir William Scurlag, Johanna felt the pain of her mind and her body as both were ripped apart. Haltingly, she took a step towards Rig only to resume her position. She glanced down to Athelena hoping that the lady would glance up and beg her to stay. However, Athelena was preoccupied, trapped in her own maze of painful contemplation; salvation would not be forthcoming from that quarter; deliverance would be granted in the telling of lies and half-truths.

'I must go, my lady; I hope to return later.' Johanna's words lacked all sense of conviction; her fractured voice suggesting that she was walking to her doom.

In silence, Athelena continued her prayer. Not once did she glance in the custorin's direction. Indeed, she remained oblivious to her solitude, ignorant of the fact that Johanna had left the room.

'Take this,' Rig instructed, as he and Johanna climbed the stairway together, the offered parchment residing in Johanna's hand long before they reached the guardroom. 'You know what to say?'

Nodding in erratic fashion, Johanna felt as rigid as a wooden doll. She had the impression that all movement was beyond her, that her every twitch was being controlled by a malevolent hand adjusting a string.

'Tell the cardinal that you saw everything; Rhys Goch confronted the monk then killed him; you rushed to the monk's aid and found the parchment at his side; fearing what you discovered within the parchment, you held your tongue, until now.'

'But...' Could she summon up one last word of protest, one last act of defiance? '...my words would condemn Brother Helias as a heretic.'

'Indeed,' Rig agreed, pushing her beyond the guardroom. 'But would you rather be condemned as a heretic in place of Helias?'

Johanna could find no answer as she followed Rig up the spiral staircase. Head bowed, with the parchment shaking in her hand, she was ushered into the Great Hall. Once there, she glanced up, only for her mind to be swept into oblivion, for before her sat Cardinal D'Orso, Brother Jordan, Sir Roger de la March and his brothers, Geoffrey and Payn. Her senses barely acknowledged the presence of Morgan and Matildis, the archer and the matriarch occupying positions at the extremities of the dais table. Sir Roger occupied the central chair, but Cardinal D'Orso took Johanna's attention. Despite herself, she studied his glorious, fur-lined robe of red, she stared, transfixed, at the large cross, worn round his neck. Head bowed, his face remained intense beneath the imposing presence of his zucchetto. The image moved Johanna to reflect that, maybe, the wooden cross was proving too heavy for the cardinal to bear, was too heavy for any man, except the True Saviour. Then the cardinal glanced up and, once again, Johanna's thoughts dissolved. To her, his gaunt features appeared cruel and heartless, while his close-set eyes peered into her very soul. She found his severe expression intimidating. She prayed to God that He would rescue her from this ordeal and open the gates of heaven. She sought the comfort of His arms, now and forever. She felt ready to commit herself to eternal peace.

'My lords, my lady,' Rig announced to those present. 'I offer you Johanna Wittard, custorin of Kenfig maladeria. She wishes to address you on a matter of great import.'

Swallowing hard, Johanna stared at the cardinal. However, she found his gaze overbearing, and she felt compelled to gawp at the floor. 'My lord cardinal,' she began in halting fashion. 'This is not easy for me to say...in fact, I find these words extremely difficult...'

'Take your time, child,' the cardinal encouraged. He tried to smile, but his expression merely suggested a bout of severe indigestion, a condition Brother Jordan remained all too familiar with, the monk's ox bladder face darkening as he released a measure of trapped wind. 'There is no rush,' the cardinal continued, unaffected by the eruptions occurring at his side. 'We have all day.'

'Thank you, my lord.' With her whole body trembling, Johanna resumed her tale: 'What I wish to say is...that...I saw the murder of Brother Helias...Rhys Goch committed the deed and I found this parchment beside the monk.'

When she looked up, Johanna found her right arm extended, the parchment held in a goshawk-tight grip. The bird had captured its prey and its talons dug deep, unyielding. In a juxtaposition of images, Johanna saw herself as the victim; Cardinal D'Orso had her in his grip, his claws sharp and threatening; in a moment, he would draw blood and she would be obliged to scream.

'What is contained upon that vellum?'

Johanna heard Cardinal D'Orso's voice, but his abrupt tones remained somewhat ethereal. She became aware that both her hand and her arm were shaking, and yet, at the same time, those limbs gave no sense of belonging; bit-by-bit, her mind and her body were ceasing to be her own.

'Brother Jordan.' Cardinal D'Orso turned to his companion: 'Remove the parchment from that woman's hand; bring it to me.'

Rising from the table, Brother Jordan released another blast of wind as a parting present. This time Cardinal D'Orso did react, turning away in disgust. Geoffrey, meanwhile, found the monk's misfortune most amusing; it was all he could do to hold on to his sides and prevent himself from rolling on to the floor.

After prising the parchment from Johanna's hand, Brother Jordan waddled back to the dais table. He sat down with some relief, swearing to God that he would never over-indulge on capons again.

While the occupants of the dais table busied themselves with knowing glances, Cardinal D'Orso got to work, unrolling the parchment and studying its text. The bloodstains were viewed, en passant, but they could not distract the cardinal from row upon row of neat script, line after line of heterodoxy.

'You found this beside the monk, you say?' The cardinal glanced up, his eyes wide, his nostrils flaring, his face matching the hue of his robes.

'Yes, my lord.' To Johanna, the faces at the dais table had become a blur; they were no more than reflections in rippled water. Her mind screamed, but her voice maintained its wavering pitch, as shrilly and anxiously, she blurted: 'The monk held the parchment when I found him.'

'And this is Brother Helias' blood?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'I understand that Brother Helias was killed after the Office of Compline; what were you doing abroad at that hour of the night?'

'I...er...was called...to tend to a sick woman, my lord. A woman troubled with the fever.'

'And I trust your ministrations were successful?'

'Yes, my lord.'

Pausing, Cardinal D'Orso lowered his eyes so that he might study the script in greater detail; the hand was steady and well practiced; the text written by a man of learning and no little skill: a monk, Cardinal D'Orso reflected; someone at the abbey; someone at the abbey was about to get their fingers burned.

When he looked up, the inquisitor stared at Johanna with even greater intent; if placed before a mirror, the viewer might even have recognised a demonic look in his eyes.

'Do I frighten you, child?' the cardinal asked, politely.

'No, my lord,' Johanna lied.

'Then you will feel at ease when I ask you why you held your tongue until now.'

'Fear, my lord. I recognised the meaning of the script written upon the parchment...indeed, I have heard those words spoken so many times...having a little knowledge of Latin, I recognised the script as being a translation from the Bible.'

'Heresy!' Cardinal D'Orso spat out the word as if it were a poison, the look of repugnance upon his face suggesting that its aftertaste remained strong. Nevertheless, he was soon moved to congratulation: 'You have done well, my child. God will deliver His reward.'

'Yes, my lord,' came Johanna's involuntary reply.

'If you have no further questions...' Stepping forward, Rig sought to take charge of proceedings; Johanna had told her tale; further utterances from her could only lead to confusion and doubt. 'The custorin has duties to attend to...'

'She is free to go.' Dismissively, Cardinal D'Orso waved his left hand. He added, without the slightest hint of inflection or emotion: 'She must continue her good work.'

Her ordeal was over, at least, for the time being, but Johanna failed to hear Cardinal D'Orso's instruction; lost in her own world, she remained rooted to the spot.

'You may take your leave, Johanna,' Rig prompted, with some exasperation.

'Yes, my lord.'

Those present watched as Johanna weaved her way out of the chamber. Indeed, Payn reflected, she walked as if drunk. Nevertheless, her words were cause for celebration; the cardinal had been fooled and the abbey would remain the sole focus of his attention; the plan had bought the conspirators time and removed the cardinal from their backs.

Rising to his feet, Cardinal D'Orso placed his hands, palms down, upon the dais table. 'Oh, God,' Payn thought, he is going to launch into prayer. Even worse, from Payn's perspective, the cardinal chose to deliver a sermon. Taking hold of the parchment, he held it on high, replicating a knight's pose, complete with brandished sword. 'Within my hand,' he began, 'I hold the work of the Devil. I would ask that you study this work, but I withhold it for fear of contamination, for fear that you will be poisoned by its sin. I, Cardinal Francesco D'Orso remain impervious to such venom; God has granted me that gift. Therefore, I am free to study this work and determine the hand that lies behind it. And that is my task: to reveal this instrument of the Devil. I trust that Brother Helias' murder will serve as a lesson. Clearly, he had displeased God and, therefore, he had been abandoned in his hour of peril. Think of the destruction to mankind should more people become contaminated by such evil. Recognise now why only the chosen few have been selected to read and understand His word.'

After rolling up the parchment, Cardinal D'Orso transferred it to Brother Jordan. Then, the two men left the chamber, in search of Abbot John. They left behind the fragrance of fusty capons and an opportunity for contemplation. The former, the assembly did their best to ignore, the latter, they happily absorbed.

'I think that went rather well,' Sir Roger de la March judged when the time for reflection was over; at this point, the holy men were walking beyond the guardroom and were well out of earshot.

'Most satisfactory,' Matildis agreed. 'I feel that we have diverted the cardinal well enough.'

'Even so,' Morgan challenged, 'I am surprised at the custorin's findings and the cardinal's conclusions; I never considered Helias as a heretic.'

'It just goes to show,' Sir Roger philosophised, 'what little we know of our fellow man.'

Leaning back in his chair, Geoffrey attempted to place his feet upon the dais table. However, being in no mood to tolerate such recalcitrant behaviour, Matildis quickly slapped him down. Appearing hurt, the bailiff bowed his head and was heard to mutter: 'It sounds as though he was a strange character and that Rig did well to dispose of him and save us all from further embarrassment.'

'Rig?' Glancing towards the chief sergeant, Morgan showed renewed interest, his noble features creasing into a troubled scowl; as though taken with a life of their own, the fingers of his right hand sought the hilt of his sword. 'I thought the custorin said...I understood that Helias fell to Rhys Goch's sword?'

Payn glanced at Rig, leading a round of furtive exchanges, each gaze screaming with incrimination, only for the chamber to remain void of the spoken word.

'So this was no more than a charade?' Morgan was left to deduce the true meaning of Johanna's 'confession'. Becoming increasingly annoyed, he strode towards Rig. 'The custorin's words carried nothing but lies?' Bemused, he shook his head, his knuckles whitening as they took a firmer grip upon the hilt. 'Why did you withhold the truth from me?' he asked of Sir Roger. 'Why continue this deceit in front of the cardinal? Do you feel that I am not worthy of your plans?'

'There is no deceit,' Sir Roger reasoned, 'only a bending of the truth. We took this course out of consideration for your feelings, mindful that Helias served you as an esquire...'

Allowing his feelings to boil over, Morgan took his anger out on the dais table; in a rare show of rage, he pummelled the tabletop with his fist. 'You think that I am incapable of absorbing the truth and that I must be cosseted like a child?' Shaking his head, he turned away, offering the indignity of his back to his erstwhile friends. 'Clearly, you are no judge of my character, my lord!'

'It was a mistake.' Matildis rose. Quickly, she stepped forward, seeking to console the indignant archer. Summoning every ounce of her charm, she moved to his side. 'And for that mistake, we apologise.' Fluttering her eyelashes, she placed a hand upon Morgan's arm, caressing it as one might caress a kitten; these gestures had pleased her late husband, simple gestures that she had kept hidden; since his death she had made every attempt to contain her femininity, reasoning that a widow's charms lay open to abuse. 'But what is done is done,' she persisted. 'And we cannot allow ourselves to become entangled in the past. We must think of the future and the king. We must also ensure that we have Rhys Goch dangling at the end of a rope before the king arrives. In that way, we will lay this whole unfortunate episode to rest.'

'Mother is right,' Sir Roger asserted, 'we must find the outlaw.'

'But how?' Geoffrey asked, still sullen after his earlier chastisement. 'He has evaded capture for well nigh two years.'

A warming thought compelled Payn to leave his seat at the dais table. Walking into the body of the hall, he sought his mother's side. 'Euros knows where the outlaw is hiding; we could capture Euros and torture him.'

'But will he speak in good time?' Sir Roger reasoned. 'Will he speak before Richard arrives?'

All were left to reflect upon Payn's suggestion, the spring in his step demonstrating an enthusiasm for his proposal, the spring in his step matched only by the devilment in his eyes.

In the event, it was left to Matildis to make a judgement: 'Euros is stubborn; we have no guarantee of his compliance, no surety that he will be accommodating.'

'Then we must resort to a variation on this plan.' Clearly enraptured by his idea, Payn became a bundle of nervous energy; dancing round the hall, he smacked his fist into his palm. He ran his fingers along a tapestry and watched as dust motes drifted on the breeze, on the draught he had created. Leaping on to the dais table, he drew Tirion's dagger and threw it, past Morgan's left ear and into the Despenser coat of arms. 'We must capture someone who is altogether more vulnerable. Capture someone whose tongue will loosen at the first touch of a red-hot poker. Capture someone who will squeal like a pig.'

Clearly attracted to the idea, Rig was the first to step forward. He paused before Payn, his fingers twitching above his sword. 'Who do you have in mind, my lord?'

'Branwen; she is Rhys Goch's lover. She should be able to guide us to the outlaw.'

'This is barbaric!' Unable to restrain a fresh wave of revulsion, Morgan pushed beyond Rig. Looking up, he stood before Payn, his eyes dark with hatred, his mind racing with all manner of unforgiving thought. 'I will have no part in this matter!'

'So be it,' Payn approved. 'We shall discard your arrow and dispose of the king by some other means. And, when Henry takes the crown in his stead we shall make it plain to him and to all who wish to be counted among his number just who his friends are, those trusted lords who rallied to his cause.'

'You disgust me.' Morgan spoke first to Payn then to all in the chamber. 'I am disgusted by each and every one of you.'

'Then take your leave of us,' Payn challenged, 'and return to the barefooted savages who populate the vills; they are your people. They have no mind to sophistication or culture; you should feel more at home among their number. After all, it is among them that you wish to propagate your spawn.'

Turning on his well-groomed heel, Morgan stormed out of the chamber, ruffling the tapestries as he went, slamming the chamber door.

'That was unnecessary,' Matildis chided. 'And get down from that table. Sometimes you think too highly of yourself. You should be more courteous to people; but then, you never have been one for making friends.'

'The man is a fool,' Payn contended. 'We have no need of him or any of his number. Welshmen are best left to the vills; they have no place among us. They are like savage animals, not worthy of our consideration; they are beasts, barbarians who cannot be tamed.'

'That being so,' Matildis conceded, 'who will loosen the arrow? Who has the skill to kill Richard without revelation?'

'You, dear brother?' Sir Roger de la March added, noting that Payn had seen fit to disobey his mother; the rebel holding his place atop the dais table.

'I will talk with Morgan,' Matildis informed her companions. 'I will find a way to appease him. But, for now, we must act on Payn's idea. Rig: arrest Branwen; charge her with assisting outlaws. The rest of you: behave!'

Her instructions delivered, Matildis left the chamber. Presently, Sir Roger and Rig joined her. That left Payn, in the company of Geoffrey; the former as energized as a lightning bolt, the latter looking morose.

'Why is it,' Geoffrey pondered, 'that you can disobey mother and yet she always finds fault with me?'

'You expect me to know?' Payn laughed. 'You expect me to care?' Finally, he jumped down from the dais table and, with dancing feet, he wandered over to the Despenser coat of arms. There, he withdrew the quillon dagger, taking time to stare at, and caresses, its fine jewels, reflecting on a morning well spent. However, what of the afternoon, what could he get up to? What problems should he resolve? In the frightened corner of his mind lay the spell cast by Anest; that spell should be removed with some urgency; a fire, spreading from her hearth, engulfing all her devilry; that should do the trick. Such a fire would be a beacon of celebration; the flames would remove all traces of the spell, they would wipe everything clean. His fears would be banished. Then, he could look forward with optimism. Remove Anest's threat, and her evil spells, and nothing would stand in his way. Grinning, Payn turned to Geoffrey: 'It has been a good day, brother.'

Nodding, solemnly, Geoffrey offered a twisted smile: 'And, if I know that look in your eye, I assert that this day will become even better yet.'

* * *

Anest held Tangwstyl in her arms; smiling, she caressed the baby's cheek. Then, she engaged in a strange ritual, a ritual performed by intelligent adults throughout the land: she proceeded to make a series of babbling and cooing noises, communicating with the infant in incomprehensible baby-speak. What Ceinlys made of this performance was not revealed, but the contentment upon Tangwstyl's face demonstrated her approval, her wellbeing, her general air of satisfaction.

'The baby is well,' Anest announced to the crofter.

'She troubles me not,' Ceinlys confirmed. 'She feeds and then she snuggles there, content. Whereas his lordship over there...' Standing, the wet-nurse crossed the damp earthen floor; pausing, she gazed with adoration upon her baby son. '...he screams and screams and would have me running in circles all day.'

Smiling, Anest could not help but envy Ceinlys and the simplicity of her lifestyle, the joy she obtained through motherhood. 'You must be proud of him though.'

'I am,' Ceinlys replied, drawing her son to her ample breast.

While Medrawd took milk from Ceinlys' breast, Anest reflected upon Tangwstyl. She was the hero's child, of that the healer had no doubt. Yet, where was he? When would he deign to make an appearance? Soon, she judged; he would be aware of the pregnancy, aware of the birth. A man of compassion, he would visit his child. He would reveal himself, despite wishes to the contrary. Then, moved by the social devastation, the injustice, he would feel compelled to act.

Realising that time was pressing, and that she would be needed back at the vill, Anest rose to her feet. She walked to the cot door shortly to be joined by Ceinlys and Medrawd. There, the healer gazed out, admiring the men as they worked Ballas' fields; bending their backs as they tilled the soil, running mud-caked hands over sweat-damp foreheads, flexing strained muscles in an attempt to gain relief. In this regard, Ceinlys' husband, Meredydd, was no different from his colleagues. However, his laboured breathing, his regular pauses and his need to lean upon his hoe all hinted at a deeper problem.

'Your husband is well?' Anest enquired of the crofter.

'Aches and pains,' Ceinlys replied. Placing a hand behind Medrawd's head, she adjusted his position, both for her own comfort and for that of the child. 'He groans and he grumbles. But then, he is a man, after all. His health is stable. He will have no need of troubling you, I am sure.'

Gazing reflectively at the distressed crofter, Anest could but hope that Ceinlys was right, for, much as she liked Meredydd, her priority remained Tangwstyl; if the fever should raise its ugly head in Ballas, then Anest would have no option but to seek fresh shelter; possibly, she would have to take the baby into her care.

'I must go,' Anest informed Ceinlys, pausing briefly to caress Medrawd's head. 'I will return tomorrow morn.'

Anest left Ballas reflecting upon a change in fortune: after weeks on end, the weather had relented; it had stopped raining; the skies were clear, hinting at blue. A good omen, she reckoned, a sign that matters were improving. With her spirits lifted, she rediscovered her inner-strength.

Blue skies led to thoughts of happiness, which, in turn, led to thoughts of Euros. It was foolish, impossible, to believe that she could attract the attentions of a noble; yet, his emotions appeared true. Moreover, she had to concede, the feeling was mutual. Yet, what hope was there of union? Why should a man of noble birth stoop to marry her? She recognised that love could answer that question, but she considered a lord, any lord, to be far too good for her. Then she had to reconcile his support for Richard, his talk suggesting that he remained loyal to the king. This feeling ran contrary to her beliefs, for she held Richard responsible for much of the suffering; his governance lacked compassion and understanding, his manipulation of the law showed scant regard for his people and the sanctity of their lives. Of course, she did not know Richard and had no real clue as to his personality; but she was wise enough to hold up the ideal of a king and shrewd enough to judge that Richard fell well short of this image.

Anest closed on Stormy Down. With each stride, she convinced herself that there was no hope of a romance with Euros; socially, they were remote; spiritually, they worshiped different ideals. Love remained as distant as the white clouds floating above her head; a place to visit in her dreams but, she cautioned herself: spend your time gazing endlessly at the sky and you run the risk of falling flat upon the ground.

Emerging through the trees Anest arrived at Stormy Down, her mood lowered, her thoughts solemn. Her humour plunged new depths when she realised that she was being followed. Her instinct told her to look over her shoulder, her intuition informed her that Einion ap Rhiryd would be lurking in the undergrowth. Sighing, she told herself to forget about love altogether; she should enter the maladeria, devote her life to the twin delights of chastity and piety.

'What do you want, Einion,' Anest called out, hoping to conclude this assignation as swiftly as possible.

A long pause followed, then the snapping of twigs as the blacksmith broke cover; he was grinning from ear to ear, yet his eyes appeared unfocused; distant, wild, they spoke of disturbance and desperation; troubled, he was having a bad day.

'May I walk with you awhile?' His voice, normally so firm and domineering today contained a child-like quality; to refuse him would be heartless, to dismiss him would border on cruelty. What could Anest do, other than acquiesce?

'You may,' she sighed.

'Thank you.' Drawing a hand across his face, Einion attempted to wipe away a globule of spittle. However, his movements were uncoordinated, his mind lost in the abstract; the result: a beard soaked in saliva. 'Where have you been?' he insisted. 'What have you done?'

On that, Anest was of firm mind: she would not tell him about Tangwstyl. Instead, she would be evasive: 'I have been about my duty, that and nothing more.'

'Oh,' the blacksmith replied, nonplussed. 'But still, it is a lovely day.'

'Indeed,' Anest conceded, glancing up at the high, fragmented clouds. 'It is truly a relief to take respite from the rain.'

'Spring is in the air,' Einion offered, joyously. 'A time for romance. A time for love.' Moving closer, he tried to whisper into Anest's ear. 'I have been thinking; maybe I have been a little hasty in my pledges to you. I recognise the need to offer you time.'

Her sense of unease growing, Anest quickened her step; the sooner she could return home and close her door on Einion, the better. The sooner he found a new object for his obsession the more relieved she would be. They were passing Stormy Grange, climbing the hill, the knoll that led to the plateau. Soon they would be upon the Down and Anest would be in sight of her homestead.

'I am not sure what you are talking about, Einion.'

'I am talking about our plans to wed. I propose that we abandon our immediate plans to marry; instead, we should wed when I have secured a plot within the town.'

Groaning inwardly, Anest held her ground. With her feet sinking into the earthen bank, sliding upon the churned mud, she turned to face Einion. With her hands upon her hips, she made every attempt to stare him down. Why did she indulge him so? Did she take pleasure from this torture? The answer to that was a definite 'no'. In struggling to be polite, she was doing herself no favours. Therefore, the time had come to be blunt and to dismiss Einion's attentions now and forever; either that or succumb to his desires and wishes, give up the battle and become his slave.

'I was unaware,' Anest stated, 'that we had plans to marry.'

'No you were not!' Einion shouted. Then, in tones that were more conciliatory: 'Why do you tease me so?'

'Leave me alone!' Turning on her heel, Anest ran up the muddy embankment, making light of the slippery slope. With the brow of the hill in sight she steeled herself to look forward and not back; no more would she glance over her shoulder, no more would she tolerate Einion's advances; from this day forward, her life would be her own. Resolutely, she cried: 'I must collect my medicines and tend the vill.'

'You will marry me,' Einion called out as he laboured after her. Slipping and sliding, he was unable to maintain a foothold. With his burly frame adding to his disadvantage, he was fading into the distance, becoming no more than a disturbing memory.

With a sigh of relief, Anest arrived on the plateau. Gazing into the middle-distance, she recognised the solitary cot, her home. Walking towards the cot, a plume of smoke took her attention, rising into the ether; had travellers built a fire? Had someone been careless with a torch? Then, the chill of realisation formed icicles in her stomach; there were no travellers, there was no torch: someone had set her cot on fire. Someone had destroyed all that she owned.

Confused, Anest struggled for comprehension. So perplexed was she that she failed to notice Einion, breathing heavily at her side. Assessing the situation, he ran towards the fire. Without thought or consideration, he dived into the flames.

Spurred into action, Anest ran as fast as her legs would carry her. Soon she was upon her cot, shielding her face from the fire's intensity. Staring in horror, she watched as the roof crackled, she took cover as it spat out red-hot splinters. The wooden walls remained standing, but it could only be a matter of time before they collapsed. The smoke, emanating from the burning straw, made her cough, while the stench of baked dung assaulted her nostrils. This stench told her that the walls too were now aflame. Frantically, she searched in vain for a sight of Einion, the crash of a falling rafter adding to his peril. She had resigned herself to his demise when he emerged through the flames, his clothing smouldering, his beard scorched. In his rugged hands, he held a number of medicines, phials, snatched at random, trophies of his heroic rescue.

Putting all animosity to one side, Anest approached Einion. Concerned, she took hold of his shoulders. The heat from his clothing warmed her fingers, while the smell of singed hair all but made her sneeze.

After puffing out ruddy cheeks, Einion smiled at Anest. Then, he held up the medicines in a display of pride. 'I rescued all that I could.'

'You did,' Anest conceded. 'And I thank you.'

Unable to catch his breath, Einion merely nodded.

'I will fetch some water. Here, sit, rest awhile.'

Leaving Einion sprawled upon the ground, the medicine phials falling about him, Anest rushed to the river, gathering a bucket en route. Upon her return, she was tempted to throw the water over the remnants of her smouldering homestead, but she concluded that such an action would be futile; everything had been lost.

'A careless spark?' Einion mused as he straightened and accepted the water.

Anest was more suspicious: 'Or a careless hand.'

Cupping the water in his blistered hands, Einion splashed the cool liquid about his person. Suitably revived, he proceeded to drink.

The loud crack of a burning beam brought stark reality home to Anest: she had lost everything, all that she had strived for, all that she had built. She had lost her furniture, her clothing, her blankets, her medicines. Did she have the strength to re-build her life, reconstruct everything, from the beginning? Now was not the moment to find an answer. Nevertheless, she conceded, her solitary existence would be difficult to return to; company now called her; the sharing of possessions, the sharing of feelings.

'I have performed with gallantry,' Einion announced to anyone with an ear to listen. Climbing to his feet, he took hold of Anest's arm and raised it in triumph. 'Like a knight at a tourney, I have faced danger at the behest of my lady. I have won and I name you Queen of Beauty.' Kneeling before Anest in dramatic, chivalric fashion, Einion took hold of her hand, caressing it with his fingertips. Then, he lowered his head in solemn fashion. 'The battle is over. Now, you have no option; you are obliged to marry me. We shall be man and wife.'

A bleak day was taking on demonic proportions and Anest wished that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. However, at that moment, from the west, a flash of colour, heralding the appearance of Branwen. With skirts raised, she rushed to Anest's side.

Oblivious of Branwen, Einion remained in a kneeling position, as if waiting for a response or the answer to a prayer. Branwen, meanwhile, looked askance at the tableau before her, her gaze finally settling upon the smouldering homestead.

'What happened?' the freewoman asked, her incredulity going before her.

'I am not sure,' Anest replied.

Gathering her senses, Branwen turned and pointed towards the west, towards her home at Deumay. 'You must come quickly,' she demanded. 'There is a man, in urgent need of your attention.'

'Who is he?' Anest asked.

'I do not know; methinks a monk; he is in great distress.'

Without further hesitation, Anest tore herself away from Einion. Stooping, she gathered up the few medicines, the phials that the blacksmith had bravely rescued.

'I have informed Euros,' Branwen continued. 'He is watching over the stranger. His wound is deep; quickly, before he bleeds to death.'

Dismissing all thoughts of Einion, Anest ran alongside Branwen. Covering the ground at a steady pace, they left the troubles of Stormy Down far behind. Panting, they crossed Dane's Vale and the stream known as the Goylake. Then, they scrambled up a grassy bank and entered Deumay.

The sights and sounds of Branwen's chickens greeted Anest. Ignoring their clucks and their flying feathers, she brushed beyond them and entered Branwen's barn. The freewoman had taken the lead and she had guided Anest. Now, within the confines of the barn, she stood back so that the healer might tend the wounded man.

He was lying upon the straw, Euros kneeling beside him. On sensing Anest's presence, the young lord looked up before returning to his charge. The man himself was most impressive. Clothed in a Cistercian habit, he was tall, as strong as an oak, with rippling muscles. His hair was light and wavy, with a centre parting. He wore a light beard, which decorated imposing facial features, these being marked by a particularly powerful jaw.

'Who is he?' Anest asked as she fingered the deep red stain spreading over his habit.

'I do not know,' Branwen replied. 'I found him where he lies. I assume that he staggered here under cover of darkness. He would have lay, undetected still, had it not been for my need to gather fresh straw.'

With gentleness and ease, Anest freed the man from his habit only for her eyes to widen in surprise, for instead of the expected undergarment she discovered clothing of the finest order. Around his shoulders the man wore a cape, fastened with a brooch, fashioned in the shape of a dragon. A fine silk tunic covered a chain of mail. The leather of his belt, and his boots, was of the highest quality while his hose were well cut, suggesting a skilled hand. Upon reflection, Anest concluded that the chain mail had saved him, deflecting a thrust aimed at his heart. Even so, his wound was severe and, to judge from his pallor, a lot of blood had been lost.

'What have we here?' Euros mused, running his hand over the stranger's fine tunic. 'Why should anyone seek the cover of a monk's habit? Why should a man appear in disguise?'

Anest too pondered that question. However, she was more concerned with tending the wound. To that effect she removed the man's cape, his chain mail and his tunic. Then, she sought the contents of a medicine phial. The phial contained turpentine and mastic and, carefully, she applied this to the open wound. The wound, situated in the lower abdomen, measured the distance of Anest's little finger though, thankfully, not as deep.

Despite her careful ministration, Anest could not help but disturb the stranger. Stirring into semi-consciousness, he groped blindly towards the source of his distress. Seeking a second phial, Anest administered a measure of dwale by placing the phial to the stranger's lips while, simultaneously, supporting his head. As she did this, she could not help but notice the firm tone of his stomach muscles and the latent power contained within his biceps. Meanwhile, the dwale would dull his pain and allow the stranger to rest.

Anest would allow the wound to breathe. She would apply a further styptic in the form of more turpentine and mastic and, when the stranger had regained consciousness, a brew consisting of comfrey and clover, yarrow and mouse-ear hawkweed, not to mention a myriad of other, soothing, ingredients. She was fortunate in that Einion had rescued such a phial from the fire. However, supplies were short and she would have to proceed in small measures.

After placing the stranger's head upon the straw, Anest stood back. Meanwhile, Euros leaned forward. With care, he unclasped the belt from around the man's waist. Straightening, he removed a purse from the belt and proceeded to empty its contents, his fingers toying with silver coins before settling on a signet ring.

'Did you notice anything untoward yesterday evening?' Euros asked of Branwen.

'Nothing beyond the norm, my lord; all was serene.'

'In which case, I think it fair to assume that this man was assaulted before he sought shelter. But the question remains: by whom?'

As she ran a covetous eye over the wounded man's naked torso, Branwen saw fit to venture an opinion: 'By a lucky hand,' she concluded. 'Or by several men going about their dirty business, for, in single combat, I would vouchsafe that this man would prove victorious; truly, he would beat all comers.'

Anest had to agree; the stranger did have a presence, a latent sense of power. She could imagine him in combat, smiting all and sundry. However, at that moment, he was weak, engaged in a more private battle. She concluded that, with care, he would survive, his natural strength aiding his recovery. Nevertheless, care would be required, not to mention a measure of medicine.

'I am in need of herbs,' Anest complained, 'and soon I shall be without any.'

'Anest's cot was set aflame,' Branwen explained. 'All was turned to ash.'

'Who would do such a thing?' Euros enquired, his face darkening with anger.

'I do not know,' Anest offered in weary reply. Leaving the stranger, the healer walked towards the entrance of the barn. There, she lowered her head, raising her eyes only when Euros appeared at her side. 'I feel that Meirian's accusations have offered me few favours. Maybe someone took her words to heart and assumed that my skills are those of Satan. Why else would anyone engage in such a wicked act?'

'You must stay at the Hall,' Euros reasoned. 'I will make the arrangements.'

'Thank you, my lord, but what of my medicines?'

'Can you replenish your supplies?'

'Yes.' Turning away, Anest reflected: 'But, it will take a little time.'

On turning back, Anest discovered that she had lost Euros' attention. Instead, he was gazing towards Kenfig, for on the road could be spied a number of soldiers, Rig at their head. They were passing Windmill Hill and soon they would be upon Deumay, the eager pace set by their horses suggesting that trouble lay ahead.

'Quickly, inside,' Euros instructed Anest. 'Keep the stranger quiet and well hidden; best that he remains anonymous, no more than a shadow, at least, until he offers us a degree of reason and gives up the secret of his disguise.'

After a moment's hesitation, Anest responded to Euros' request. She exchanged a concerned glance with Branwen before taking her place at the stranger's side. Branwen, in turn, joined Euros amongst the chickens. While the birds fed, the young lord and the freewoman prepared themselves for confrontation, for the pace set by Rig and his men hinted at argument. Moreover, the fact that there were so many of them determined that this argument would not be light.

Slowing as he approached the bank and ditch, Rig held up a hand, signalling to his companions. They took this as an instruction to halt. Dismounting, Rig offered the reins of his horse to one of the soldiers. Then, opening the gate, he strode into the courtyard.

Taking fright, the chickens fled, but Euros stepped forward. Unable to contain her curiosity, Anest viewed the scene through a gap in the barn door. She watched as Rig approached Branwen, his hand resting casually upon the hilt of his sword.

'Mistress.' Rig bowed with due civility, his shadow falling over the freewoman. 'I am here to inform you that you are to be taken to the donjon.'

'For what reason?' Branwen asked, her eyes widening in worry, her instincts seeking the comfort of Euros' side.

'For assisting murderers,' Rig replied bluntly. 'And outlaws.'

'Blatantly, that is not true,' Branwen protested.

'It is well known that you are Rhys Goch's mistress.'

'That is a matter of gossip and should not trouble the law,' Euros protested. Placing his hand upon the hilt of his sword, he took another step forward; as he spoke, he gazed unblinkingly, deep into Rig's eyes. 'Besides, I have informed the constable of Rhys Goch's innocence concerning the murder.'

'That,' Rig replied, 'is disputed, by Johanna Wittard, custorin of the maladeria. She witnessed the crime and has spoken of the act.' Reaching across to Branwen, the chief sergeant took a firm grip, a tight hold of her right shoulder, his steel-like fingers digging into soft flesh. 'You must come with me and face justice at the donjon.'

Placing his hand upon Rig's arm, Euros sought further protest: 'Your actions are against the laws and the justice of this land.'

'Are you forgetting,' Rig laughed, shrugging off Euros' attentions, 'that I am the law and we are the justice? Be gone with you!' Turning his back on the young lord and the freewoman, the chief sergeant offered his men instruction: 'Take her!' he roared.

'My lord!' Branwen screamed as the soldiery closed tight around her. In desperation, she offered her fists and her feet to all who came near. Euros, meanwhile, drew his sword and threatened the many men who stood about him. Eight swords drawn to one informed him that discretion would be the wisest course of action. It was better to retreat, to regroup, and fight again another day.

Branwen was dragged away, wailing and screaming. Meanwhile, Anest appeared at Euros' side. The stranger was resting and was in no immediate danger; that the same could be said for Branwen would add solace to Anest's day.

'What will you do?' Anest asked, her brow furrowing as she watched Branwen disappear into the distance.

'I will inform Rhys Goch,' Euros replied. 'Branwen is his lady. He must decide on a course of action.'

'And what of Johanna's declaration?'

At this, the young lord smiled, revealing even, well tended teeth. 'Her words are intriguing, to say the least.' Casually, he flicked the stranger's signet ring from one hand to the other, his mind clearly preoccupied. 'I will have words with Johanna. But first, I must go to Brother Blanchigernonis; he will secure my passage to Rhys Goch.' With that, the signet ring disappeared into the depths of Euros' purse and the young lord offered Anest a lingering look as he gazed back over his shoulder. 'Take good care of yourself. And the stranger,' Euros added.

'I will, my lord.' Anest's words drifted on the wind. In his haste, she doubted that Euros even heard her reply as determinedly he strode towards Llanfihangel Grange. As Anest watched him go, she felt her heart swelling; maybe her feelings for him were stronger than she initially realised. Maybe a lord and a commoner could share love after all. Turning, she returned to the wounded stranger, concluding that Euros met her every desire, save one: if only he would abandon his support for Richard.

* * *

Sir Thomas Despenser shook his head in disgust. Mud from the road had splashed on to his hose, creating a substantial stain. He would look well entering Cardiff in such a condition but given the state of the roads, who would complain? A pothole had dislodged a wheel, rendering a baggage cart helpless. This cart, stationary at the neck of the convoy, ensured that all would have to endure a period of reflection, a period of enforced rest while the wheelwrights repaired the damage.

Dutifully, the wheelwrights got to work. Meanwhile, Sir Thomas made his way down the caravan's chain. The mounted knights were in the vanguard; their number swelled by foreign mercenaries, men looking for reward and adventure. The archers and the baggage train, which stretched for mile upon mile upon mile, followed on behind. The king himself was next in line, surrounded by his bodyguard of Cheshire archers. These men, numbering close on three hundred, wore parti-coloured green and white tunics with green and white hats along with Richard's emblem of the white hart. Further down the chain came the court officials and men of religious order, including six bishops and the abbot of Westminster. The tail of the convoy was made up of foot soldiers and men-at-arms. Sir Thomas himself had supplied thirty-five men-at-arms, along with one hundred archers, demonstrating his firm commitment to the campaign. Servants and odd-job men, opportunists and prostitutes made up the rump. The whole ensemble was like a beast, a serpent snaking its way through the countryside, devouring all before it.

Carrying the title Earl of Gloucester, Sir Thomas Despenser was a leading figure within the company. Twenty-five years old, and of slim build and medium height, he was a possessor of long fair hair, dark eyes and a fair beard. Pale of complexion, Sir Thomas had inherited, from his father, even, regular features. He had also inherited the title Lord Despenser, being the sixth man to hold that name. As well as estates in Gloucester, he kept a home in London and he held the Honour of Tewkesbury. He was also a Marcher Lord, a dominant figure within the Severn Valley. Cardiff fell under his jurisdiction and the town held for him poignant memories for, while he and his wife, Constance, had enjoyed many a splendid day there, they had also buried a daughter, Elizabeth, at the church of St Mary's. His thoughts went to Constance, and their son, Richard, a child in the midst of his third year. Following his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, Richard was every inch the budding soldier; a child of bearing, he wore well the king's name.

Sir Thomas kicked the mud from the soles of his shoes. Then, he caught sight of peasants begging at the roadside. As welcome as fleas upon a dog, these scavengers were the bane of courtly travel. They harassed and they grovelled in the most unseemly manner and there were times, Sir Thomas would readily admit, when he would see fit to apply his boot to them. On this occasion, he turned his back on the unfortunates and made his way to the king's coach.

The king's bodyguard of Cheshire archers surrounded the coach. A controversial group, the Cheshiremen were a law unto themselves, carrying out acts of debauchery and depravity with impunity. Some felt that the king was wont to rely too heavily upon them and that this reliance had gifted them carte blanche.

Recognising Sir Thomas, Piers Legh, captain of the Cheshire archers, yielded, creating a path, allowing entrance. The young earl approached the coach only to spy another prominent member of the court, Edward, the Duke of Aumerle. Twenty-six years old, the duke had eyes that were dark and heavily hooded. His hair was wavy, reaching down to his collar. He wore a beard on his chin while his cheeks were smooth, boyish and ruddy. A lithe and nimble man in his youth, with a great love of the hunt, his features had become somewhat rounded through good living. Indeed, there were those who would claim him the fattest man at court. Brother to Constance Despenser, Edward enjoyed a childless marriage. He carried with him a certain air, for he was a grandson of the third King Edward. Cousin to King Richard, Edward was once held to be the wisest and noblest man in the entire kingdom but, since that day, his star had fallen from the firmament. Until Richard's ascension to the throne there had been an unbroken line of king's called Edward and, it had even been suggested that this duke of that name should succeed the childless Richard. However, that idea had been quashed, though Sir Thomas surmised that the Duke of Aumerle still held regal ambitions, this adding to the fractured air that pervaded the court.

'All is well?' The duke enquired while taking care to secure sound footing as he stepped down from the king's coach.

'The wheel on the baggage cart will soon be repaired,' Sir Thomas replied. 'Shortly, we shall be on our way.'

Sir Thomas ran his eye over the king's coach. Truly, it was a majestic vehicle. Possessing four wheels with tyres of iron, the coach was pulled by five dexters harnessed in file. A driver and a postilion sat astride two of the dexters while each horse was bedecked in the king's livery. A cloth of gold made up the coach's canopy while the wooden body was richly carved and gaily painted. The king was inside, being tended by his physician, Master Melton. This was becoming a regular occurrence and it disturbed Sir Thomas, for each episode led to a darkening of the king's mood. However, the subject was best broached and not avoided; it was time to offer a solicitous enquiry: 'And what of the king's health?'

'He is still enduring one of his episodes. Melton is with him. He is supplying our serene prince and lord with a tonic.' If Edward's tone was laden with sarcasm and weary with irony it would be well understood by Sir Thomas, for the king's episodes could be most trying, wearing for even the most loyal of subjects.

'Is the episode severe?'

'No more so than the other dozen he has endured this past month.'

'The king is troubled,' Sir Thomas concluded.

'Yes,' the duke added mordantly, 'I think it fair that you repeat those words.'

'I mean...' Sir Thomas made every effort to correct the duke and engage in straightforward conversation, a task that had become increasingly more difficult these past two years, ever since Edward had suspected the young earl of coveting his lands. '...I suggest that he is troubled by this expedition to Ireland.'

'This enterprise is one of his choosing; he is the one who seeks greatness through the crushing of the Irish.'

That much was true, and Sir Thomas could do nothing but agree. A king more at home with fine silks than fine swords, Richard had eschewed nation upon nation confrontation. In that regard the peace that held with France was very important to him. Nevertheless, the rebels in Ireland had stirred him, they had stirred him by their deviousness and by their audacity; it was time to teach them a lesson. More to the point, it was time to demonstrate to the Irish, and to those about court who would whisper words of sedition, the power and the might of the king.

All this was well understood by Sir Thomas nevertheless, he questioned its reason. He would support the king, out of affection and out of loyalty; however, he was disturbed by the timing of this expedition, disturbed by the rumours of usurpation; he feared Bolingbroke, for the king's sake and for the sake of his own neck.

'There is talk that Bolingbroke might take advantage of the situation, that he is planning to seize the crown.'

Unable to stifle a yawn, Edward closed his heavy eyelids. 'Always and all days such talk abounds. Indeed, I would be troubled if we were free of such rumour.'

'So,' Sir Thomas persisted, 'you have received no word, no indication?'

'If any word of insurgence should reach my ears, you know only too well that I would inform the king.' Smiling now, the duke saw fit to place a solicitous arm around the earl's shoulders and to take him into a friendly embrace. 'Worry not, my Lord Despenser, for all have the king's best interests at heart; all will ensure that no harm befalls him.'

Distracted, Edward looked away, his attention taken by a messenger. This bedraggled soul was in heated debate with one of Richard's Cheshire guard. Taking his duties to their zenith, this soldier did not intend to allow the courier into the inner sanctum. Daggers were drawn; faces became angry and ugly. Sir Thomas reflected that the incident spoke of obsession, an obsession mirrored in Richard's paranoia.

'Such angry words upon such a fine day.' Lazily, Edward raised his right hand in gesture, as opposed to serious intent, making to stifle yet another yawn. 'I suppose I had better gallop to the rescue; either that or we have a murder to add to our delay. Truly,' he sighed, 'it is a long road to Ireland.'

While Edward talked with the messenger, Sir Thomas entered the royal carriage. Upon entering, he stepped to one side to allow the tall, distinguished figure of Master Melton, the king's physician, to exit. In addition to the two guards, suitably equipped with sharpened axes, two people were seated within the carriage: the king and his latest confidant, Sir Reginald Grey.

Of the two men, Richard was by far the more impressive. Standing some six feet tall at his proudest, he had fair skin and dark blond, shoulder length, wavy hair; these fine locks were held in place at the temples by an ornate circlet. His features were beautiful, slightly feminine, with unusually high cheekbones and a long straight nose, a nose that culminated in nostrils that were given to flare. His eyes were large, heavily lidded while a goatee beard adorned his chin. A wispy moustache drooped over the extremities of his lips. Considered something of a damsel in his youth, Richard had succumbed to the comforts of middle age. To compensate, his cloak had been well chosen; the ermine was loose and generously cut to conceal rolls of comfortable fat. Around his neck he wore a gold eagle containing the holy oil of Canterbury while, to his right, reclining upon a velvet cushion, sat his favourite pet, Math, a grim faced, bad-tempered greyhound. In his left hand, the king held one of his treasured relics: a tooth of St John the Baptist. He stared at the tooth as if transfixed, as if lost in a spell. With his fine embroidery, his coloured gowns, his ermine and his jewels, the king gave the impression that he was marching, not to war, but to a merry dance.

The king's companion, Sir Reginald Grey, Lord of Ruthin, was short and chubby. Carrying some forty years, the one-time governor of Ireland had a rotund face decorated with a à la mode wispy, forked beard. His hair was wavy and fair while his eyes were large and opaque. His shoulders were somewhat rounded and he was exceedingly short in the leg. Physically small he may well have been, but this was not to deny his large influence and presence about court. A fashionable member of the king's duketti, Sir Reginald wore a deep red tunic covered in white flowers. The garment contained a high-fitting collar and sleeves that flared to exaggeration. His hose were multi-coloured, the right leg being white, the left leg being blue. In addition, upon his left leg, he wore a gold garter. His shoes were tapered to a long, narrow point; impractical, they screamed of high status.

'Your highness...Sir Reginald...' Sir Thomas bowed before both men, offering Richard his preferred greeting. 'The repairs continue apace; I am pleased to inform you that, soon, we shall be on our way.'

'That is pleasing to hear, is it not, your majesty?' Ebullient and irritating, Sir Reginald Grey twittered like a bird. Indeed, his chirping reminded Sir Thomas of the times, those moments, when he had confronted the dawn whilst suffering from the clamour of a wine-soaked head.

The king, however, was oblivious to such chatter; slumped upon his gold cushions, he had eyes only for his prized relic.

Eventually, the king tore himself away from St John's tooth. With his eyes wide and staring, he placed the sacred object in a small wooden box before placing the box upon a cushion of purple velvet. Then, picking up a handkerchief, he proceeded to wring the life out of the cloth, the item becoming knotted in the palms of his hands. The king looked close to tears and Sir Thomas could only guess at his sorrow.

Burdened with sadness, the young earl reflected: was this the man who had dismissed parliament some two years earlier? Was this the man who had found the courage to implement his own laws and take sole charge of the country's affairs? Could it be that such a task had proved too much for him and that he was suffering from his efforts? Sir Thomas was of a mind to venture such an opinion, but he held his tongue, knowing that to voice such qualms would mean instant banishment from the court.

'And what of the town?'

Richard had spoken, catching Sir Thomas and Sir Reginald unawares. Furtively, the knights exchanged glances; worried men, each offered the other first chance to walk the tightrope of precise speech.

When it became obvious that Sir Reginald was seeking the sanctuary of silence, Sir Thomas spoke up; bravely, he queried the king: 'Your highness...what have you in mind?'

'What of their greeting?' Richard continued in a flat monotone.

'I am sure that their greeting will be most satisfactory; after all, it is not every day that such people have the chance of welcoming their king.'

'If that is so,' Richard grumbled, 'then kindly explain the half-hearted cheers that I have had to endure as I have travelled through this accursed country.'

'You talk of the villeins, not of the townspeople. Rest assured, your highness, the burgesses are cut from a much finer cloth. I can vouch for them; after all, Cardiff is my town. They know their place; they have respect; they know how to treat their sovereign lord.'

'These peasants are no more than barefooted rascals!' Darkening with rage, Richard climbed to his feet. The handkerchief had become no more than a knotted ball and, with all the energy he could muster, he threw this ball against the carriage wall. 'Why do I have to put up with them? Why do I have to suffer the attentions of imbeciles! Why is it I have no men of honour about my court!'

'Your highness...' Sir Thomas hesitated, wondering just how far he should go, wondering to what extent he should try to influence the king. '...please, be seated.'

The moment abated and Richard regained a measure of reason. His eyes remained wide and staring; to all intents and purposes, he was not there. He drifted into one of his protracted silences, in this instance staring, in somewhat detached fashion, into a mirror. It appeared as though he were searching for himself within his reflection, searching for the boy who had been crowned king. That boy, and his boyish behaviour, would emerge again at the culmination of this episode. Nevertheless, Sir Thomas feared that, one day, the king would drift off and become lost in a pit of introspection; he feared that the king's true self would never reappear.

'You will recall the burgesses of Burford, and Gloucester?' Sir Thomas ventured, sensing that the king was regaining his senses. 'They gave you a most joyous welcome.'

'The burgesses love me?' Again, Richard appeared close to tears.

'Indeed, they do, your highness.'

'Except the burgesses of London. Scum! Each and every one of them!'

'Yes, your highness.'

Seeking a second handkerchief, Richard proceeded to dab his eyes; that done, he sat back, his breathing more even, his face less flushed. Closing his eyes, his hand sought the comfort of Math. However, the dog, being as contrary as the king's supporters, jumped down, preferring a place at the Lord of Ruthin's feet. Undeterred, Richard continued his reverie, his deportment suggesting that this latest episode was nearing its end.

'Tell me,' Richard smiled. 'Have I served the people well?'

'Indeed you have, your highness,' Sir Thomas replied.

'Have I been a fair and equitable king?'

'Most certainly, your highness; no king has ruled with a more even hand; no king has been more just.'

'Not even St Edward the Confessor?'

'Not even your dearest saint, your highness.'

'Then I am loved?'

'But of course.'

'I love you.' Sensing that the moment was right, Sir Reginald chose to break cover; abandoning his Trappist tendencies, he became his regular, ebullient self. 'I adore you, Richard, as I am sure you are only too aware.'

The king chose to reward Sir Reginald's sycophantic posturing with a caress of the royal hand. The scene churned Sir Thomas' stomach. True, he was jealous, for at one time he had been the king's favourite. Nevertheless, his disgust was born out of more than petty jealousy. There was something about Sir Reginald that disturbed Sir Thomas, something about his obsequious behaviour that challenged his equilibrium. However, Richard adored Sir Reginald, and that was the end of the matter, leaving Sir Thomas to reflect that, along with volatile political judgements, Richard was making a habit out of securing the affections of questionable friends.

'I wish to be remembered as a fair king.'

'And indeed, you shall be,' Sir Thomas insisted.

'I wish Anne were with me now.'

Oh, God, Sir Thomas groaned, inwardly; the king was drifting off again. That glazed look had entered his eyes, that all too familiar look that emerged whenever he broached the subject of his dearly departed queen. True, they had been the best of friends, if not the most passionate of lovers.

'We all do, your highness; we all miss dear Queen Anne.'

'She was such a good companion.'

'As I endeavour to be, your majesty.' This time Sir Reginald Grey had misjudged the moment. Sensing his faux pas, an ingratiating grin appeared only to remain frozen upon his face.

'Shut up!' With a swing of his right hand, Richard slapped Sir Reginald, the retort echoing in the confines of the plush carriage. The sound startled Math and he responded by scampering to Sir Thomas. The guards, meanwhile, exchanged knowing glances, while Sir Reginald, pride hurt, caressed the ruddy weal upon his cheek. 'With Anne at my side,' the king continued, 'I was strong.' Abruptly, he changed tack: 'My Lord Despenser: you will ensure that my Queen Isabel is well protected, should any misfortune befall me.'

'I will, your highness.'

At peace, Richard closed his eyes. Lazily, he smiled: 'She is such a sweet child.' Then, the stern look returned, the intensity and menace, distorting the features of his careworn face. 'I want Ireland to be a great success.'

'And indeed, I am sure that God will grant your wish, your highness.'

'Will Ireland be a success?' Seeking a second opinion, the king turned to face Sir Reginald, his eyes boring into his cowering friend.

'Ireland will be your greatest glory,' Sir Reginald announced. Breaking free of fear's shackles, he proceeded to bend a knee whilst, at the same time, offering an exaggerated sweep of his arm. 'You will smash the rebels and vanquish the insurgents. You will carry all before you in triumph. You will be cheered by the crowds and showered with affection. Truly, you will be seen as mightier than the Holy Roman Emperor!'

'Come here,' the king instructed. 'Come, to me,' he urged, pulling Sir Reginald to his feet. 'Let me hug you. Let me feel your affection.' Consequently, the two men embraced, relief warming Sir Reginald's chubby features, whilst the gleam in Richard's eye suggested that, once again, he had rekindled his spark. 'You see,' Richard's gaze fell upon Sir Thomas, 'my Lord Grey offers such wise counsel; why cannot all my lords offer such sagacity?'

Before Sir Thomas could reply, a draft of wind became an informant, advising him that the carriage door had been pulled open. From over his shoulder, he sensed the presence of Edward, Duke of Aumerle.

Entering the carriage, the duke duly bowed in greeting: 'Most serene prince and lord; I am pleased to inform you that the wagons are ready; furthermore, they await your command.'

'Then get them moving!' Haughtily, Richard waved his handkerchief. Buoyed by Sir Reginald Grey, and still in the grip of his affection, the king had regained his faculties. 'Let us hasten to Ireland,' he chortled, 'let us crack some heads!'

* * *

The evening was cool, bright with moonlight and long with shadows, none more sinister than that cast by the ancient standing stone. Euros approached this imposing monolith with his mind reflecting upon the legend and its superstition: the stone could not walk, any sensible man would vouch for that, yet some maintained that this stone contained magical powers; they believed that the monolith could travel to the sea and drink. Others would contend that the entire landscape was charged with a peculiar enchantment, that events happened, spells were cast, mysteries were created far beyond man's simple comprehension. Euros carried with him few pretensions; he was an ordinary man and fully aware of that fact. This being so, he took great care and attention, for the boulders along this metaphorical path were becoming larger and ever more dangerous. Equally, risks had to be taken to uncover the truth, to reveal facts that remained well hidden; danger had to be faced if justice was to prevail. Euros had set himself the task of uncovering the truth and obtaining justice and that remained his aim. However, to succeed he would require allies, allies as staunch as the man who now appeared before him, allies as reliable as the figure who stood beside the great monolith, allies as loyal as Brother Blanchigernonis.

'Good evening, brother,' Euros smiled in greeting.

'Good evening, Euros.' In acknowledgement, Brother Blanchigernonis waved his trusty staff. Placing his staff upon the ground, the white monk proceeded to walk in a northerly direction. 'I aver that time is of the essence; that being so, kindly, follow me.'

Without argument, the young lord trod in the white monk's footsteps. Together, they walked towards Margam Abbey. Before reaching the abbey, they paused by a deserted almshouse. There, they gained entry, Brother Blanchigernonis making his way to the hearth and a smouldering fire.

'You are well prepared,' Euros noted as Brother Blanchigernonis placed the twigs of a torch into the fire.

'It pays to anticipate, to stay one step ahead of your opponent,' the white monk reasoned. 'That way you may survive to enjoy the pleasures of a mature age.'

Brother Blanchigernonis offered Euros wisdom's smile. Then, he blew on the brushwood, encouraging its flame. With the torch well alight, he walked over to a large oaken cupboard. After contemplating the cupboard for the briefest of moments, he placed a hand to his back before straightening in somewhat exaggerated fashion. The point well made, he did not call upon superfluous words for embellishment; shrewd to the end, he knew that he would hold sway.

'I take it that you want me to move that cupboard,' Euros surmised, his mind, as ever, proving quick to reason.

'Yet another benefit of reaching a mature age,' Brother Blanchigernonis philosophised, 'is that you might encourage the benevolent nature within your fellow man, without guilt or fear of admonishment.'

Taking the point, Euros placed his shoulder to the oaken cupboard. It required a fair amount of effort but, eventually, he succeeded in moving the cupboard along the cold stone wall. As if by magic, a wooden door appeared in place of the cupboard. Holding his burning torch on high, Brother Blanchigernonis proceeded to open the hidden door.

Intrigued, Euros followed the white monk, through the door and down a flight of wooden stairs. The two men had moved into a cellar. And, the more he explored, the more Euros realised that the cellar developed into a passageway.

'What is this place?' Euros enquired of his companion.

'A tunnel, connecting the abbey to the shoreline.'

'It is man-made,' Euros observed, running his hand over rough chisel marks, gouged into the sandstone. 'Who carved out such a passageway?'

'The truth is unknown. However, the story persists that the founding fathers created this tunnel; not always Godly, they were on affable terms with smugglers and pirates. That rumour is well-known, but the location of this entrance is a closely guarded secret; only a handful of men are aware of its existence.'

In the darkness, Euros nodded, his understanding growing by the moment. Amused, he gave full range to his smile. 'Why does it not surprise me that you are among their number?'

Feigning hurt, Brother Blanchigernonis cowered into a corner. 'By your tone, a fair man would say that you wish to cast aspersions upon my Godliness.'

'Aspersions, no; but it is my wish to praise you for your level of cunning.'

The white monk laughed: 'You have a fine way of offering a compliment!' Leaning upon his staff, his expression became more serious. 'We use this passageway only in desperate times and, to judge from your message, we have reached such a time. I have sent word to Rhys Goch via Y Bwa Bach. We can expect the Lord Rhys to meet us, along with your steward, Madog, and the Lady Meirian.'

The two men continued upon their way through the tunnel. Walking west, they closed on the coast. However, before they could smell the salty air or catch sight of the shoreline, shadows appeared, long and menacing.

'Have no fear; that will be the Lord Rhys,' Brother Blanchigernonis offered in firm reassurance. 'He has made good time; verily, he is keen to hear your speech.'

Holding their ground, the young lord and the white monk waited, shortly to be joined by Rhys Goch and his torch-bearing esquire, Cynan. The two men offered the lead to Madog and the Lady Meirian, the steward duly lighting their way, ensuring that each footfall should be sound.

It was to everyone's misfortune that they should encounter the Lord Rhys at his most tetchy; deliciously cantankerous, he glared at Euros. 'What is so urgent that you should persuade Brother Blanchigernonis to use this passage? What is so demanding that you should keep me from my bed?'

Unbowed, Euros confronted his challenger; undaunted, he took a step towards Rhys Goch. 'The urgency, my lord, is based on further accusation; Johanna Wittard, custorin of the maladeria, has stepped forward; she claims witness to the murder of Brother Helias.'

Clearly unimpressed, Rhys Goch sighed in exasperation. 'And?'

'She claims witness to you wielding the sword.'

Angry now, Rhys Goch roared his disapproval: 'Blatantly, that is a lie!'

'If you say so, my lord.'

Euros' casual manner moved the old lord to reflection; bluster gave way to contemplation, hot impulse cooled to considered thought. Running his fingers through his matted beard, the Lord Rhys turned his head, his features blending into shadow. With darkness covering his face, he challenged Euros to his interpretation of the truth.

'Do you believe the custorin?'

'I am not sure what to believe anymore. But I will admit, my lord, that I am puzzled as to why she should lie at this particular moment; what does she hope to gain? Why should there be any malevolence in her words?'

Unable to answer, the old lord was moved to silence. With his head hanging low, it appeared as though he had set foot upon the gallows. Euros could hear the crowd cheering; he could picture the celebration, for there was no greater sport than to stretch a man's neck, be he guilty or innocent; that moment of power, that tainted encapsulation, that sense of righteousness as the mob played God.

Euros continued: 'Distressing be my tale, but these words are mere preamble, for I must also report that Branwen has been taken hostage; Rig and his henchmen escorted her to the castle this very afternoon.'

Robbed of his words, Rhys Goch sought suitable expression; turning his back on the gathering, he drove his fist into the sandstone wall. No damage was done, except for the disturbance of a few sandstone particles. However, the same could not be said of Rhys Goch's fist, for both fingers and knuckles emerged bloodied from the encounter; bruised and torn, they carried the scars of his frustration.

Moving to his master's side, Cynan sought to deliver comfort. Though, poor man, he had lanced his abscess earlier that evening; it was all he could do to refrain from caressing his cheek amid spits of blood and puss.

'My lord.' Cynan rolled his jaw, as though making room for his words, as if seeking a path distant to the sore within his mouth. 'Surely, it would be wise to seek a fresh shelter. I mean, what if Branwen should betray us?'

'Branwen is ignorant of your position,' Brother Blanchigernonis informed the assembly. 'She has no knowledge of the cave.' Smiling, the white monk placed a reassuring hand upon the esquire's shoulder. 'Rest easy, Cynan, Branwen will not betray you.'

'We will run no longer.' Finding his voice, Rhys Goch emerged from the shadows; Euros could sense his resolve, he could read the look of determination upon his face. 'It is time to act. I will free Branwen and I will destroy that castle! I will leave not one stone standing! I will remove these men who call themselves lords! In all humanity, I will claim my rightful place!'

'With respect, my lord.' Not wishing to cool the Lord Rhys' ardour, Euros, nevertheless, saw fit to offer a challenge: 'The Castle would applaud such a reaction; you would be walking into their trap.'

'So, what are we to do?' The Lord Rhys glowered. 'Sit back and wait whilst my lady is tortured?'

'Wait, yes, until I have had time to question the custorin; I wish to learn of her motives, discover if she is mistaken or if she is moved to lie. If her accusation holds no truth, then I should wish to enlighten her as to her error. However, to complete my task, I need time. I trust that there are enough sane heads within the castle to spare your lady torture but, I wish to state to all and sundry, that I would join with you, should they harm but one hair upon that fine lady's head.'

Retreating from whence he came, the Lord Rhys beckoned Brother Blanchigernonis. Responding to the call, the white monk moved to the old lord's side. The two men then engaged in earnest conversation, the debate becoming heated, leaving Euros to guess at its path; Rhys Goch would countenance action while the white monk would preach sanity. The pertinent question remained: who would prevail?

Soon, they were supplied with the answer: returning to his companions, Rhys Goch stood proud and foursquare. 'Very well,' he grumbled, 'I will entrust Branwen's safety to your keeping. But, if you are mistaken...'

Euros bowed in gracious fashion: 'I am aware of the consequences, my lord.'

Satisfied, Rhys Goch returned to Brother Blanchigernonis. Cynan joined them and the debate continued apace.

Upon obtaining this suitable resolution, Euros turned his attention to the Lady Meirian and Madog; illuminated by a torch and its flickering flame, the triumvirate closed in a tight circle.

'It is terrible,' Meirian ventured, 'what they have done to Branwen.'

'It is terrible,' Euros reasoned, 'what they have done to Anest's cot.'

Startled, the Lady Meirian placed a hand to her throat; choked, she could barely release her words: 'Why; what has happened?'

'Someone set her cot aflame. It is assumed that they were motivated by your accusations against the healer, that they took your words to heart, that they suspect her of using the black arts.'

'If that is so,' Meirian offered, her tone contrite, her voice burdened with sorrow, 'then, truly, I am sorry.'

Touched, but unforgiving, Euros continued in robust fashion: 'Save your words for Anest; only she can make judgement upon them.'

Suitably abashed, the Lady Meirian turned her head, seeking the anonymity of the shadows. It was possible that she was moved to tears for she was wont to run her fingers under her eyes. When she turned to face Euros, however, the torch illuminated pensive features: concern for herself, maybe, or concern for Anest or Branwen?

'The cave has become a dangerous place,' Euros noted. 'I bid that you return with me this instant.'

'I cannot return.' With her face set, every muscle displaying determination, she tightened her fingers into balls, her feet standing firm upon the soil. 'I must win the Lord Rhys' favour. I must persuade him of my rights to the quarry.'

With his mind and his concerns elsewhere, Euros was in no mood to argue: he had presented the lady with a fair opportunity, he had done his duty and he could rest upon that fact.

'That is your last word?' Euros asked, seeking confirmation.

'It is.'

'Then I abide by your decision.'

Turning on her heel, the Lady Meirian marched down the tunnel; she strode beyond the white monk, the esquire and the old lord without offering so much as a glance. Soon, her shadow had disappeared, for she was well on her way to the cave and the outlaws; her favourite companions they were not, which only served to compound her ways and her mystery.

'She is determined,' Madog observed, his attention taken by the torch and the dying of its flame.

'And still I wonder at the truth behind her reason.' Euros watched as Madog turned the torch in his good hand, his breath encouraging the flame until it produced a more eloquent, regular light. 'But we have another, more pressing matter.' The young lord proceeded to advise Madog of the stranger, of his wound and of his monk's disguise. 'There is one other detail,' he offered in conclusion: 'he had about him this seal.'

Seal and torch were exchanged, Madog holding the former up to the light. 'The single lion of Powys, rampant.'

'You know to whom this seal belongs?'

'It belongs to Owain Glyn Dwr, Lord of Glyndyfrdwy. A hero in battle, he is a lord of great standing; well respected, he is a man of great repute. His warriors call him Canwyll Brwydr, the Candle of Battle.'

Pausing, Euros reflected, only to offer voice to his thoughts: 'Then, if the stranger be he, what brings him to the southern Marches? Why should he stray into our vill, disguised as a monk?'

Madog shrugged as he searched for an answer. Eventually, a shaft of mental clarity brought with it reason: 'Clearly, with no retinue, he holds no plan to join with King Richard.'

'But the king is due in a matter of days; can that be sheer coincidence?'

Euros' question hung in the air and he became aware that more work had to be done; more knowledge had to be gained, before he could supply the answer.

Movement to his left indicated that the Lord Rhys, Cynan and Brother Blanchigernonis had concluded their conversation. Madog duly joined the outlaws, resolute in his mission to better understand the Lady Meirian and her enigma.

'We must return,' Brother Blanchigernonis announced upon rejoining Euros. 'Some of us have duties to attend.'

Accepting his friend's word, Euros accompanied the white monk; together, they made a path through the secret passageway. During their journey, the young lord was moved to ponder: 'Pray, tell me, how a man can live such a double life and yet retain such an air of serenity.'

'God,' Brother Blanchigernonis responded, 'the Almighty Father; I owe it all to Him.'

# Day Five - 8th May 1399

Cardinal Francesco D'Orso endured Lauds. For the first time in his life his wish was to be anywhere but at the morning service. The mass over, the monks gathered in the Chapter Room whereupon Abbot John dealt with the business of the day. This was followed by a period of reading and study, an interlude of knowledge and reflection. Though loath to wish his time away, Cardinal D'Orso was, nevertheless, impatient with every passing minute. Then the abbot was ready; his early morning duties were complete: it was time for the confrontation.

Abbot John had retired to his study. There, the prior, Brother Osbert, and the precentor, Brother Leisan, joined him. When Cardinal D'Orso and Brother Jordan entered, they found the abbot seated at his desk. The desk was plain and simple, thus maintaining harmony with the room. Light filtered through a plain arched window, its radiance warming a simple wooden crucifix, its glow casting a sanctified shadow upon a whitewashed wall. No other adornment decorated the study. No item of consequence coloured the room. Therefore, all eyes could feast upon the desk without fear of distraction; all eyes could gaze upon the parchment and contemplate its sin, for the cardinal had rolled Johanna's document towards the abbot; the challenge presented, the inquisition could begin.

'You have had the night for reflection,' Cardinal D'Orso reasoned. 'Now, tell me; whose hand perpetrated this heresy?'

'Truly, my lord cardinal, I am unable to advise you, for the monks of Margam work to a standard script; those words, text you deem heretic, could be the result of many a man's labours, and so could have flowed from many a diverse hand.'

The abbot's statement was true and the cardinal could offer no dispute in the matter. He had thought as much when studying the neat, regular script, for the scribes strived for uniformity lest one should lay down his pen and be replaced by another, thus ensuring that continuity would prevail. Nevertheless, this knowledge served Cardinal D'Orso's purpose not one iota; it was his duty to strive for the definitive answer, it was his duty to reveal the sinner; he would seek to win God's pleasure, he would seek to right this demonic wrong.

'Nevertheless, surely there are nuances,' the cardinal insisted, 'some marks of individuality.'

'I dare say,' the abbot smiled in his customary inoffensive manner, 'that the skilled eye would be able to detect such fact. However...' his smile spread to his aging eyes, kissing them as sunlight kisses water, '...my eyes are far from skilled; indeed, it is with God's grace that I am able to witness you and your form as you stand here before me; it is with His grace that I am able to read these very words.'

With that, the abbot unfurled the document, his eyes following line upon line of neat, square characters. Burning with an all-consuming rage, the cardinal made every attempt to follow the abbot's eyes and their place upon the script. He read: 'Till into this hour, we hunger and thirst, and are naked, and are smitten with buffets. And we are unstable, and we travail, working with our hands. We are cursed, and we bless. We suffer persecution and we abide long. We are blasphemed and we beseech. As cleansings of this world, we are made the outcasting of all things till yet. I write not these things that I confound you, but I warn as my most dearworth sons.'

Moved to eruption, Cardinal D'Orso could contain himself no longer. With his fists beating upon the desk he launched into a tirade: 'I am surrounded by imbeciles! All is negligent here! You, my lord abbot, are negligent. You oversee the production of papers that rip the heart out of our beloved Mother Church! Your negligence ensures that sinners flourish within a safe haven. How do you answer these charges? Speak to me; defend yourself. Or maybe defence stands abhorrent within your lexicon; maybe, secretly, you champion the heretics' cause?'

'My lord cardinal...' Compelled to stand, Abbot John placed his hands upon the desk, his arms, shaking and brittle, offering unstable support. '...I take great offence at your accusation. I defend myself against the charge of negligence. I refute that I hold a house for sinners. Furthermore, I deny any part in your stated heresy. Indeed, I would go further. I contend that this abbey stands as a perfect symbol for those who wish to worship God. And I would challenge you to look to your own standing before choosing to criticise others; are you so without sin that you feel at ease casting the first stone?'

Taking a moment to pause, the abbot wiped away a trickle of spittle, saliva that had wandered on to his chin. Easing himself on to his chair, he placed his hands in his lap, entwining his fingers as though to prevent them from shaking.

To Cardinal D'Orso's eyes the abbot appeared weak, a man struck with the plague. Moreover, worse still, the abbot had allowed that plague to infect his abbey. The cardinal would not stand for that; he would have the abbot removed from his exalted position. However, for now, the Pope's envoy had his personal dignity to defend:

'Your words are harsh, my lord abbot, your accusations serious; I trust that you can support them with facts.'

'I point to the fact of the two Popes,' Abbot John challenged. 'How can we countenance their existence here on Earth?'

'There is only one true Pope!' Again, the abbot's desk took a beating. He should be allowed to deal with this man as he saw fit, ran Cardinal D'Orso's mind; this pointless banter and argument was a waste of his time.

'I know that there is only one true Pope,' the abbot continued. 'You know that there is only one true Pope. But how can we spread the Word of God in harmonious tongues when the Church itself speaks with a voice divided? Is it any wonder that the people are confused? Is it any wonder that we bear witness to moral decay? Is it any wonder that such a schism should open the door to heretics?'

The man had spirit, more than the cardinal was pleased to grant. Nevertheless, he remained a carbuncle on the face of his abbey. Moreover, he was becoming an irritant, compelling the cardinal to open a door in his mind, a gateway long closed to theological argument; for why trouble yourself when the facts are abundantly clear? Sin led to disease, which led to the death of his mother: sinners were responsible for her plague. Contrary thought disturbed the cardinal; he had no wish to countenance the views of others. He would do his duty, collect the facts and be gone from this miserable place.

With the heretical document safely in his hand, Cardinal D'Orso delivered one final sermon: 'You attempt to cloud the issue and deflect the blame. You are negligent and you are inattentive. There is only one fact of importance here, and that fact speaks plain: the heretical words upon this document stem from your abbey. Moreover, I will search every room; I will question every monk. I will seek the truth and, rest assured, my lord abbot, the truth shall prevail. I will not be denied. I will burn the fingers of those responsible, those who perpetrated this iniquitous sin. I will cast them into the fires of hell. And, my lord abbot, should word of complicity but whisper into my ear, then I would have your bones warmed upon Satan's hearth!' Standing tall, the cardinal allowed himself a deep breath, a pause for composure. Duly settled, he continued in abrupt tones, tones that were becoming all too familiar: 'Now, if you will excuse me, I must inform the Pope of my preliminary findings; it must remain your hope, caro abbot, that Pope Boniface will look kindly upon my final draft.'

Turning on his heel, the cardinal left the abbot's study, but not before a final swish of his cape had cut through the fusty tension, a tension that was left hanging in the air.

Silent until now, Brother Jordan remained standing, his eyes cast down to the abbot. Furthermore, despite his hard-headed business sense, he was deeply moved by the old man's plight. Head bowed, resting in his hands, the abbot looked old, but not broken, for Brother Jordan knew him well; he knew that he would fight. However, what man would fight without his supporters? What man would shun the inspiration of a rallying call? Brother Jordan was no orator, but his words were always careful and well chosen; as a friend, it was his duty to offer words of guidance, his responsibility to tender words of hope.

'Present the hand, my lord,' came Brother Jordan's suggestion. 'Offer succour to the cardinal, for this remains your only hope. Deliver the heretical hand, the hand that has spread such poison; sacrifice him so that your good works might remain.'

Then, with a bow, Brother Jordan moved his heavy frame in search of Cardinal D'Orso, lest the cardinal be left with seditious thoughts, for the spark of heretical inquiry could soon ignite into a raging fire and the bishop's envoy had no wish to be caught up in the flames.

Ordinarily not prone to discomfort, Brother Osbert found himself disturbed by proceedings. So much so that he turned to gaze out of the window. His attention was taken by an aspect of the garden, in particular, the neat row of yew trees, standing tall, like sentries at the gates of Rome. Thoughts of Rome led him to thoughts of his ambition; maybe, on this occasion, he had allowed his aspirations to get the better of him; maybe he had been in error when sending that message to the Bishop of Llandaff. However, surely it was his duty to ensure that the abbey was run on lines deemed appropriate? Surely it was his duty to report any hint of sedition? With that thought in mind, he found himself able to face the abbot. He had done the right thing after all. In addition, should the abbot be sacrificed and Brother Osbert be offered his position...such a turn of events would be unfortunate, but not without their reward.

'My lord abbot.' With his hands hidden within the folds of his habit, the prior duly bowed, secreting a secret smile. 'If we are done, I have matters to attend to...the repairs to the Church of St James...'

'Go,' the abbot acknowledged, 'tend to your duties. Leave me in peace. Allow me to reflect awhile.'

Requiring no further bidding, the prior skipped from the chamber. He would move the desk, reposition the cross and revive the room with a fresh coat of whitewash. Furthermore, he would run the abbey on lines considered more orthodox.

Only Brother Leisan remained to offer comfort to the abbot, the irony of the moment not being lost on him, given that he was the hand, charged with causing such woe. However, despite his fondness for the abbot, Brother Leisan remained committed to his calling: the Word of God was too precious to be contained within a small circle; the knowledge there within deserved a wider audience. Furthermore, God's Word was pure and should remain free of manipulation; it was for each man to speak directly to God and to allow God to speak directly to him. Therefore, Brother Leisan could rest content with his conscience. He wished the abbot no harm while, at the same time, he vowed that no man would come between him and his mission: no matter what the obstacle, nothing would stand in his way.

Finding no peace with his own thoughts, Abbot John glanced up to Brother Leisan. 'How am I to rest easily?' he complained. 'How is my head to lie content upon its pillow? True, I am weary, but I am not done with this battle yet. I require soldiers in my ranks, soldiers blessed with equal determination. I see such a man in you, Brother Leisan, and that is why I charge you with unveiling the truth. Go, seek out the heretics, learn of their reason. Moreover, if the poisoned hand should reside within this abbey then present him to me and not to Cardinal D'Orso. Of course, if you can prove that the hand resides without, then that would be to your credit. But, more than anything, Brother Leisan, I want the truth.' The abbot paused. He ran his fingers through his thick coronet of white hair, massaging his scalp, as though trying to exorcise a demon. 'Do you understand me?' he added.

Nodding, Brother Leisan understood the situation all too well. He did well to restrain his deepest feelings, for clearly this was a sign from God. Smiling, he avowed: 'You can trust me, my lord abbot; I will not disappoint you. I will work with diligence and my solution will please you. Of that, you can rest assured.'

* * *

With the sun upon his back, Euros crossed Dane's Vale, his eyes peering to the northwest, wandering over to the gentle slopes of Deumay. The Lady of Deumay, Branwen, had been removed from her smallholding and had been placed in Kenfig Castle. No doubt, she was locked in a secure room, enduring the castle's torturous form of hospitality. That notion angered Euros and gave rise to thoughts of reprisal. Nevertheless, the solution resided with the king; Branwen's plight would be placed before him and justice would prevail. At least, so ran Euros' mind as he considered the theory.

During his journey, Euros chewed upon parsley leaves, both to freshen his breath and to aid his concentration. At his side ran Ci, the dog taking time to sniff the bushes and the trees, to leave his marker upon nature, to absorb the fresh scents that had invaded the neighbourhood.

Their destination remained Branwen's smallholding. True, she was not there, but the stranger lay within her barn, his wound reliant upon Anest's care. Maybe it was due to the sunshine, or to the spell she had cast upon him, but Euros' morning had been filled by thoughts of her; it was time for them to talk, time to reach a deeper understanding.

When Euros and Ci reached the Goylake, the dog ran forward to greet Anest. She was standing beside the stream, collecting fresh water. Setting down her pail, she squatted, the better to caress Ci's floppy ears. She was duly rewarded with a number of slobbering kisses, which gave rise to joyous laughter, a sound of rare purity, rich enough to challenge the songbirds.

Rising, Anest glanced up at Euros; her eyes were tired and reflective but, like warm pools, they shone with clarity, inviting the onlooker to immerse himself in their beauty, to lose himself in the depths of their loveliness. She smiled: 'Good morning, my lord.'

'Good morning.'

'What word from Rhys Goch?'

Bending his back, Euros collected the full pail of water; together, lord and healer made their way up the grassy bank, climbing the knoll that lead to Deumay. 'The Lord Rhys continues to protest his innocence; he claims no part in the murder.'

'Then the custorin lies?'

Euros paused, the better to adjust the weight of the water; the pail firmly in his grasp, he continued up the slope. 'That is a possibility. I will talk with her when I am done with you.'

Entering the courtyard, Ci ran on ahead, his senses alerted by the chickens. The birds gave fright; plumes of feathers flew everywhere, while frantic clucks filled the air. Restoring order, Euros called the dog to heel, Ci duly slinking to the young lord's side. Setting down the pail, Euros approached the barn. There, he eased open the door and peered inside. The stranger appeared comfortable, resting, asleep, to dream in the arms of Morpheus.

'What of our guest?' Euros enquired.

'He shows signs of revival. His wound is healing and he is recovering from his blood loss and trauma. He awoke in the night and we talked a little; general chatter, nothing specific; mainly words of reassurance on my part.'

'So,' Euros surmised, 'we are no nearer to discovering his true identity?'

Anest demurred; lowering her eyes, she placed her hands together in protective fashion, her arms forming a barrier beside her slender frame. 'I thought it best to leave such investigation to you, my lord.'

'You thought right.' Removing the acquired seal from his purse, Euros held the object up to the light. He recalled his conversation with Madog and reflected upon one salient fact: this seal bore its owner's crest; therefore they were in the company of a mighty noble from the north; they were in the presence of Owain Glyn Dwr. 'I owe you a great debt,' Euros digressed, 'both for the vill and for the stranger.'

Anest fluttered her eyelashes; allowing her arms to swing free, she raised her eyes. 'I do no more than my duty, my lord.'

'Even so,' Euros insisted, 'I would like to reward you.'

At this, Anest smiled and Euros judged that she was enjoying the moment. Oh, that he could feel so relaxed, that he could obtain the answer, that he could free the question from his weary mind.

'I claim no pretensions to sainthood,' Anest replied in all candour. 'Therefore, I would be happy to accept your reward.'

'Would you be happy to accept a place at the Hall?'

There, the question was out in the open. All that remained was for her to answer so that he might breathe again.

'As a servant?' she asked.

'As my wife.'

Turning away, Anest took a few steps across the courtyard. Bowing her head, her features became pensive. Sensing disquiet, Ci ran to her side.

Then, just as the sun peeps from behind a cloud so a smile encroached upon her features; while fondling the dog's ears, she glanced up at Euros: 'Truly, I am flattered, my lord.'

'Then you accept?'

Shrugging her slender shoulders, she emitted a heavy sigh, a breath borne on the winds of frustration. 'But...' she stumbled. '...I have no dowry.'

'What need have I of a dowry?' Euros reasoned. 'I have the Hall.'

Understanding lined her features and Euros considered that, maybe, there was hope after all.

'That is true,' she admitted. 'But I would ask: what need have you of a wife, a spouse, immersed in rebellion?'

'You are rebellious?' Euros laughed.

Unable to sense the humour, Anest could but frown: 'I confess: my mind is full of seditious thoughts.'

'And what prompts such thoughts?' Euros continued, his jollity unabated. 'What moves you to sedition?'

'The suffering I see all about me,' Anest replied in a voice pained with memory, 'the injustice of it all.'

Suddenly, there seemed no place for humour; laughter would remain a stranger to this courtyard, for Euros could well understand Anest's line of reasoning; he could confess to her that he too had entertained such thoughts. Yet, what price loyalty if your mind gives way to sedition? What price peace if your spirit abandons hope? Euros had been brought up to respect the Crown, to respect his peers and his betters; respect remained as a tangible link to his father, it formed the roots of his being, a conduit to his past. However, what of his future? Surely, there had to be a way to win this lady's hand?

'In your mind,' Euros asked, 'where lies the blame for this injustice?'

'Why,' Anest frowned, 'with the king, of course.'

'You do not blame the Castle?'

'I do. Yet, they are but instruments of his torture.'

'They have minds of their own,' Euros considered. 'Their actions remain unsanctioned by the king.'

'But the king does not seek to remove them. He does not seek to control them. Truly, he is content to allow them free rein.'

As ever, there was a truth in the healer's citation: the king did allow his marcher lords a freer rein. This largesse could be explained in terms both simple and familiar: these lords were the fabric of the frontier; they occupied land that was foreign, that was alien, and so they claimed the right to live by their own edict. The marcher lords controlled their own petty fiefdoms, unlike the lords of the shire, whose knees, when bent, took root before the king. These men were free of such constraints and they were often free of justice; free of reason, they retained their independence; they were a law unto themselves.

'These men, they carry out their actions in their own name,' Euros argued, 'not in the name of the king.'

Clearly boiling with exasperation, Anest clenched her fingers into tightly knit fists. She looked around the courtyard, as though seeking an object on which to vent her frustration, her eyes finally settling upon the shimmering water within the pail. Then, reason took hold, its rationale softening her features until she became her usual affectionate self. Even so, she was moved to voice her opinion: 'You frustrate me, my lord,' she stated in tones both sad and reflective. 'Pray tell me: why must you support the king?'

'Because he is the king,' Euros offered by way of explanation.

'So, you talk only of loyalty, and not of love?'

'What else is there?' Euros asked, his weariness giving way to frustration, his instinct informing him that his hopes were unravelling like a loose ball of thread.

'But how can you be loyal, unto a tyrant?'

'That Richard is a tyrant is but your opinion; I would have it that he rules with a fair hand.'

'No.' Anest shook her head in unequivocal, decisive fashion. 'I will not stand by and accept that the opinion I voice is mine alone; talk to the people of the vill, and any vill you care to enter. They will tell you that they are ripe for rebellion. They seek only a leader, a man of courage, a man who would empower them.'

'And your new Arthur, father of Tangwstyl, he would be such a leader?'

Anest nodded, a movement that was both decisive and trusting: 'I believe that to be so.'

The conversation had wandered far beyond talk of love and talk of passion into a maze of political intent. On the one hand, Euros considered that it would be stimulating to share a home with such an intelligent companion whilst, on the other, he wondered just how he could secure her presence under his roof. Nevertheless, the prize was great, and worth the endeavour; he would present a fresh argument before abandoning hope.

'You talk of suffering,' Euros ventured, 'but what of the suffering wrought by rebellion? There would be much destruction, violence and slaughter.'

'Sadly,' Anest conceded, 'your words are true. But how else are we to eradicate the violence, the destruction and the slaughter, the suffering that tarnishes our lives until now?'

'My father gave his life, fighting for the Crown; are you suggesting that he was wrong to make that sacrifice?'

'Your father fought for his beliefs. But Richard did not wear the Crown upon that day.'

What more could he say? Clearly, she held on to strong opinions and nothing could entice her to loosen her grip. That was to her credit, Euros recognised. However, he was in no mood to prolong the discussion, resolving to continue the fight upon another day, and to battle, until his charm had been spent.

'I must say,' Euros offered, in conclusion, 'I am saddened, my lady.'

Anest bowed. She covered her head with a cape of many colours; suitably hidden, she mumbled her apology: 'Then, I am sorry if I am the cause of your distress.'

Walking to her side, Euros placed a finger under her chin, gently tilting her head until her face became visible. Her eyes were so bright and so enticing, as were her lips. 'I am saddened,' he admitted, 'because your words contain both truth and reason; it would be so much easier to bend you to my will if your words were hollow or poisoned with lies.'

Was the moment right to sample her fruits and taste her affection? Dare he lower himself to steal a kiss? In the event, the stranger answered that question, the sound of his stirring jolting Anest's head. As she turned, Euros realised that the stranger had deceived him; he had been awake all along; furthermore, he had probably heard every word.

In a whisper, Euros offered his opinion: 'Most likely, he heard us.'

'Regardless, I stand by every word.'

'So do I,' Euros admitted. 'But does this mean that a chasm exists between us?'

'If this be so, then surely true love would forge a bridge?'

Again, she had spoken with truth and perception. Truly, Euros considered, she had qualities, virtues worth defending with a sword. However, could he rally to her cause and abandon his principles? Or could a path to compromise be found? For, surely, she had made plain her beliefs and was well past persuasion; or could he work the oracle and bend her to his will? Matters of romance: why so vexing? Why was the path so tangled, so twisted with contrary emotions and confusing thoughts? In that moment, Euros realised just why he had galloped well clear of Cupid's arrow while, at the same time, acknowledging that the time for running had past. He would have to confront this problem and craft a solution, or be left to roam the purgatory of unrequited love.

'I must go,' Euros announced, taking one further glance at the stranger. 'I will talk with our guest upon my return. Kindly inform him that my mood craves unadorned answers and that any hint of deception will receive short shrift.'

Dutifully, Anest nodded: 'If that is your will, my lord.'

With his eyes locked upon hers, he delivered one last promise: 'My will remains a stranger to you, but, rest assured, I will make it familiar; that, or be robbed of my breath.'

* * *

Brother Leisan heard the abbey gates close behind him. For a fleeting moment he wondered if he would ever set foot upon Margam's sacred soil again. Then he considered the challenge set before him: Abbot John had charged him with uncovering the heretic; he had ordered him to reveal himself. Of course, he would do no such thing. Nonetheless, this mission set his mind racing: upon whom could he place the blame? Upon whom could he place the fault? His intellect played with such questions as he walked beyond the beggars at the bush; answers there were but few, but hope remained eternal; with diligence, he would extricate himself.

While beating a path along the Roman road, Brother Leisan considered that he should talk with Johanna, to ease her fears and soothe her mind. Her disposition had always erred on the side of nervous, yet she had shown great courage when distributing the parchment and, Brother Leisan considered, that courage would reveal itself once again.

The ruts in the road were both large and plentiful, causing Brother Leisan to tread with caution. Nevertheless, he made good time, passing the great monolith and Ty'n-y-Cellar – the house of the cellarer – before crossing a bridge that spanned the River Kenfig. From there, the precentor strode beyond an area of land known as Portland, paid due respect to a debating cross known as Taddulcrosse before turning right, thus following the road into the town of Kenfig.

The precentor entered the town via the south gate, his white robes freeing him from the toll collector's gaze, liberating him from the rapacious official on duty at the tollbooth. Villeins from North Corneli and the surrounding environs were not so lucky, however, each having to forfeit the levy, for today was market day; teeming, the streets within the town duly throbbed with activity.

The air beyond Es Street teased Brother Leisan's nostrils with the aroma of freshly cut meat and freshly caught fish. The scent of leather appealed to his more practical tastes while the sight of moneylenders conducting their usury educed a gaze of superiority and repugnance. Ahead of him stood the town cross and the town square while, to his left, animals grazed in peaceful oblivion. Easing his way through the throng, Brother Leisan approached the Guild Hall, a structure of stone and timber supported by sturdy pillars. An external staircase led to the upper floor and the hall itself while the lower floor housed the town gaol. The area beneath the Guild Hall was reserved for market stalls, this quarter being large enough to accommodate most of the vendors. The town square was devoid of hawkers, a pitch being allowed only on fair days. People pushed by, offering scant respect and attention, their arms loaded with a multitude of wares, items obtained from the bakehouses and the breweries, the chandlers and the clothiers, the cobblers and the apothecary. Amongst all the noise, the dirt and the colour, burgesses passed the time of day with one another, gossiping on cracked flagstones, lifting their skirts to avoid the puddles and the steady streams of diluted effluent, laughing and joking, screaming with excitement, their favourite topic of conversation being the king's imminent arrival. So be it, Brother Leisan reasoned, let them chatter twenty to the dozen; he had no mind for the king. Knowing that His Majesty would join with Cardinal D'Orso in stamping upon his beliefs, he had developed a fervent dislike of the Crown, a deep mistrust of this king, christened Richard.

Crossing the town square, Brother Leisan glanced towards Monekin Street. There, he spied a row of almshouses, together with the abbey grange. The grange served as an outlet for produce, goods to be sold within the town. In addition, the grange took its place as a guest house, a hall for hospitality and rest. Brother Leisan was on a casual hunt for familiar faces when, to his horror, he noted a group of men, secretaries to the cardinal. Though distracted by their earnest conversation they were, however, strolling along Monekin Street, closing on the precentor.

Time for thought gave way to action; without any further ado, and whilst paying the secretaries but cursory heed, Brother Leisan set foot upon the lowered drawbridge; he crossed the placid waters of the moat and entered the gatehouse.

'I have come to visit Sir William Scurlag and offer him prayers,' the precentor informed a guard before the latter could so much as raise an inquisitive eyebrow. Lazily, offering minimal movement of body and mind, the sentry bestowed his acceptance, allowing Brother Leisan entry; with haste, with more speed than that of a rat scurrying across the town square, the precentor entered the donjon.

Johanna had informed Brother Leisan that Sir William lay in the annex and so, with fingers hitching up his habit, he set foot on the storeroom stairs. In the blink of an eye he had descended into the depths of the donjon, crossed the storeroom floor and gained entry to the annex. As he opened the door, a pair of weary eyes turned to gaze up at him, not those of Johanna, but those of the dutiful daughter, Athelena Scurlag.

The fair beauty had continued her vigil, unbroken, save for a rare moment of slumber. She looked tired, her haggard expression casting a shadow over her usual radiant self. However, no amount of tiredness could distract from her loveliness; her perfect form, her luxurious hair, offered a reminder to Brother Leisan that man was made of basic instincts, the most basic of all being the attractions of the flesh. Nevertheless, he had taken his vows, he had sworn himself to celibacy, he had set himself upon the path to righteousness. He could resist all temptation. By calling upon his beliefs, he could chill the first warm stirrings of his ardour; he could pour cold water over God's most gratifying gift.

'Brother...' In a way that was both natural and flirtatious, unconscious in its execution, Athelena fluttered her long eyelashes. '...I welcome you; you come to offer your prayers?'

'I, er...' Brother Leisan hesitated, aware of his duty, yet aware of his mission, recognising that, upon this day, and from this day forth, the latter held more significance. 'I seek the custorin, Johanna.'

'But, as you can see, she is not here. She has returned to the maladeria for more medicine.'

'That being so,' Brother Leisan considered, 'I would be pleased to join with you; come, let us kneel before Sir William and pray for his salvation; let us offer up thanks unto God.'

Leaving her seat, Athelena knelt beside the brother and, together, the two joined in prayer.

Despite the sincerity of the moment, and the depths of his devotion, Brother Leisan could not help but look across to Athelena. There, he saw a worried daughter; a woman with her hands clenched tightly together, her eyes closed to this world and to all others, her lips moving in quiet supplication, a tear escaping and racing over a smooth, clear cheek.

Then, Sir William groaned; he coughed and he spluttered, spraying the annex with gobs of sweat and phlegm. The old knight's countenance was ruddy in the extreme, his breathing laboured, his phlegm streaked with the dark red of his lifeblood. Of slim build, he now appeared emaciated. His greying hair had turned white and had fallen on to his pillow. His goatee beard was unkempt, offering his puckered lips irritation, while his air of prominence and position had faded into oblivion.

Standing, Brother Leisan could not help but note that his robes had become stained with Sir William's suffering; Athelena too had become a victim of this unfortunate shower. While she busied herself in her efforts to cleanse her silks, her furs and her finery, the monk was left to reflect upon Johanna and the duty of her calling. In that moment, his admiration for her rose to new heights, to heights greater than that of the finest church spire, his mind recalled songs of the sweetest church choir; his spirit entered the gates of heaven.

Moved by such reflection, Brother Leisan all but forgot Athelena, his mind choosing instead to dwell upon Johanna, the woman whom he loved. Of course, their love could only be consummated through their shared worship of the Almighty Father, through their devotion and their determination to spread the Word of God. This love represented Brother Leisan's prime reason; it told him why Cardinal D'Orso must not succeed in his abomination, for to destroy Brother Leisan's mission would be to destroy the love he held for Johanna, a love pure and unblemished, untarnished by sin.

'If you will excuse me, brother...'Athelena's voice recalled Brother Leisan to the moment. On turning his attention to her, he noted that she had placed her hands upon her midriff. 'I apologise,' she continued, 'but I must take my leave of you this instant; kindly, will you remain until I return?'

'But of course, my lady; I will maintain your vigil. Have no fear; I shall remain at this good lord's side.'

Suitably reassured, Athelena smiled warmly at Brother Leisan. Then, she knelt before her father, first to soothe his fevered brow, then to kiss his clammy cheek.

Alone with Sir William, the precentor reflected that he could have done without this distraction, but duty called and he would be sincere in his prayers. He knelt before the old knight, the straw upon the floor imitating pins rather than a cushion. Then, he settled into a familiar routine of appeals and entreaties, asking forgiveness for those sins perpetrated during the course of a secular life.

At one with God, Brother Leisan had all but dismissed the sound of Sir William's breathing. Then, a deeper silence produced an uncomfortable start. Opening his eyes, the monk was surprised to see Sir William staring at him, only to be taken aback when the old knight reached out and grabbed his wrist.

Sir William was on the cusp of the next world, yet his grip remained as strong as forged iron; indeed, as Brother Leisan stared he could but wonder as his grasped hand first darkened and then throbbed. The pain was intense and showed no sign of abating, for Sir William's hand had gone into spasm and no power on this Earth could release such a desperate might.

'My lord...my lord...I am truly sorry.' Sir William Scurlag stared, but his eyes were unseeing and, for the first time in his life, Brother Leisan felt truly afraid. 'I beg forgiveness,' the old knight whispered, 'my sweet saint, my sweet St Peter.'

'I am not...' In vain, Brother Leisan tried to stand, the better to free himself from this grip of ill reason, only to realise that its force surpassed the strength of a mere mortal. Acquiescing, the monk could only play along, lower his head and offer silent prayer that this ordeal would soon be over, that Sir William would come to his senses or, heaven forbid, give up his last breath.

'You beg forgiveness for what sin, my son?' Brother Leisan asked, donning St Peter's mantel. 'Pray, loosen your tongue, expound upon your woes.'

'I beg forgiveness for the sin of avarice, for the sin of greed, amongst many others. I beg forgiveness for the wickedness that resides within my soul.'

'You have been greedy?' Brother Leisan asked, showing little more than casual interest. 'Pray tell me, sir knight, greed of what sort?'

'Wealth.' Sir William panted. 'Land. Possessions.'

Upon this, the precentor laughed: 'But surely, sir knight, you torture yourself, for your avarice has not been extraordinary.'

'I asked for,' he insisted, 'and I received, a great deal, more than is good for my soul. Pious, I have been not, nor have I found contentment, for my spirit has been troubled, and driven, by greed.'

'But I believe that your riches have been bundled into presents, and offered unto the Church upon saint's days and days of holy festivals.'

'This is true,' Sir William confirmed. 'I made gifts and donations when my will, and my guilty conscience, moved me. But in times of normality I led a sinner's life'

'Let your guilt be gone,' Brother Leisan insisted, 'for your generosity has eased the burden of your sin. Lie back, rest, let your mind remain untroubled, for peace awaits you at this journey's end.'

Finally, Brother Leisan felt life return to his fingers as Sir William followed his instructions and loosened his grip. Then, the old knight sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and staring, his gaze wandering into the distance, fixing upon a point known only unto him.

'No!' Sir William shouted. 'You are wrong, for my sin runs greater than mere avarice.'

'What sin could run greater than avarice, sir knight?'

'The sin of regicide; for I would have done with the king.'

As befits one who spends his time squinting in darkened rooms, copying page after page of vellum, Brother Leisan had developed deep lines at the corners of his eyes. These lines intensified as he narrowed his eyes, whilst trying to understand the reason behind Sir William's statement: could his words hold a grain of truth? Had he every intention of murdering the king?

'You would wish the king gone?' the precentor asked, by way of confirmation.

'More than that,' Sir William avowed, 'I would poison his wine and offer the cup unto his lips.'

'It is your aim to poison the king?' Disbelief brushed aside all form of reason and, truly, Brother Leisan felt at a loss, confused as to the nature of their conversation; was this merely a symptom of the fever, or did the truth race from Sir William's tongue? 'You would kill Richard?' the precentor asked, his face a mask of incredulity. 'You would kill the king, by your hand alone?'

'I would kill the king. But with aid from those at the castle.'

'Whom at the castle?' Brother Leisan insisted, bending a knee, moving closer to the penitent. 'Pray, speak to me. Tell me more.'

'The family de la March, and others. Please,' the old knight implored, falling back upon his bedding, 'please, St Peter, I beg you: grant me your forgiveness. I have been a good man. Please stand aside and allow me to enter into heaven.'

What more could Brother Leisan do other than grant Sir William his dying wish? He would play the role of St Peter to the last, knowing that God, being all-merciful, would also be forgiving, knowing that he had gained gems of information, charms to ward off the threat posed by the cardinal. Just how he would apply this knowledge remained open to conjecture; possibly, he would enlist the help of the family de la March, if only through connivance, threaten them with revelation should they refuse any form of aid. Such thoughts were for the future, for now he felt obliged to offer communication, a message from St Peter, in the hope that such words would provide a balm for Sir William's troubled soul:

'I stand aside and I open the gates of heaven with this blessing: your generosity has opened the gates and your confession has secured your place amongst us. From this day forth you may stroll with ease through paradise and never once feel the need for contemplation, or articulation, never once feel to need to voice your sins. Listen well, Sir William Scurlag, for I grant you absolution. You are a knight bold and true and I welcome you unto God's bosom, I welcome you with this heavenly embrace.'

With that, Sir William smiled. Closing his eyes, he rested his head upon his pillow. Then, he began to snore, blasting forth sonorous sounds, sounds that threatened the donjon's very foundations. Such a climax had not been anticipated but, Brother Leisan reasoned, it was better than death.

The precentor remained, his eyes fixed upon the stricken form of Sir William, reflecting that never again would he go hawking, never again would he read poetry at his bed for, despite a lifetime of resource, irascibility and cunning, this slumber could be only an interlude, a prelude to death.

Creaking upon its hinge, the annex door swung open and in stepped Johanna, stooped, with lowered head. In one hand, she held a phial of theriac while a wine jug swung from her fingers, medicines for the old knight, prescriptions to ease him to his rest.

'I cannot go on,' Johanna babbled, when glancing up and recognising Brother Leisan. 'This feeling will destroy me, overwhelm my soul.' Then, she dropped the wine jug and the theriac, the medicines staining the straw whilst her tears stained his habit. He would allow her to cry. He would wrap his arms around her. Then, he would tell her of Sir William's confession. He would inform her that their prayers had been answered, tenfold.

* * *

Morgan de Avene drew back his bow and, with a steady hand, he aimed his arrow. With his bowstring taut and his yew-bow flexed, he prepared to release his anger, Payn de la March being the object of his fury. Always the barbarian, Payn had exasperated Morgan from their first meeting. However, he held power and power curried favour and the notion of friendship, a perception that had been shattered by the incarceration of Branwen of Deumay. Honour and duty told Morgan that he must gain revenge for his lady. And, to that effect, he would act; he would let his bow have its say.

With muscles bulging in his powerful right forearm, Morgan stood still, his body taking the strain. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he released his arrow, its barbed head reaching its target, shattering sinew and bone. At least, that was the image Morgan held in his imagination. In reality, he had merely scattered more straw about the castle's inner bailey. Nonetheless, his practice had been done and he would have his day.

After retrieving his arrows, and placing them into his quiver, Morgan set about smoothing his bow with a piece of dogfish skin. He reflected upon his love for Branwen and the love he had held for countless other ladies, married and unobtainable one and all, perfect embodiments of courtly love. Such love was the fashion, serving the purpose of honour and amusement, though Morgan felt that he had moved beyond such trivialities. It was time to embrace the love and the warmth of a beautiful woman, a woman he could call his own, a woman who would do more than just share his bed.

The archer spent some time reflecting upon such a notion, his senses barely acknowledging the activity within the inner bailey. So deep was he within his reverie that he all but missed Matildis as she shuffled towards him, the matriarch, her hair finely braided and her eyebrows arching, walking with her customary dainty, minute steps.

'Good day, my lord.' Pausing, Matildis called Morgan to attention, the archer responding by setting down his bow.

'Good day, my lady.'

'I wonder if I may have the pleasure of walking with you awhile. After all,' Matildis glanced towards the sky, her eyes following a puffy white cloud as it morphed across the heavens, 'it is such a nice day.'

Not wishing to offend, the archer duly picked up his bow and made to follow, Matildis leading him through the inner bailey, across the drawbridge and into the town.

The high street thronged with people, each looking for a bargain, some willing to barter, others accepting their lot. For the townspeople, smiles were their prerogative, reflecting an economy that was buoyant, the burgesses duly profiting from the forced participation of the villeins, selling their goods at a price that veered towards the extortionate whilst buying the villeins' commodities at a cost that well-suited their purse.

On recognising Matildis the burgesses duly bowed and offered civil greeting whilst the matriarch, in return, smiled and waved like the Queen of the Realm. Morgan, on the other hand, kept his silence, preferring to act as a shadow, brooding over the anger he felt towards Payn. Plainly, he felt uncomfortable about this public procession, his sense of unease playing across his Roman features.

At the town cross they turned left and strolled down East Street, passing a messuage, the home of the town hermit, and then the church, dedicated to St James. There, Morgan spied Brother Osbert, arms waving, his face angry, making great play out of goading the masons into work, for the chancel was in a sad state, a state of disrepair, a mere shadow of its former glory, a reflection of the times and of the burgesses' spiritual ambiguity as, little by little, they distanced themselves from God.

Two boys played a ball game against the side of the holy building, their laugher turning to scowls as Brother Osbert chased them away. Glancing at Matildis, Morgan noted that the incident had not disturbed the lady and that she had retained her focus; clearly, she had something on her mind, something pertinent to say.

Nevertheless, the matriarch kept her silence as they left the town far behind them, exiting via the East Gate and walking along the mill road. Soon, they came upon the mill, with water from the River Kenfig supplying its power, before pausing at a spring, said to be efficacious in the curing of fractured bones. Morgan was aware of many a man and many a woman who had taken to the waters, though, mercifully, he had been spared such a test.

'I could well understand if you felt anger towards us,' Matildis announced, whilst gazing into the clear water. 'If I were in your position, I would hold views, exactly the same. But, I would hope that God would grant me foresight so that I may appreciate my error, help me understand that, in this instance, all anger is misplaced.'

Morgan adjusted his bow. He gazed into the water, his face a mask of solemnity, his eyes unseeing. What game was this lady playing? What trick was about to unfold? After all, she was a de la March and as cunning as all the others. Indeed, she could run rings around the best of them and even tie Sir Roger in the tightest of knots.

'I admit,' the lady continued, 'that we were wrong to deceive you, regarding the demise of Brother Helias. However, I tell you truly, this deception was given voice out of respect for your feelings, for it is true that Brother Helias betrayed us and, knowing your close association, such a revelation would have been a wound unto your heart.'

In this, she spoke the truth. Yet, could that be the end of the matter, the reason for their walk along the riverbank? No: they needed his arrow, in that Morgan could make sense of her motives. And what of his feelings towards Richard? Despite his distress, would he still assassinate the king?

'If your words hold true,' Morgan challenged, 'where in this resides the honour?'

'The honour resides in completing the task. You are a man of principle and, for that, I like you. For that reason, I offer these words of counsel: principles hold no place at the king's court; if you stand on principle, you do no more than invite the sly dagger. This dispute between us is a nonsense; our true enemy is the king. For that reason, I wish to place the matter of Brother Helias firmly behind us; I wish to welcome you back into the fold, to your rightful place at our table.'

With his features softening, Morgan bowed in appreciation: 'If that is your want, my lady.'

'Indeed it is. We need you, Morgan and, lest you forget, you need us; together we are strong, divided we are nothing; together we can cut a swathe through this land and capture the rewards on offer; together we can see Bolingbroke crowned king and take a privileged place at his court.'

'And, in all this, what of Branwen?'

The matriarch frowned, her eyes narrowing in contemplation, her gaze fixed firmly upon the archer's face. After a moment of consideration, she offered up her question: 'You love the lady?'

'Indeed I do,' Morgan replied, 'with all my heart.'

'Then, clearly, we are doing our best for you.'

'How can you say that,' he cried, 'when you threaten her with torture.'

'Threaten, yes. But torture...' Matildis shook her head in decisive fashion: 'I would suggest that fear be enough.'

Unbowed, Morgan continued upon his quest for reason: 'And you contend that fear suits my lover's countenance?'

'I contend that our needs are the same and that Rhys Goch presents a barrier to our fulfilment; we need to offer him unto the hangman before we can safely move on. Try to understand, Morgan, that Branwen's capture is a means to an end, a means that will satisfy our ambitions, for, in time, she will talk; she will tell us of Rhys Goch's location. Then, we can have done with him, thus freeing the path to your fair lady's heart.'

True, this path ran red with blood but, equally, its vistas were most glorious; despite his better judgement, Morgan could feel himself bending like a willow, yielding to Matildis' will.

'Our plan makes sense,' the matriarch continued, 'and our motives are based on sound reason. So you see, Morgan, you have no need to lose yourself in principle; you have no need to become upset, for you are in a unique position.'

Intrigued, Morgan took a step towards Matildis, the roots of his reason all but torn from the ground. 'How so?' he enquired.

'Branwen trusts you. I dare say she loves you. Talk to her, encourage her to reveal the seat of Rhys Goch's lair.'

'And in return?'

'We will capture Rhys Goch and have done with him. Also, we will embrace you again into our plans; for what good is a lady's hand without the means to support her?'

Nodding, Morgan acknowledged that Matildis had given voice to a fair question; true, he was not poor, but neither was he rich. Compared with his contemporaries his means were no more than modest. However, now was the moment to become their equal. Now was the time to answer the rhetorical question: despite his distress, would he assassinate the king? The answer was 'yes.' Despite all the bad feeling he would loosen his arrow, despite all the enmity he would play the assassin.

'I will talk to Branwen,' Morgan announced. 'And I will honour my commitment to you; you may rest assured that I will kill the king.'

Smiling, Matildis allowed her eyelashes to dance like butterflies, their wings all aflutter. It was all she could do to restrain herself, to prevent herself from leaning across and presenting the archer with a kiss.

'You make me wish that I were thirty years younger,' she announced, with her heart skipping like a lamb in springtime. 'I tell you truly: if that were the case, the likes of Branwen would barely turn your head.'

Laughing, Morgan released the last of his tension. He was one of the 'family' again, a 'cousin' to the brothers de la March.

'I contend that you speak the truth, my lady.'

'Indeed I do,' Matildis confirmed. 'And I assert that Branwen is lucky to have won your love.' Businesslike, she turned, her gaze settling upon the town of Kenfig, her arm outstretched, offered, awaiting support. 'Will you escort me back to the castle? I have a feast to plan. And, I dare say,' she joked, 'that the king's execution will fair whet our appetite; best we summon up a further hundred pigs to add to the roast!'

* * *

Johanna Wittard administered the wine and the theriac to Sir William Scurlag. Then, she returned to the maladeria to attend to her duties. The old knight continued to fight, aided by his daughter; if he survived, it would be a miracle and Johanna would give thanks unto God. However, would God listen, or would He ignore her, dismiss her; condemn her as a sinner?

Brother Leisan had offered words of reassurance but, to Johanna, they had sounded false. She felt confused, tangled in a web of lies and deception, all of her own making; extrication seemed impossible; a drastic solution remained her only hope.

She thought of poison and self-administration, but if she submitted to such a course of action her way to heaven would be barred. Maybe a place in paradise had already been lost to her, lost on the day she had sworn faith to the heretics. Her mind cried, screamed: wherein lies my salvation? Or had all hope already gone?

Signing in desperation, Johanna looked around the salle des malades, her eyes seeing but barely recognising her patients. They ranged from the blind to the crippled, the elderly to the impoverished, the mentally troubled to the physically diseased. They sat, or they reclined, two or three to a bed, some being washed, others being fed. The more able were on their feet, being led to the latrines or were merely watching as the servants collected their dirty sheets for washing. Some shouted abuse while others gathered around the meisterin, ostensibly to complain about the meagre offerings that passed for supper. At the door, the schauerin escorted a new patient to his bed. He had already been washed and disrobed, his flea-infested clothes having been sent to the delousing oven. Johanna became vaguely aware that she should be supervising this scene; she should be taking charge, issuing orders, tending to her patients needs. However, she found the milieu somewhat overpowering, overbearing. As a result, she rushed out of the maladeria, running until her feet came into contact with the Roman road, sobbing as she made her way back to Kenfig.

At first, she had no idea as to what she was doing. And then, a notion suggested itself: she would go to the Church of St James and pray for an equitable solution; she decided that, after all, God would speak unto her; that being so, she would act upon His instruction.

Scurrying along the Roman road, Johanna looked neither to her left nor to her right. She stumbled beyond the great monolith and the cellarer's house and was closing on Taddulcrosse, having not set eye upon a single soul. Then, heading north along the Corneli road she caught sight of Euros, discovering to her dismay that he was striding purposefully towards her.

What to do? She could not turn and run. Or rather, she could, she reasoned. Then, he too would run and soon catch up with her. While she dithered over her plight and her course of action, Euros made his move. He strode up to her, thus removing her need to make a decision. Curiously, this acted as a balm, soothing her mind.

'Good evening,' Euros announced, his eyes soft, his smile wide, his countenance the very epitome of civility.

'My lord.' With her hands disappearing into the folds of her cloak, Johanna made every attempt to look down, made every effort to hide her eyes.

'This is indeed a pleasant surprise.'

Oh, that she could say the same. 'How so, my lord,' she offered, her gaze fixed upon a point just above Euros' ankle; its curve was smooth, elegant, refined. She had never taken the time to observe an ankle in such detail before; even within the confines of her troubled mind this very act seemed bizarre, as though she were viewing the entire scene through someone else's eyes.

'It was my intention to meet with you at the maladeria,' Euros announced; 'it appears as though you have saved me half the journey.'

'I see.' Now, Johanna felt as though she were floating, as though she had been taken up on to a high, fluffy cloud. 'But I must go to the town,' she challenged. 'I must pray at the Church of St James.'

Unperturbed, Euros merely broadened his smile: 'Then you would have no objection should I accompany you?'

'If that be your pleasure, my lord.' Her words were no more than reflex, her tongue the property of another; how had she reached such a condition? How could she regain control of her mind?

In a curious state of detachment, Johanna followed Euros as he walked beyond the Angel Inn and the Church of St Mary Magdalene. She could escape his attentions now by seeking prayer, by hoping that St Mary Magdalene would act as a conduit every bit as receptive as St James. Yet, she chose to forsake this opportunity. Or, rather, the calm part of her mind chose to forsake this chance so that she might follow Euros even though that part of her mind, the part that remained agitated, more familiar to her, continued to scream 'run'. Why had she determined to disobey this agitated voice? Looking back, she could recall times of displacement, times when her mind seemed to belong to another. Strangely, she invariably felt more at peace during such episodes. It was as though a battle were raging, a battle for her sanity, akin to the battle of good versus evil; in Johanna's mind, it was a battle for her very soul. Her conscious mind remained troubled, wary of Euros, wary of the world at large. Yet, her unconscious, the part that floated upon the clouds said 'trust him, go along with him'; who controlled this part of her mind? Not her, to be sure: could it be that God had possessed her? Oh, Blessed Mary, Blessed St James...had her prayers been answered? Alternatively, was this merely a delusion, a reflection of her passive nature, a symptom of her illness, for illness this surely had to be?

No: how could she think in such a way; she was not troubled, she was not ill; God had possessed her. Yet, she was a sinner, God would not possesses her; maybe she had been possessed by the Devil. Oh, Sweet Jesus, no: she would sacrifice herself into the flames of damnation rather than become an instrument of the Devil. However, what if the Devil had controlled her since childhood? What if she was evil personified? What if...what if...what if...what if...She began to cry, silent tears of torment, tears of desperation, tears of relief; tears of confusion. Tears shed by a stranger, tears shed by another. Tears streaked her cheeks, but those tears were not her own.

'There must be great excitement at the maladeria,' Euros suggested, matter-of-factly; if he was aware of her distress, he did not let it show; indeed, he appeared so natural, so normal, so in control.

'How so?' she asked.

'The king; it can be only a matter of days now before Richard arrives in Kenfig.'

'The king has little interest in us,' Johanna stated. 'And, truth to tell, we have little interest in him; you must understand, my lord, that the maladeria is a world unto itself.'

'A world rich in devotion,' Euros offered.

'We do what we can, my lord, both for our charges, and for the satisfaction of God.'

While absorbing these words, Euros took time to lean nonchalantly against a splayed oak; the tree, one of many that lined the roadside, displayed a truth, namely, that this area had once been rich in woodland.

'Indeed,' the young lord conceded, 'God must be pleased by your work.'

'It is a calling,' Johanna confessed. 'But, fair to claim, we do no more than our best.'

'However,' Euros insisted, 'your best must require great knowledge.'

'Your words are true. But my predecessor as custorin was a great teacher; she had a rich gift for the task.'

'And, I daresay, you garnered additional skills through practice and through the study of books.'

Her eyes widening, her senses spinning, Johanna wondered where this conversation was leading; why had he broached the subject of the scribe and his word?

'Medical books are only produced in Latin,' Johanna offered, her tone defensive, her eyes furtive.

'I am aware of that,' Euros confirmed.

'I have little knowledge of Latin.'

At this, the young lord merely smiled: 'But enough to aid your work, surely.'

'Why this talk of Latin and books, my lord?' Her agitation building, Johanna could hear the voices screaming, the Devil's tone, inevitably, resounding, echoing like a brutally struck bell. Euros knows. He knows about the heresy. Yet, how could he know? Who had told him? Brother Leisan? He would not betray her, or himself, for that matter. See, even amongst all this confusion, she could still maintain a notion of logic; that thought cheered her, at least. Then, Rig, he had spread word of her misdeeds. But why? For what reason? No, it was a guess, pure and simple; Euros was doing no more than casting bread upon the water, hoping that the fish of knowledge would bite. However, she would hold her tongue because she was clever, smarter than him. Yet, of course, she was not; he could see straight through her; daresay, he could read her mind. Again, a moment of optimism had given way to desperation; she was lost, she had no hope; the end was nigh. Sobbing, she began to cry.

'Does my talk upset you?' Euros asked, solicitously.

'No,' Johanna wailed. 'But I find your words without reason.'

'Do not be distressed,' the young lord insisted, 'for my words are naught but idle chatter, gossip to speed the time of day.'

He was such a kind man, she had heard that sentiment expressed by many; maybe he spoke the truth after all. Except, the Devil would have none of it: Euros was out to condemn her; he would see her burn at the stake.

'Books are truly wonderful...'

Euros continued with his musings, but his words were mere fragments to Johanna; one moment she was with him, the next she was lost. During these episodes she danced with the angels, only to pause, so that she might laugh with the Devil; loud and strong, she sang Satan's song.

'...there is no greater power than knowledge.'

Enough was enough: she would succumb to these voices no longer: from this moment on she would be herself; she would regain control of her mind. She would stand up and fight the Devil; with God at her side, she would win.

'Your words are of great interest, but, please forgive me if I appear distracted, for, you see, my lord, I have been so busy lately that sleep is but a stranger.'

'I understand,' Euros nodded.

There followed a period of silence as the young lord and the custorin walked towards Kenfig. They arrived at the south gate just as dusk was beginning to fall. In contrast to the day, all was now quiet; trading had ceased, the villeins had gone home. The burgesses were in the taverns, celebrating, or were safely ensconced in their homes, contemplating the extent of their profits, for mammon had smiled upon them this day.

'Thank you for accompanying me, my lord,' Johanna smiled graciously. 'Now, if you will forgive me, I must spend some time in prayer.'

'But of course.' The young lord made to step away, only to pause and regain his position. 'Before I go, I have one more question: it concerns the murder of Brother Helias.'

So, she was wrong to trust him after all, wrong to trust anyone. So soon, she could feel her resolve waning. But wait: she must stand her ground; she must not succumb, not to the Devil's voice, not to the questions set by Euros.

'I know nothing regarding the murder of Brother Helias,' Johanna announced, boldly.

The young lord frowned; perplexed, he showed signs of bewilderment, running his fingers across his brow. 'That is strange; your words contradict your earlier statement, made to the chief sergeant.'

'What I mean is...' Do not flounder, Johanna told herself: be strong, be assertive. 'What I mean is...I know nothing more; I told the chief sergeant all I know.'

'That Rhys Goch thrust the dagger?'

'Yes.'

'But...' Euros scratched his head in puzzlement...'I thought that Brother Helias was killed by a sword.'

'Sword, dagger, what does it matter? The poor man is dead.'

'Sad, but true,' Euros conceded. 'And what of the detail; after all, it is difficult to remember events of yesterday, with any clarity, let alone a month ago. Even so,' he continued, 'I would have thought that the detail of a murder would have left an indelible mark, an imprint upon the mind...it must have been a terrible sight.'

'It was.'

'It must have upset you greatly.'

'It did.'

'So much so that you held your tongue silent for over a month.'

Her mouth dry, Johanna felt close to choking; she felt as though her words had lodged in her throat. What more could she do, other than maintain her silence, cling to the forlorn hope that, confronted with such calm, Euros would simply melt away.

'Why do you lie, my lady?' Euros asked, his tone containing an edge hitherto not present.

'I do not lie.'

'I would like to help you; it is not my wish to condemn you. But, if you continue with this pretence, condemn you, I will.'

'Please,' Johanna begged, 'leave me alone.'

'What advantage might you gain from such a lie? I see none. What advantage might the murderer gain? I see plenty. All that I require is to establish a link between you and the murderer, and a reason as to why you should acquiesce to his will. Let me present you with a few possibilities: maybe you are friendly with the murderer and you lied out of loyalty. On the other hand, maybe you were the murderer's accomplice; accomplice, I say, for I do not believe that you have a mind for violence, let alone murder. Maybe you were purely mistaken, deceived by the shadows. Or maybe your past contains a shadow, a secret known only to the murderer, something that you wish to keep veiled.'

A quick glance up, a flush of red spreading across her cheeks, a look of guilt, a look of shame; of course, all duly noted by Euros.

'I see, my lady. I see that we have touched upon the reason as to why you were forced to comply.'

So, was this the end of the game, the kill at the end of the chase? Or could she save herself by confessing her sin? The Devil told her to hold her tongue, but she determined to ignore the Devil. Then, a thought: could this be the answer to her prayers? Had God sent Euros along this road with the sole purpose of extracting her confession, of cleansing her soul, of leading her to salvation?

'I want to help you,' Euros insisted. 'I want to uncover the truth.'

Then, Johanna caught sight of Rig, caught sight of his imposing figure as he strode through the town. It was now or never; the moment had arrived; she had to find faith in herself.

'I cannot talk now.' Johanna glanced towards Rig: 'Some people are listening. But I will meet with you tomorrow, after the bells have chimed for Vespers.'

'At what location?'

'I will meet with you beside the pool, near the land formerly held by the Knights Hospitaler; I will talk with you then.'

Her mind made up, she felt comfortable in turning her back on Euros. Rig glanced at her as she walked through the town, but she paid him little heed. With head held high, she entered the castle. True, she wanted to cry; but she found the strength to hold back her tears. It had taken nigh on thirty years, but she felt as though she had discovered the real Johanna; now, the test was to hold on to that thought and see the task through.

* * *

Morgan de Avene followed Matildis up the spiral staircase, finally alighting on the fourth floor, the top floor of the donjon. There, the guest chambers were situated; luxury apartments for welcome visitors, sumptuous quarters for honoured friends, opulent rooms for the nobles and their ladies.

Positioned, outside the door of one such chamber, was a guard, a halberd held menacingly in his hand. On catching sight of Matildis, he lowered his weapon; bowing, he brought his heels together before standing to attention, his gaze focussing upon some imaginary point in the distance.

'Open the door,' Matildis instructed.

'Yes, my lady,' the guard replied, without pause for dispute.

'She is all yours,' Matildis smiled at Morgan, 'now and forever more.'

Stepping beyond the guard, Morgan entered the chamber, his eyes roving around the room. To his left he noted a line of silk tapestries whilst, immediately to his right, there stood a washing pot, positioned beside the hearth. The outside wall contained a shuttered window, complete with window seat alongside a trestle table, scattered with women's toiletries, accompanied by a simple wooden chair. The toiletries gave a clue as to this being a lady's chamber, as did the sweet scent of spring flowers, scattered over the elaborately tiled floor. At this point Morgan closed the door, ensuring privacy for himself and for Branwen. Smiling, he noted that his would-be lady was standing beside a large sumptuous bed. In Morgan's imagination, Branwen reclined upon the bed, her golden hair splayed over the quilt of red-haired sirens, her sensuous body making a comely imprint in the red sindon mattress. The mattress was stuffed with wool, ideal for warmth and for loving embraces whilst, hanging from the canopy, a lantern, made of translucent horn and containing an all-night candle, provided a romantic backdrop, imbuing the chamber with a soft, sensual golden glow.

'Branwen.' Morgan took a step towards the lady, his arms outstretched, as though anticipating an embrace.

'Why have you done this to me?' Instead the lady turned her back on the archer, her indignation apparent, made plain, in the stiffening of her every sinew.

'This is none of my doing,' Morgan insisted.

'Then whose hand guides this indignity?'

'Payn de la March,' the archer conceded. 'But I avow that we speak no more of him.'

'Why ever not?' Branwen demanded. 'If Payn de la March is behind my incarceration then I suggest that we not only speak of, but speak unto, him.'

'It is not that simple; you do not understand.'

'Then enlighten me.' In her frustration Branwen flopped upon the bed and beat her fists into a diapered pillow. 'I am innocent, so why should talk of Payn be so difficult to understand?'

'I wish that it were within my power to explain.' Walking around the room, Morgan considered his options; how much should he tell her, how much should he reveal? Could he be open and honest? Could he take her into his trust? Eventually, he conceded: 'We need information.'

'We?' Glancing up, Branwen raised an inquisitive eyebrow, her green eyes alert to fervent possibilities.

'The Castle needs information,' Morgan corrected. 'It would be wise of you to speak now, rather than hold your tongue.'

'And if I choose to hold my tongue?'

'You must understand: there is only so much that I can do to protect you. You must also understand that they are not averse to using unscrupulous methods, methods the barbarity of which I would rather not talk.'

'I will withstand them!' Branwen announced, indignantly. 'I will withstand them, no matter what their methods!'

'And pain me in the process?' Morgan cried. 'Your spirit is admirable, my lady, but your faith is misplaced; everyone talks, in time.'

For a moment, Branwen lapsed into silence, her deep green eyes focussing on the vine-leaf decoration that skirted around the bed. In that moment, she looked so vulnerable and Morgan felt the urge to sit beside her and place his arms around her. Nevertheless, correctly, he determined to bide his time, to await a moment when she would be more amenable.

'Tell them where Rhys Goch is hiding and save yourself from such torment,' the archer instructed.

'But,' Branwen protested, 'I do not know where Rhys Goch is hiding.'

'You must have an intermediary,' Morgan insisted.

Branwen paused. She thought for a long while before speaking. In her peat-fired, husky tones she finally conceded: 'We do.'

'Then reveal his name! I reiterate: they will remove your words by force if necessary; do you think that I could stand by and accept that? Rhys Goch is an outlaw, a murderer; he is not worthy of your pain.'

'The Lord Rhys maintains his innocence,' Branwen replied, softly.

'Clearly, his words are false; plainly, he lies. Rhys Goch has no future; his contemplation can stretch no further than the hangman's rope.'

Now was the moment. Now was the time to seize the possibility; sitting beside Branwen, Morgan took hold of her hand.

'Truly, I am saddened that such a once and noble lord should come to such an end; but he chose his path, he chose to become an outlaw.'

With his fingers caressing Branwen's hand, a hand scarred from her labours, hardened from her toil, refined only from those days of high living, those days when Rhys Goch's men tilled her soil, with his fingers caressing Branwen's hand, Morgan stole a kiss.

'The Lord Rhys has no future,' the archer affirmed, 'but we can look forward to happy times together. Marry me; be my wife.'

Upset, Branwen withdrew her hand. Annoyed, she marched across the room, only to pause beside the trestle table. 'How dare you utter such words,' she scolded, 'the time is not ripe for such talk!'

'The time is never ripe!' Morgan complained. 'Why do you torment me so, my lady? I concede that you hold affection for Rhys Goch. But I would have you keep in mind that I am not without influence within this castle. That being so, I make the following proposal: marry me and I shall see to it that Rhys Goch's life be spared.'

'If you have so much influence over the family de la March, why not spare me from such indignity? Free me from these silk binds, these trusses that hold me within this prison, save me from all danger, from the threats you so recently spoke of.'

'If I could, do you not think that I would gather you up in my arms and wrap you in ermine? That I would make you a rope of these silks and free you from this tower? You fail to understand as to why the family de la March are so desperate, my lady, fail to appreciate as to why they wish to capture Rhys Goch.'

'That being so,' Branwen smiled, falsely, archly, 'I ask you, my lord, to kindly enlighten me.'

She was showing plenty of spirit. She was offering ample resistance. Little-by-little, she was slipping away. Was the time right to apply drastic measures? Was this the moment to allow the heart to rule the head?

'Believe me, my lady; I would love to enlighten you upon this matter.'

'If you truly loved me,' Branwen chided, 'you would entertain no doubt; your tongue would race with explanation; your lips would speak of nothing but revelation.'

'If I tell you the detail,' Morgan confided, 'you must make but one promise.'

'Upon my soul,' Branwen pledged, 'that promise will be solemnly kept.'

In a show of good faith, Branwen left her position beside the trestle table. Out of habit, she hitched up her skirts as she walked over to the bed. There, she sat beside the archer, her shoulder resting against his shoulder, providing mutual comfort, while a wisp of her hair broke loose, touching his cheek.

Unable to resist, Morgan took hold of Branwen's fingers. As if to claim possession, he caressed them then placed them in his lap. There they resided, amongst the flowers of his gaily decorated tunic, offering the latent promise of more playful movements, intimacies, leading to excess.

Overcome, Morgan emitted a sigh of resignation: 'There is a plot afoot, to murder Richard.'

'Richard?' Branwen frowned. 'Richard the miller?'

'No, my lady; Richard, our liege lord, our king.'

'But...' Open mouthed, Branwen hesitated, '...you talk now of madness.'

'Madness this is not,' Morgan insisted, 'for our reason makes perfect sense.'

'Our?'

'Indeed, fair Branwen; for I am to loosen the arrow.'

Shocked, Branwen stepped away from Morgan. The seductress no more, she rose to place great distance between herself and the bed. 'What manner of folly is this?' she asked, bemused. 'Has the night sky been so shrouded in cloud that I have missed the fullness of the moon? For mere madness this is not; here, we talk of lunacy.'

'You talk in the heat of the moment and without consideration,' Morgan protested. 'But I tell you this: we act in the best interests of all our people; depose Richard and we free them from the yoke of oppression, depose Richard and we liberate them from the burden of subjugation; oust this evil king and we deliver them from this cruel tyranny.'

'And what of your reward in this matter?'

'Substantial,' Morgan admitted. For the first time in an age, he allowed himself a broad, playful grin: 'Enough to keep you in finery for the rest of your days. You would want for nothing, my lady; though your demands may be great, all would be met.'

'Save for one,' Branwen admonished. 'Namely: the desire to remove an assassin from my bed.'

'Desire comes at a price, and I would call you a liar should you claim no desire as to the comforts of this life.'

A frosty silence chilled the chamber, the lantern light, at first so sensual, so alluring, now only served to cast the lady in deep shadow. What was she thinking? What tale etched itself across her features? If only she would turn and face him. If only she would return to the bed.

'I am not without fault,' Branwen finally admitted, her back still presented, her position held. 'Of course I desire the comforts of this life.'

'And love?'

The grail-word produced a reaction: the dipping of a shoulder, the turning of her head, a small, hesitant step towards the bed. 'Of course,' she sighed, 'that goes without saying.'

'Then accept my love, accept my desire, accept the warmth of my hearth and the comforts of my bed; for, in all modesty I speak of this: you will receive no finer offer, should you travel the length and the breadth of this land. Rhys Goch must be captured; we must ensure that Cardinal D'Orso is satisfied and that he raises no further query regarding Brother Helias' murder. For this plan to succeed, we need but one word from you, my love. Your lips hold the secret of our success; upon them we are dependant; upon those sweet lips, made surely for kissing, hang the hopes of our nation on all but a thread.'

Rebuffed, rejected, bruised and battered, Morgan had suffered all, and more, in the name of love. Nevertheless, this lady was different, this time he would be rewarded; his charm would be remunerated, his desire sated, his dreams fulfilled, his hopes made flesh. Rising from the bed, he approached the lady. Taking her hand, he felt all resistance diminish; looking into her eyes, he sensed hope afresh.

'I beg you,' Morgan implored, 'when next in Payn's company, reveal your mediator's name. And then,' he whispered, his words caressing the lady's ear, his lips seeking pastures ever more erotic, 'speak unto me, murmur, state in tones ever more alluring, confirm that forever you will be my love.'

# Day Six - 9th May 1399

Einion ap Rhiryd weighed the dagger in his hand. Picking up a cloth, he proceeded to polish the blade, shining the metal until its edge gleamed in the early morning sunlight. With a grunt of satisfaction, he smiled at his handiwork. 'It is beautiful,' he told himself. 'It is the best I have crafted. It will make a lovely wedding gift for Anest.'

Thoughts of his beloved brought on the urge to be with her. Since the fire at her cot, she had spent much of her time at Branwen's homestead; maybe she had set up home there. Whatever, it would be but a temporary measure for, soon, she would be with him, secure within the town of Kenfig.

Leaving his forge, Einion walked towards Deumay and Branwen's dwelling. He was closing on the Goylake stream when Anest appeared before him. She was walking at a steady pace, her face pensive, her mission clearly enthralling.

To greet her, or to learn more of her secrets, that question challenged Einion's mind. Of course, it would be nice to simply talk with her. However, it would be nicer still to spy upon her, to observe her as she went about her work, to view her, surreptitiously.

Therefore, Einion fell back into the bushes, holding his breath, not daring to peek until assured that he was well beyond the point of observation. Then, a moment of terror; maybe he had been too cautious, for there was no sign of her upon the road; for all reason, she had disappeared into thin air.

Hastening along the track, the blacksmith begged for sight of his quarry. Then she appeared, striding beyond Groes-y-Gryn, following the path to Ballas.

What business had she there, the blacksmith wondered. That question buzzed like an angry bee before him. No matter, the answer would soon present itself, of that, the world could rest assured, for he would follow her to the ends of the Earth, trail her until he obtained his desired answer; he would follow her anywhere, through anything, he would journey through hell itself, all to unravel the mysteries of her private nature.

Although he was careful, at all times maintaining a safe distance between himself and the object of his desire, there were occasions when Anest paused to turn and gaze back down the trackway. However, he remained hidden; he had followed her for so long; he could anticipate her movements; indeed, a lifetime spent honing this skill ensured that it would take a moment of luck, or a moment of inspiration, to catch him in flagrante delicto.

The healer climbed the mound and entered the settlement of Ballas. What business had she there? Whom did she know, a secret lover? No; he had followed her intimately; only Euros remained as a rival for her affection.

So, why was she entering that homestead? Who lived there? Dare he enter the settlement and ask a direct question? On the other hand, was it better to remain hidden in the trees, await the moment when Anest would reappear and prise from her this knowledge? Not that she was loose with her tongue; certainly, she could be silent when the mood took her, quite reserved. Conversely, he could be most persuasive, most insistent; when shrouded in the mists of mania, he could gnaw away at her, intimidate her with his presence; eventually, he would wear her down.

And emerge she did, some time later, carrying a baby. What mystery was this? What game was she playing? Could the child have sprung from her womb? If so, he would kill them both, and the father, reasoning him to be Euros, even though nature, as demonstrated by Euros' absence whilst upon his pilgrimage, made this fact impossible to be so. In his rage, Einion gripped the dagger tightly, one hand upon the hilt, the other upon the blade, its sharpened edge drawing blood.

Then, a moment of pain, which brought with it a moment of reason: the child could not be hers; he would have observed her whilst pregnant. A bastard, more likely; someone to care for, someone to pity; therefore, the child, and his beloved, were safe. He was pleased about that, for he had no wish to hurt her; on the contrary, he loved her, cared for her deeply. Equally, she was a caring person; she was very gentle, very kind; she was unselfish: he saw her as a mirror, reflecting his soul.

Sheathing the blade, Einion tore a strip of cloth from his tunic; stained with sweat, and fumes from his forge, it, nevertheless, served to bind his hand.

Anest was leaving the settlement; soon, she would be upon the open road. Leaving his position, extricating himself from the tangle of bushes and trees, Einion made to follow. As Anest walked, she sang to the baby and the baby, to Einion's ear, made not a sound.

They entered the vill of North Corneli as they had left it: maintaining a safe distance. With measured tread, followed by furtive steps, they closed on Deumay.

Now was the moment to confront her; she was alone. Branwen had been taken; she was held prisoner at the castle, he knew that as a fact. They would have the dwelling to themselves, save for the baby's demands. Not that the child would present too great a challenge; a measure of milk, a suck on a damp cloth, or a slap across its face would see to that.

Then, a moment of frustration: who was this man, emerging from the barn? He was tall, he was powerful; he looked like the Almighty; had he come to visit Einion, purge him of his sins? Undoubtedly, this was not the moment for confrontation. Instead, Einion decided, he would obey his natural instincts; he would play to his strengths: he would blend into the background and listen; while the couple had eyes only for each other, he would quietly observe...

'You are on your feet then,' Anest smiled in greeting to the stranger; though stranger seemed a strange soubriquet to apply to this man, to someone she knew quite intimately, such familiarity stemming from the tending of his wound.

'Indeed,' the man acknowledged, 'I am feeling much stronger.'

'That is pleasing to hear.' Whilst adjusting Tangwstyl's position, Anest strode beyond the stranger, entering the barn. There, she set the baby down to rest, the infant finding contentment upon a bed of straw.

'A lovely child,' the stranger proclaimed, adding, with a look, and a tongue, as salacious as any fishwife's, 'yours?'

'No, not mine,' Anest explained. Seating herself beside Tangwstyl, she proceeded to narrate the baby's tale: 'Her mother, Tirion, died in childbirth; I was present, I delivered the baby. Her name is Tangwstyl; I believe her to be special. Upon her birth, a wet nurse tended the baby, but the fever has reached her homestead. So, I have brought the child unto me. Until such time as it is safe, I shall tend Tangwstyl.'

'And a fine job you will make of it, to be sure.'

Smiling at the compliment, Anest lowered her eyes; enjoying a moment of peace, of rare tranquillity, she allowed her gaze to settle upon the child.

That moment glided by peacefully, without need of intervention or hurry; the stranger clearly possessed a degree of patience; evidently highborn, he was blessed with the social graces. Sharing such company was no hardship; indeed, Anest found his companionship most welcome. All the same, and for all the peace in the world, she remained keen to learn more of his background, remained eager to unravel the mystery of his arrival.

'Do you have any children, my lord?' she asked by way of gentle probing.

'Indeed,' the stranger replied, 'I do. I have six sons and three daughters.'

'And therefore a wife?'

'Of sixteen years standing.'

'You are lucky,' Anest avowed, 'lucky to have a family, lucky to have such stability.'

'I agree,' the stranger smiled. 'To have been granted this life, I deem that I was born blessed.'

A man highborn, of good manners, grace, thankful for his position in this world, possessing strength, charm and no little personality; clearly, a man born to lead other men, a man born to stand tall, as a champion. Nevertheless, who was this man? What was his purpose?

Before Anest could engage in any further flights of fancy, she was drawn to the present and the requirements of her companion; a rare grimace crossed his rugged face and she was reminded of his wound and the need for its cleansing.

'I will fetch fresh water,' Anest announced on rising. 'Remove your tunic and your mail; I will cleanse your wound then I will apply a further styptic.'

Making her way out of the barn, Anest collected a wooden pail. Descending the grassy knoll, she dipped the pail into the cold waters of the Goylake.

Upon her return, Anest found the stranger standing, semi-naked, his bare torso turned away from her. This gave her ample opportunity to admire the strength of his back, the straightness of his spine, the power of his muscles; a man beyond youth, for sure, yet possessing all the accoutrements of a Hercules. In a moment of jealousy, Anest could not help but feel envy towards his wife, adding a further consideration: many a woman must have shared this thought before her; many a fair lady must have fluttered her eyelashes, smiled provocatively and – discarding her morals and damning the Church - offered her favours. Moreover, he, being a handsome man, nay, being a man, had he the resolve to resist such temptation? Life was short, pleasures were few and love, for many, proved elusive. A man highborn, maybe he had married for reasons politick. A man highborn, maybe he had mistresses hidden behind every tree. Then again, maybe, he was a man of rare breed, a man loyal and faithful unto his wife. From his back alone, Anest had invented such fantasies about his character. Furthermore, she chided herself, for what reason, for what purpose?

For now, all questions would go unanswered, but her mind would remain far from dormant. She would seek to learn more about his private self. In addition, upon his turning, she would seek to understand the reason, the compulsion that moved him to cradle the baby.

'I have the water,' Anest announced, though the weight straining her right arm made explanation totally superfluous.

'The baby appeared upon the brink of tears,' the stranger explained, 'so I thought it best to comfort her.'

'Clearly, you have the touch,' Anest approved, 'for, plainly, she is now well rested, content, sleeping.'

As if to confirm this fact, Anest pulled back the shawl and gazed upon the dreaming face of Tangwstyl. Gently, the stranger offered the baby up to the healer and, with equal solicitude, she returned the infant to the straw.

'Your wound,' Anest announced, and the stranger duly stood tall, his lightly bearded jaw jutting out in a display of fortitude. What is more, such courage was indeed well placed for the wound was still prone to weep.

Gentle fingers prodded and probed, washing the wound before adding a layer of turpentine and mastic. Clamping his powerful jaw, the stranger resolved to maintain an air of decorum and, to his credit, this he did, despite the occasional grimace.

'Here,' Anest offered, her ministration complete, 'drink this. But, mark you, drink it sparingly, for the phial represents the last of this medicine.'

Anest washed her hands in the pail while the stranger sipped from the phial, consuming small measures of the comfrey and the clover. This done, he pulled on his tunic and his mail, before glancing over his shoulder, watching as Anest returned to the stream to collect fresh water.

Brushing her hair from her eyes, Anest eased herself from her squatting position. Glancing across the stream, she smiled inwardly as she spied the approaching figure of Euros, Ci in close attendance.

Without word, or outward show of emotion, Euros collected the pail whilst the dog offered Anest his familiar greeting. On accepting the wet licks and the muddy paws, she made her way up the grassy knoll to join Euros amongst the chickens.

'What word from Johanna?' Anest asked, as Euros set down the pail, his back, broad, offered to her.

'Little,' he replied. 'But we shall talk again later this evening.'

Upon his turning, she noted that his face was grim, his mood unusually sombre. Clearly he was thoughtful of events and she could not help but wonder just where this trail might lead.

'What of our guest?' Euros asked, his features forming a smile, a show of well-practiced courtesy.

'Enter the barn,' Anest waved. 'See for yourself. But beware,' she joked, 'for you will find the man standing.'

Upon entering the barn, Euros found the stranger adjusting his chain mail, ensuring that the armour hung comfortably about his person. Duly, he glanced up, his eyes wandering from Euros to Anest and then on to Ci who, after a moment's hesitation, ran forward, tail wagging.

'The dog's name is Ci,' Anest explained. 'The lord who stands before you is called Euros.'

'And you are Owain Glyn Dwr,' Euros announced, bowing. 'My lord of Glyndyfrdwy, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.'

Eyes narrowing, the stranger frowned, as though troubled by this revelation. 'Pray, tell me,' he implored, 'how did you learn of my name?'

'Via this,' Euros smiled, removing Owain Glyn Dwr's signet ring from his purse before displaying it upon the palm of his hand. 'I took the trouble to discover this ring, upon your arrival.'

Smiling in turn, Owain Glyn Dwr acknowledged a fait accompli: 'Plainly,' he stated, 'my secret now escapes me.'

'You have a grand reputation,' Euros announced, whilst circling the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy. 'It is said that you are a man of honour, a man of courage, a man of justice.'

'Your words flatter me,' Owain bowed. 'Though,' he grinned, 'I am not averse to the hearing.'

'Yet,' Euros contended, 'I am puzzled: why should such a man, a man who meets with my description, be travelling through this borough, disguised as a monk, apparently alone? Also, why should such a man attract an assassin's thrust?' He paused, the better to allow these questions to penetrate the mind of his peer, before adding: 'I trust that you appreciate my bewilderment, my lord.'

Glancing over to the monk's habit, which now lay discarded, folded upon a mound of straw, it was clear that Owain Glyn Dwr was considering Euros' questions, paying them due respect, searching for convincing answers.

'You feel that I might be an impostor?' the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy challenged.

'Such thoughts would be banished,' Euros stated, 'if the truth should escape from your lips.'

'I will speak the truth,' Owain asserted. 'But first I must establish to whom I am speaking.'

'My tongue could race forth with lies, and we would be none the wiser. So,' Euros suggested, 'I contend that this fair lady speak for me and that you be the judge of her words.'

Nodding, Owain Glyn Dwr acquiesced to Euros' request. Stepping forward, Anest duly offered her belief:

'As previously stated, my lord's name is Euros and he holds court at the Hall. He is a man of fine reputation, even of temperament and fair of judgement, with a mind for the disadvantaged and the poor. Also, he is loyal, aware of his place in society, aware that he owes allegiance to the king. Further, I would trust him with my life. If circumstances were different, I would be honoured to be his wife. In conclusion, my lord, I ask you: could a woman say anything more?'

Silence followed Anest's pronouncement, a silence that hung uncomfortably about her ears, for soon she became aware of the nature of her statement, aware that, but for Euros' loyalty to Richard, she would have accepted his offer of marriage. Could she put aside such principle and hope that the offer might be repeated? Or should she hold her place and accept that she had no right, other than to serve these great lords?

A tear stung her eye, a tear brushed away in all haste, in all secrecy. She was left to stare at the two lords, gaze upon their features as they made judgements regarding each other, as they reached conclusions that would determine the direction of their lives.

'The lady speaks from the heart,' Owain Glyn Dwr judged, 'and with great trust of the man who now stands before me. Plainly, she has been blessed with honesty and I vouchsafe that she has told the truth. Having once saved my life, I am beholden to her. I respect her, I trust her; I hold her word to be true. That being so, I too shall be truthful: upon my head, I swear legitimacy, upon my seal, I swear validity. I tell you this: I too stand for Richard and, furthermore, I solemnly swear that I have uncovered a plot against him.'

'To dethrone him?' Euros frowned.

'To have done with his life.'

'How so?' The young lord demanded. 'From what source springs this knowledge?'

Placing his seat upon the straw, Owain Glyn Dwr took time to fondle Ci. Clearly, the dog had taken to him, had given him the canine seal of approval. Anest too judged him to be truthful. Equally, she was aware that neither woman nor beast would have a say in this matter; this was man's work and men alone would shape their destiny.

'Earlier,' the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy recalled, 'you asked of my wound and the would-be assassin; I tell you now, there was not one, but several men, moved to murder. Indeed, they were great in number. But, by strength and by skill and, admittedly, by some good fortune, I escaped their attentions. However, not before one had thrust his dagger.' Glancing down, Owain Glyn Dwr became reflective, doubtless recalling the detail of that bloody moment. 'I believe,' he asserted, upon turning to face Euros, 'that these men were responding to a letter, a letter I sent warning Richard.'

'To whom did you send the letter?'

'To Edward of Aumerle.'

'Are you suggesting that Edward sent these men, that he acts against Richard?'

'I suggest nothing of the sort; the men were disguised, their livery well hidden; it is possible that the letter was intercepted. All I aver is that the king's enemies learned of my knowledge and, for that, they would see me dead.'

'For many weeks now,' Owain Glyn Dwr continued, 'I have been forced into hiding, at first with a loyal band, latterly, alone. Clearly, I am in danger. And so is the king. I must get word to him to secure both his and my personal safety. And, for that reason alone, I take you both into my trust.'

Anest glanced across to Euros to see how he would bear this weight, this additional burden, so desperately thrust upon him. In keeping with his general manner, he appeared calm, thoughtful, as though considering his options. That he would help, she had no doubt; he would see it as his duty. Yet, what of the consequences? What of the risks? What of her mind? What of her thoughts? Must she suffer the pain of fearful contemplation; must she be left behind, uninformed, suspended in purgatory?

'I am grateful,' Euros announced, 'grateful, my lord, that you should talk so frankly. However, forgive my intrigue; I understand that you were once a favourite at Henry of Bolingbroke's court?'

'Indeed,' Owain confessed, 'before this good lord was banished from the realm, I had the pleasure of dining at his table; I have fought alongside him, under the banner of the Earl of Arundel. However, now, sad to relate, enmity exists between us; we had a falling out; we are no longer friends.'

'And the cause of this enmity?'

'What more than a dispute over land? The dispute does not involve Henry of Bolingbroke per se, more a loyal subject of the king's, namely Lord Grey of Ruthin. That scoundrel has seen fit to invade my land. I pleaded with the king, I pointed out that I have been a loyal servant, that, in Ireland, I was a captain for the Crown; but he would not listen; he sided, unequivocally with Grey. Clearly, the Earl of Ruthin is one of Richard's favourites, so I turned to Bolingbroke, in the hope of enlisting his support. I told him of my frustration and of my dissatisfaction. Then, to great consternation, the Lord Bolingbroke was banished from the realm and I was left to fight my corner, alone. Banished he may be, but my plight was not forgotten. I was sent word, telling of his plan. He wishes to return, but first he must subdue Richard. Clearly, he would invoke much hostility if he were to remove the king by his hand, alone. However, the same could not be said of his supporters; my intelligence suggests that they are more than ready, that they will act shortly and pave the way for their hero's return. I admit, I would have lent Bolingbroke my sword, but my offer came with this one condition: namely, the right to my land and yet more in north Wales. But the price was too high and we ceased communication. I was left with half a tale and, via Grey, the prospect of being hounded off my land. So, I sought more detail and the truth of this matter. So armed, I wrote to Edward; Richard sees me as an irritant; I would get short shrift should I make a direct approach to the king. No friend of Bolingbroke's and no friend of Richard's, what more could I do in the name of chivalry? Why, no more than my duty: I would play the gallant knight, even though Richard has denied me this honour, I would save his life and hope that, in so doing, he would smile upon me and banish Grey from my land. I admit, my motives are not wholly pure, not without personal indulgence; but I believe that I am in the right and that the Earl of Ruthin is in the wrong. I ask for no more than justice, trusting that justice will no longer be a stranger, that, finally, after many years of slumber, honesty will awaken and prevail at Richard's court. And that, my lord, is my tale of dishonour: the tale of a man who would lend his sword to others, the tale of a man who has been abused, much wronged. For, truth to tell, the mighty have little interest in their minions; we are but pawns to them, fit only to be pushed around the royal chessboard, sacrificed when expediency would further the royal cause. Nevertheless, certainly, the saving of a life must educe a measure of appreciation. If I can save this king's life then, surely, he would do me no wrong?'

'That is for the king to decide,' Euros surmised after a long pause for consideration. 'But, to make this decision, he must first be free of the plotters; you speak only in generalities, my lord; what of their names?'

'Sir William Scurlag, Sir Roger de la March and their allies at Kenfig Castle; my intelligence has led me to these lords, and I believe my intelligence to be sound.'

'That is as maybe, but how are we to bring justice to this matter?'

'First,' Owain Glyn Dwr suggested, 'we must get word to the king. As already stated, my word is anathema to Richard; therefore you must find a way of presenting my suspicions to him.'

Perplexed, Euros scratched the side of his head: 'Such a task presents a challenge.'

Amused, the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy merely smiled.

The two men appeared at ease and Anest sensed a degree of empathy, a measure of mutual understanding. Her mind went to Brother Helias and the accusations against Rhys Goch. She wondered why the Castle was so insistent upon blaming the Lord Rhys for Brother Helias' murder; could there be a connection with the plot against Richard, did these two murky paths cross? For sure, she trusted Euros to reveal the answer, the more so when he went on to explain how he had been drawn into the plot. He told Owain Glyn Dwr of the devil's agreement, of how the Castle would present him with money and food for the vill in exchange for Rhys Goch. The Lord of Glyndyfrdwy listened intently, absorbing this latest piece of information; his conclusions, he kept to himself, his deepest thoughts remained his alone.

'This evening,' Euros continued, 'I am to talk with Johanna, custorin of the maladeria; we are to meet after Vespers, beside Kenfig Pool near the land formerly held by the Knight's Hospitaler. I feel sure that Johanna can shed more light upon this matter, that we shall be closer to the truth, before the day is out. But, for now, best that we keep you well hidden, safe, lest the soldiers should return and seek to do you more harm. Rest well, my lord of Glyndyfrdwy for we have merely grazed the skin of this matter; great strength will be required if we are to raise and thrust home the sword.'

Furthermore, upon that statement, Euros returned the signet ring to its rightful owner; with a nod of thanks, Owain Glyn Dwr took up the ring and returned it to his purse. Then, Euros bowed and begged Owain's pardon. With a pained glance towards Anest, he turned on his heel and he made scarce his presence within the barn.

A whimper from Ci drew Anest's attention. She glanced towards Tangwstyl and noticed that she was stirring, readying her lungs. Soon, she would cry for food and Anest would have to find a way to feed her. Her thoughts went to such practicalities, to a woman's everyday duties, responsibilities that were the mortar to the bricks and the stones, the towers built by men.

Unobserved, unheard, uninvited, Einion ap Rhiryd watched as Euros descended the knoll. So, that was their scheme, their plan, their treacherous ambition; they would undermine Sir Roger de la March and thwart his plot. However, Sir Roger held the keys to the town; within his gift resided the rights to a burgage. Moreover, when the tale had tripped from Einion's tongue, such a gift would be witnessed; the deed would be bound with string, sealed with wax. Closer, ever closer, Einion was approaching the seat of his ambition; soon, he would be a burgess; along with his new wife, he would settle within the town. First, he must hasten to Kenfig; he must inform Sir Roger de la March, divest himself of this furtively gained knowledge. A sneak and a snoop will never win any friends, his mother had told him. Idly, he wondered just what she would say should she observe him dining at Kenfig's table. A sneak and a snoop he might well be, but now he would rub shoulders with the nobility.

* * *

Sir Roger de la March rode towards the steps of Kenfig Castle, a hawk tied to his free hand, the spoils of his sport draped across his saddle. Upon dismounting, he handed both the bird of prey and its victims to his hawker, before shaking his gloves free of rabbit's blood. Glancing up, he smiled, pleased with his morning's hunting, content with the moment's relaxation. He felt ready to face the day, eager to engage in his duties. No sooner had this thought flickered through his mind than a herald approached; keen to oblige the conscientious constable, he held a message at the ready, a roll of parchment securely gripped in the tight fingers of his right hand.

'My lord,' the herald bowed, 'I bring word from the king's convoy.'

'Thank you,' Sir Roger declared before accepting the parchment. He rewarded the herald with a silver penny before turning his back, his stride lengthening as he made for the castle, his fingers unfurling the parchment, his eyes feasting upon its contents. Then, a sudden halt as he digested the substance; a co-conspirator spoke of Owain Glyn Dwr, of the failed assassination; the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy remained at large, a potent threat to their plans.

As Sir Roger mulled over his options, he caught sight of his brother, Geoffrey. With indecent haste, the bailiff had stumbled from the castle, his features gaunt, his face ashen, his lips mouthing unspoken words.

'Sir William?' Sir Roger enquired, the old knight's fate already sealed within the constable's mind.

'Yes,' Geoffrey nodded. 'Whatever that is,' he added, pointing towards the parchment, 'you must disregard it; quickly, Athelena is in need of your attention.'

Skipping up the steps two at a time, Sir Roger entered the donjon. He made his way to the storeroom and the desolate scene within the annex. Sir William Scurlag had breathed his last. At peace, he had been released from all worldly struggles. His soul now resided in purgatory, awaiting judgement. True, he had been no saint but neither had he been a great sinner. He had been hard, he had been harsh; he had been a man of his time. God would recognise that and He would look kindly upon the old knight, of that, Sir Roger was certain. Should his assumption be proved false, then the fires of hell would burn for the majority and, given the path he had trodden in his own life, Sir Roger would be presented with an early sniff of the smoke.

'Oh, Roger!' Athelena left her father's side. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she ran towards her beloved. In grief, they embraced, in sorrow they entwined. Like ivy upon a tree, Athelena clung to Sir Roger. He, in turn, caressed his beloved's cheek before whispering words of comfort into her ear. Sir William had died alone, save for the presence of his daughter. Geoffrey now joined the three, the company more than filling the tiny room.

'Come,' Sir Roger insisted, overwhelmed by a sense of suffocation, 'there is no more you can do here. Let us take to the fresh air.' He guided Athelena towards the storeroom steps, taking a moment to look over his shoulder. There, his brother stood alone, his face as pale as that of the recently departed knight.

Then, as though sensing the moment, Geoffrey straightened his back and grew into his responsibilities. 'All is in hand,' he reassured his brother. 'Go, and fear not, for I shall attend to the needful.'

Taking Geoffrey at his word, Sir Roger led Athelena away from the storeroom. As they walked, he was moved to consider that he had been born into a rich family, a family rich, not in the financial sense, but in the closeness of their bond. Geoffrey would rise to the occasion; he would tend to the needful. He would call upon a priest and ensure that Sir William was duly prepared for the next world. Sir Roger wondered idly why a priest had not been present. Maybe the end had been sudden, even though the suffering had been prolonged. In any event, he found himself developing a new respect for his brother; at times, Geoffrey could appear simple; he could play the fool as to the manor born. However, upon the vital moment he had proved himself loyal. More than that, he had proved himself dependable, as trustworthy as a good sword.

Sir Roger led Athelena into the Great Hall, his comforting arm easing her sobs and her shudders. Within the hall, he found servants, attending to the remnants of the morning meal. With a wave, he dismissed them and, promptly, they left the hall, bowing, but not before Sir Roger had relieved the last of the servants of a goblet and a pitcher of wine.

'Here, drink this,' Sir Roger instructed, pouring a measure of wine into the goblet and handing the vessel to Athelena. 'It will ease your suffering, temper your grief.'

With her head bowed, Athelena accepted the goblet. She drank fitfully, pausing from time to time to run her fingers under her eyes.

'It is a blessing,' Sir Roger insisted. 'Your father is now free of his suffering. What is more, God will welcome him into a better world.'

Setting down her wine, Athelena raised her head and gazed at her beloved. 'I had hoped,' she began, before losing the trail of her words.

'I know.' Sir Roger placed an arm around Athelena's shoulders, his reassurance being greatly accepted. 'We had all hoped.'

'He was such a wonderful man,' Athelena cried.

'He was,' agreed Sir Roger.

'So kind, so generous, so loving. So loyal.' She glanced across to an empty chair, the chair regularly occupied by Sir William when dining at Kenfig Castle. 'There is no one in this world quite like him, no one at all.'

'He will be missed,' Sir Roger agreed. 'But his legacy will live on.'

In response, Athelena groaned, wearily, heavily, as though expelling the troubles of the world: 'I do not know if I want to live on.'

'Grief talks,' Sir Roger insisted. 'Those words, you do not own.'

Such solace brought forth a ghost of a smile, a hint of hope, a suggestion of belonging. 'You are so wise,' she sighed. 'You are so strong.'

Taking comfort from Sir Roger's embrace, Athelena lapsed into silence. Gently, he rocked her back and forth, as though soothing a child. At a point, he thought that she might drift off into sleep, that the events of the past few days might melt into slumber. However, with a start, she looked up and reached for her wine.

Upon taking a sip, Athelena ran a finger around the rim of the goblet, her eyes reflective. She allowed herself a moment's hesitation before freeing her words: 'I see this as an omen,' she stated bluntly.

'An omen?' Sir Roger frowned. 'Of what kind?'

'This omen is a message from God telling us that the act of murder is immoral.'

'Of course murder is immoral, but,' Sir Roger insisted, 'Sir William would want us to continue.'

'But you will be in great danger.'

'Events are too far advanced; I would be in greater danger should I withdraw my support now.'

'How so?' Athelena pleaded. 'You have no need to go through with this.' Desperately, she took hold of Sir Roger's hands and clasped them to her bosom. 'I could not bear to lose you.'

'You will not lose me,' Sir Roger avowed. 'But you must understand our situation: if the assassination is a success, and I withdraw beforehand, then I would be seen as a traitor to Bolingbroke. He would hold sway and my life would not be worth the living.' Taking hold of Athelena's hands, Sir Roger raised them to his lips before caressing them with kisses. 'So you see, my love, we have no option other than to guide events to their conclusion. Trust me. Everything will be as bright as sunshine. Hold your faith in me for I will not fail you.'

With their arms entwined, the lovers kissed, sealing both their love and their faith in each other. The moment lingered and, to Sir Roger's mind, could have continued into eternity. However, the sound of shuffling feet told him that his mother was approaching. Moreover, upon sacrificing the embrace, he found her, unembarrassed, pausing before the dais, a tear in her eye, a stain upon her cheek.

'My dear.' Grabbing hold of Athelena, Matildis hugged her with a force that threatened to turn the young woman's pale complexion purple. 'I am so sorry. I share in your loss.'

'Thank you,' Athelena gasped, sighing further upon obtaining her freedom. 'Your words offer comfort. Truly, they are as soothing as any balm.'

'He was such a wonderful man,' Matildis offered, by way of condolence.

'He was. And my love for him will remain forever strong.'

'You must stand by your beloved,' Matildis chided, upon turning to face Sir Roger. 'You must do your duty; you must support Athelena through this difficult time.'

Hiding his irritation well, Sir Roger merely nodded: 'I am fully aware of that, mother.'

'You must do your duty, Roger.'

'I will do my duty; I will support Athelena. And, what is more, I will thank you to respect me as constable of Kenfig Castle and, upon our marriage, acknowledge me as the possessor of Ogmore too.'

Silence followed as Matildis absorbed the meaning of Sir Roger's statement. Of course, her son would now inherit Ogmore Castle and the wealth associated with the manor. He would be in a position to spread his wings, to turn his back on Kenfig; if the mood so took him, he could abandon the family de la March and focus fully upon Athelena; from this day forth, he could enjoy the lush fields of pastures new.

'My lord.' Disturbing the tableau vivant, Rig strode into the chamber. 'There is a villein in the guard room. He insists upon speaking with you. He says the matter is most urgent.'

'What could be urgent at this hour?' Sir Roger complained.

'Talk of a man,' Rig responded, 'a man called Owain Glyn Dwr.'

All but forgotten, but still about his person, Sir Roger fingered the parchment; what trouble was this, what curse had been disturbed?

'Tell him,' the constable instructed, 'that I shall be with him in a moment. In the meantime, ensure that he remains within the castle.'

With a click of his heels, Rig bowed in approbation. 'Rest assured, my lord, he will not leave the security of the guard room; on that, you have my word.'

Upon Rig's exit, Sir Roger turned to face his mother: 'You will stay with Athelena?'

'But of course, my son. You may go about your business. Rest easy; take comfort in the knowledge that I will take good care of her; I will look after her well.'

Reassured, Sir Roger left the chamber. At the door, he took time to glance over his shoulder. There, he viewed his mother and his beloved, sitting side-by-side, hand-in-hand.

With purpose, Sir Roger strode down the corridor. Outside the guardroom, he encountered his brother, Payn.

'I heard about Scurlag,' the middle son frowned, showing uncommon concern.

'I am touched that such word should distress you,' Sir Roger replied, pushing aside the portreeve.

'This is no time for derision!' Payn yelled, reaching out, clamping a hand around the constable's arm.

Glancing down, Sir Roger recognised a moment of error; Payn had been sincere, and the constable had spoken out of turn.

'You are right,' Sir Roger acknowledged, 'and I am sorry. Come,' he instructed, 'I may need you. We have a guest within the castle and his words cause great concern.'

Together, Sir Roger and Payn entered the guardroom. There, they found Rig, towering over Einion ap Rhiryd.

'You wish to see me, villein?' Sir Roger enquired, his look suspicious, his gaze thoughtful.

'Yes, my lord,' the villein bowed. 'My name is Einion ap Rhiryd. I am a blacksmith from the vill of North Corneli and I have words of great import to share with you.'

'Out with them,' the constable demanded. 'I am a busy man; I have not got all day.'

A nervous smile played around Einion's lips, though the gleam in his eye suggested that he was enjoying the moment; to be in the castle was a dream come true, to hold a semblance of power was a fantasy made real.

'I heard talk,' he began, 'of a lord who would do great harm to you. I heard it said that his name is Owain Glyn Dwr.'

'Where did you hear such talk?' Sir Roger demanded.

'At Deumay. I was passing by and I took time, unobserved in the bushes. This lord, Owain, he has formed an alliance with Euros of the Hall. The lord, Euros, he too spoke against you.' Einion paused. He grinned. He shook his head in a display of disdainful disbelief: 'I consider these men to be as wicked as sin, my lord.'

'In what way did they speak against me?'

'The man, Owain, he said that there is a plot against our king, Richard, and that you are in the thick of it, my lord. It is his intention to get word to the king, though, so far, he has been thwarted in this matter. But he is a man of great resource and determination; I think it best that you have done with him, my lord.'

'I will be the judge of what is best for my king and for my people,' Sir Roger proclaimed, scornfully.

'But of course, my lord.' Bending his knee, Einion bowed low in supplication, adding: 'But I would not trust him, the less so Euros. I believe that you would be best served if you were to strike them down within the day.'

Sir Roger glanced first to Payn and then to Rig, only to find his companions gazing at him, their faces thoughtful. Should they place their trust in this man? Should they believe in his words? He was eager, that was for sure, desperate, in his own way. They could play upon that, harness his desire, use him. As long as they remained in control, kept him upon a short leash, they could exploit him. Such methods had worked well with others; Sir Roger believed that, with Einion ap Rhiryd, they could play a similar game.

'Why come to me with this information?' Sir Roger demanded.

'That is simple, my lord: I come to you because I am loyal unto the castle.'

'You are aware that Owain Glyn Dwr's words are a nonsense.'

Smiling, Einion nodded in compliance: 'I believe your words alone, my lord.'

'And you are aware that I would remove your tongue should you continue such gossip.'

'Silence shall be my guide,' Einion avowed. 'I shall speak only unto you.'

'Then,' Sir Roger concluded, 'I feel as though you should be rewarded: Rig; spare this man a groat from your purse.'

With a look akin to a scowl, Rig reached into his purse and duly handed Einion the groat. The blacksmith took the coin, spat upon it before placing it to his lips. He kissed the coin as one might kiss a long lost lover. Then, he enclosed it within his grubby palm, held it tight for all the world.

'Thank you, my lord, thank you, I am most grateful. And, should you see fit to strike a further bargain, I would be most pleased to relate the rest of my tale.'

'Bargain?' Presumptuous and bold, this man would bear watching. Informed and resourceful, what further secrets did he hold? Such talk was anathema to Sir Roger and, in normal circumstances, he would have thrown Einion from the castle. However, circumstances were far from normal, for it was not everyday that you determined to murder the king. Nevertheless, such talk deserved rebuke, and such censure was duly forthcoming: 'You are arrogant, my man, conceited beyond words.'

'No, my lord, I beg you: I am but a humble blacksmith and, surely, I know my place. But I seek advancement. Furthermore, I seek to help you.'

'And how might you help me?' Sir Roger demanded.

'I seek a place in the town,' Einion persisted. 'I seek a burgage plot.'

'Your demands are not great,' Sir Roger scoffed whilst glancing towards his brother.

'True, my demands are substantial, but my words, they are worth the weight of such reward.'

'Then out with them,' Sir Roger scowled, 'I have business to attend to.'

'Euros told the lord, Owain, that he has been charged with finding Rhys Goch so that the latter might hang for murder.'

'That is so,' Sir Roger conceded, 'and of no news to me.'

'But, my lord, Euros believes Rhys Goch to be innocent and, furthermore, he is convinced that soon he will learn the truth; this evening, after Vespers, he is to meet with Johanna of the maladeria near the Hospitaler's field beside Kenfig Pool. Euros believes that Johanna is aware of the truth and that she is more than willing to part with this knowledge. He is a dangerous man, my lord, wicked in his scheming, disloyal unto you. If I were you...'

'You are not me!' Sir Roger removed his glove and all but struck the blacksmith; informed, he might well be, but an irritating person, he was that, for sure. 'But I thank you for your advice,' the constable added, upon reaching a plateau of calm. 'And, rest assured, you will receive your reward. Meet with my brother, Payn, at sundown this evening. He will prepare the documents and present you with the lease. In the meantime, should you receive further word concerning Owain Glyn Dwr, or Euros and his plans, you will inform me?'

'But of course, my lord,' Einion bowed. 'I am your humble servant.'

'Then make yourself scarce,' Sir Roger instructed. 'Go, tend to your trade. I have business, requiring my attention, matters, of great import.'

'My lord, my lords,' Einion bowed as he retreated from the donjon, his body bent double, so low did he stoop.

'A burgage plot?' Payn enquired, when alone with Rig and his brother.

'His words were worth the gift. And, besides, we would do well to keep him under close eye.'

'And what of Euros and Owain Glyn Dwr?' Payn challenged.

'These lords,' Sir Roger sighed, 'I would have done with them. Rig,' he instructed, 'gather together a group of trusted men; find this Owain; bring him unto the castle. Payn: do likewise; seize Euros and Johanna. It is important that this matter goes no further. Events have spread too far and too wide as it is. Now is the time to put a stop to this nonsense.'

'So,' Payn smiled. 'I can kill Johanna?'

'And risk Cardinal D'Orso's wrath, not to mention further investigation?' Sir Roger shook his head in decisive fashion. 'The maladeria is supported by the Church; best that you bring her to me, alive.'

'And what of Euros?' Payn asked. 'Can I kill him?'

'Do as you see fit,' Sir Roger suggested. 'But, be sure, no trace of him must survive.'

With the Devil shining in his eyes, Payn glanced down to the dagger, the dagger that via Tirion, Anest, Euros and Sir Roger had found its way to his side. Payn fingered the dagger, his face glowing in anticipation; clearly, he was relishing his task and, Sir Roger conceded, his mother would be proud of him. She would be proud of her eldest son also, proud of his decisive manner. Yet, upon reflection, he was left with a hollow feeling inside. Was the scheme really worth a candle? If it was so, why did he feel no pride? When all was said and done, was he really no better than his brother? A murderer to the end, he had chosen his side. The decision taken, let God make His judgement. However, let Him understand that, despite a multitude of fine qualities, a lord is oft left with no place to hide.

* * *

King Richard shuddered as yet another pothole took toll of his carriage. Nevertheless, the vehicle continued to sway. Clearly, the wheels were still turning; slowly, inexorably, they rolled towards Ireland.

Light filtered through the window slats, offering a degree of illumination, brightening the regal scene. As ever, two men stood sentry at the carriage door, these men being archers from Richard's Cheshire Guard. They watched as the king's dog, Math, cast a lazy eye towards them; pampered beyond reason, his head lay upon a velvet cushion; as restless as the king's subjects, he saw fit to emit a contentious growl.

Alongside King Richard sat Sir Reginald Grey, the Lord of Ruthin. Weary, after a heavy lunch, he dozed, his hands resting upon his generous paunch. The king, however, was wide awake, more than fascinated, for, upon his lap, rested a book, a collection of geomantic charts. The illustrations were most splendid, the scenes most glorious, the dots, and their patterns, contained the answer, the secret to future's truth. Nevertheless, what could they mean? How could they be understood? Eager for revelation, the king nudged his companion, trusting that Sir Reginald's explanation would be sound and true.

'What does it mean?' the king asked.

'Your majesty?' Sir Reginald blinked through a moment of confusion. Then, fully awake, and realising his obligation, he set about his task. 'Though an expert on these matters I am not, I would still lay claim, offering my reputation as surety, that the portents are good, that the omens are most favourable.'

Sitting back, the king smiled softly. All would be well. Then, suddenly, he was thrown forward as the vehicle came to a shuddering halt.

'Your highness...' Sir Thomas Despenser appeared in the doorway. 'It is my pleasure to inform you that, soon, we shall enter the town of Cowbridge.'

'Splendid!' Startling Math with his exaltation, the king rose to his feet. Bending his tall frame, he glanced through the window slats only to be greeted by the sight of soldiers, relieving themselves amongst the trees. Nevertheless, his mood had been lifted and it would take more than a stream of urine to wash away his optimism. 'The burgesses,' he insisted, 'they are ready to offer warm greeting?'

'Your highness,' Sir Thomas Despenser bowed, 'reports suggest that they will be delighted to greet you.'

'That being so, I must dress for the occasion,' Richard announced. He turned towards a chest, a trunk stuffed with clothing. Then, he invited his current favourite to offer an opinion: 'My Lord Grey: what clothes shall I wear?'

'Something regal, your majesty, something colourful.'

'Like this?' Upon the king's crooked index finger resided a scarlet houppelande decorated with his emblem, an embroidered white hart. The houppelande's neck and sleeves were trimmed with gold braid whilst a pattern of sunbursts and sprays of genista added to the overall splendour. Next, the king selected a jewelled collar, its links taking the shape of broom-pods. A brooch found its way on to Richard's palm this, again, cast in the form of a white hart; sunlight reflected off the animal's golden face, sparkled off its jewelled antlers.

'Magnificent!' Sir Reginald enthused. 'Most magnificent!' Purring like an over-fed cat, the Lord of Ruthin sidled up to Richard and all-but rubbed himself against the king. 'As ever,' he crooned, 'your majesty has made a most excellent choice.'

'But which crown?' Richard sighed, as he cast a weary eye into the casket, his mind reflecting that he was spoilt for choice for, better to be safe than sorry, he had ensured that all of the Crown's jewels had travelled with him. 'This one?' He selected a simple, plain item, little more than a circlet. 'Or do you think that this one suits me better?' The second crown was more in keeping with the king's chosen, and preferred, regalia, this being a be-jewelled coronet, normally worn on state occasions.

'Your majesty is a masterpiece of regal splendour,' Sir Reginald bowed. 'As for the crowns, I cannot choose; I am all a hither and a thither, for a crown is but an adornment and, like your subjects, none are truly worthy of you.'

Richard smiled, a smile of honey, dripping over puckered lips. 'You seek to flatter me now, my Lord Grey,' he effused, all coquettish and evasive. 'Though, I vouchsafe, your words contain more than mere opinion. Indeed, I would be so bold as to suggest that they border upon the truth.' After fluttering his eyelashes in the general direction of Sir Reginald Grey, the king turned to face Sir Thomas Despenser, his expression now neutral, the smile of sunshine no longer illuminating his eyes. 'And what of you, my Lord Despenser? What is your judgement upon this matter?'

'When it comes to dress code, your highness, I bow to my Lord Grey's superior knowledge,' Sir Thomas Despenser mumbled, his eyes cast down to the long curving points of his poulaines. 'Safe to say,' he added, his gaze rising, finally settling upon Sir Reginald, the storm clouds of accusation slowly building in his eyes, 'I shall save my energies for the battlefield, whereupon it is my intention to serve my sovereign well.'

'Are you implying,' Sir Reginald spluttered, 'that I shall be your inferior when the time is ripe to engage the Irish?'

'I imply no such thing, my lord,' Sir Thomas Despenser smiled, a smile as cold as the north wind upon a winter's day. 'I merely challenge you to reflect upon your former glories.'

Damned with faint praise, Sir Reginald rose to the challenge. Although short in stature, within the confines of the carriage, and with the king at his side, he felt himself a giant.

'I would remind you,' Sir Reginald scowled, 'that I served my king as Governor to Ireland and that I know how to suppress the Irish. What is more, I would challenge you now! Here! Upon this very spot!' In a show of rage, he removed his gage and threw it at Sir Thomas Despenser. 'Show your courage! Make bold your claim!'

After bending to retrieve the gage, Sir Thomas Despenser knelt before the king. With one hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, he bowed before respectfully extending the gage towards his sovereign. 'With your majesty's blessing,' he intoned, 'I beseech you that I be allowed to run this braggart through in a duel.'

'And cast a stain upon such a beautiful day?' With a sigh, King Richard turned his back on the tableau. His shoulders drooping with weary contempt, he wondered whether he should grant this wish and see Sir Thomas run through. However, reason suggested that the Lord Despenser might well triumph and so bring an end to his confidant, the Lord Grey. That, the king could not stomach. Diplomacy was called for, a soupcon of reasoning. His mind went back some two decades to the peasants and their march upon London. Diplomacy had won that day and had duly smoothed tempestuous waters. True, a measure of deceit had been required and no little slaughter, but the peasants had to be taught a lesson, they had to be kept in their place. Even so, the king maintained, a measure of diplomacy had held sway. And, if diplomacy had been good enough for the peasants some two decades ago, then it was good enough for two civilised lords upon this day. Anyway, the quarrel was nothing more than a jealous tiff and, warming to the thought, the king quite liked the idea of his courtiers scrambling to concoct capacious pleasantries as they fought for his favours.

'No, my Lord Despenser,' the king finally pronounced, turning to face the lords, supplying them with his most solemn expression, 'I will not grant you my blessing. However, I will challenge you to offer up an apology; your words were uncalled for; they hint at jealousy and are based on no reason for, as you well know, you remain one of my favourites. Nevertheless, you must understand that I am king and that as king I must distribute my favours amongst the many.'

A playful smile in the direction of Lord Grey sealed the statement and duly restored the king to a state of wellbeing.

Sensing that the tide had turned, and that he had no reason to play Cnut upon this day, Sir Thomas Despenser duly bowed before returning the gage to the Earl of Ruthin. 'Of course, your highness,' he offered in all solemnity, 'I fully understand your position and I offer you unreserved apology.'

'And what of my good name?' Sir Reginald growled, his over-burdened frame still bouncing with indignity.

'Words are insufficient,' Sir Thomas composed, 'they are but whispers within a gale for, I feel sure, that your actions will speak louder, that they will blow all asunder upon the battlefield.'

At this, Sir Reginald frowned, as if searching for some profound, inner meaning. The king, at first pausing, taking time to consider, then burst out laughing; he was right in his earlier assessment: the banter would be most entertaining. Oh, to be surrounded by a group of sycophantic lords! Oh, what pearls they would offer by way of compliments! Oh, what a splendid game!

'A gracious answer, my Lord Despenser. Now, I would thank you to leave my carriage. As for you, my Lord Grey...' the king paused, the better to balance the coronet upon his head '...would you be so kind as to help me dress.'

The two lords duly complied with their sovereign's wishes and, upon reaching the gates of Cowbridge, the king duly emerged, resplendent in his scarlet houppelande, his jewelled collar and his coronet. The king received the plaudits from the good people of Cowbridge with Sir Thomas Despenser on his one side, Sir Reginald Grey on his other. Soon, a fourth party, namely Edward, the Duke of Aumerle, joined them. Richard continued to wave and smile, then he beckoned Edward forward, the guard of Cheshire archers allowing entrance.

'You look splendid, my serene prince and lord.' Edward bowed, the gentle breeze ruffling his wavy hair, teasing it away from the fur collar of his tunic.

'I thank you, Edward,' the king smiled, in gratitude.

'However,' the Duke of Aumerle continued, 'I must warn you; I have received disturbing word.'

'What word could disturb such a fine day?' King Richard glanced towards the happy faces, his ears warming to the peal of church bells amid the cheers and the laughter. This was the essence of kingship: the praise, the adulation, the sense of being worshipped as a God. 'The people are cheering,' the king made plain, 'come, let us be happy; let us share in their pleasure.'

'Enjoy the moment now,' Edward advised, his tone low and sombre, 'for there may be trouble ahead. Trouble, mark you, caused by the lord Owain Glyn Dwr; my intelligence informs me that he is an agent for Bolingbroke.'

'Why wasn't I informed of this earlier?' Annoyed, Sir Thomas Despenser left the king's side. Striding forward, he challenged Edward: 'Why do you choose to make a secret out of this matter?'

'There is no secret here,' Edward insisted. 'Word has only just arrived at my ear. Besides, this is a private matter, to be shared with no one but my king.' Dismissing his brother-in-law as one might dismiss a troublesome insect, the Duke of Aumerle pushed beyond Sir Thomas Despenser before pausing to bend a stubborn knee before the king. 'Rest assured, my serene prince, our agents are out, poised for the hunting; they will find Owain Glyn Dwr and make cold his grave.'

How soon the moment fades, how brisk the return to bickering, how swift the winds carry the burdens of state. The crowd was still present, and every man and every woman was still cheering but, to King Richard, the silence was deafening. Where had the sunshine gone? Where the joy, the laughter? Where now the playful banter and the praise? Instead all had been replaced by worry and by sadness, all had fallen victim to a king's trials and travails. Now, Richard felt that the ground was nothing but a swamp and that he was slowly sinking. Then let it been done, sighed his prevailing attitude, let these troubles pass in a moment before blinking, let this king slip from sight without so much as a wave.

* * *

The church bells had chimed and Vespers had given way to meditation. For the monks at Margam Abbey, supper would be served. However, for Johanna Wittard such sustenance would remain long in the waiting, for she had an engagement to keep, a chance to unburden her soul.

Was she doing the right thing? Old habits died hard and refused to free her from this question. However, the answer came back, a resounding, 'yes'; it was time to speak out, time to be bold.

Each footfall along the Roman road resonated with her new-found determination. Leaving the maladeria far behind, she walked beyond the great monolith and the cellarer's house before sweeping clear of Taddulcrosse; Kenfig came into sight and with it her moment of salvation. Tears welled up in her eyes, tears of relief, tears of freedom, and with them came thoughts of Sir William Scurlag. His passing was sad, but it was also a blessing. In his own way, he had obtained the relief and the freedom, the release that she so desperately sought. As for her own part in the matter, Johanna considered that she had tended the old knight well and that she had no need for recrimination. That thought helped to place her mind at rest. Further peace was found in the notion that God would smile upon her and, should He shed any tears, they would be as pure and as cleansing as any spring water; truly, they would wash away her sins and her woes. So, her father, and the priests, had been right all along: she could unburden herself through the act of confession. That she intended to confess to Euros and not a priest was neither here nor there. Or was it? Dangerous ground, she reminded herself, don't go asking that question; just act on instinct and trust in yourself.

In reality, her mind was still a storm, but she felt calm, at its centre. More to the point, should the storm clouds continue to gather, then she was safe, for she had found her saviour: Euros would come to her rescue; in him, she could place her trust.

With such a joyous thought in her mind, Johanna walked beyond the town and sought the fields long attributed to the Knights Hospitaler. Lifting her skirts, she made her way clear of the sand dunes and the large freshwater pool. Then, she paused beside a stone called Y Cae Isaf, a boundary marker. There, she sighed the sigh of the Almighty and waited for Euros to appear.

The fields were quiet with not a soul to disturb her concentration. This had been anticipated through knowledge gained as a child. In those days, she had sought the solace of such solitude and she had watched as the people had made their way to the lure that is Kenfig. So it was on this evening as time mimicked time.

The sun was sinking into the Severn Sea, the wind rippling the water. Its chill tugged at Johanna's veil, compelling her to pull her cape close, snug around her gently undulating chest. Her toes tapped restlessly upon the ground and her stomach churned in anticipation, feelings akin to her early meetings with Leisan when love had been in the air.

The sight of a merchant ship drifting out to sea brought her mind back to the present; would it navigate the jagged rocks without harm, would God sail with all hands? Would she ever be free of such darkly loaded questions? Probably not, for her nature was ingrained and she knew that all too well. However, maybe, just maybe, she could supply herself with more enlightened answers. If her confession to Euros brought that to pass, then all would be well.

Yet, where was he? She had anticipated that he would be waiting for her, eager for information. Maybe she had been too vague in her choice of location. Maybe she should have nominated the roadside well. However, such a location offered the chance of interruption; most likely, they would be seen, become the subject of much speculation. Danger would follow as gossip and rumour spread.

Then, as the merchant ship slipped beyond the rocks at Sker Point, Euros appeared in the middle-distance. Rather than wait, she ran to him; with her eager strides eating up the ground, she was soon at the well.

'Not here,' Euros cautioned, as if voicing Johanna's thoughts, recently held. 'Over there'. With a wave of his hand he indicated a channel in the sand dunes. This took them back towards to the pool, closer to the town. Even so, they remained well hidden, safe from casual observation; enclosed within the high banks of the dunes, they settled upon the sand.

'I am so glad that you are here,' Johanna stated, her eyes fixed upon Euros. She blinked, the speckles within her eyes shining and then fading, twinkling like the flickering of distant stars.

'I, too, am delighted to be here,' Euros offered, his eyes scanning the horizon. Apparently content, he turned to face Johanna, his lips easing into a comfortable smile. 'Anything to help you. And, I trust, in return, you will help me.'

'I will do all that I can,' Johanna avowed. 'What do you need to know?' she sighed.

'I need to know why you lied over Brother Helias' murder and, what is more, for whom did you lie?'

'I did lie,' Johanna confessed, her head bowed, her bottom lip bitten, her fingers drawing random patterns in the sand. 'I was forced to, by Rig, the keeper of the peace.'

'He killed Helias?'

Johanna shrugged her slender shoulders, her hand going to her veil as it threatened to take flight and disappear into the cool of the evening air. 'Of that fact,' she admitted, 'I am not aware.'

'Have you heard anything regarding a plot to kill the king?'

'Such a plot exists?' Startled, Johanna arched her eyebrows deep into her forehead. Perplexed, she placed a hand to her lips.

'I believe it to be so,' Euros confessed.

'Talk of such a plot has not reached my ears,' Johanna avowed, her voice troubled and high-pitched.

'I believe that the plot and Brother Helias' murder are somehow entwined,' Euros explained, calmly. 'If you speak out over the murder, I believe that details of the plot will begin to emerge.'

'I cannot do that.' Getting to her feet, Johanna turned her back on Euros. Gazing towards the sea, she pictured herself upon a merchant ship, sailing blithely towards the rocks.

'Why ever not?'

'Because...' Where had all her recently found confidence gone? Where was her trust in Euros? Upon that ship, she told herself, soon to run aground upon those jagged rocks. 'Because,' she repeated, 'they know all about me.'

'They?' Euros asked, standing, now facing Johanna.

'The Castle,' she sobbed.

'What do they know?'

Crying openly now, she buried her head in her hands. 'They know all about my sin.'

'A lover?' Euros probed, his face, had she but seen it, a mask of incredulity.

'Oh,' she wailed, 'if only it were that simple.'

'Then make it simple,' Euros urged. 'Sit with me again upon the sand and tell me the truth.'

Such a tempting offer, such sincerity in his tone. Surely, it would be sensible to bend a knee and comply with his request? However, sagacity had taken its leave and she was left again with that voice of insecurity, that voice that so undermined her, that rumbling that was the Devil's own groan.

'Tell me what to do!' she screamed suddenly.

'Sit with me upon the sand,' Euros encouraged, a soothing hand upon her arm, guiding her into compliance, 'and tell me the truth.'

'I will tell you the truth,' Johanna promised, her voice echoing in her head, resounding, sounding as though it belonged to another. 'I will put all my trust in you.'

'I am flattered,' Euros smiled, though, again, her eyes were diverted and she failed to absorb this offer of comfort. 'And, rest assured,' he continued, 'I will not betray you.'

She found herself sitting upon the sand, though she was mystified as to how she had arrived there. As ever, when enveloped by such a moment of crisis, it was best to let it all go, to put her faith in another, to let him – for it was always a man – take command.

'Tell me the truth,' Euros coaxed, 'tell me why you are so frightened.'

Johanna took a deep breath. With her shoulders drooping, she shuddered, then she spoke: 'I was discovered with papers, papers considered heretic. Rig threatened to tell the Church, to condemn me and Brother Leisan.'

Euros frowned, as though searching for understanding. 'Brother Leisan is involved in this heresy?' he probed.

'There is no heresy!' Johanna stated, with a vehemence that surprised her. 'At least,' she continued, her voice now low, sober, reflective, muffled by her veil, 'Brother Leisan convinced me that there is no heresy.'

A gust of wind rippled the young lord's clothing; a sudden sandstorm blew into his eyes. Averting his gaze, he turned away from Johanna. Did he think her a fool, an imbecile, an idiot, for he had good reason? Then again, would he condemn her as a sinner, a reprobate, an agent of the Devil? She held her breath as she awaited his reply.

'I am not here to judge you,' Euros responded, upon turning back to face her. 'I only want to help you so that you may help me. Consequently, I have no interest in your so-called heresy. All I want is to uncover the truth, both to the plot and to the murder. All I want is for justice to prevail.'

Johanna exhaled, a long, hard breath that made her body shudder. She wanted to laugh and to cry all at the same time.

This man was a saint, a paragon of virtue; she should divest herself of all her burdens and place all her trust in him; so why the moment of doubt, the moment of hesitation? The answer to that question was simple: should she speak out, Rig would have her condemned as a heretic; surely, extrication from such a charge would be beyond even this man?

While she wrestled with this problem, Johanna became aware that Euros was no longer beside her. Instead, he had scrambled up the sandbank and he was peering towards the town. Climbing to her feet, only to fall upon her knees, she made every effort to join him. However, engulfed by a fresh wave of despair, she allowed herself to sink into the sand.

'Who is there?' Johanna called out, her voice broken with desperation.

'Quickly, this way,' Euros urged, swooping, taking her hand. Nimbly, he ran down the sandbank, gathering her up in one motion; she had no alternative but to obey and to be carried along towards a ditch. There, they paused, both to catch their breath and to assess the danger; for in the middle-distance, a group of soldiers marched, Payn at their head.

'What are we going to do?' Johanna cried, her fingers tearing at Euros' mantle; she had to hold on; he was the only one who could stop her from falling off the edge.

'I will stay here and divert them,' Euros announced, his eyes wandering from the soldiers to the sand-strewn landscape. 'You are to go to Brother Blanchigernonis; tell him all that you have said. You can trust him. He will look after you.' A smile and a pat upon the arm were offered by way of reassurance. Then, the young lord vanished, the wind carrying his parting breath: 'I will meet with you at Llanfihangel Grange. Go now, and may God go with you. Have strength, for we are in the right and we shall prevail.'

Except, were they in the right? Oh, what web had she fallen into? Best to climb to her feet and to run for all she was worth.

And run she did, in which direction, she was not certain. In the distance, she spied a grange, not Llanfihangel, but a farm belonging to the monks at Neath. Would she find shelter there, or should she run to Llanfihangel? Frozen by indecision, she became rooted to the spot. Then, a handful of soldiers appeared on the horizon. Emitting a silent scream, she turned and she ran up the grassy bank. On reaching the top, she should have paused, but her foot slipped, propelling her forward; falling into the sand she rolled and she rolled, eventually coming to rest beside a pair of well-heeled boots.

Looking up, Johanna could see that the boots belonged to a man of fashion. The rest of his clothing was black, with a miniver trim at its edge. His face was white; his blond hair was parted in the centre. His grin was teasing, cruel in its malevolence. A glance towards the trail of disturbed sand and the thought: could she escape his clutches? With a sob, she scrambled to her feet, only to be pulled back by Payn de la March.

'What have we here?' Payn laughed, his head turning to face his companions; they were soldiers from the garrison, a group of hardened men, uncouth, unkind, but strong. 'Be silent!' With rough hands, Payn took hold of Johanna's shoulders. He shook her violently, until she became compliant; closing her eyes, she became as limp as a rag doll. 'God,' Payn complained, pushing Johanna towards one of the soldiers, 'I hate weak people; they are no more than excrement upon the ground.'

With the soldier's stubby fingers digging into her arms, his stale breath tormenting her nostrils, Johanna felt that the end of her world was approaching. Then, the sight of Euros lifted her spirits; he would charge to her rescue. Only, he was bound, held prisoner by four men. His face was bloodied, his breathing laboured; he hobbled, as he was dragged along.

'My lord.' Grinning, one of the soldiers drew his sword, thrusting the blade towards Euros, only to pause to place its tip against the young lord's chin. 'We found him on the other side of the dune, heading towards the town.'

'And where is his sword?' Payn enquired, standing back, arms folded, his pose casual.

A second soldier advanced, carrying Euros' weapon. Pausing before Payn, he presented the blade.

'A fine sword,' Payn conceded, his face a mask of approval. He weighed the sword in his hand, admiring the craftsmanship, the perfect balance. Then, he pointed the sword towards the blackening sky before running a finger along its edge. 'Well maintained; sharp,' he acknowledged. 'Sharp enough to run you through.'

'No!' Coming back to life, Johanna threw herself at Payn, only to encounter the stiff arm of resistance, that arm sweeping her off her feet and tossing her to the ground.

'Then tell me all that as passed between you,' Payn insisted, his eyes boring into Johanna, the tip of Euros' sword breaking her skin and entering her flesh.

'Nothing has passed between us,' Euros mumbled; his lips were swollen and bloodied from his encounter; his right eye was closing, such was the extent of its bruise.

'Lies!' Payn shouted, the tip of the sword drawing fresh blood from Johanna, causing her to cry out in pain. At this, Euros struggled with his captors. However, four pairs of hands proved too strong and he could do no more than stir up the sand below him, in desperation he struggled, the ground churning beneath his feet. 'Tell me all,' Payn insisted, his fingers whitening upon the hilt, his expression darkening by the second, 'or, my dear custorin, I will have done with you.'

'She told me nothing,' Euros repeated, blood mixing with his spittle; rivulets of red ran down his chin and dripped on to his mantle. 'You have no need to fear her; she knows nothing. But, my lord, hold great fear of me for I know of your treason.'

At this, Payn withdrew the sword and Johanna chanced to glance down at her arm and her abrasion; the wound was superficial and, with a little tending, it would heal. Nonetheless, it would take more than her prayers and her potions to cure the sickness inflicted by Payn. It would take a miracle of the first order. Indeed, it would take God's direct intervention; more than ever, they relied upon Him.

When Johanna glanced up, she found Payn to be preoccupied. She feared another sword thrust, possibly even a fatal wound. Instead, he had lost interest in the sword and he was now fingering a dagger, an elegant, bejewelled, richly crafted blade.

'You gave this dagger to my brother,' Payn stated, pointing the weapon at Euros. 'Tell me, my lord, from whence it came?'

'It came from a woman called Tirion.'

Far from enlightenment and clarity, this statement only served to bring confusion, that and a churning of the soul, to judge from Payn's wounded expression. For a moment, he looked vulnerable, a boy lost alone in the forest, before a narrowing of his eyes announced that the trackway had been found.

'You should have listened to my brother,' Payn moaned, his tone harsh, his expression angry. 'You should have heeded his request. You should have captured Rhys Goch and brought him to us.'

'Only to stand by and watch as an innocent man is hanged?' Despite the pain, Euros shook his head in decisive fashion. His expression, when he deigned to glance at Payn, was one of contempt. Boldly, he stated: 'The king will be told of your treason.'

'The king will be told nothing!' Payn shouted, bringing his sword arm over in one swift movement. Sensing the impending doom, the four soldiers backed away from Euros. For an instant, he was a free man. Then his sword struck him a fearful blow, slicing at the side of his head, drawing blood by the gallon. At least, that is how the scene appeared to Johanna as she fell into a swoon.

Johanna stumbled through her mental fog, slowly regaining consciousness. In time, she became aware of Payn, the tyrant glancing down, Euros at his feet.

'Take him away,' Payn ordered. 'Here,' he handed the sword to one of the soldiers. 'Clean it and place it about his person, cover him liberally with ale and then hold him down in the water. If found, we will pass judgement, namely that he drowned whilst drunk.' At this Payn laughed, long and hard, before sharing his humour with the band of soldiers: 'Some men are weak; they cannot hold their ale.'

'And what of his wound, my lord?' Bold and practical, a soldier dared to speak up, drawing this pertinent fact to Payn's attention.

'He cut himself upon a rock when falling,' Payn whined, dismissive to the end. 'Now do as I say,' he instructed, 'and spare me such nonsense. Euros will trouble us no more and to that we may add 'amen'.'

'And the custorin, my lord?'

At the mention of her title, Johanna pushed herself out of the sand; standing, she stumbled towards Payn, the tyrant. Grinning, he took hold of her arm, his fingers encircling her wound.

Fascinated, Payn stood and watched as, the harder he squeezed, the more copious the flow of blood from Johanna; her lower arm, and her fingers, became red, whilst her upper arm lost all colour. Numb, she felt that her arm might fall to the ground. Then she thought: what does it matter? Euros was dead; he could no longer save her. Best to be done with this life; let these men kill me now.

Instead, Payn was of a mind to enjoy some further entertainment. Releasing Johanna's arm, he placed his hand under her chin, cupping her face with his grubby fingers. 'Let us go to the castle,' he smiled. 'Let us have some fun.'

* * *

The chill of the evening drifted into Branwen's barn, compelling Anest to pull her cloak more tightly around her. She sat there among the straw, Tangwstyl asleep upon her lap. At the door, Ci sat, on guard, looking out for Euros, his master, while Owain Glyn Dwr paced the floor like a lion, restless and hungry, eager for the hunt.

Anest rocked Tangwstyl gently back and forth, all the while thinking of Branwen. Pondering events at the castle, she wondered how the lady was fairing. Hers was an ordeal to be sure, a torture of the mind, if not the body. Furthermore, though not held captive, Anest felt that she could relate to that torture, for her mind was wrapped up in Euros, wondering about his rendezvous with Johanna. Had everything gone to plan? Had he obtained a measure of information? Would he soon return, safe and sound? That thought played upon her mind, a fact Anest felt at ease to confess without shame or embarrassment. She longed to see him again. She longed to tell him her deepest thoughts. She longed to tell him that she loved him.

Much as she liked Owain Glyn Dwr, she became aware that his pacing was troubling her. It was as though he were walking over her nerve ends, making them raw. Dare she ask him to sit down and be still? Dare she endure any more of this heavy-footed torture!

'My lord,' she bravely piped up, her frown carrying a surprising amount of authority, 'if you would be so kind as to sit...your pacing is upsetting the baby.'

'Oh.' The Lord of Glyndyfrdwy glanced down to Tangwstyl, observing as she eased herself out of sleep before displaying a bright, alert consciousness. 'But of course,' he conceded, whilst seeking, and locating, a suitably comfortable bale of straw. 'I am sorry for the disturbance.'

Placated, Anest glanced towards the entrance of the barn, her eyes wandering from the town to the dunes of Kenfig. 'I wonder what is happening out there,' she mused, as much to herself as to her companions.

'I have a mind to go out there and look for myself,' Owain Glyn Dwr announced, his fingers absently seeking his wound. Thanks to Anest, that wound was beginning to heal, though she would have cautioned against a further abrasion. Ideally, she would have recommended a period of rest, but she recognised that Owain was not of that kind.

'Euros asked that you wait here awhile,' Anest reminded the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy, her attention taken by the baby; she was stretching her limbs, sucking in air, preparing to wail.

'And wait I shall,' Owain Glyn Dwr conceded. 'Euros appears to be a good man; I trust him.'

Then, Tangwstyl joined the conversation, her demand for food splitting the air, threatening to deafen even those housed in Kenfig. There was nothing for it other than to reach for her milk and make her screams scarce.

While cradling Tangwstyl, Anest delved for an earthenware bottle. A measure of goat's milk resided within the bottle, this being capped by a cloth teat; although no match for nature, this method worked well in that Tangwstyl enjoyed her feed on a regular basis. However, today she was being awkward, resisting Anest's best efforts to encourage the teat into her mouth. The more she wriggled, the more intense her cries, leading the healer to wish that she could just drop the baby and run screaming from the barn herself. Instead, she persisted, albeit to no avail.

'Here, allow me to help,' Owain offered, his arms outstretched, beckoning the child.

Anest handed the bottle and the baby to the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy and, within moments, he had succeeded where the healer had failed; clamping her lips around the teat, Tangwstyl sucked with some urgency; settling back into Owain's arms, she appeared content, at ease.

'You have a way with her,' Anest acknowledged, her smile of surprise merging with a grin of amusement.

'I have a number of children of my own,' Owain replied, his hand caressing the baby's head. 'This act is born out of hours of observation and,' he conceded, 'a little personal practice.'

'So you are more than just a man of the sword.'

The Lord of Glyndyfrdwy bowed his head and his hirsute features cracked into a smile: 'I appreciate a certain civility, if that is what you mean.'

With Tangwstyl at ease, readily enjoying her bottle, a stillness settled over the barn. This led Anest to reflect upon the prophecy and the identity of the man born to don Arthur's mantle. Could he be sitting opposite her, could he be nursing his child? Direct questions were in order, with the hope that his answers would be equally as forthcoming. Her dreams had to be made real, or dashed into thin air.

'Tell me, my lord,' the healer began, somewhat tentatively, 'are you familiar with this manor?'

'I have had occasion to visit Kenfig in the past, to meet with the Lord Despenser and others, yes.'

'At the castle?'

'Yes.'

'And, if you will allow me to pry further, was this a recent visit?'

'Close on a year, or ten months ago, at a guess.'

'And while you were at Kenfig, did you meet with a young woman called Tirion?'

'The name is not familiar to me,' Owain replied, with a firm shake of his head.

'Then may I ask if you recognise this?'

From her purse, Anest removed the ring brooch, the jewel encrusted ornament previously owned by Tirion. She held the object up before Owain, observing as its diamonds, rubies and sapphires shone in the half-light, watching as Owain's eyes narrowed, smiling as his face became grim.

'No,' Owain replied, forcefully. 'I do not recognise that item.'

Great lord you may well be, Anest thought, but great liar you are not; this brooch is familiar to you! Therefore, could it be surmised that this man gave this gift to Tirion? Further, did he cwtch with her and father this child? More to the point: was he the man the prophets spoke of; was he the new Arthur? Despite the imperfections contained within such a belief, Anest could not help but hope that the answer would be 'yes'.

'Have you heard of the great prophecy, my lord?'

'Great prophecy?' Owain Glyn Dwr placed Tangwstyl upon his knee; caressing her back, he was rewarded as the baby produced a burp, loud and undignified, easing her digestion; smiling, content, warm, satisfied she settled within his arms. 'I have heard of many!' he grinned.

'This prophecy involves the dawning of a new age, the coming of a new Arthur.'

'What of this prophecy?' Owain frowned, his attention taken by Tangwstyl, his features becoming thoughtful as he gazed into the child's innocent eyes.

'It is said,' Anest explained, 'by a seer, and by Tirion, that the man who fathered this child is the new Arthur.'

'And you believe me to be that man?' Writhing with discomfort, Owain all but dropped Tangwstyl; but his reflexes were sound, his movements secure and, when settled once again, he found himself holding her close to his chest.

'The prophets say that that man will be called Owain and I wish you to be that man,' Anest confessed. 'But, more than that, I wish for a truthful answer.'

'Then allow me to set your mind at rest: I am no Arthur. The fruits of my seed spring only from one womb. Further, I would caution against such sedition, lest you bring danger to yourself.'

'Danger, I can live with,' Anest announced, boldly. 'What I cannot do is stand by and watch as the common people suffer. I cannot accept their given place in this world. I believe that they deserve better. What is more, I believe that the new Arthur is out there and that he shares my vision for the future. He will show himself, he will be our leader and, triumphant, the land will be given over to all.'

Unburdened, Anest rose to her feet, her stride taking her away from the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy. Without glancing back, without observing Owain's scowl of contemplation, she walked towards the door. She marched on, only to pause at the Goylake River. There, she placed her fingers in the cool water. Insects skipped by, apparently at peace amid their surroundings, flowers bloomed, adding a touch of colour, a show of beauty, a dog barked, his harsh growl splitting the air. Anest was about to splash the water over her face when she realised that Ci was the culprit; he was the one growling; his bark sounded the sentinel call.

Glancing up, Anest sought the source of his attention. However, she was low in the valley and her view was restricted. Releasing the water, she scrambled up the bank. Upon securing a foothold, she followed Ci's stare. The dog was snarling at a column of soldiers, a dozen or more, marching along the Kenfig road. Each step took them closer to Deumay. Each step resounded in Anest's head. Where was Euros? What had happened? Who had betrayed their hiding place? For Anest was convinced that the soldiers were heading in their direction. Someone had betrayed the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy. Someone had trampled over her dreams.

'Trouble?' Owain growled, his massive frame appearing beside her, Tangwstyl, blissfully unaware, engrossed, her tiny fingers tugging at his beard.

'I fear so, my lord; I fear for Euros.'

'Banish your fears,' Owain advised, sagely. 'Place your faith in Euros. I judge him to be more than capable, a man of great resource.' With these words still hanging in the air, the soldiers strode beyond the boundary marker known as Groes Siencyn; within moments, they would enter Deumay. 'We must leave this place,' Owain urged. 'We must find a more secure shelter.'

'But we would be seen,' Anest complained. 'All around is open ground.'

The point was well made, and equally well taken. Without any further ado, Owain led Anest back to the barn. There, they climbed a ladder, Anest in the lead, to be followed by Owain and Tangwstyl. Ci brought up the rear, his paws slipping and tripping, but somehow finding enough purchase to provide momentum; panting and salivating, he took his place within the loft, his sleek body sliding into the straw.

The ladder was withdrawn and there they lay, for what seemed like an eternity, though reality spoke of mere minutes, before Rig appeared, sword in hand. A companion joined him and merrily they went a-threshing, cutting swathes through the bales of straw, seeking their elusive prey. Their actions brought forth a growl, a baring of teeth from the canine; he was about to launch into a full-throated bark, when his muzzle was encircled by Owain's hand. The Lord of Glyndyfrdwy placed a finger to his lips and the dog gave the impression that he understood the signal, for he lapsed into silence, his head upon the straw, his floppy ears resting upon outstretched paws. Nevertheless, had the hunters heard, or even sensed the commotion? A glance from Rig suggested awareness of the loft.

'No one here, my lord,' the soldier announced, though Rig was still staring. Then Tangwstyl began her complaint, a muted grizzle, a sound Anest recognised as being the prelude to a scream. She would give them away; she would betray their position. What was the answer? How would Owain react? A heavy hand around her face would threaten suffocation yet, untended, she would capture Rig's attention and they would be hastened to the castle, to await what fate?

What was her needed? Food? No, in that quarter she was well satisfied. Warmth? She lay between them, snug and secure. Comfort? To be sure, the barn was no palace, but Anest had slept in places less dignified. A mother's touch? Anest offered her hand and soon it was surrounded; tiny fingers took hold of her thumb and led it to milk-kissed lips. There, Tangwstyl sucked; pacified, she became silent. The click of fleas jumping through the straw became the prevalent sound.

However, what of Rig? His narrow eyes hinted at suspicion, though the absence of the withdrawn ladder made investigation difficult. Owain had guided them to the back of the loft, under deepest cover. In the dusk and the half-light, shadows became their friend. Therefore, Rig's lantern was of little use, much as he sought its illumination. Holding the flame up before his eyes, he peered into the loft. Then, a soldier yelled: 'A man, my lord, crossing Dane's Vale, running!'

'After him!' Rig roared. 'Bring him to his knees!'

With that, Rig made for the barn door, allowing himself one last glance, over his shoulder. Then, the promise of blood gave springs to his heels and he left the barn to its suppressed silence.

Anest waited and waited before expressing her relief in one long exhalation. Owain joined her in this act, along with a panting Ci.

'Fortune smiles upon us,' Owain grinned, his neat, even teeth shining in the half-light. 'However, we must dally no longer; I must get word to the king.'

'But will the king trust you; you said that he has his suspicions.'

'True,' Owain confessed. 'I am persona non grata at his court.' Running a hand through Ci's hair, he became thoughtful, lapsing into a long, deep silence. Eventually, he emerged from this reverie to give Ci a bear hug. 'I have an idea,' he announced, buoyant, clearly pleased with his deliberations: 'Euros mentioned an outlaw band; can you get word to them?'

'I can get word to Brother Blanchigernonis,' Anest suggested. 'He will make contact with the outlaws.'

'Then tell him of our need,' Owain urged. 'Make our desperation plain.'

Nodding her understanding, Anest eased her thumb away from the baby. Tangwstyl was asleep, her dark red hair resting upon the straw. Her body was dawn up in the foetal position; she appeared content, at ease, settled for the evening. She would demand a feed at first light, but would doubtless sleep through the darkness. Furthermore, as Anest sought the cover of night, Owain would act as Tangwstyl's guardian. The great lord, the man of battles, the man of court could add wet nurse to his list of titles; and, from Anest's perspective, that title stood with the greatest of them all.

'You will take good care of the child,' Anest appealed as Owain readied the ladder.

'That I will do; rest assured, my lady, I will protect her; I will look after her as though she were my own.'

* * *

Payn entered the castle, his mind racing. The excitement of the bloodletting had brought with it an incomparable pleasure, a pleasure that could only be challenged by sex. Moreover, glancing at Johanna, the forlorn figure who hung from his arm, he reckoned that further pleasures would soon await him. However, first he had to report to Sir Roger and share with him the deeds of the evening.

He found his brother alone, in the Great Hall, pacing, his eager tread transferring the weight of his worry on to the ornate, highly fashioned, floor tiles.

'Euros?' Sir Roger glanced across to his younger brother, his raised eyebrow enquiring as to the Lord of the Hall's fate.

'He has been dealt with,' Payn replied, his smile reflecting his sense of satisfaction. Leaving Johanna at the doorway, he marched across to the dais table. There, he selected an apple from a bowl.

'Good.' Although expressing his pleasure, Sir Roger, nevertheless, averted his eyes, as though embarrassed by such a statement, as though dishonoured by Johanna's presence. 'Take her to the dungeon,' he ordered, while waving his hand in dismissive fashion. 'She has no place amongst us.'

'But,' Payn protested, his teeth sinking into the apple, his gaze boring into Johanna's flesh. 'I was thinking...'

'Leave the thinking to me, brother.' Irritated to the point of assertiveness, Sir Roger rounded on his sibling. 'She goes to the dungeon, or I would have you take her place.'

Annoyed, Payn spat out fragments of apple; enraged, he hurled the fruit across the room. The apple collided with the wall, bidding Matildis welcome. The matriarch shuffled into view, her stern gaze raising the question: 'how on earth are we going to remove those apples stains from the tapestry?' Her two companions, Morgan de Avene and the ever-hesitant Geoffrey were more concerned with the daggered looks, the threatening expressions exchanged between the older brothers; each stared at the other, neither willing to give ground, let alone yield.

'To the dungeon,' Sir Roger ordered, his gaze falling upon Morgan. Dutifully, the Lord of Avene stepped forward; with a gracious bow, he took Johanna's hand. Without a murmur of protest, Johanna allowed herself to be led by Morgan; with her eyes cast down to the ground, she stumbled from the Great Hall.

Payn's exit was altogether more flamboyant. Drawing his sword, he sliced into the fruit bowl, spearing a second apple. This, he brought to his lips, before wiping his blade upon the dais cloth. The act would annoy his mother, it would irritate Sir Roger; it was childish, it was petulant, but it was oh so necessary. As was the act destined to follow, the act that would bring a climax to the evening; sordid and degrading, that act was also essential.

However, before he could perform such an act, Payn had to locate Branwen, for now she had been designated as the chosen one. Yet, before he could locate Branwen, Payn had to rid himself of yet another irritant for there, grinning before him, as large as life and twice as ugly, was Einion ap Rhiryd.

'What do you want?' Payn demanded, his hand resting upon his sword, his fingers twitching, his muscles taut, as though primed for action.

'My name is Einion, my lord,' the blacksmith mumbled, head bowed, a heavily stained cap hanging from his forge- scarred hand. 'Do you remember me? I am here for my lease.'

'I remember you.' As if his devils would let him forget. Then, a moment of hope, made real by the stylish figure of Morgan; having escorted Johanna to the dungeon, he was now free to perform a second task.

'My lord.' With a crooked finger, Payn summoned Morgan. Walking beyond Einion, they disappeared into an alcove and the shadows. 'Give that peasant anything he wants, anything he asks for, and perform this task upon Sir Roger's authority.'

'Sir Roger grants his authority?'

'Sir Roger would grant that peasant this castle, such is his judgement. But, rest assured, my Lord Morgan, I will claim everything when it is my time to rule.'

Suitably persuaded, Morgan stepped out of the shadows. With a nod of his head, he encouraged Einion to enter the town offices. Sweating with anticipation, the blacksmith required no second bidding. Like a rat scurrying along a culvert, he hastened along the corridor. He was about to enter the room, when Payn took hold of his shoulder:

'You will get what you want, but I require of you one further favour.'

'Anything, my lord,' Einion effused, 'anything at all.'

'Should you learn matters of interest, you are to inform me and not my brother; do you understand?'

'Perfectly, my lord.'

Then, Payn allowed Einion to slip into the room whereupon Morgan would supply him with the document. The names would be forged, of each and every witness, but so be it; the officers of the castle were no virgins when presented with such deception; indeed, corruption had become the lifeblood of the town.

With a sigh, Payn allowed his lean body to fall back against the cold stone of the castle. Running a finger along his forehead, he wiped away a bead of sweat. His skin was burning, his temples were throbbing; desire held him in its feverish grip. However, this was no desire born out of love, or merely out of passion; there was a need for relief, a desperation to impose himself upon another.

After making haste up the spiral staircase, Payn found himself outside the lady's chamber. There, he found a guard on duty, halberd in hand.

'Open the door,' Payn demanded, only for the guard to raise the halberd in defensive fashion. 'Open the door!' he yelled. 'Or I will have you sent to the dungeon!'

Bowing to commonsense, the guard lowered his halberd before removing a key from his waistband. Without any further ado, he slipped the key into the lock.

The door swung open. The guard stood back; he watched as Payn gained his admission. One day, the guard reflected, Payn would go too far; he would receive his comeuppance. Yet, one day, he had been told, God would show himself on the face of the moon.

As the key scraped in the lock, releasing the door, Branwen glanced up from her seat at the window. Her eyes were red, swollen and raw, possibly due to the shedding of too many tears. Payn failed to notice Branwen's eyes, however; his gaze was taken by her comely figure, that and nothing more.

'What do you want?' Haltingly, hesitantly, Branwen left her seat at the window. She walked into the centre of the room, there to stand, vulnerable, exposed.

'I want to know,' Payn began, slowly, 'if you are ready to talk.'

'Talk?' Branwen replied, huskily, her voice faltering, failing, responding to the tension that took hold of her throat. 'Talk about what?'

Maybe it was something in her voice, more likely it was the build up of frustration, but, whatever the cause, Payn cast the last of his reason to the wind. In two strides, he was upon Branwen. In one blink of her eyes, he had hold of her dress.

'Do not play games with me, my lady. I ask you again: are you ready to talk?'

'To you,' Branwen avowed, bravely, 'never!'

In a rage, Payn drew back his hand, shaping as if to strike Branwen; but then, a moment of peace, as he entered the eye of the storm. 'You amuse me,' he laughed, his face close to hers, so much so that she felt the spray of his spittle.

'How so?' she asked, raising her hand to wipe the moisture from her cheek.

'I would never have considered you a martyr.' At that, Payn took hold of her hands, forcing them into a submissive position; his body was in contact with hers and he could feel himself responding to her warmth. 'No one will come to save you,' he taunted, his lips close to hers, his right hand releasing her arm, his fingers toying with her hip-belt. 'Rhys Goch has forgotten you. And, anyway, soon he will be swinging from the gallows. Morgan will not jeopardise his position for you; he has too much to gain. And Euros is stumbling his way through purgatory, awaiting his call to hell!'

With his desire rising, Payn pulled at her belt. The force of his hand snapped the leather and sent Branwen tumbling backwards. She would have collided with the wall had the bed not broken her fall. There she lay, panting, her ample bosom rising and falling in enticing fashion. Inwardly, Payn groaned, for the moment of gratification was nigh. Nevertheless, the game had to be played out to its natural conclusion; like a cat with a mouse, he would toy with her a little more, he would make mischief and absorb its pleasure.

'Don't you want to know what has happened to Euros?'

'What has happened?' Through bitter tears and bitten lips, Branwen forced her words free of her throat.

'He met with an accident,' Payn replied, casually, 'a stumble, a fall; but not before he had made a present of this...'

In the dusk of the room, Payn held up the quillon dagger. Walking over to the bed, he allowed the nightlights to bring life to its cluster of jewels.

'This can be yours,' Payn promised, 'if only you submit to my pleasure.'

'You are an animal!' Branwen cried. 'You are not a man. You lack all decency. You are arrogant beyond reason. You are brutal with ease. I would call upon your better self, but it is plain that a conscience escapes you. Even so, in the midst of all this sin, are you never moved to bow your head before God?'

'I worship God,' Payn grinned. 'I worship the same God as the monks do. And for that, He rewards me.'

'Your rewards await you in hell,' Branwen sobbed, her arms seeking leverage as they pushed against the red sindon mattress, her legs finding a hidden strength as they pushed against the bed.

Oh, such beautiful rejection. The game had been played out to perfection. Leaving the oasis of peace, Payn re-entered the storm. Like rain lashing against his face, he felt the tumult refreshing; her actions had been heaven sent, for they justified the use of unlimited force.

Payn allowed Branwen to escape to the door before grabbing hold of her shoulder. Then, after spinning her round, he pushed her back on to the bed. Within a moment, he had taken his place beside her, his fingers tearing at her skirts, revealing bare flesh.

Of course, she screamed, but her screams only served to inflame him further. Straddling her waist, he took hold of her bodice and tore it from bosom to navel. Her exposed breasts sent him into paroxysms of delight, as did her cries as she begged for mercy. A brief glimpse of the dagger took him back to another time and, for one moment, he felt the chill of ice as it cooled his ardour. However, that moment passed and he busied himself again, his lips upon hers, his hands tearing at her clothing.

He was about to free his belt and roll down his hose when the door creaked and he sensed a presence, poised to enter. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his worst fears, as not for the first time, his mother was about to curtail his pleasure.

Matildis stood by the door, an arm outstretched, a finger pointing. Her complexion was red with rage, her expression as ugly as any gargoyle. 'To your room!' she demanded. 'This instant!'

'But, mother,' Payn protested, his fingers straightening his clothing, his ice-blue eyes taking on an angel's innocence, 'we were only playing.'

'Well playtime is over,' Matildis declared. 'And I will speak with you, later. To your room! Lest I call your brother.'

The bitch had won again; she had meddled in his affairs, she had cast him asunder. One day, he would gain his revenge: he would ignore her grave or withhold monies from the monks so that prayers for her soul would be lost forever. However, today, he needed relief, he needed a prostitute and to the town he would wander. While adjusting his tunic, he allowed himself a lopsided grin and a parting word of insolence, aimed at his mother:

'I was only trying to loosen her tongue.'

'I am fully aware of what you were trying to loosen. Now get to your room. I will speak with you, later!'

Payn drifted towards the town and the cries from the bed subsided, only to be replaced by a convulsive shudder. Branwen had turned her body to the mattress, her face to the pillow, her back to Matildis and the balm she sought to offer. That balm came in the shape of a blanket and, eventually, as Branwen straightened, so Matildis draped the coverlet over her bare shoulders.

'I will bring you a needle and thread,' the matriarch promised, her fingers examining the tear in Branwen's dress, the bruises upon her flesh, the wheals of passion that had torn into her person. 'In the meantime, I beg of you to offer your forgiveness.'

'Forgiveness?' Branwen sat upon the bed. Pulling the blanket around her body, she walked across the floor, only to pause at the trestle table. There, she sat upon a chair. She placed her elbows to the oak, her head in her hands, whereupon tears began to trickle through her fingers. 'I will offer no hint of forgiveness. Moreover, I do not require a needle and a thread. That said, I do make one request of you: bring me a sword, allow me to defend myself like a man and rid myself of the wild boar, the animal that you have bred, my lady.'

So, Matildis reflected, it is true that a tongue can cut like a sword, can open up a wound as deep and as weeping. Matildis felt the pain of such a wound. She felt anger: fury towards her son, fury towards herself and fury towards the woman who had the temerity to insult her. Of course, she would not attack her son, she would not attack herself, but she would save the lash of her tongue for this commoner; you try to be decent and show some compassion, and this is how they talk to you! God had set them in their place and forever they must toil, serfs to their betters' greater freedom.

'I have bred a lord,' Matildis reminded her companion. 'Albeit one who occasionally feels a rush of blood through his veins. But I would caution you to speak well of my issue, or find a better way of maintaining your silence. It is not done for peasants to speak ill of their masters. We have spared you the rack, and the red-hot poker, until now, but we shall spare them no longer. We have no wish to disturb the peace of the castle at night, whilst people sleep, but come first light, we shall not be so reticent. You have until the dawn. When the sun rises, I expect to hear of Rhys Goch's location. However, should you choose to maintain your silence, then I shall see to it myself that Payn, unfettered, applies the torture.'

# Day Seven - 10th May 1399

While Anest talked with Brother Blanchigernonis, telling him of Euros' disappearance, of the king and of Owain Glyn Dwr and of the latter's desire to meet with Rhys Goch and his outlaws, Brother Leisan busied himself with his quill and his vellum. He sat in the scriptorium, all alone, a carefully arranged assortment of nightlights offering the faintest illumination.

The scriptorium was situated to the southwest of the abbey, above the chapter house, adjacent to the dormitory. Within the dormitory monks snored, making vocal the day's labours, while, within the chapter house, abbots of yesterday lay, sleeping the sleep of the just, enjoying the peace of their sacred paradise. When called, would Abbot John repose there amongst them? Would he rest in peace? Alternatively, would he suffer the turmoil of the heretic? Much would depend on Brother Leisan's skill in deflecting Cardinal D'Orso's investigation, in convincing the zealous legate that all was purity within the abbey, that Abbot John was not culpable in any way, that the problem resided in the wider world, indeed, that the problem could be traced to the gates of Rome. In his dreams, Brother Leisan saw the bonding of men as they reached such a clear understanding. However, in his waking hours he was blessed with a degree of wisdom, just enough to know that the power of the Church was all consuming, that it would take time and effort before all walked along the path of enlightenment.

With such a thought in mind, the precentor left his desk and went in search of more vellum. Selecting a suitable sheet, he rubbed his fingers over the rough side, the yellow side, the side that had contained the animal's hair, before examining the smoother whiter side, the flesh side of the hide. Then, he set about folding the vellum, making sure that hair-side nestled against hair-side, that flesh-side sat next to flesh-side throughout the gathering. When done, he was left with eight leaves of vellum, enough to produce a standard manuscript.

Returning to his desk, Brother Leisan selected a long, thin, sharp silver instrument. He proceeded to rule the vellum, to ensure the neatness of his script; that done, he adjusted his comforter, his cushion, before placing his feet upon a gently sloping footstool. The desk also sloped at a comfortable angle and with the vellum resting upon its aged surface he could begin.

The quill dipped into ink, then scratched the letter 'A' upon the receptive surface of the vellum. Many words and paragraphs followed as Brother Leisan's hand moved across the document, time after time. Sitting back, he allowed himself a yawn and an elongated stretch of his muscles. Suitably refreshed, he hunched to write again, when a presence disturbed his peripheral vision. Turning his head, he squinted, his eyes straining into the gloom, seeking to identify the mystery figure. Then, mystery no more, as Cardinal D'Orso's harsh features came into sharp relief.

'You are working late, brother.' In deliberate fashion, the cardinal circled the precentor, his gaze wandering from his opponent's face, to his hand, to the vellum.

'Beyond tiredness,' Brother Leisan explained, 'I was unable to sleep, so I decided to pass my time in the scriptorium; I find the crafting of words so restful.'

'So much so,' the cardinal challenged, 'that you can be found here on most nights, according to the brethren.'

What questions had he placed before the brothers of this abbey? More to the point: what answers had they supplied? As with any close-knit group, relationships waxed and waned and some even drifted into enmity: there were those amongst the abbey's number who would be happy to spread gossip, those who would take pleasure in bending half-truths, in offering up lies. Of course, the truth would condemn Brother Leisan in the eyes of his prosecutor. However, the precentor had been careful; some might suspect, but no one knew of his secret life.

Setting down his quill, Brother Leisan eased himself into his cushion; if the inquisition was about to commence, then best to be comfortable, at ease, clear in your own mind.

'It is true,' the precentor conceded, 'I do pass many an hour here, in the scriptorium. And, with each letter I craft, dutifully, I serve God.'

Undeterred, Cardinal D'Orso took a step towards the precentor. Pausing before the desk, he reached for the vellum.

'And the script you are working on at present?' the cardinal asked, his fingers hovering over the document.

Brother Leisan took a deep breath. The cardinal's presence did not surprise him. Indeed, his non-appearance would have been something of a shock. So, it was with a steady hand that he presented his latest creation.

'Here,' the precentor offered. 'See for yourself.'

Eagerly, Cardinal D'Orso snatched up the document. With his free hand, he gathered up a nightlight, holding it close to the vellum. For one moment, Brother Leisan feared that his words might take to flame, but the cardinal identified the risk and adjusted his position. Then, with eyes flicking from one word to another, he absorbed the script.

During most nights, Brother Leisan would copy tracts from the Bible, translating them from Latin into the layman's tongue. However, this night he had undertaken the abbey's labours: he had copied a document, a manuscript accusing King John of the murder of his nephew, Prince Arthur of Brittany.

Clearly frustrated, Cardinal D'Orso allowed his fingers to tighten around the document, so much so that word folded upon word, creating an unsightly smudge. In his anger, he threw the vellum at Brother Leisan, only to misjudge his aim and so send the manuscript skimming across the floor.

Like a quernstone grinding out flour, the cardinal ground out measured words of intimidation: 'You are probably aware that I have been busying myself, asking questions.'

Stooping to retrieve the vellum, Brother Leisan merely smiled: 'Word has reached me, my lord cardinal.'

'Then, doubtless, word has also reached you upon the degree of my progress.'

'Of that,' the precentor affirmed, 'I am not privileged.'

'Then be privileged to this, brother: I have the heretics within my sight; I have this abbey within my sight!'

A brief glance from Brother Leisan confirmed the cardinal's snarl; so ugly his determined expression, so tight the line of his jaw; so forced were his words that they came with globules of spittle. Whilst grinding his teeth, he glowered:

'I would go further, brother: I would also inform you of my belief, namely, that these heretical words originate from this very scriptorium.'

Uncontrollably, Brother Leisan's Adam's apple bobbled, unintentionally, he swallowed hard. Shuffling on his cushion, he tried to regain his composure and what better way to restore your equanimity other than to pick up your quill; straightening the vellum, he began to write.

'Are you listening to me?' the cardinal demanded.

'Intently, my lord D'Orso; my ears are alive to the foundations of your belief.'

'Then let your ears hear this: where would I find such a skilled hand, other than in this scriptorium?'

'You could try the town, my lord cardinal for, truly, it is full of many learned men. Some, it is said, have developed a way with a quill.'

'Nevertheless,' the cardinal challenged, 'I daresay that no man has perfected this craft to your level.'

The manuscript had been ruined by the cardinal's action; the smudges had robbed the text of all meaning, had made a nonsense of the words. But still he continued to write.

'I will take that as a compliment, my lord cardinal.'

'I would add that few men are as outspoken as you when it comes to voicing sacrilegious opinion, few are so bold as to challenge the Word of God.'

He really should get up, leave his desk and seek out a fresh sheet of vellum. He should condemn this manuscript to oblivion and start another with clean inks and sharpened quills. But still he continued to write.

'My view of God is totally reverent,' Brother Leisan avowed. 'I celebrate Him and His word; it is for others to twist my words and make them profane.'

'Then, you would lay the blame of this profanity at the feet of your fellow brethren?'

'If you insist, my lord cardinal, then I would.'

'And, do you consider yourself a good Christian?'

'Certainly, my lord, I do.'

'And, do you deny holding so much as one heretical thought?'

'Most definitely, my lord, I do.'

'And, further, do you deny authorship of these words?'

From beneath his robe, the cardinal produced the bloodstained manuscript, lately held by Brother Helias. Of course, the text was familiar; of course, the script had flowed from Brother Leisan's quill. Yet, defiantly, he inclined his head, affirming his innocence.

'Look closely, brother,' the cardinal insisted, 'observe the resemblance to your current scrawl.'

'Resemblance, yes,' the precentor conceded, 'identical likeness, no.' Despite himself, he set down his quill and picked up the ink-stained vellum. To his dismay, he glanced down to rigid fingers, to fingernails that threatened to tear the vellum apart. 'And,' he sighed, 'I would respectfully remind you, my lord cardinal, that we monks are taught to write in a uniform hand so that many may work upon the same manuscript without fear of calligraphic deviation.'

'You are quick with your tongue, brother, always ready with an answer.'

'My tongue is lucid because I speak no more than the truth.'

'Then let loose the truth upon this: confess your heresy!'

'And lie before God?'

Disgusted with himself, not with his actions, but with succumbing to Cardinal D'Orso's intimidation, Brother Leisan screwed up the vellum and sent it flying into a corner of the room. His quill would have followed, but for a moment of clarity, a moment of deeply inhaled composure, sullied only by the painful observation of Cardinal D'Orso's victory smile.

Slowly, the precentor declared: 'I would prefer to confess before God that I am no heretic.'

Brother Leisan's desk was situated close to a window. Of course, natural light was at a premium, this being the darkest hour, the hour before dawn. Nevertheless, the precentor gazed out of the window, staring as if viewing saintly figures as they strolled across the lawns.

Then, the creak of a hinge as the scriptorium door swung open. Turning, both men observed as the corpulent figure of Brother Jordan stumbled into view.

'My lord cardinal,' the bishop's envoy announced somewhat wearily, 'it is time for Lauds.'

With heavy tread, Brother Jordan left the room. Fleeter of foot, Cardinal D'Orso made to follow. With one hand on the door, the other on the heretical parchment, the cardinal loosened a further verbal arrow: 'We will talk again, brother,' he smiled, winningly. 'And, when we do, rest assured, your confession will race from your tongue.'

* * *

Branwen of Deumay sat on the edge of the red sindon mattress, her head in her hands. All night she had paced the floor of her sumptuous prison, her feet turning to pulp the remnants of spring flowers, all night she had contemplated her fate. Now, exhausted, she sat down to rest.

Branwen sighed, reflecting upon a time when life seemed so simple, when problems seemed so few. True, she had worked hard, but she had been rewarded for her labours with material gains, with a sense of satisfaction and with the loyalty of friends. Then, without warning, without any show of pretentiousness, she had attracted Rhys Goch's attentions. Lust had burned in his eyes from the start, a lust that had mellowed into genuine affection, so warm and so tender, an affection that had come close to mirroring her love. The naivety of her simple life had given way to the court and its rich pageants; elevated beyond her wildest dreams, she had acquired a new circle of friends. Where were they now? Where were they when Rhys Goch's name had become tarnished? They were hiding in the shadows, running scared, for no one in his right mind would wish to be branded an outlaw. No one would wish to be banished, ad infinitum, no one, except for her love and his high-minded principles. And to think that those principles had been part of the attraction, had helped to warm the flame, had led her to the point where she had willingly melted into his arms. How she longed to feel those arms now, how she longed for rescue. Then, the sound of a key scraping in a lock, a glance to the door and an intake of breath. 'Enter, Rhys Goch,' she muttered, 'enter and take me from this prison.' In a moment of hope, she rose from the bed.

The door closed and a pair of shadows removed all colour from the neat silk tapestries. Grinning, a rod of iron in his hand, Payn strode towards the hearth. Rig remained at the door, his bulk ensuring that there would be no exit. Briefly, Branwen considered the window and a desperate leap to her death. However, as though reading her mind, Payn took a brief detour, his nimble frame gliding towards the window. There, he reclined upon the window seat, his legs outstretched.

So, it had come to this, the moment of reckoning. No one would rescue her; she would have to fight them, alone.

Wood crackled in the hearth, producing a flame that was both bright and beautiful. Branwen glanced towards the flame; she stepped towards it, as though drawn, like a moth. At the hearth, she placed her back to the wall, her fingers seeking the security of its well-chiselled surface; the master mason had been true to his craft; he had left not a single blemish. She thought of her skin, of its smoothness, of its purity; closing her eyes, she prayed to God that she might escape from this ordeal without Payn leaving his mark.

'Are you ready, my lady?' Payn spoke as though inviting her to dance, so casual, so relaxed was his tone. So alluring was his look that, in another world, she may have been tempted into acquiescence. However, you do not dance with the Devil, especially when he has a rod of iron resting nonchalantly against his shoulder. You do not dance; you prepare yourself for the battle ahead.

'I have nothing to say to you,' Branwen uttered, defiantly, her husky voice straining, cracking as it sought a harder edge. 'And, I warn you now, if you should place but one finger upon me then the Lord Rhys will get to hear about it and, surely, he will take his revenge.'

Jumping to his feet, Payn threw back his head and laughed, long and heartily; so amused was he that tears ran down his cheeks. 'And that is the best you have to offer? Why, my lady, I am tempted to cast aside this poker and have my way with you now. What say you, Rig?' he grinned, turning to face his companion. 'When I have had my fill of her, you too can take your pleasure.'

Apoplectic with rage, Branwen took a step towards Payn, challenging her adversary. She clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails dug into her palms. 'You disgust me!' she yelled. 'You are barbarians!'

Riled, Payn slapped the iron bar against the edge of the sindon mattress. Incensed, he took hold of Branwen's arm. With his face turning ugly, with the colour rising in his cheeks, he demanded: 'Where is Rhys Goch?'

'I swear,' Branwen avowed, 'I do not know of his location.'

'Then take this!' Payn shrieked, drawing back the iron bar and thrashing it against her rear. 'Take this blow and reflect upon the woe that is to come!'

Releasing her arm, he allowed her to fall across the length of the luxurious mattress. Sprawled there, she bit her bottom lip, drawing blood. Indignity and pain mingled together, forging a new found determination. To her surprise, she discovered a strength of mind, a resolve that gave a lie to her genteel exterior; whatever ignominy might befall her, she would return it, tenfold.

Turning her head, adjusting her position, she discovered that Payn was squatting beside the hearth, his back to her. Rig remained at the door, his face impassive, his eyes empty of all emotion. When Payn rose, it was with the iron bar in his hand, its tip now burning a bright orange. Grinning, he plunged the bar back into the fire, stoking the coals, encouraging the flame.

'The bar must become red,' Payn muttered, his gaze now fixed firmly upon the perspiring woman. 'Red is a most beautiful colour, as I am sure you would agree, my lady.'

Responding to a nod from Payn, Rig crossed the room whereupon he accepted the bar, turning it slowly in the fire. Payn, meanwhile, towered over Branwen, his eyes cold and distant, his features masked in a frown. What was he thinking? Branwen pondered. Was the iron bar purely for show, or did he really intend to use it? Like many others within the vill, she had heard gruesome tales of Payn and his behaviour. But surely, no one could be that callous? No one could be that cruel?

Then, all innocence was shattered as Payn took hold of her dress and tore it from top to bottom. Clawing at her clothes, he left her naked; her face, blushing with rage and embarrassment was buried deep within the mattress while her fingers, primed like claws, were ready to strike, the moment she turned.

'Where is Rhys Goch?' Payn panted, his laboured breathing more the result of his excitement as opposed to his exertions. 'Tell me now, lest I be forced to act.'

'I do not know,' Branwen offered. 'And that is the truth. That is the fact.'

'Then, take heed of this, my lady: when you die you will be keeping good company, for it is said that a recent king of ours spent his last, writhing on the end of such a beautiful instrument.'

The good humour within his voice wrapped his words like a neatly tied bow upon a parcel while the pitiless look within his eyes banished all doubt: he could be so cruel, he could be so callous. He would act; he would use the red-hot poker; he would resort to the lowest form of degradation. With that reality screaming in her mind, Branwen spun round.

'I will ask you again...'

His words were said with a smile, a smile that remained frozen upon his face as he took the sting of her frenzied talons; she clawed at his face repeatedly in a furious attack. Taken aback, Payn sprang from the bed; clutching his face, he sought a safe haven. Branwen, meanwhile, eyed the door and the prospect of salvation. With a desperate cry, she ran across the room, only for Rig to seize her. With one hand clutching her arm, he produced the red-hot poker; drawing the iron close to her face, he forced her into submission.

'On the bed,' Payn commanded, his fingers tenderly examining the depth and the breadth of her scratches; he would be left with scars, forevermore to comprehend. 'Hold her tight,' he demanded of his companion, 'hold her steady, for I intend to see this through until the end.'

Rig handed the poker to Payn. Then, he set about pinning Branwen to the mattress. Her naked body no longer embarrassed her; the gravity of the situation saw to that. She watched with mounting fear as Payn squatted and re-heated the poker. He waited, patiently, silently, until the iron burned an incandescent red.

'I will ask you again,' he snarled, his fingers adjusting their position on the poker. His hand remained remarkably steady as tight fingers hovered over Branwen's flesh. 'Where is Rhys Goch hiding?'

'I do not know,' Branwen sobbed.

Hovering still, the poker traversed the length of her legs, its heat singeing the tiny hairs, producing an acrid smell that assaulted Branwen's nostrils. The red tip approached the greater mound of her hair. With perspiration running over her brow, she turned her head. She closed her eyes. She prepared to scream.

The poker made contact with the thicker hairs and she let loose a cry so loud that it threatened to reduce the walls of the castle to rubble. With Rig holding her shoulders and Payn holding her thigh, the poker struck again, this time touching flesh; the pain was excruciating, the cry piercing; for a moment, she lost consciousness. On waking, she wished for oblivion, for release from this dreadful torture.

So consumed was she with the agony, so engrossed were they with their task, that all failed to notice the enraged figure of Morgan. The Lord of Avan had responded to the cry, had taken the key from the guard and had gained entry. Now he stood, sword in hand, the blade sliding under the poker.

Taken aback, Payn turned his head just as Morgan flicked his wrist, its power sending the poker scuttling across the rushes and the crushed flowers.

'In the name of heaven!' the Lord of Avan demanded. 'What barbarity is this?'

The poker had brought the rushes to flame and, sensing the danger, Rig had left his position. Now, he busied himself, trampling on the rushes, reducing them to ash. Branwen, meanwhile, had dared to glance up, though the pain in her abdomen forced her into submission, a hand going to her head, offering a measure of comfort. Recovering from his moment of confusion, Payn took a step back, his right hand drawing his sword.

'Step aside, my lord,' Payn demanded of Morgan. 'You have no business here. Indeed, I am beginning to regard you as something of a pest.'

'I will step aside for no man,' Morgan avowed. 'I aver: I will hold my position.'

'Very well.' Circling the lord, Payn kicked at the rushes, clearing a path, ensuring that he would hold a secure position. 'Your judgement has been made. But, I warn you: if you should take root upon that spot, I will have you within the soil within a flick of my blade.'

'Then go to it, my lord!' Morgan cried aloud. 'Prepare to meet your fate!'

Although in a swoon, Branwen summoned up enough strength to gather up her dress and drape it over her scarred body. Leaning against the trestle table for support, she watched in horror as Morgan and Payn clashed.

Both men were nimble, both men were quick, both men were well practiced. In skill and in strength they were well matched, although Payn had the edge when it came to natural aggression. And that aggression came to the fore as first he thrust and then he parried; he sent Morgan retreating across the room, he forced him on to the defensive, he pinned him up against the silk tapestries. A brutal swing of Payn's sword threatened to remove Morgan's head; indeed, it grazed his ear, before tearing through a tapestry. In the seconds it took to recover the blade, Morgan escaped, regaining a more favourable position in the centre of the room. With a barbarian cry, Payn leapt upon the bed, striking down forcefully from this advantageous position. Morgan felt compelled to place his sword before his face, and there he staggered, in a defensive position. He stumbled and all but fell, his salvation arriving in the support offered by the trestle table. Amidst the fury, he took a moment to glance into Branwen's eyes; he even permitted himself a smile, which to Branwen's dismay, soon turned into a grimace, for Payn had seized his chance, had recognised the distraction: thrusting forward, he drew blood, his sword twisting into flesh, staining Morgan's tunic. The wound was deep and severe but, perversely, it only served to spur Morgan on to greater endeavour: like a man possessed by a demon, he thrust and he cut, he charged and he parried. He succeeded in throwing Payn off balance and, within that second, he too drew blood, slicing through Payn's left hand, removing his fore, and his middle, finger. Bone and flesh hit the floor. Then, all took a breath within a brief pause before weapon assaulted weapon; clash upon clash produced fresh sparks, forcing Branwen to avert her gaze for fear of succumbing to blindness. When she turned back, she placed her hand to her mouth, the horror on her face reflecting Morgan's perilous position, for Payn had opened up a fresh wound, a gash on Morgan's right thigh that severely restricted his movements. 'Enough!' Rig cried out, but the bloodlust was now rampant in Payn's eyes and a fresh thrust from his sword demanded satisfaction. Again, the wound went deep, spraying the onlookers with blood, covering them with the badge of Morgan's courage. Exhausted, defeated, Morgan sank to his knees, the whites of his eyes showing. Limply, his hand held on to his sword, although now it resembled a mere token as opposed to a weapon. Taking no chances, Payn kicked the sword from Morgan's grasp before draining the last of his lifeblood; with a bestial howl, he sliced into Morgan's skull, killing him within that instant.

Numb, Branwen was reduced to tears, though they only brought more pain and certainly no comfort. Rig, meanwhile, flicked the blood from his hose while Payn cleaned his sword upon the red sindon mattress.

This was the scene that greeted Sir Roger de la March, Geoffrey and their mother, Matildis. Previously, they had been savouring their breakfast. However, thoughts of future events had dulled Sir Roger's palate. Grateful to leave the table, he had offered to escort his mother to the Church of St Thomas where, together, they would offer up prayers for their mission. But the shouts and the screams from the room above had alerted them and now they stood, aghast, enraged, disbelieving.

'My brother,' Sir Roger ground out the words through clenched teeth, 'you will show me good humour; you will offer an explanation.'

'He drew his sword and threatened me,' Payn complained, the hurt now coursing through his damaged hand, the blood now oozing from the stumps of his displaced fingers. 'I had no choice but to defend myself; Rig will attest to that.'

Sir Roger glanced towards Rig. In turn, the chief sergeant nodded, affirming Payn's statement. And, while the constable held his doubts, he saw no profit in voicing them at this particular moment. Instead, he offered his commiserations to his brother: 'You are wounded; you are hurt; best you leave this place and seek ministration.'

'I am fine,' Payn insisted, tearing a strip from the sword-sliced bedding and wrapping it around his bloodied hand. 'I will stay and hear you out.'

'So be it,' Sir Roger conceded. His attention wandered to the semi-conscious figure of Branwen, who remained, dishevelled, leaning against the trestle table. 'Mother: tend to the lady,' he instructed. 'Make her comfortable.'

Without hesitation, Matildis shuffled towards Branwen. Offering her arm for support, she led the distressed woman to the bed, whereupon, once seated, she assisted in the adjustment of her clothing.

Next, Sir Roger's gaze fell upon the stricken form of Morgan. He had fallen at an awkward angle, an angle that suggested agony. Yet, of all within the room, he was the one who now suffered the least degree of torment. All the same, Sir Roger squatted, the better to adjust Morgan's twisted body.

'Rig...' Glancing up, the constable demanded: 'remove our erstwhile companion. Hide his body for now. I shall release word that he was killed whilst pursuing the outlaws. Meanwhile, pass word to his people so that they may bury him with all good grace.'

Nodding, Rig did as instructed. Lifting Morgan from the floor, he threw him over his shoulder. Then, after a slight adjustment, the better to take his weight, he left the room.

As though trying to make sense of the scene, Sir Roger's eyes wandered from a smashed pot to the disturbed hearth, from a shattered lantern to the scorched rushes. His gaze hastened beyond the shivering form of Geoffrey to settle upon Payn.

'As for you, my brother,' he announced, his anger fuelled by the degradation, 'the hangman's rope would await you, save that you are my kith and kin.'

'You judge me harshly,' Payn spat out, his right hand twisting the makeshift bandage more tightly around his shattered fingers, 'for I was doing no more than seeking the truth to Rhys Goch's location.'

Incredulous, Sir Roger laughed out loud: 'And by those words you would have tell that you glory not in bloodshed!'

'I glory in our prosperity and in the riches that await us,' Payn insisted. Holding his damaged hand up before his brother's eyes, he clenched his remaining fingers into a tight fist. 'But for a twist of fate, I would hold you in my position. Had the saints been kinder, I would have been the firstborn.'

'If that be so,' Sir Roger reasoned, 'then challenge the saints. Brush me aside. Take my position. And pray tell me what you would do now, now that Morgan has been slaughtered.'

'I would return to our original solution,' Payn offered, without a moment's hesitation. 'I would poison the king at his welcoming feast.'

Neat within its logic and satisfactory to their needs, the suggestion nevertheless overlooked one practical consideration, which was given voice by Sir Roger:

'And from whom would you obtain a suitable poison?'

'From the custorin, Johanna. She has a way with herbs. What is more, she is within our possession. A little persuading and, on our behalf, she will apply her skills.'

This suggestion was neater still, offering enough reason to become the solution, the smile upon Payn's face acknowledging that fact. That could not stand, for the scene was being played out in front of Geoffrey and their mother, and woe betide Sir Roger should they consider Payn to be the sharper tack. A challenge was necessary. When that challenge arrived, it came in the form of a put-down:

'And what would you do, my dear brother: would you challenge the custorin with a red-hot poker?'

'No,' Payn snapped. 'Again, you misjudge me. I would merely speak with Brother Leisan; I would enlist his help, for Johanna is within Leisan's grasp; she will do anything for him, anything that he might ask. And, rest assured, he will ask her when told that his non-compliance will see him condemned as a heretic.'

Sir Roger had to concede: the plan was without fault. Maybe it would have been better for all concerned had Payn arrived as the firstborn. At least then Sir Roger could have walked away from this intrigue, abjured all responsibility for this conspiracy. However, he was in charge, he made the decisions, and all had to believe that that remained the fact. Therefore, despite a growing distaste for the whole venture, despite the revulsion that turned his stomach, Sir Roger gave Payn his seal of approval, he bestowed upon him his badge of authority, he forgave him this atrocity, but he would resist the notion that he had yielded, resist the idea that he had offered his brother carte blanche.

'Very well,' Sir Roger stated. 'Set about your task.'

Without taking time to look towards his mother, who was still tending the traumatized figure of Branwen, Payn left the room.

What to say to Branwen? What words could begin to offer balm? Sir Roger could think of none whatsoever. Yet, he could not question her with the incident left unspoken. For his family to retain any degree of honour, a show of compassion was necessary.

'I am sorry, my lady,' Sir Roger began. 'Would that words could offer you solace.'

'I seek no solace from you,' Branwen cried, brushing away tears as they ran down her cheeks. 'I seek only my freedom.'

'Alas,' Sir Roger sighed, 'you have seen, you have heard, too much. Your freedom, though it may be my wish, I cannot allow.'

'Then, forever, I am to remain your prisoner?'

'Your fate I will determine upon another day. But I think it fair to say that my judgement could be swayed by your cooperation: tell us now of Rhys Goch's location.'

'As I told your brother: to such information I am not privy.'

'Then you would have it that I should invite my brother in to talk with you again?'

The words were a bluff and they raised a sickness in Sir Roger's stomach; they were a means to an end. Nevertheless, the harsh look upon the constable's face told Branwen that he knew, he knew that this was a game worth the playing, for there was little doubt that he would have his way.

'No, no,' she pleaded. 'No, my lord. I beg of you...'

'Then tell us the truth. Pray, give voice to your answer. Now!'

Startled and frightened, Branwen could not help but release all emotion. At first she cried mournfully, her body shuddering, her shoulders shaking. So distressed was she that Matildis took further pity upon her, offering a comforting arm.

'The truth is...' Branwen began, only to pause and sob. 'The truth is...we communicate through a monk at Llanfihangel; his name is Brother Blanchigernonis.'

'Excellent. Thank you,' Sir Roger bowed.

'May God forgive me,' Branwen cried, her head falling into trembling hands.

Walking towards the door, Sir Roger beckoned his brother, Geoffrey. He took a moment to gaze into his ashen face, he took a second to seek the spark of life, he took the time to determine whether comprehension still resided within his eyes. Enough, Sir Roger concluded, enough to play the role of messenger. Indeed, performing such a task might even break the spell of shock, which still held Geoffrey tight within its grip.

'Tell Payn that Brother Blanchigernonis is Rhys Goch's herald,' Sir Roger instructed. 'Advise our brother to have words with the good monk.'

'And what of Branwen?' Geoffrey muttered, his gaze distant, his expression more vacant than ever; an assassin, he was not, a conspirator, no more than maybe. He should be free to roam the meadows and pick the daisies; he should not be compelled to countenance the death of a king.

Then, within that moment, Sir Roger realised that he was reflecting upon himself, and not his brother. He realised that within him ran the myriad strands of the family, de la March. Like his late father, he could be stern and disciplined, like his mother, he could be loyal and ambitious. Like Payn, he could be ruthless and devious, like Geoffrey he could wish for nothing more than the freedom to be himself.

'For her own safety, as much as for our security, we shall lock her in the dungeon. And there she will stay, until we have captured Rhys Goch.'

And after that? The searching look on Geoffrey's face gave expression to the question. To himself, Sir Roger reasoned: she would have to be done away with; she would have to be killed.

* * *

They hid within the hedgerow, in sight of Llanfihangel Grange. Anest lay upon her back, resting, weary, while Tangwstyl slept peacefully, safe within her arms. Owain Glyn Dwr sat upright, his back against the thicket, a playful smile upon his face as he coaxed Ci's chin. They were waiting for Brother Blanchigernonis, whilst keeping half a mind on the soldiery; the Castle would doubtless have recognised their error by now, their folly in chasing that mistaken peasant across Dane's Vale. They would be out in number, searching, questioning all and sundry, unaware of the sweet irony, the fact that their quarry sought refuge amongst the outlaws.

Ci was the first to sense him, his ears rising, his nose twitching. Then, the sound of Owain moving made Anest rise and seek the source. To her relief, the figure that strode towards them could be taken for none other than Brother Blanchigernonis; staff in hand, he cleared a way through the thicket, his careful stride soon locating their lair.

'You must be Owain Glyn Dwr,' he announced, on making the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy's acquaintance.

'And you must be Brother Blanchigernonis,' Owain smiled, shaking the monk warmly by the hand.

The pleasantries over, Brother Blanchigernonis raised his staff and beckoned, so that they might follow; in single file and in silence, they made their way to the outlaws.

They crossed the Roman road and a wide meadow. Then, they followed the course of the Coal Brook, beyond the fulling mill. There, Y Bwa Bach, the Little Hunchback, joined them; the shrewd look upon his face revealing that all was known to him.

'More renegades for the den?' he asked, his sigh heavy, his expression becoming weary.

'Renegades, they may well be,' Brother Blanchigernonis replied, 'but I would have you see them as friends.'

With that, the white monk turned, seeking the path recently trodden.

'You are not coming with us?' the Little Hunchback asked.

'Not on this occasion,' Brother Blanchigernonis smiled. 'I have other work to attend. Nevertheless, I ask that you guard these people well; kindly ensure that they are offered the best of protection, for you are in the company of heroes, of people who will fill the songs of men.'

The Little Hunchback offered blindfolds to both Owain and Anest. Owain took his, but Anest complained, pointing to the child: 'If I am to fall, who will come to her rescue?'

'The lady makes a fair point,' Owain added. 'Best offer up to trust; be done with the blindfolds; recall the words of the white monk instead.'

The Little Hunchback paused for a moment, clearly unsure, evidently holding an internal debate over the issue. Eventually, he nodded; pocketing the blindfolds, he put his trust in Brother Blanchigernonis.

With hobbling strides, the Little Hunchback led them across the Roman road, heading in a north-westerly direction. Soon, they were upon the conyger, within sight of the ocean. The sounds of the gulls and of the waves crashing upon the shore stirred Tangwstyl. Anest adjusted the baby in her arms, hoping that she could delay her feed. Although sighted, they stumbled on occasion; Owain, keeping close watch, offered support, ensured that they were safe from all harm.

The walk across the conyger brought them within sight of a sandy outcrop. A steep descent led them to the beach. The sandy surface, coupled with Tangwstyl's weight, ensured that all of Anest's limbs ached; they had walked for several miles, far further than the gulls fly, due to the undulating nature of the land.

'Be careful,' the Little Hunchback instructed, drawing attention to a large, jagged area of rock. The rock safely negotiated, they entered the mouth of a large cavern. There, they were compelled to wait while the Little Hunchback disappeared into the cave.

He returned mere moments later, carrying a torch of brushwood. With that torch as their guide, they entered the depths of the cave.

Water dripped on Anest's hair and she adjusted her hand, the better to protect Tangwstyl. She walked a few yards with her head bowed, her eyes smiling as she viewed the baby's face. When she glanced up, however, her eyes widened, in surprise and in no little horror, for the scene around the hearth disturbed her; the hollow, haunted looks of the outlaws screamed at her like phantoms in a nightmare.

So this was the outlaw's lair, the place of last refuge. And there, seated amongst the dispossessed, the persecuted, the sick and the deformed was Rhys Goch, once lord of all he surveyed. At his side sat Cynan, head bowed, in earnest, even playful, conversation with the Lady Meirian, while beside them, Madog retained a quiet dignity, present, yet somehow withdrawn.

Of course, Ci was the first of their number to be moved to action. On catching his master's scent, he ran, nimbly picking his way through the crowd. Madog greeted the dog with a grin and a hug, tucking him under the crook of his arm. For his trouble, he received a slobbering lick from Ci's wet tongue.

The suspicious look upon Rhys Goch's face offered an altogether cooler welcome. A harsh glare, directed at the Little Hunchback, demanded an explanation.

'My Lord,' Y Bwa Bach began, 'we have two more guests, friends of Brother Blanchigernonis.'

'My name is Owain,' a powerful voice announced. 'I am lord of Glyndyfrdwy.'

'And I am Anest,' a softer voice began. 'I am the healer of Stormy Down.'

'And the infant?' Rhys Goch enquired, his gaze falling upon the silently sleeping, contented baby.

'Her name is Tangwstyl,' Anest explained. 'Her mother died in childbirth. Of her father,' she continued, her gaze falling upon the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy's leonine features, 'it is said that he is a man of greatness, though shyness may be more apt. I say this because no man, as yet, has been bold enough to step forward and claim the baby. But one day he will. And upon that day the wrongs that have bound you to this place will be put to rights.'

Upon hearing that statement, Rhys Goch stepped forward, the better to view the baby. Slowly, his gaze settled upon Owain Glyn Dwr, whose stare went pointedly to the ground. If a likeness was sought, or even recognised, then Rhys Goch kept his counsel. Indeed, as Meirian stepped forward, Anest was moved to conclude that Tangwstyl resembled her. Yet, there could be no dispute: Tirion was Tangwstyl's mother. So, what confusion was this: a trick of the half-light, or something more profound?

Dismissing such ethereal themes, Rhys Goch returned to the matter at hand; pointedly, he took a step towards Owain: 'And how might I help you, my lord of Glyndyfrdwy?'

'How might I help you, my noble Lord Rhys? I ask for I feel that we are about to embark upon a cause, an action that is wholly mutual. But, before I confide in you, I move that we speak in a place that offers greater sanctuary.'

Switching his gaze to the assembled outlaws, Rhys Goch nodded his understanding. Beckoning Cynan, he walked towards the sandstone passageway. 'We shall speak outside, on the sand,' he announced, 'for, truly, our days here are numbered. This cave has been a good home to me these past two years. But the risks have been great, and I am no fool; it is time to move on.'

Following Rhys Goch's lead, Cynan and the Lady Meirian made their exit. Anest waited for Madog, before joining Owain Glyn Dwr. Tangwstyl was becoming restless and soon she would require feeding. Her grizzles and her groans attracted the Lady Meirian's attention. Accordingly, she turned her head, only to view the baby with a frown. Anest wanted to ask Meirian why she had placed her in so much trouble: why had she accused her of the black arts when no evidence was to be found? That accusation had led to the destruction of her home and all her possessions. Little wonder that the healer was moved to muster up a scowl.

Setting foot upon the sand, Anest searched her person for the earthenware bottle. And before Tangwstyl could erupt into full voice, she was offered the cloth teat. Greedily, she sucked on the teat, encouraging the goat's milk. Happy in the knowledge that the baby was accepting her feed, Anest settled back against a rock. There, she watched as the two great lords set about their business. Rhys Goch took the lead, the wind ruffling his red hair, his head held proud.

'And so, my lord,' he began, 'pray tell me: what is your story?'

'Like you,' Owain replied, 'I am sought by the Castle and by the king's men.'

'For what reason?'

'The king, through his advisers, sees me as an enemy of the state purely because I have spent time with the Lord Bolingbroke. I believe that the Lord Bolingbroke is about to land on these shores and lay claim to the throne.'

'And what of King Richard?'

'He is to be murdered at Kenfig Castle.'

At this, Cynan stepped forward, his features brightening. In a moment of joy, he did a jig upon the sand. 'What are we waiting for?' he asked, of no one in particular. 'Let us rise up in cheer and celebrate!'

Rhys Goch, meanwhile, did no more than stroke his beard in a reflective, thoughtful manner. Clearly, he was reluctant to add credence to his esquire's enthusiasm. Standing before Owain, he offered a challenge: 'What say you, my lord of Glyndyfrdwy: should we rise up in cheer at the thought of King Richard's assassination?'

'That is for you to decide. Given your circumstances, I would not complain if you were moved to celebration. On the other hand, I would point out that being the king's enemy does not welcome you as Bolingbroke's friend. Indeed, I understand that the exiled lord holds lands neighbouring your possessions. Why would he wish to make a present of those possessions when, through Richard, they are securely held by the Crown?'

'Bolingbroke is a fair man,' Rhys Goch attested. 'I have heard it said by lords both simple and proud.'

'We are talking of civil war,' Owain complained. 'And since when has war been fair to any man?'

'If that is your view, my lord of Glyndyfrdwy, then why come to me?'

'I come to you,' Owain sighed, 'because your lady is held within the castle. It is my wish to gain entry into that tower; I assumed that it would be your wish to secure your lady's freedom.'

'More than anything in this world,' Rhys Goch avowed, 'I yearn to be beside Branwen; but how to make her safe? And what of your plans once the deed is done?'

'When Branwen is safe, then I will warn the king of his impending assassination.'

'And make yourself an adversary of the Lord Bolingbroke?'

'We have already fallen out,' Owain conceded. 'We are friends no longer.'

At this, Rhys Goch threw back his head and laughed aloud: 'Then it appears as though you are as much an outlaw as me!' Becoming more reflective, the old lord glanced across the bay, his eyes settling upon the town of Kenfig. The main structures, the churches and the castle were plainly visible, the former conjuring up thoughts of sanctuary, promised, though rarely offered, whilst the later stood for intimidation; fear sculptured in stone.

'Before I agree to your plan,' Rhys Goch continued, 'I ask you this: how are we to enter the castle?'

'That we can discuss,' Owain suggested, 'when I am sure of your support.'

Cautiously, Rhys Goch glanced across to his esquire, Cynan. He looked for a measured response, an indication of support. Instead, he had to make do with the view of his esquire's flowing locks and the realisation that he was preoccupied, enamoured with the Lady Meirian's beauty; once again, he was chasing false hopes, pursuing dreams bordering on the unattainable. Though, to be fair to him, he had played the role with great chivalry, only for her to lead him on. For what reason? For what purpose? He was nothing more than a humble esquire; what could she hope to gain? Had the question been asked directly, then maybe all would have been enlightened by the answer. Instead, all were preoccupied with their own thoughts, entangled in their own webs of confusion.

'Let us assume that we have agreed to help you,' Rhys Goch offered, by way of supposition. 'What then? What steps are we to take, once we are inside the castle?'

'Once inside the castle,' Owain replied, 'I will go about my business: I will warn the king. You will tend to your lady.'

'Why should I trouble myself with King Richard,' Rhys Goch grumbled, his tone sad, his features morose, his feet kicking at the shingle, 'when all he has ever done for me is cause trouble? He has taken my lands, taken my dignity, taken my freedom. What do I owe this king?'

'You owe him nothing, my lord,' Owain admitted. 'But, by siding with the king you might well regain those lands, your lost dignity, your stolen freedom. By warning him of this plot, you would be worthy of reward.'

'A pardon?' Rhys Goch suggested, his features threatening to brighten.

'The king has granted pardons for less,' Owain pointed out, his optimism gathering like a wave, his confidence threatening to engulf all those who stood upon the shore. All those, except for the old lord...

'The king is unstable,' Rhys Goch countered, obdurately. 'He might well claim my head.'

'The king is prone to listen to bad counsel,' Owain conceded, 'of that, my lord, I agree. Nevertheless, we would walk into this together. Your risk is no greater than mine. I trust that wise heads will prevail and that we will be offered justice on this occasion. As for the alternatives: are you prepared to hide away forever; are you prepared to be deprived of what is rightly yours?'

'I feel my hackles rising,' Rhys Goch admitted, his right fist clenching, his determined gaze turning towards the castle. 'I like your fighting spirit, I like your fighting talk!'

'Then, you will side with me?'

While Rhys Goch considered his answer, the Lady Meirian stepped forward. Smiling serenely, she directed her charms at Owain Glyn Dwr:

'Before you reply, my lord, may I pose but a simple question?'

'You may,' Owain bowed, graciously. 'And if the answer should dwell within my gift, my lady, then, truly, it is yours.'

'Thank you,' Meirian replied, her eyelashes fluttering, dancing over eyes that both allured and bedazzled, her cave-worn clothing, loose now and relaxed, hinting at her voluptuous, seductive charms. Smiling, she continued: 'My question is this: why not warn the king as he travels? Why risk entry into the castle at all?'

'I know of the plot,' Owain explained, 'but not of the detail. To speak of the one without the other would make me look a fool. The detail of the plot remains hidden within that castle. It is my intention to capture those responsible and to have them tell of the plot via their own tongues.'

'You talk of the family de la March?' the Lady Meirian challenged.

'Indeed, I do, amongst others I could name.'

'Then, in rescuing the king, you would seek to destroy this family? It is your stated aim to cast aside their wicked ways?'

'It is my aim to rescue the king and to obtain justice for his people. However, if that justice should embrace the misdeeds of the family de la March then, I state boldly, I would be a happy man.'

At this, the Lady Meirian smiled, most warmly. She wrapped her arms around her midriff, as though giving herself a hug. Her rich brown eyes brightened, glistened with excitement, with raw emotion. Captivated by the moment, she fell on to her knees before Rhys Goch.

'My lord,' she implored, 'I beseech you; I ask you to support this plan and to offer your sword to the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy. For once, let justice prevail within our lifetime. Grasp this opportunity, banish this evil; make right so much that has been done wrong.'

Moved by the lady's plea, Cynan placed a hand upon her shoulder. Glancing up, she smiled, her fingers entwining with his, becoming one.

'The lady is right, my lord,' the esquire insisted. Swayed by the Lady Meirian, he cast his playful demeanour aside. Urgently, he continued, in tones both sober and reflective: 'The Lord of Glyndyfrdwy's plan offers the best chance of freedom. Richard is no friend of ours, but neither can we trust in Bolingbroke.'

Perplexed, puzzled, deeply intrigued, Rhys Goch took a step towards the lady, his weather-beaten mask of a face wearing curiosity's frown. 'What concern is this of yours?' he asked, his tone considered, profoundly reasonable. 'Why have you come to this place? What do you want from us?'

Casting her eyes to the sand, the Lady Meirian chose not to answer that question. Instead, she accepted Cynan's hand; she climbed to her feet, then she set off on a solitary walk along the shore.

Exasperated, Rhys Goch merely groaned before seeking the solace of the cave, the succour of his private chamber. Confused, Cynan held his ground, unsure of whom to follow, unsure of which way to turn. Eventually, he ran off, in pursuit of the Lady Meirian. Together, they rounded the curve of the bay before disappearing from view.

Left with his thoughts, Owain Glyn Dwr wandered off with Ci, the latter making great play out of a piece of driftwood. Possibly out of frustration, the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy stooped, gathered up the wood and sent it spinning across the ground. Whatever his motivation, the game was afoot and Ci set off, splashing through the rock pools. With a grin, wide upon his face, he gathered up the wood and ran towards Owain, his tail standing proud.

On another day, Anest could have viewed this scene with great enjoyment. However, the sight of Madog and his sombre expression took her thoughts directly to Euros.

'He has not returned, not since meeting with Johanna, the custorin,' she stated, not waiting for the obvious question. 'I fear for him,' she shivered, her sudden frisson disturbing Tangwstyl.

'Fear not,' Madog insisted. 'Have no concern for Euros. Believe in his demise only when you have witnessed it with your own eyes. Hold this thought in mind: he will return; he will triumph. The boy was born to victory, and so too the man.'

And with that, he held out his good hand so that he could take hold of the baby. Her tiny fingers grasped his thumb, explored the calluses on his hard-laboured hand. Soon, they would all meet again in the cave and, soon, Owain would receive his answer. And, soon, Anest would confront the Lady Meirian. She would learn the truth of her behaviour; while men fought and postured, the human truth would be hers to own.

* * *

Brother Leisan was walking towards the fulling mill when he caught sight of the men and their horses. They were travelling along the Roman road at some speed, clearly eager to reach their destination. At first, the riders were no more than human shapes, with no distinguishable features. However, with the horses' hooves pounding against the ground and the dust reaching the back of Brother Leisan's throat, the figures of Rig and Payn came menacingly into view.

On encountering Brother Leisan, the two men dismounted. Rig took hold of the horses and led them to the Coal Brook, while Payn, his arm bent at the elbow, his injured hand held level with his shoulder, approached Brother Leisan.

'It is such a fine day,' Payn ventured, his eyes wandering up to the clear blue sky, 'maybe you would like to walk with us a little while, brother?'

The offer was too threatening to refuse, moving Brother Leisan to grimace as he made his reply: 'If it pleases my lords.'

They waited a moment whilst the horses drank from the river. Having slaked their thirst, they were led to a suitable tree and securely tied. Rig did the needful allowing Payn to flex his hand and pull at the fresh bandage. Before embarking upon their journey, Rig had assisted Payn in binding his hand. He had removed the dirty dressing before pulling the wounded edges of his fingers together. Then, he had bound a rind of pork to the wound, making it secure. Blood had solid this fresh bandage, so an additional layer had been applied. Movement of the hand, and the subsequent flow of blood, had turned this white strip of cloth a rich pink in colour. Dust from the road had speckled this pink with blotches of brown. Although the wound throbbed and screamed at Payn and would be slow to heal, he was beginning to regard it with a measure of pride. Indeed, when the stumps had healed he would display them as one would show off hard-won trophies. They would become symbols of his bravery, emblems of his power.

With the horses grazing, Payn led Brother Leisan and Rig up a lightly worn trackway, along a path that snaked up the hillside to areas seldom seen. All three had to scramble from time to time, feeling compelled to place their hands upon the ground in order to maintain their balance. Upon such an occasion, Brother Leisan's attention wandered to Payn and his heavily bandaged hand:

'You have injured yourself,' he observed, probing for an explanation.

'My wound is no concern of yours,' Payn announced, his weary body sinking to the ground. He sat for awhile, both to catch his breath and to recover his strength, his wound having sapped him of so much of his energy. Rig stood, however, his overbearing presence ensuring that Brother Leisan eschewed his base instincts, the chief sergeant's hand, casually resting against his sword, determining that the precentor made no effort to flee.

'We require a poison,' Payn announced, when fully returned to his senses.

'For what purpose, my lord?' Brother Leisan enquired, a raised eyebrow displaying his interest.

'Our requirements need not concern you,' Payn replied, curtly.

'Then truly,' the precentor scoffed, 'I feel that this entire matter need not concern me.' He glanced down to the fulling mill and the shimmering ripples of the river. It had been his intention to call at the mill and collect cloth for a new habit. Maybe, despite Rig and his sword, he should display his purpose and boldly stride towards the mill.

'We are wasting our time,' Payn grumbled, his eyes wandering down to the ground, his fingers picking at the grass. 'I told you, Rig, we should have talked directly with Cardinal D'Orso. We should have told him that Brother Leisan is the hand behind the heretic papers. We should have avoided all this nonsense and made the cardinal fully aware of the facts.'

Now there was nowhere to run. Not even the abbey offered sanctuary, not if Payn divulged all to Cardinal D'Orso. More than the threat of Rig's sword, Payn's words held Brother Leisan rooted to the ground.

'I have no access to poison,' the precentor mumbled, somewhat meekly.

'But your friend, Johanna, does.'

'Where is Johanna?' Brother Leisan asked, his tone becoming more urgent, in plea, his knee falling to the ground.

'Safe,' Payn smiled, displaying the grin of the jackal. 'We have locked her up, lest she do herself further harm.'

'I wish to see her,' Brother Leisan requested.

'And you shall,' Payn replied. 'Once you have agreed to our demand.'

At that moment, Brother Leisan felt hatred towards his oppressors. He felt powerless, a victim, a sapling caught in their storm. Yet, he was no stranger to the Castle and their secrets. If he placed his words carefully, made them fully aware of the consequences, then, maybe, the balance between their branch of the castle and his branch of the church could be restored.

'Why do you want this poison?' Brother Leisan asked, already fully aware of the answer.

'The matter,' Payn yawned, 'need not concern you.'

'To kill the king?' the precentor challenged.

The aggravated look on Payn's face spoke volumes by way of an answer; Brother Leisan had drawn blood, had opened up a fresh wound. What is more, this mental laceration threatened to cut much deeper than any sword thrust. The fact that Payn had lost all pretence to ambivalence and had leapt to his feet highlighted his readiness for the cerebral joust.

'I could not help, my lord,' Brother Leisan explained, 'but overhear Sir William Scurlag as he babbled. I trust that you will forgive me. Also, that you will now hold a more considered appreciation of my position.'

A disgruntled glance, exchanged between Payn and Rig demonstrated that this was now plainly the fact.

'The poison is a gift for the king,' Payn conceded, his right hand tapping the hilt of his sword, his footsteps taking him closer to Brother Leisan.

'Then why not acquire such a poison from the town?' the precentor reasoned. 'On any given day, you are sure to encounter an apothecary.'

'We need the poison to act in a certain way, in a way that mimics the fever.'

'So you are in need of a skilled hand,' the precentor smiled, 'not to mention a silent tongue.'

Payn's fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword and, had he been alone with Brother Leisan, such silence would have followed in perfunctory fashion. However, a warning glance from Rig permitted a moment of reflection, vital seconds that allowed reason to take hold.

'In Johanna,' Payn surmised, 'we have the skilled hand. And, in your good self, we have the silent tongue.'

Gaining in confidence, Brother Leisan saw fit to offer a challenge: 'What makes you so sure of my silence?'

'Need we raise the subject of your heresy again?' Payn sighed.

'I am no heretic.'

'Yet,' Payn judged, 'Cardinal D'Orso is already gathering brushwood and is so keen to light a fire.'

The point well made, the battle for cerebral supremacy reached its conclusion. Payn de la March was no intellectual; he was, in no way, clever. However, he was politically smart; he knew how to hold his ground. Brother Leisan realised that the best he could hope for was parity and a compromise solution to this ticklish situation; if both Payn and himself could emerge from this debate with a sense of satisfaction, then God's work would have been done. Of course, Brother Leisan did not allow the king's feelings to enter into his equation; after all, the king was not standing before him with a sword or with the threat of revealing all to Cardinal D'Orso. Additionally, Richard had spoken out against Brother Leisan's beliefs, had condemned such enlightenment as heresy: should the king fall, then the gate would be open and onward would march the true believers; should Payn succeed, then The Book would be open and the common people could then feast upon the glory of the True Word.

'Granted,' Brother Leisan conceded, tugging at his habit as though pulling a cloak of meekness over his shoulders, 'we have need of each other.'

'Then you will speak with Johanna,' Payn insisted. 'You will persuade her to make a suitable poison.'

'I will do all that I can. However, in exchange, I ask for the return of my parchment.'

'The cardinal has your parchment,' Payn stated, his back now turned to the precentor, his good hand seeking the support of a tree as he made his way back down the hillside.

'No, he has the parchment that was found on Brother Helias,' Brother Leisan called out. 'You, my lord, have the parchment that was found on Johanna.'

Payn paused. Again, he glanced towards Rig and the chief sergeant duly nodded; this valuable piece of merchandise would have to be exchanged, would have to be sacrificed so that they could get their hands on the poison; it was a fair deal, one that spoke of statesmanship.

'You will be given the parchment,' Payn promised.

'Thank you, my lord,' Brother Leisan bowed. He continued: 'I require one further gift before I can guarantee my participation.'

'You try my patience, brother,' Payn growled, his stride quickening as he found a secure path down the hillside; Rig was at his side, clearing away any objects that might impede their progress.

'Surely patience should be your virtue,' Brother Leisan reasoned. 'Show a little more tolerance and consideration and soon you will gain your prize.'

In bad humour, Payn completed the rest of the descent offering no more than silence. On reaching the river, he splashed water over his face before kneeling to drink. Suitably refreshed, he went in search of his horse.

'You may make one further demand,' Payn granted. 'But no other,' he added, while mounting his destrier.

'I require satisfaction for Cardinal D'Orso; he is to leave Kenfig convinced of my innocence.'

'And how are we to achieve that?'

'Simple,' Brother Leisan pontificated. 'You are to convince him of the true heretic's guilt.'

'You ask for the impossible.'

'I ask for a fair exchange,' Brother Leisan pleaded. 'Given our mutual needs, such a request should not be beyond a man with your resources.'

Payn waited for Rig and soon the two men fell into hushed conversation. Brother Leisan was left to catch his breath and to cleanse his habit of grass stains and dust. Eventually, the two men rode up to him. They towered over him from their lofty positions. Even the horses looked down on him, which made him feel small. In response, Brother Leisan drew himself up to his full height, as though to free himself from all intimidation. After all, he had God on his side, the greatest ally of all.

'Leave the deal with me,' Payn instructed. 'And I will present the cardinal with a suitable victim.'

'Then take me to Johanna,' Brother Leisan responded. 'And I will present you with a suitable poison.'

* * *

Brother Blanchigernonis approached Groes-y-Gryn, the crossroads and debating point within the vill of North Corneli. Pausing to rest upon his staff, he glanced round, observing as soldiers searched barns and crofts and houses, doubtless seeking the whereabouts of Owain Glyn Dwr. Their actions made the white monk smile: Owain was too smart, he was too quick for them; they would never find him. Soon, they would have to call off their search and devote their energies to the king's imminent arrival; it would all add to the chaos at the castle; it would all help to bring matters to an agreeable end, for Brother Blanchigernonis was in no doubt as to what would constitute a satisfactory outcome. From the day Tirion had confided her secret to him, he had been working towards this conclusion. From the day she had opened her heart to him, he had known that he would have to challenge the fates. So far, so good; but much remained open; he would have to tread carefully, plan assiduously to ensure that justice prevailed.

A yell from one of the soldiers indicated that this segment of their search had proved fruitless; they could gather themselves together and wearily move on. They did so whilst receiving angry stares from the majority of the villeins; few were stupid enough to speak out, most were wise enough and experienced enough to hold their tongues. All were weary from the intrusion. Some were still suffering from the distress caused by the fever. A silent march towards the churchyard indicated that yet another villein had passed on.

Brother Blanchigernonis watched the mournful family with a heavy sadness; he understood their suffering, he empathised with their grief. Such moments took him back to his youth and to the death of his parents; also, in later years, to the death of his wife when she too had been visited by the plague. Such tragic events had challenged his faith and had made him question why man had to endure such anguish; then came the moment of revelation, the moment of peace. Of course, it was painful for those left behind; it was cruel, it was heartbreaking. However, for those who had moved on it was joyful for they had entered paradise. And so, Brother Blanchigernonis came to realise that, one day, he too would enter heaven; he would be reunited with those he loved, he would share with them everlasting peace. Moreover, while he enjoyed the pleasures of this world, and even its vicissitudes, he found himself looking towards that moment; when engaged in quiet reflection, he imagined the joy of such an embrace. And so, now he realised that he could live within the day without any fear whatsoever. And such tranquillity was so potent, so persuasive; it was so powerful, so powerful that no situation, no person, could prove threatening; he could walk through this world without dread or trepidation; he could allow the hand of God to guide him and take pleasure from doing His work.

At that moment, God was guiding him towards the forge, the workplace and home of Einion ap Rhiryd. The forge was situated a few yards to the northwest of Groes-y-Gryn. The white monk found the blacksmith hard at his labours; sweating and straining, he was hammering flat a large iron plate.

Leaning on his staff, Brother Blanchigernonis took a moment to admire the skill and the efforts of the blacksmith, for, whatever else could be said about Einion, few would dispute that he knew his craft.

'Good evening to you, Einion,' the white monk ventured during a pause between hammer blows.

'Good evening to you, brother,' Einion ap Rhiryd panted, his skilled eye searching for flaws within his work.

'You are busying yourself, I see.'

'Indeed I am,' the blacksmith confirmed. 'I am making a chest.'

'To hold your tools?'

'To hold my money.'

Brother Blanchigernonis smiled a secret smile, for he was not entirely surprised; he had followed Einion to the castle; he had pictured the scene and had imagined the bartering: information came at a price and Einion had always been one to drive a hard bargain.

'You will soon be rich,' the white monk reasoned.

Einion raised his hammer. With his eyes trained on his work, he proceeded to heat and then thump the iron in vigorous fashion: 'I will soon be a burgess,' he grinned.

'Then, maybe, I should offer you my congratulations.'

'That is kind of you, brother...' The blacksmith paused to adjust his workpiece upon the anvil; satisfied that he could shape the iron further, he continued with his work. '...but, if you will excuse me, I must get on.'

'A man must find a little time for play, not to mention prayer and contemplation.'

'There will be plenty of time for play later,' the blacksmith insisted, a grubby hand sweeping back a stray curl of unruly brown hair. 'As for prayer: all my pleas have been answered.'

'By God?'

'By the grace of the family de la March.'

'They have granted you a place in the town?'

'Yes...' With the iron quenched in cold water and the hammer rested, it was time to pick up a grimy cloth and cleanse the face of perspiration. '...they have...for services rendered.'

'You served them as a blacksmith?' Brother Blanchigernonis asked, his melodic tone ever genial, his smiling face amiable to the point of innocence.

'I served them with my tongue.'

'Such candour,' the white monk acknowledged. 'You deserve my admiration.'

At this, Einion scowled. His face, already puce through his exertions, now threatened to turn a more menacing shade of red. 'Save your admiration for someone more worthy, brother.' Retrieving his hammer, the blacksmith raised it above his head. 'Now kindly get out of my way and allow me to get on.'

'You betrayed Euros,' Brother Blanchigernonis stated, as Einion strode towards him; in passing, the blacksmith veered, making firm contact with the white monk's shoulder.

'I betrayed no one,' the blacksmith insisted, his eyes bulging in his head.

'How do you think Euros will react, when he learns of your deception?'

'Euros will not react at all because Euros is dead.'

'And why do you say that?' the white monk asked, his head tilting to one side, his eyes narrowing, his mind becoming ever-more inquisitive.

'I have not seen him around the vill or at the Hall.'

'And you see everything, don't you, Einion.'

The blacksmith nodded, in solemn, confessional fashion: 'It pays to be well informed.'

'So it would seem,' Brother Blanchigernonis acknowledged.

Those thoughtful eyes, that inquisitive mind now took time to focus upon Einion's front door. That door was open, revealing a bundle of belongings: clothing, cooking utensils, family heirlooms, knick-knacks, the detritus of sentimentality long stored. All appeared to be ready. Soon, the vill would require a new blacksmith. With his ambition about to be realised, Einion was ready to move on.

'When will you take your place in Kenfig?' the white monk asked.

'As soon as all my belongings have been gathered together.'

'All appear to be gathered.'

'All,' Einion conceded, 'except Anest.'

'You regard her as a belonging?'

'She is to be my wife.'

'And she has consented to this union?'

'She cannot refuse me; I will not allow it.'

'It appears as though you are being very selfish, Einion.'

'She is mine; I want her and I will have her.'

'She wants Euros.'

'Euros is dead! Now leave me! I have had enough of this idle chatter!'

'You have your burgage plot, Einion; you have your thirty pieces of silver; now go, be content, move on.'

'I cannot be content. Contentment can only be found with Anest.'

'Then you are destined to wander through this world an unhappy man. She does not want you, Einion, and you will not have her; rest content with that thought. Enjoy your new found wealth.'

'You will not stop me,' the blacksmith threatened.

'Go to the town,' Brother Blanchigernonis instructed. 'Stay there.'

'I will have Anest!'

'Stay here and you will suffer a measure of retribution. As a Christian, I warn you, I advise you to move on.'

'You cannot scare me,' Einion scowled, his fingers tightening around the hammer.

'Scare you?' Brother Blanchigernonis smiled. 'I have no need to scare you, Einion, for you make a good job of scaring yourself.'

Leaving the blacksmith with that thought, Brother Blanchigernonis absented the vill of North Corneli. He walked through Dane's Vale, beyond Hevedaker, Cae Pwll-y-Ceffylau – the field of the horse's pool - and Branwen's smallholding at Deumay. On reaching Groes Siencyn, he paused to lean upon his staff and gaze into the gorge. Soon, he would have to make his way down the hill and across the Goylake River. Urgent business required his attention; a noble lord was waiting and much was to be discussed. However, in keeping with his persona, this monk could only travel at a leisurely pace; the lord would have to wait; and he would, for he was born to compassion and understanding.

The thought of the meeting pleased Brother Blanchigernonis and it was with spirits on high that he lifted up his habit and waded across Howletsford, the crossing point leading to Llanfihangel Grange. On reaching the land of Margam Abbey, however, his curiosity was aroused, for there, seated imposingly upon their horses, were the arresting figures of Rig and Payn.

'Where have you been, brother?' Payn demanded, his left hand still held close to his shoulder, as though frozen in a sculptured pose.

'I have been about God's work,' the white monk replied, truthfully.

'You will take us to Rhys Goch.'

After pausing, first to adjust the position of his staff, then to shift the centre of his weight, Brother Blanchigernonis smiled: 'You believe that to be within my gift?'

'Branwen confessed.' Payn tensed his right hand; he tugged at the reins as his horse sniffed, his senses attracted by the meandering river. 'She told us that you often meet with the outlaws.'

'How is Branwen?' Brother Blanchigernonis asked, politely.

'She is in good health,' Payn lied.

'Well, if the lady proclaims that I can help you then, surely, I must not disappoint her. However,' the white monk cautioned, 'to arrange a meeting would take a little time.'

'We haven't got much time,' Payn complained, tugging harder at the reins, a show of frustration, for his horse displayed no further sign of misdemeanour.

'You have until tomorrow?'

'When?' Rig demanded. 'Where?'

'You deceive us,' Payn added, 'and, rest assured, we will have your head.'

'I will not deceive you,' Brother Blanchigernonis replied, calmly. 'In fact, I am only too pleased to help you,' he smiled, disarmingly; if not the whole truth, then his words contained no lie, for the meeting would at least match the broad pattern of his plan. 'Be at the standing stone shortly after Vespers tomorrow,' he instructed. 'All will be revealed to you then.'

The two men rode off and a barn door swung open. A lordly figure emerged, scarred and bloodied. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but his eyes were alert, his gaze, determined. Barely a day to get him ready, Brother Blanchigernonis reflected. With a determined look of his own, he reasoned: it could be done. In a perfect world, he would have made other arrangements. However, given that this world is far from perfect then, he concluded, the plan is going rather well.

* * *

Since childhood, Athelena Scurlag had always slept in the foetal position; it was her favourite, the one she found most comforting. And so, she slept now, upon Sir Roger de la March's bed. Earlier, her sleep had been fitful, her nightmares – mainly of loss – disturbing and it was with some relief that she found herself stirring to consciousness, responding to the creak of the door and the welcoming presence of her beloved.

Blinking her rich hazel eyes open, she propped herself up on one elbow, the better to receive Sir Roger's welcoming kiss. Then, she adjusted her position, allowing herself to sink once again into the comforting warmth of the mattress. Sir Roger, meanwhile, sat upon the edge of the bed. He reached out and took her hand, squeezing her fingers in reassuring fashion. As ever, Athelena felt a frisson of excitement; how she loved Sir Roger's touch; how she wished that he would take his place in the bed beside her, if only to offer the security of his presence for, disturbed by her nightmares, she had had the notion of everyone deserting her, of being left alone in this world, of being bereft of family and friends. However, calmed by Sir Roger's presence, she realised that as long as she had her knight, then everything would be all right.

A moment drifted by in easy silence before Sir Roger bowed to kiss her forehead. 'How are you?' he asked, solicitously.

'Tired,' Athelena responded, her eyes easing open, a wan smile playing around her lips. 'But, truthfully,' she added, 'I am all right.'

'Soon,' Sir Roger sighed, 'this episode will be over.'

'Is anything truly over?' Athelena mused. 'At least, whilst we are still alive.'

'Tomorrow our problems will be solved,' Sir Roger insisted.

'I wish there was another solution,' Athelena groaned. 'I wish you were not a part of this.'

'I am, and I have to be, you know that.'

Sir Roger took Athelena's hand and squeezed it, an attempt to hide his words in the cloak of reassurance, his encouraging smile threatening to line that cloak with silk.

Returning his smile, Athelena allowed her mind to rest. Sighing deeply, she found herself drifting towards a mental oasis; free of troubles and worries, her muscles relaxed, her forehead smoothed and her face displayed all the majesty of her natural beauty.

Such a state of grace demanded that the door be locked and forever bolted, insisted that the world should go away and never impinge again upon their love. Yet, a woman's mind is never far from the clamour of practicalities. And so it was with Athelena as her thoughts returned to the deed that had to be done.

'Tomorrow,' she sighed, 'I must return with my father to Ogmore.'

'But we have the feast,' Sir Roger complained. 'The king may wish to see you.'

'The king cares not about me and I care not about him,' Athelena replied, brusquely. 'I must return to Ogmore. Please,' she beseeched, 'grant your approval.'

'Wait another day,' Sir Roger argued, 'and I will travel with you.'

'Wait another day and watch the king die?' Shaking her head, Athelena placed her feet upon the floor; she adopted a sitting position. Casting her eyes down to the ground, she stared sightlessly at the rushes and the crushed herbs. Then, she mumbled: 'I fear I do not have the courage.'

'Very well,' Sir Roger reasoned. 'Tomorrow, you will travel to Ogmore and lay Sir William to rest.'

Embracing her beloved, Athelena hugged him with all her emotion; now, more than ever, despite, maybe because of, her distress, she longed to be loved. Kissing him upon his lips, she tasted his passion and so consumed were the lovers with their own sensations, so obsessed were they with each sensual vibration that they failed to hear the creak and the opening of the door. Opening her eyes, Athelena spied the blushing figure of Geoffrey.

'Roger...' the bailiff blurted, his head peeping round the door. While one foot threatened to stride into the room, the other sought the exit; all a tangle, he promised to land himself upon his nose. 'I am sorry...I will come back another time.'

'Have no fear, Geoffrey,' Sir Roger grinned, his arm hanging loosely round his lady's shoulders. 'Enter. Sit with us. Talk awhile.'

Seizing the moment, Athelena rose from the bed. Smiling sweetly at Geoffrey, she made her way to the fireplace. There, she stood with her back to the fire, her eyes wandering over to the chess set, her mind wondering at her beloved's need to play such complex games.

'Payn wishes to see you,' Geoffrey announced, his words directed at Sir Roger, his gaze, furtive and uncertain, wandering over the breadth of the floor. 'He is in the Great Hall.'

'I will be with him in a moment,' Sir Roger announced.

Taking his cue, Geoffrey nodded. Beating a hasty retreat, his footsteps faded into the corridor.

'You will join us?' Sir Roger asked of Athelena. 'It will be good for you to leave the solitude of this room and mix in company once more.'

After a moment's thought, Athelena placed her hands upon her hair. She adjusted her braids and she pulled up her veil for, even in mourning, one has to look one's best.

'If that is your wish, my lord.'

'It is,' Sir Roger asserted.

Leaving the fireplace, Athelena took Sir Roger's hand. Following his lead, she made her way down the spiral staircase and into the Great Hall.

All turned to stare as they entered. For a moment, Athelena felt uncomfortable, then, realising that she was superior, compared to the majority, she relaxed and she allowed herself to wander around the hall.

As well as Payn and Geoffrey, Rig and Matildis were also in attendance. The latter's faces were grim, their mood sombre: clearly, a summit had been called.

'You wish to see me?' Sir Roger asked of his younger brother.

'Indeed,' Payn grinned, his eyes squinting at Sir Roger from over the rim of a wine goblet. 'I have word regarding Rhys Goch: soon, he will be found.'

'How soon?' Sir Roger asked, his interest growing.

'Very soon; after Vespers tomorrow.'

'We require his head before None,' Sir Roger explained, slowly. 'We must resolve this matter before the king arrives.'

'Brother Blanchigernonis insists that the meeting must wait until after Vespers. However, if you wish,' Payn shrugged, the goblet placed upon the dais table, his hand moving towards his sword, 'I could persuade him...'

'Leave him be,' Sir Roger commanded. 'I will think of something. In the meantime, what of your meeting with Brother Leisan?'

'He agreed to our demand; Johanna is making the poison as we speak; it should be ready by dawn.'

'Then all is going to plan,' Sir Roger reasoned.

'Indeed,' Payn conceded. 'All, except the demands placed upon us by Brother Leisan.'

'Let me hear of those demands,' Sir Roger insisted. He walked over to the dais table, whereupon he lifted up a pitcher before proceeding to pour himself a measure of wine.

'He wishes for the return of the heretical parchment, the parchment that Rig found on Johanna.'

'He shall have the parchment,' Sir Roger granted. 'Best that those words should taint us no longer. Allow Brother Leisan to hold the parchment to his bosom and suffer as a result.' Clearly pleased with his decision, Sir Roger quaffed a satisfying measure of wine; it was unlike him to be so greedy, Athelena observed; maybe the wine soothed his nerves, helped him through this difficult time. 'And his other demands?' the constable added, his fingers removing a soupcon of wine as it dribbled from his lips.

'Demand,' Payn corrected, 'for there is only one other: Brother Leisan wishes for a heretic, someone we can present to Cardinal D'Orso as the hand behind the sacrilegious prose.'

Such a statement drove the constable back to the dais table. Again, he filled his goblet; again, he drank too much, too quickly. 'And where are we to find such a heretic?' he scoffed.

'We need not trouble ourselves with that question for a heretic has been found.'

Much to Athelena's consternation, Payn made his way towards her. A vengeful smile played around his lips, a touch of arrogance was evident in his swagger.

'I made no mention of this earlier for fear of upsetting you, my lady, but, upon his deathbed, Sir William uttered this confession.'

Payn's words drained Athelena of all colour. The proffered parchment took on the menace of a sword thrust. Dare she accept that parchment and unfurl its secrets? Alternatively, should she remain true to the rosy image she held of her father? What could be gained by playing Payn's game? Nothing. Yet, she took hold of the parchment and, with trembling hands, she read word after word.

'This is a lie,' she insisted, upon reading the statement through to completion. 'My father made no such confession; these are your words.'

'The parchment is sealed with his seal,' Payn protested, 'a seal that belonged to him alone.'

'You stole his seal,' Athelena challenged, while throwing the parchment back into Payn's face.

'Sir William was in league with Brother Helias,' Payn responded, calmly. He stooped to gather up the confession. Offering the words to Sir Roger, he added: 'Our heretics have been found.'

'What game is this?' Sir Roger demanded, his fingers tightening round the parchment, his anger thrusting his goblet to the ground. 'What evil are you portraying?'

'Come, brother,' Payn laughed, playfully, mockingly, taunting him as he had when a child. 'We require Brother Leisan's assistance; the least we can do is cede to his request.'

'Not by defaming Sir William's character!' Sir Roger bellowed, the parchment thrust to the tip of Payn's nose. 'I will have no part of this. What is more, I will have your head should you persist with this outrage.'

'Sir William is dead,' Payn spat, his good hand thumping down the parchment as a hammer would thump at an anvil. 'He can no longer lift a sword. In this way alone he can help us.'

'But his soul would go straight to hell!'

'For the sins he has committed, I would be surprised if his soul is not already dancing with the Devil!'

Geoffrey blanched at such a statement. Hovering, tentatively in the background, he was moved to take centre stage: 'You should not speak so ill of the dead.'

'And you should speak only when spoken to, Geoffrey,' Payn snapped, his ugly expression driving the bailiff back into a corner, his accusing finger allowing no argument. 'I would remind you all that Brother Leisan is only in this position, is only able to make these demands because Sir William Scurlag babbled our secrets to him; if Sir William had held his tongue, Brother Leisan would have been none the wiser. Therefore, it is fitting that Sir William assumes the role of heretic, for he has betrayed us.'

'My father was ill,' Athelena sobbed. 'He knew not of what he was saying.'

'And you know not of what you are saying, my lady. This talk is above you,' Payn goaded. 'I suggest you leave this room and take to your bed.'

Enraged, Sir Roger strode across the room. In one brutal movement, he took hold of Payn's collar. 'You will not talk to Athelena like that. And you will not condemn Sir William to the fires of damnation.'

Although taken aback by events, Athelena still felt her heart fill with pride; when her beloved was aroused he could appear so heroic, when provoked he could rise to any challenge. Furthermore, she realised that those qualities would now be required for, breaking free of his brother's grip, Payn drew his sword.

Within an instant, Sir Roger conjured his blade into his hand. He was about to thrust at Payn when Athelena felt a scream rise in her throat. Her mouth was open, but no sound entered into the firmament, for Rig had placed an arm round her waist. What is more, he had placed his blade to the throbbing artery in her neck.

'Roger!' Geoffrey yelled, capturing his brother's attention.

Snapping his head to one side, the constable caught sight of his lady's predicament. 'Mother,' he pleaded to Matildis. But the matriarch merely turned away, her eyes cast sadly to the ground.

'Drop your sword,' Payn ordered, 'you have lost all hold on this family. Submit to me, or I will instruct Rig to run your harlot through.'

The pleading look in Athelena's eyes was all that Sir Roger needed; casting his sword to the ground, he knelt before Payn.

'Get up,' Payn instructed. 'Rig: take them to the dungeon. Lock them away, fast and secure. May they rot in there forever. May they never again see the light of day.'

With Rig's sword bruising Athelena's neck, Sir Roger was moved to compliance. In his reluctance, he allowed himself one last questioning glance, a gaze cast in the direction of Matildis.

'Do as Payn suggests,' the matriarch ordered. 'The solution is not ideal, I grant you, but then, life is about hard choices; oh, that we could live by ideals. Ideally, a king who believes in justice would rule over us, but he does not. Ideally, we would have a castle not threatened by sand, but nature has seen otherwise. Ideally, your father would still be alive and he would oversee such momentous proceedings, but I am left with nothing but grief for him. I am sorry, my dear Roger, for I was a true friend of Sir William's. But we are in great need and I can do no more than stand aside and allow Payn to have his way.'

With those words, the matriarch shuffled from the Great Hall, shortly to be joined by Rig, Athelena and Sir Roger. Payn was head of the family now and, with a worried Geoffrey in tow, he set forth to make hay.

# Day Eight - 11th May 1399

Today, their lives would change forever. That was the dominant thought in Geoffrey de la March's mind as he stood atop the donjon. Looking out across the town he watched in some amazement as the king's caravan snaked its way through the landscape. The chain appeared to go on forever; possibly, it stretched back as far as Cardiff, or even Bristol or even London...Geoffrey could not tell. And the people, all those people...where were they to be housed? How would they be fed? Then, a shaft of realisation, drawn from conversations with his family: many would rest and replenish themselves in the numerous vills and religious houses that adorned the area. Even so, the king's party would still outnumber the town's burgesses by a good two or three to one. It spoke of chaos, it spoke of grandeur, it spoke of colour; in Geoffrey's innocent mind it spoke of fun.

The king's caravan would enter the town through the south gate, travelling on the Roman road, the road that ran through North Corneli. From his vantage point, high up where the crows fly, Geoffrey could spy the knights, the esquires, the officials, the men of religious order. He could also make out the archers, the tradesmen and the men-at-arms. Yet, more colourful than all combined and more worthy than all put together, at least, in Geoffrey's mind, were the minstrels. In that moment, he had a thought: what if he could join their number? What fun, what adventures they would have. Nevertheless, first, he would have to broach the subject with his mother, and that would only incur her wrath. Anyway, by evening, the king would be dead and the minstrels' songs would be dull and sober: better to live in the world of dreams than to stagger down the path of such reality.

A cheer from the High Street drew Geoffrey's attention to the town; the burgesses too had spied the king's caravan and, gathered in their utmost number, they waved their hats in the air, displaying their loyalty to the king. What would they make of his murder, Geoffrey mused. Would they be angry? Certainly, they would be sad. However, Henry of Bolingbroke would renew their charter. No trade would be lost. Indeed, the murder would doubtless bring the town a measure of fame. Maybe Richard would become a martyr. Maybe pilgrims would flock to his shrine. When the tears had dried, maybe riches would prevail. Consequently, the burgesses offered no concern to Geoffrey; much like himself, they were pawns in this particular game.

The moment was nigh. Geoffrey would have to leave his lofty perch and join his family. He had a role to perform; he had the honour of offering a gift to the king. However, before descending the staircase and making his way through the donjon, he allowed himself one last glance at the throng of happy faces; at the burgesses, all in their finest clothing; at the town, swept clean and decorated with ribbons and bows; at the inner bailey, cleared of all obstacles and all detritus: it was such a gay scene; a pity it could not always be so.

With the wind in his hair and his feet skipping across the ground, Geoffrey made his way through the inner bailey. At the gatehouse, he paused to pull on his hat, glancing up at the raised iron of the portcullis as he did so. Crossing the moat, he alighted at the pier before entering the High Street. The scene there made his heart skip; it all but took his breath away; a juggler juggled balls while a dog leapt and barked; hawkers paraded their wares; a man walked with a bear, the animal secured by a heavy iron chain. The street was crammed with people, a sight never seen before, not even on the greatest of fair days. Geoffrey's intention was to arrive at the south gate, but to secure his path he would have to muscle his way down the High Street. Preferring to adopt a more casual air, he decided instead to turn right, to make his way beyond the abbey grange and so enter Monekin Street. Here, the crowd was thinner and it was but a short detour to cross the land set aside for pasture, planting and grazing. This would take him beyond the market square, beyond the town cross and on to the junction of Es Street and High Street. All would be simple from there, for soldiers lined the way; they had been carefully deployed to ensure that the burgesses could see, but not touch, their king. And simple was the way of it as Geoffrey strode up to the south gate, there to be greeted by Payn, Rig and his mother. He anticipated a smile or a word of good cheer but, instead, he was confronted with a series of frowns and the pulling of faces. What had he done wrong now? What sin had he committed? Where was his error? Glancing down to the soles of his hose, he spied his mistake for there, residing, pungent upon the leather was a good measure of excrement, doubtless gathered when striding through the pasture. Deposited by a cow, avoided by the wary, it had drawn itself unto Geoffrey. At least, that would have been his argument, for he had no recollection whatsoever of squelching his way through such a mire.

'You stink,' Payn observed, stating the obvious.

'The king!' Matildis shrieked, her avowal curtailing any further suggestion of vulgar conversation.

While trying to cleanse his hose upon the earth by rubbing leather against dirt, Geoffrey glanced up. With his eyes widening, he took in the majesty of the king's carriage. Of course, it was ornate, of course, it was splendid, of course, it spoke of opulence. From the imperious sight of the five dexters, harnessed in file, to the rich carvings, to the gold canopy, to the vivacity of the paintings, all were captivating, all cast a spell, all demanded subservience. Yet, the family de la March was hell-bent on overthrowing the old order. Furthermore, within that moment, Geoffrey stared into Richard's eyes; he caught a glimpse of the king's troubled soul as he set foot on the sandy soil of Kenfig.

Sir Thomas Despenser, a man Geoffrey knew well, for he was an occasional visitor to the Great Hall at Kenfig, flanked Richard. Geoffrey also knew the man at Sir Thomas' side, the portly Edward of Aumerle, though only through reputation; they had met on one previous occasion, upon the eleventh of September 1394, the day Richard had travelled through Kenfig on his earlier expedition to Ireland. Geoffrey remembered the date well, for that day marked his only previous encounter with his liege lord.

Upon that day, close on five years ago, the king had looked so impressive. He had looked determined, he had looked lean, he had intimidated all via his bearing. However, today, he looked tired, he looked careworn; he looked troubled beyond all reason. He was carrying a fair degree of extra weight and that, together with his wispy beard, added to his lugubrious expression. Geoffrey felt sorry for the man, for the human head inside the crown, for the weight of misery he was apparently carrying. Even so, Richard had offered the de la March's no favours, he had broken his promises, he had left them adrift in this castle surrounded by sand.

And it was upon the sand that Richard trod, his foot slipping, encouraging Sir Reginald Grey to scurry forward. The twittering lord flapped around his king, his comments lost amidst the crowd's cheers, his actions drawing scornful looks from Edward of Aumerle and Sir Thomas Despenser.

Flanked by his bodyguard of Cheshire archers, the king approached the south gate, whereupon Payn stepped forward. To Geoffrey's surprise, his brother bowed before the king, his knee sinking into the soil as he did so. Of course, this was the standard greeting, but Payn had bowed to no man, not even his father, at least, not in the old man's latter years, not in the days when the rift between them had become a chasm. So, for novelty value alone, this meeting was worth the effort, was worth a dozen cowpats, would be enjoyed over and over again in the telling.

'Your highness,' Payn smiled, whilst raising his head. 'It is a pleasure to greet you.'

'Where is Sir Roger?' Sir Thomas Despenser asked, his stride taking him alongside his sovereign's shoulder.

'I regret to say that we have had difficulties, my lord,' Payn explained. 'In particular, the outlaw Rhys Goch; he has been on the rampage. Unfortunately, a monk, Brother Helias by name, crossed the outlaw's path and was murdered. Sir Roger is seeking the outlaw now and, for his absence before your highness, he offers his apologies.'

'Once the outlaw has been captured then I am sure that all apologies will be accepted,' Sir Thomas Despenser scoffed, clearly unimpressed with Payn's explanation.

'He will be captured,' Payn countered. 'Have no fear, my lord; you are safe within the walls of Kenfig.'

The verbal joust came to a close and the king grunted. His eyes were upon the crowd, but his gaze appeared vacant; to Geoffrey, he gave the impression of being somewhat distant.

'The king is tired,' Sir Reginald explained. 'He wishes to rest this instant.'

'We have prepared the Great Hall,' Payn informed all, 'plus a private chamber.'

'Then,' Sir Reginald insisted, 'kindly lead us to that chamber.'

'But of course, my lord.' Payn remained stooped, his knee still bent, for Richard had not offered his blessing; he had not beckoned Payn to rise, so he could do no more than wait and hope, trust that soon he would receive the king's sanction. In all likelihood, Payn would have remained upon that spot until he had become old and grey but for Edward of Aumerle's intervention. Emitting a discreet cough, the duke duly alerted Richard to the accepted convention. And so, with a lazy wave of his index finger, the king permitted Payn to stand before him. That he did and, with an outstretched arm, he duly presented an invitation to his sovereign.

The king entered the south gate to the cheers of the crowd and a welcoming curtsey from Matildis. Rig and Geoffrey bowed too, the latter offering a gift, a fine aquamanile in the shape of a knight, crafted by the burgesses of Kenfig.

'Your highness,' Payn prompted. 'A gift; I trust that it meets with your satisfaction.'

Richard glanced at the gift before offering it to Sir Reginald; trinkets, he had received aplenty. He had accepted a souvenir at the gate of every town and soon they had all lost their lustre.

'The gift is most splendid, most splendid,' Sir Reginald enthused, 'now, kindly, the king is very tired...'

'But of course. Please, walk this way.' Payn stood aside and watched as Richard made his way up the High Street. Sir Reginald and Edward marched at his side, along with the mass of Cheshire archers.

The crowd cheered and, despite himself, Richard raised a smile only to frown again as hundreds of people pressed forward. True to their reputation, the Cheshire archers acted with a heavy hand, pushing the people back so that men fell over women and women fell over children. Chaos might have ensued but for Edward's call for calm, the elders of the town taking up his plea and duly ensuring good order. Consequently, with the town a little confused, their celebrations muted, Richard entered the castle.

Meanwhile, back at the south gate, Payn had Sir Thomas Despenser's full attention. 'The king will rest here awhile?' the portreeve-cum-constable asked. 'His majesty will honour us with his presence?'

'The king will rest tonight at Margam Abbey. Tomorrow, we must make our way to Carmarthen.'

'But he will stay for the feast? A banquet has been arranged in his honour.'

'We will be pleased to accept your hospitality,' Sir Thomas Despenser avowed. 'Rest assured, the journey has not dulled our appetite.' With that, the young earl glanced at Payn's hand, drawing attention to the wound and the heavy strapping of its bandage. 'You have injured your hand,' he pointed out rather needlessly, 'it would seem quite badly.'

'A tangle with the outlaws,' Payn lied.

'We received word that a lord, Owain Glyn Dwr by name, has been stirring up trouble in this area. By all accounts he has been agitating for Bolingbroke. Such action has distressed our king, so much so that he is feeling most downhearted. I would like this man caught and strung up; I would like to see, once again, a smile upon the face of my sovereign.'

'We are seeking Glyn Dwr as you speak, my lord. Have no fear, for soon he will be located.'

'Then all is as bright as the sunshine on this fine day?'

'Indeed, my lord,' Payn smiled. Turning, he directed a sly wink towards Rig, Geoffrey and Matildis. 'Have no fear, the sun will continue to shine on our king and it will not dim, not even with the waning of the day.'

With those words, Payn escorted Sir Thomas to the steps of the donjon. Falling in behind, Matildis and Rig weaved their way through the assortment of knights, esquires and their numerous retainers. Geoffrey was left to reflect that the king had not taken to their gift even though, it was said, he was a man of culture. Never mind, the aquamanile would serve its purpose well for, if all went to plan, it would house Johanna's specially prepared poison.

* * *

Johanna Wittard had been removed from the dungeon. Now she sat beside a trestle table in the room recently occupied by Branwen. Upon the trestle table sat a number of items, including opium, henbane and the juice of hemlock. Together, with a little wine, they would be stirred, made into a stupefier; bryony would normally be added to hasten the mixture through the body, but as a poison and not a cure was being sought, this ingredient was carefully pushed aside.

Johanna was stirring the mixture when Brother Leisan entered. For some reason, he anticipated that she would look up and greet him with a smile. Instead, her head remained bowed and her arm continued upon its steady rotation; round and round the wooden spoon went, the mixture licking the sides of the bowl until, eventually, Johanna set the spoon aside. Then, she drew a cloth over the bowl, as if to hide her work, as if to hide her embarrassment. Her face too remained hidden as she placed her head in her hands.

'You have made the poison,' Brother Leisan asked, 'to Payn's specification?'

'I was unable to make a poison as he demanded. But I have made a poison that will kill a man...or a woman,' she added, in a gentle aside.

'Excellent.' In his excitement, Brother Leisan rubbed his hands together. Glancing apprehensively at the bowl, he circled it as one might circle a hissing snake. 'You have done well,' he added, placing a hand upon her shoulder. 'Soon, our mission will gather pace; we will spread the True Word to even greater numbers. Thanks to your work, we will be free to continue; due to you alone, many will learn the truth of God's written word.'

'There was a time,' Johanna mused, 'when we thought only of ourselves.'

'And isn't it so much more rewarding to think of others,' Brother Leisan enthused, 'isn't it wonderful to contribute to the greater good.'

'Have you ever thought of what our lives would have been like had we been allowed to marry?'

'Occasionally,' Brother Leisan admitted.

'We would have had children.'

'Probably,' he shrugged.

'Our lives would have been fulfilled.'

'Our mission fulfils us instead,' he insisted.

'Maybe,' Johanna mumbled. Withdrawing her fingers from her features, she turned to face Brother Leisan and, for the first time, he caught sight of her pale visage. It appeared as though all the blood had drained from her body. To Brother Leisan's mind, her lifeblood had all but ebbed away.

'God has chosen us for this task,' he muttered, as though reciting an incantation. 'And, praise the Lord, we are performing the task well.'

'You should have been made abbot.'

The words caught Brother Leisan off guard and, for a moment, he felt close to anger, for she had spoken the truth, a truth he had suppressed for fear of losing his sanity. He would readily admit to a desperate ambition. He would also confess to the quiet rage he felt knowing that, born a humble Welshman, he would never receive the reward of the abbot's chair; they would trust him as precentor, but not in a higher office; he had reached the pinnacle; within the Orthodox Church, he had nowhere else to go.

'All that is behind us,' he sighed. 'We have more important work to consider; we must forget about the past and look ahead.'

'I can think of nothing but the past.'

'Then allow me to take your hand and guide you into the future.'

Brother Leisan offered his hand, but Johanna preferred to turn towards the trestle table. She offered him the indignity of her back, though her tears robbed her action of any misdemeanour.

'Your hand is stained with a king's blood,' she muttered; 'I cannot touch such tainted fingers.'

'We must remove Richard,' Brother Leisan explained, 'for he stands in our way; he speaks against everything we believe in.'

'We kill the king because Payn de la March says so.'

'No,' the precentor complained. 'We act in this way because mutually we will benefit.'

'And murder will please God?'

'God understands that great deeds cannot be achieved without pain and sacrifice. He has guided us this far. He will guide us unto heaven.'

Falling to his knees, Brother Leisan took hold of Johanna's hand. He kissed it. For him, this represented a rare show of physical passion; oh, that the act had been better received and that tenderness and the caress of his cheek had been her response. Instead, he got to his feet carrying a heavy burden, for he felt as though he had just kissed a stone.

'I must go,' he informed her, after collecting the bowl and the weight of its deadly contents. 'I have duties to attend. I am proud of you,' he added, before allowing himself a lingering gaze as he paused at the door.

'Forgive me,' she blurted, 'if I am considered unworthy of heaven.'

'You are worthy,' he insisted.

'Forgive me,' she pleaded and, lacking comprehension, Brother Leisan could do no more than nod his head:

'You are forgiven.'

Quietly closing the door, Brother Leisan entered the passageway. The guard swiftly locked the door before scurrying away; glancing up, the precentor noted that the guard had been dismissed by Rig.

Secure in the knowledge that they were alone, the chief sergeant approached Brother Leisan. 'You have the poison?' he asked.

The precentor nodded. 'And you have the parchment?'

The bowl was handed over and the parchment was secreted about Brother Leisan's person. Satan's deal had been done; now it was time for prayer.

'Or work together is complete,' Rig reasoned. 'She will remain in that room until the feast is over. After that, you will be held responsible, should she develop a loose tongue.'

'What is she to say,' Brother Leisan complained, 'only that she made the poison that killed our monarch?'

At this, the chief sergeant grinned, his smirk carrying with it the mischief of a thousand miscreants. 'Others, but not she, might boast of that honour. Be thankful that she is no more than a mouse and, that in being a mouse, she will be free to run.'

* * *

Anest sat at the mouth of the cave, her fingers drawing patterns upon the sand. Beside her Tangwstyl lay, drooling, eyes wide as she caught sight of a seagull. A little way along the beach Owain Glyn Dwr paced, his heavy tread making cavernous indentations in the sand. From time to time he glanced towards the cave, his keen eyes eager for a sight of Rhys Goch, for the old lord had promised, come the dawn, that he would provide the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy with a definitive answer: allies in the quest to save Richard, or not? But first, Rhys Goch had requested the night for further contemplation. However, the dawn had long given way to the brightness of the day and Owain Glyn Dwr was still none the wiser. Soon, he would have to make his own way and march upon the castle.

Anest returned to her patterns in the sand until, as ever, Ci alerted her to the approaching figure, for striding towards them from the north of the bay was the windswept form of the Lady Meirian. She too appeared lost in thought; head bent, she seemed deep in meditation. As she approached Anest, she lifted her skirts, freeing them from a damp patch of sand and myriad saltwater pools.

'May I sit with you?' the Lady Meirian asked, her knee already bent, her hand reaching for the sand as she endeavoured to make herself comfortable.

'If you wish,' Anest replied, her attention returning to Tangwstyl. In reality, the baby was content and thus was in no need of consideration. However, Anest still harboured uncomfortable doubts about Meirian and she was grateful for the distraction.

'She has taken to you,' Meirian smiled as the baby's tiny fingers gripped Anest's offered hand.

'We have taken to each other,' Anest confessed, reflecting that a bond had developed between them, choosing not to dwell upon the emptiness, should Tangwstyl find another home.

'May I hold her?' Meirian asked, the question taking Anest by surprise. Upon further consideration, she reasoned that this was not such a strange request; indeed, most women of her acquaintance would be more than happy to clutch Tangwstyl to their bosom, so why not Meirian? All the same, it was with some reluctance that Anest plucked the baby from the sand and placed her in the lady's lap.

At first, Meirian appeared diffident, holding the baby at arm's length, as though frightened that she might harm someone so fragile. However, slowly, her confidence grew and with that confidence came the realisation that Tangwstyl was both strong and robust. Meirian appeared content to exchange smiles and infantile noises with the baby until, apparently consumed with emotion, she clasped the infant to her breast, showering her with tears as large as raindrops.

'The baby upsets you?' Anest asked, puzzled by this show of emotion.

'No,' Meirian replied, while making a vain attempt to dry her eyes.

'Then why the tears?'

Shaking her head, Meirian turned away from Anest, offering the healer the coldness of her shoulder. 'You do not want to hear of my woes,' she cried, holding Tangwstyl so close that she threatened to smoother the child.

'Enlighten me,' Anest probed. 'Offer me an explanation.'

Of course, she was referring to the black arts and to the Lady Meirian's accusations. Those accusations had led directly to the burning of her home and to the destruction of all her medicines and possessions. Someone of a more forceful nature would have insisted upon an answer. Nevertheless, Anest remained content to let the lady speak in her own time, experience suggesting that this would lead to the truth.

'Very well,' the Lady Meirian sighed. 'I will unburden my soul; I will offer my reason.' Gazing down into Tangwstyl's eyes, she squeezed the baby one more time before sobbing: 'I am Tirion's mother.'

'And so Tangwstyl is...'

'My granddaughter. I abandoned Tirion when she was a few months old, no older than Tangwstyl.'

'Why?'

'So that I might marry Sir John Lovell. Sir John knew of the child, but he refused to number her amongst our kin.'

'And what of Tirion's father?' Anest asked. 'What became of him?'

Meirian blushed. Shaking her head, she closed her eyes. 'He was no more than a travelling minstrel. We took a shine to each other one evening when he was entertaining at the castle. I have no idea what happened to him. Tirion was given to a good family, not rich, but not poor. I gained news of her through Brother Blanchigernonis. He arranged the adoption. Once the decision had been made to give her away, I felt that it would be wrong to interfere in their lives. Needless to say, such a selfish act blighted my marriage to Sir John. His gambling and his drinking made him impossible to live with and my dark moods, over my shameful behaviour towards Tirion, did little to secure our bond. We lived in perfect misery, punishment for our sins.'

'But why come here and risk living amongst the outlaws?'

'The answer to that is simple,' Meirian sighed: 'I am in dispute with Rhys Goch over the ownership of the quarry. I was hoping that he might be swayed by my argument and thus grant me tenure. I would then present the quarry to the monks so that they may pray for Tirion's soul in perpetuity.'

'And Tirion never suspected that you were her true mother?'

'She questioned Brother Blanchigernonis greatly in recent times; I suspect that she had an inkling, an idea that her proud family were not her true kin; there was no physical resemblance and their personalities were so different, Tirion being rebellious, a little like me, I suppose. When Tirion told Brother Blanchigernonis of her pregnancy and of her wish to meet with her true mother, then the good monk told her the truth.'

'This being so,' Anest mused, 'would it also be true that upon the night Tirion gave birth to Tangwstyl she was trying to reach you?'

'I believe that to be so. It is my hope that she intended to meet with me so that we could both find peace. She needed me and I was not there for her, not at that moment, not at any other moment in her life.'

Anest nodded her understanding. Everything was beginning to make sense now. As the seagulls squawked overhead, enticing coos of delight from Tangwstyl, the healer paused, before reflecting: 'When Tirion died in childbirth, you blamed me.'

'Yes,' Meirian confessed, her eyes upon the child, her arms wrapped around Tangwstyl. 'I blamed you because I felt that you should have saved Tirion's life. Now, I realise that I was using that as an excuse so that I would not have to blame myself.' As the tears ran down her cheeks, she offered up the baby. 'I am sorry,' she sighed.

Taking Tangwstyl into her arms, Anest bit her lip in an attempt to hold back her emotions. She felt sorry for Meirian, she felt sad that she could not have saved Tirion's life. Now, they were left with the baby, left with a child whose eyes were wide in wonder; they were left with a bundle of innocence and the hope that she would enjoy a magical life.

'I should not have accused you of the black arts,' Meirian continued, her words tumbling out as though glad of the confession. 'I feel ashamed for the trouble I have caused you. I should have done more to save and protect Tirion. But I could not admit to that fact; I could not carry that burden of guilt.'

'And now you feel strong enough to carry such a sentiment?'

'In truth,' the lady shook her head before offering up a smile, a look as brackish as the ocean, 'no, for I am a weak person. But I will find strength and I will do that through self-sacrifice in the cause of helping others.'

'You wish to become a healer?' Anest asked, her credulity stretched beyond the point of reason.

'I will offer myself unto the maladeria,' Meirian replied in all piety.

And the maladeria would be grateful for her labour, Anest reflected, unsuited though she may appear for the task. Nevertheless, what of Tangwstyl? Had she no wish to make a home and look after the child? With Meirian devoting herself to the maladeria, that would place the burden of responsibility squarely on the father's shoulders; surely, now, he would step forward and claim the child?

Meirian wiped the tears from her eyes. Then, she rose to her feet. She patted her hair and adjusted her clothing in an effort to make herself look more presentable. Her gaze wandered to the cave and to the appearance of Rhys Goch and Cynan ap Gruffydd. Her footsteps made to follow, only to be halted by Anest's cry:

'My lady.'

Meirian turned and stared down at the healer. 'What troubles you?' she sighed.

'Tell me of Tangwstyl's father; did Tirion enlighten Brother Blanchigernonis as to his person?'

Sadly, the lady shook her head: 'You must ask the good monk that question for yourself,' she replied, 'for, truly, I do not know the answer.'

And with that, she joined Cynan at the mouth of the cave.

Soon, Owain Glyn Dwr, Madog and the Little Hunchback joined them. All stared at Rhys Goch, all awaited his declaration. Even Anest could not hide her curiosity and, after gathering up Tangwstyl, she made her way across the sand.

'Well,' Owain asked, 'you are done with your deliberations?'

'Indeed, I am,' Rhys Goch replied. 'I shall delay you no longer, and forever I shall seek the sense to this answer, for I offer my aid in your quest to save the king.'

'I thank you,' Owain grinned.

The Lord of Glyndyfrdwy offered his hand and Rhys Goch made to accept it, only to pause and stroke his chin.

'But,' the old lord frowned, 'before we make our accord, I must voice one condition.'

'Name it,' Owain offered, 'for that proviso is yours to state.'

'First, before we make any attempt to save the king, we must free Branwen.'

'Agreed,' Owain nodded. 'Once into the castle, we shall seek her prison, then we shall seek the king.'

Upon this, Owain's hand was accepted and the two men, followed by Cynan and Madog, strode across the bay in deep, earnest conversation, their warrior minds forming strategic plans.

Anest wondered, idly, just how they intended to secure entry into the castle. Would they fight their way in? Her mind was still floating with that thought when, from out of nowhere, it seemed, Brother Blanchigernonis appeared at her side.

'Now,' he avowed, 'we must leave the lords to their deliberations; I ask you and the Lady Meirian to come with me.'

'For what reason, brother?' Meirian frowned.

'Come with me,' the white monk insisted,' and I will free your minds of all questions. Follow me and, God willing, those scars you carry with you will begin to heal.'

* * *

Branwen lay upon the straw, her mind numb, her body aching. In the far corner, Sir Roger sat, his arm around a mournful Athelena. In the centre of the dungeon a rat paused, its nose twitching; sensing food, it scurried towards the door.

The dungeon, as befitting its purpose, was dark, dank and depressing. Concealed beneath the storerooms, this prison had a vaulted ceiling. Furthermore, a narrow slit was cut into the stone wall to allow a sliver of light and a breath of air. This slit slopped sharply upwards and was positioned near the ceiling; a tall man standing on tip-toe could barely touch this conduit to freedom; he had no hope at all of gripping the stone and of tearing through the eleven foot thick wall.

Leaning forward, Branwen picked at her dress in an attempt to recover a measure of decorum, though, she was willing to admit, Payn's attentions had ensured that the fabric was way beyond repair. She considered: what were her chances? Dare she believe that there was any hope of freedom? And what of her pain and suffering? Would the promise of freedom alone be enough to welcome her back into the sunshine of life again?

The door eased open, allowing a shaft of torchlight to illuminate Sir Roger and his beloved. Involuntarily, Branwen placed a hand to her throat, as though to contain her leaping heart. She feared Payn's entrance and was only mildly relieved when Matildis stepped forward. Allowing the door to remain open, the matriarch stepped into the room.

Shuffling forward, Matildis smiled painfully at Branwen. 'These words are not for your appreciation,' she averred. 'So, kindly, close your ears to all and sundry.'

Casting her eyes down to the flagstones, Branwen reflected upon her lowly position. Wounded again, she could not help but feel the barb in Matildis' remarks.

'Good day, Roger,' Matildis announced and Branwen closed her eyes, if not her ears, to the conversation. With her head in her hands, she found her mind wandering away from tormenting, tortuous thoughts. Reluctantly, intuitively, she found herself eavesdropping; had Matildis held her tongue and not reproached her, she would have paid little attention, and certainly less thought, to the conversation. However, a sense of intrigue had taken over, a sense that comes easily to all those who gossip.

'Good day, mother,' Sir Roger sighed.

'We must do something about this prison,' Matildis complained, her gaze taken by the rat's droppings 'The room is not fit for man or beast.'

'How are you?' Sir Roger asked, his elbows resting upon his thighs, his chin taking refuge upon an interlocked bridge of sinewy fingers.

'Sad,' Matildis replied.

'Why so sad?'

'I would have thought that that would have been obvious,' Matildis screeched, her reproachful gaze locating Sir Roger's reluctant eye. 'You have divided our family.'

'If our family is divided,' the constable countered, 'it is none of my doing. Look to your middle son; lay the blame with Payn; without him, we would have enjoyed harmony.'

'Your words are harsh and uncalled for,' Matildis asserted and, drawn into the conversation, Branwen dropped her fingers from her eyes.

'Uncalled for?' Sir Roger leapt to his feet, disturbing Athelena. Emitting a groan, both weary and complaining, the lady allowed her fine head to rest against the straw.

'Let me finish,' Matildis insisted. Shuffling towards her son, she adopted a more conciliatory tone. 'Your words are harsh, and they are uncalled for. Nevertheless, I can understand your actions and your loyalty towards Athelena and Sir William. I am just saddened that you never went out of your way to show that same loyalty to me.'

'How can you say that, mother,' Sir Roger raged, 'when, through my efforts alone, we have remained a united family. If anyone in this room is uttering harsh words, then I vouchsafe that my tongue remains blameless.'

Taken aback, Matildis inched her way towards an empty corner. Lowering her head, she placed her hands together, as though in prayer. 'I did not come here to argue,' she uttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

'Then why did you come here? What is the purpose of your visit?'

'I come to offer you your freedom,' she announced on turning around.

For a moment, the room was consumed with silence. Matildis and Sir Roger had eyes only for each other; it was as though Branwen and Athelena had disappeared into thin air. Glancing towards the open door, Branwen thought, fleetingly, of escape, only to be arrested by the consideration: where to run? Guards patrolled the corridors and would be sure to offer violence; their brutality was something Branwen dare not contemplate. However, in that instant, she found that her spirits had lifted; she had thought of escape; the candle of hope had met its spark.

'Payn knows about your visit?' Sir Roger asked, his gaze wary, his face uncertain, his attention suddenly taken by the door, left ajar.

'Payn is busy with more important matters,' Matildis attested. 'Besides,' she smiled, 'he is my son; he will bow to my wish.'

'That being so,' Sir Roger reasoned, 'I can walk out of here, this instant?'

'You can. And your bride-to-be can take your arm. I state this with one condition: you must agree to certain terms.'

'Name your terms.'

'You will give up your right to Kenfig castle and all the lands you own through the office of constable. Furthermore, you will sacrifice your claim to all the riches the family will amass through siding with Henry of Bolingbroke.'

'Then,' Sir Roger surmised, 'I am to be seen as an enemy of Bolingbroke's.'

'If that is your view, Roger,' Matildis smiled.

'I am no friend of Richard's,' the constable insisted.

'No friend of Henry's, no friend of Richard's...' Matildis shrugged her finely boned shoulders. 'Then, it would seem, Roger, that you are a man alone.' As though to offer condolence, the matriarch placed a hand upon the constable's shoulder. He, in turn, glanced down, only to look away. 'If Henry is lenient,' Matildis continued, 'then you may be allowed to keep Ogmore castle. After all, it is yours to inherit upon marriage to Athelena.'

'And if Henry wishes to be spiteful and to take his revenge for my perceived lack of allegiance?'

'That will be his right, as king. You must face facts, Roger: Henry will soon be king; he will be your overlord. The lands and castle of Ogmore will fall, once again, within his gift; what more can I say, other than to offer you peace. And remember: should the worst come to the worst, you can always return to us and serve as Payn's vassal.'

The look of horror on Sir Roger's face was soon overtaken by a look of incredulity; if his mother was offering up a joke, she did so in poor taste.

'Leave now for Ogmore,' Matildis insisted. 'Give Sir William a Christian burial. Await word from us but, I warn you, on no account should you return to this castle.'

Consequently, it seemed, the family de la Marsh had finally been cast asunder; there was little point in argument, little time to waste. Sir Roger offered his hand to Athelena and, wearily, the lady rose and joined her beloved. Following in his tread, she walked towards the door.

Athelena was already in the corridor when Sir Roger turned to glance back over his shoulder. He shook his head in desolate fashion: 'I bid you farewell, mother.'

'We will meet again,' the matriarch suggested.

Sir Roger nodded, whether in assent, or out of duty, Branwen could not be sure. 'We will meet again,' he echoed, adding: 'But on what terms?'

The swish of Sir Roger's cape cut the stale air enticing Branwen, luring her towards freedom. Jumping to her feet, she strode towards the door, only to be halted by Matildis. Pointing towards the straw, the matriarch planted her firmly in her place.

The door closed and Branwen reflected upon a glimpse of freedom. As her head fell back against the straw she realised that, in time, her wounds would heal. However, she would never be the same again; her ordeal would make her a different person. Furthermore, for the first time in her life, she acknowledged that, should the call to arms sound, she would add her own personal echo.

* * *

Abbot John had retired to his study. There, he sat at his desk, his head resting in his hands. One of his sick headaches was about to descend upon him, he could feel it in the throbbing of his temples and sense it in every fibre of his being. The sound of footsteps and voices in the corridor did little to assuage matters because, as expected, Cardinal D'Orso and Brother Jordan were about to make themselves known. Prior Osbert and Brother Leisan accompanied them, the former appearing smug to the point of serenity while the latter stumbled and twitched, his actions displaying his agitation.

'Good day to you, my lord abbot,' Cardinal D'Orso bowed, his movement appearing a touch restricted, as though he was suffering from a stiff neck.

'Good day to you, Cardinal D'Orso.' Abbot John bowed in turn. Sitting back, he became aware of the weight of his head resting upon his shoulders. Moreover, he became aware of the weight of the cardinal's words and their implications for both himself and his abbey.

'I bring word that will cheer your soul,' the cardinal announced, 'for I have found the heretic.'

Prior Osbert responded with a sudden intake of breath, followed by a pious movement of his right hand as he made the sign of the cross. Brother Leisan, meanwhile, cast his eyes down to the ground. His hands remained firmly clasped at his midriff, the sweat from his fingers threatening to stain his habit.

'Here,' from the folds of his robes, Cardinal D'Orso produced a roll of parchment, 'read the confession for yourself.'

The parchment was placed upon Abbot John's desk. Wearily, the old abbot leaned forward before unfurling the document whereupon he proceeded to study its contents. A hurried, semi-literate hand had written the text, nevertheless, there was no denying its substance: repentant in tone, the confession spoke of heresy, that most heinous of sins. The author asked for forgiveness before identifying himself with his seal, that device belonging to the recently departed Sir William Scurlag.

Unable to contain his surprise, Abbot John allowed his careworn features to crease into a frown. 'This is most unexpected,' he muttered.

'Indeed,' the cardinal echoed, his piercing gaze settling upon Brother Leisan.

Averting his eyes away from the daggered look, Brother Leisan peered directly at the abbot. The precentor appeared more at ease now, more in control, more assured. Abbot John wondered why. In his innocence, he surmised that the precentor felt relief because the abbey had been spared further embarrassment and further accusation, for Sir William Scurlag's confession made plain that the heresy originated outside the abbey's walls. That being so, the abbot concluded, he too should feel relief for he could not be held responsible for sins committed within a secular domain.

'The confession was dictated while Sir William lay on his deathbed?' the abbot asked, seeking confirmation.

'It would appear so.'

'Then why the delay in the presentation of the document?'

Cardinal D'Orso nodded in the general direction of Brother Jordan, inviting the bishop's envoy to step forward. That, he did, squeezing his corpulent figure past a complaining Prior Osbert before standing proud before the abbot. After suppressing a belch, he sought to explain:

'Rig, the chief sergeant at Kenfig, informed me that Sir William's daughter oversaw the confession. She held on to the document out of grief. In time, she saw sense and thus presented the confession to me. It would seem that this sadly misguided knight was in league with Brother Helias; the confession makes clear that they were responsible for the spread of this deleterious heresy.'

'Then your work here, and Cardinal D'Orso's work here, is complete?' the abbot asked, hopefully.

'It would seem so,' Brother Jordan replied evenly.

'I will leave for Rome after None,' the cardinal informed the abbot. 'There, I will make my findings known to the Pope.'

Although he smiled, the abbot felt a sudden urge to stand and to usher the cardinal to the door. And from there, far beyond the abbey with the sincere wish that he would never return, that he would never trouble this cloister again. However, Abbot John was nothing if not polite and so he remained seated. It was left to Prior Osbert to place their thoughts into words:

'Given that you have received this confession, are we to assume that you will absolve the abbey of all blame?'

'That would be my wish,' Cardinal D'Orso replied hesitantly. After gathering up Sir William Scurlag's 'confession', he continued in cautious tones: 'But given Brother Helias' involvement...We shall have to wait and see and trust in the Pope's good judgement.' And with that, he turned to the abbot, offering him the widest of smiles. 'I trust your vigilance will now be absolute, my lord abbot.'

'Indeed, it will, my lord cardinal.'

'And your future conduct will be beyond reproach.'

'Rest assured,' the abbot bowed, offering the cardinal the crown of his recently tonsured head. 'I will learn from this episode.'

'Then, I thank you for your hospitality.'

For a moment, the abbot held his pose, staring at his desk. He was rid of this cardinal; he had every hope of escaping censure. However, he remained reluctant to look up and meet his gloating eye.

With a swish of his cape, and with his hand adjusting the rake of his hat, Cardinal D'Orso left the room. Abbot John was left to reflect that he had not shown the courtesy of wishing the papal legate a safe journey. He would pray for him from that moment on. He would pray that the cardinal would find a path to tolerance and moderation. He would pray for the Pope and for the Church as a whole. And he would pray for the sinners, for those who would indulge in heretical practices, offering the hope that they would see the error of their ways and that they would recognise the simple truth, namely, that the Church alone offered the true path to God.

Glancing up, Abbot John realised that Brother Jordan was still in the room. The envoy would, no doubt, make his own report to the Bishop of Llandaff. And what would the bishop, Thomas Peverel, make of his words? He would disapprove of this heretical scandal, which was to be expected. Possibly, he would take an even keener interest in the abbey's affairs. Certainly, he would keep a close eye on the abbot and his business management; if God and the Church bathed in prayer, then the abbey immersed in financial donations; the abbot would have to ensure that the abbey's benefactors were even more generous than usual over the coming months and years.

'I too shall take my leave,' Brother Jordan announced, his doleful tones finding a mirror in his lugubrious expression. 'And, when we meet again, it is my fervent wish that we shall share in happier times.'

Abbot John was left to reflect upon those words as Brother Jordan made his sluggish way out of the study. Only when the envoy had entered the corridor did the abbot sit back and allow himself a moment of relief and a sigh. His head throbbed, his neck ached and he longed for quiet. Yet, quiet would not come, at least, not while Prior Osbert remained within his prefecture. However, what could be done? Closing his eyes, the abbot sought a moment of inspiration. Touched by God, a shaft of light illuminated a plan.

Opening his eyes, Abbot John stared directly at Prior Osbert: 'It would appear that your actions have been vindicated,' the abbot averred. 'You have shown initiative and no little skill.'

Prior Osbert smiled sanctimoniously: 'It is my pleasure to serve God and the abbey.'

'And you put this service beyond all other considerations?'

'Indeed, I do, my lord abbot.'

'Beyond personal gain and ambition?'

'I have no wish for gain,' the prior lied, 'I have no ambition.'

'Then you will be content to immerse yourself in the task I set before you.' Moving shakily to his feet, the abbot walked over to the window. There, he gazed upon the sun-kissed gardens and the gleaming whitewashed perimeter wall. It was time to ease Prior Osbert beyond that wall. 'Your time here as prior is wasted,' the abbot continued in crisp, business-like tones. 'I feel your talents deserve a more challenging goal. Therefore, in God's name, I ask you to take charge of the grange at Stormy Down.'

Upon turning, Abbot John eyed the prior's dark confused features. He appeared in a state of distress and the abbot was moved to suffer a pang of sympathy. Nonetheless, he reminded himself, he was fighting for his future; the prior had enjoyed a taste of glory, left unchecked he would find another route to the abbot's chair.

Eventually, Prior Osbert summoned up enough cohesion to place his thoughts into words: 'If that is your wish, my lord abbot.'

'It is. Either that, or we place your behaviour before this holy house. By disrespecting, indeed, by demeaning your abbot, you have broken a fundamental rule of the Cistercian order. Furthermore, I would be happy to make that point before an ecclesiastical court, if you so wish.'

The image of innocence itself, Prior Osbert appeared at a loss to understand the abbot's rationale, for he offered praise in one breath, only to substantiate this with demotion; and all because he had tried to right a wrong.

'Well, my lord prior, what is your answer?'

'I answer that I feel blessed to accept your task.'

'Then go to it,' the abbot urged, 'with my blessing. And, the next time you stumble upon troubles that concern this abbey and this abbot, you will report directly to me, and not to the Bishop of Llandaff.'

With his hands held high in supplication, Brother Osbert accepted the abbot's word. With his head held high, he walked, proudly, towards the door. There, he turned to stare past the abbot, fixing his gaze upon the crucifix and the purity of the whitewashed wall.

'If I have sinned,' Brother Osbert began, 'then, truly, I will repent.'

'And, for that,' the abbot replied, 'you will return all the stronger.'

With those words as his comfort, Brother Osbert left the abbot's study. He strode towards pastures new and challenges as yet untold.

'My lord abbot...' Silent until now, Brother Leisan deigned to step forward. Offering his hand, he eased the abbot on to his chair. 'If you have no call on me, may I return to my duties?'

'You may,' the abbot allowed. 'But first,' he added, his head falling into his hands, his fingers rubbing bloodshot eyes and finding the pain of nerve ends, 'kindly visit the herbarium; my medicine awaits me there.'

Making haste, Brother Leisan fulfilled his duty; he collected the medicine and delivered it to the abbot forthwith. Then, he ran from the abbey. Undignified though he appeared, he felt as though the angels had lent him wings. He felt so excited; he had to share this good cheer with Johanna. And so, he raced along the Roman road and into the town. There, he pushed his way through the throng of merrymakers. Inviting himself into the castle, he charged up the spiral stairway. At the door to her prison, he paused, but only for one moment; smiling at the guard, he recaptured his breath.

Without a word, the guard opened the door, for Brother Leisan had long been acknowledged as a welcome visitor. Stepping into the room, he found Johanna seated upon a simple chair. Her arms were placed upon the trestle table. Her head, resting upon her arms, appeared twisted, bent at an uncomfortable angle. She had fallen asleep, the monk concluded and, upon waking, she would suffer the pain of her indiscretion for, upon feeling tired, she should have taken to her bed! That thought amused Brother Leisan, for his excitement and his exertions had taken him close to hysteria.

'Wake up, Johanna,' he urged, his hand upon her shoulder. And, when she did not move, his eyes alighted upon a drinking vessel; her fingers, fragile yet elegant, rested upon the rim of the vessel. Beside her head, a pool had formed, a dark red stain, speaking of the vessel and its contents. The remainder had been consumed, for a soupcon dribbled from her lips. At that moment, Brother Leisan awoke to the tableau and to its tale of horror: Johanna had made the poison; she had sipped from the poisoned cup. Dead, a suicide, she would not go to heaven. Separated, they would never meet again. Numb, Brother Leisan stared at Johanna. Confused, he felt his mind drift off into purgatory.

* * *

The sun was upon their backs as they took shelter behind the hedgerow. Peering through the thicket, Owain Glyn Dwr, Madog, Cynan ap Gruffydd and Rhys Goch watched as the conversi enjoyed a moment of leisure; lazing upon the grass, they feasted upon maslin bread and goats' cheese. Then, an order was barked and the labourers were up, on their feet, returning to the fields.

'Over there...' Owain allowed a moment to drift by before passing comment, his gaze wandering towards to a freestanding barn. 'We will find Cistercian habits hidden amongst the straw.'

'The work of Brother Blanchigernonis?' Rhys Goch mused, his grubby fingers caressing his beard.

'Indeed,' Owain smiled. 'We have much to thank the good monk for.'

Crouching, so as not to be seen, the four men made their way to the barn. Upon entering, they freed their swords; swishing at the straw, they searched for the garments.

'Over here,' Cynan called, and soon each man was struggling into the white robes of the Cistercian Order. The robes were ill-fitting, especially as they were to be worn over the bulk of outer clothing. As such, the concealment of a sword represented a task in itself. Nevertheless, all were successful and, to the casual observer, all would pass muster.

Making his way to the door, Cynan checked, ensuring that the way ahead was clear. Soon, Rhys Goch joined him. Only Madog lingered, his face thoughtful, his fingers upon the hilt of his sword; the blade had been quiet for so many years; silent, his sword had remained hidden in his room at the Hall. He had called there, upon leaving the outlaws' hideout. He had collected his weapon, knowing that the moment had arrived; the time had come to kill again.

'Are you ready?' Owain asked and, solemnly, Madog nodded. Upon leaving the barn, the four men adjusted their hoods, pulling them over their heads. Then, they strode west towards the town.

Beside the church of St Mary Magdalene, they paused. Glancing down to the town, each man was allowed a moment of reflection. What occupied his companions' thoughts, Owain could but guess. As for himself, he cast his mind back some fifteen years to the time he had served at Berwick. There had been skirmishes along the border, campaigns deep into their adversary's territory. Owain had known fear, he had known the brutal reality of raw emotion, the sensation that appears when you know that you have to kill or be killed. Today, he sensed that fear, though experience had taught him how best to utilise such a base emotion: you concentrate, you focus, you attack with discipline and, if moved to retreat, you should do so on your own terms; you may take a step back, should the situation warrant it, but you should never doubt yourself or your ability. Experience had reinforced this attitude, likewise, the praise spoken by his peers. Many confirmed that he was a man without equal. Many claimed that he deserved a knighthood. However, no king had seen fit to reward him; no number of attributes could compensate for the place of his birth.

'To the town,' Owain announced, and his companions duly followed. Mingling with the masses, they made their way towards the castle.

The town was still high in revelry. All appeared determined to immerse themselves in this merrymaking. And who could blame them? For today, problems were forgotten; thoughts of the harvest could be ignored, a dip in business could be disregarded, petty squabbles could be put to one side. All the same, Owain felt, the mood contained a certain menace. Maybe this was due to the action that lay before them or, possibly, to the sight of the king's retinue, many of whom were milling around. Most conspicuous were the Cheshire archers. Wearing the king's livery, and with his badge, the white hart, prominent, they appeared to be casting a watchful eye over the crowd. However, so far, so good: Owain's band had encountered few problems. Then, Owain caught sight of a burgess, peering at Rhys Goch.

'Do you have a problem, my good man?' Owain asked, and the burgess quickly melted away into the background. Owain mused: to rejoin the celebrations or to sound the alarm? A glance between Owain and Rhys Goch raised that question. Their steady march forward provided the answer: in for a farthing, in for a crown.

With their heads bowed, the four would-be monks approached the steps of the donjon. There, a heavily armed guard confronted them.

'We come to offer greeting to the Abbot of Westminster,' Owain announced, piously. 'We understand that he is travelling to Ireland with the king.'

'The abbot is expecting you?' the guard replied, suspiciously, his eyes seeking a view of the hooded faces; but with heads well bowed, he could do no more than admire the weave of the Cistercian cloth.

'The abbot is expecting us,' Owain lied fluently, only for the guard's eyes to wander over to the Cheshire archers.

'No one must enter,' the guard insisted.

'But,' Owain complained, 'we are men of God.'

Maybe there was something in his tone, or something in his bearing, something that combined authority with trust. Whatever the reason, the guard appeared to be persuaded. Nodding his head, he allowed entry, adding: 'The abbot is residing in the guest hall.'

'Thank you, my son,' Owain bowed. 'And may God go with you.' And with those words, the four men entered the donjon.

'Now what?' Rhys Goch asked as they made their way down a passageway; occasionally, they were forced to pause as servants, laden with food, scurried to feed the nobility.

'Branwen,' Owain instructed. 'As promised, we free your lady.'

Reasoning that a prisoner of low order would be held captive in the dungeon, the four men made their way down to the castle's vault.

As they reached the bottom of the basement steps, a guard stepped forward. Hirsute and rotund, he appeared stern and officious.

'We come to pray with the captive,' Owain advanced when met with the guard's exigent expression.

'On whose orders?' the guard demanded.

'On God's orders; we are here as servants of the Lord.'

'Stay where you are.' Circling the four men, the guard lowered his halberd, prodding the weapon in Cynan's direction. 'No one,' he insisted, 'must go in there.'

The guard's movements had taken him away from Madog, Owain and Rhys Goch. Blind to their glances, he missed Owain's subtle instruction; the Lord Rhys, awake to such prompting promptly stepped forward, his heavy fist striking the guard a forceful blow. Unconscious, the guard rolled like a barrel. With Cynan taking his feet, he was pulled from potential view. Kneeling, and tugging at the guard's belt, Rhys Goch relieved him of his prized possession; with the dungeon key now safely in his hand, the old lord strode towards the prison door.

Opening the door, the Lord Rhys stepped into the prison. Blinking, he sought swift adjustment to his sight. Within moments, his eyes attuned to the darkness, just as the light of his life rose from her bed.

'Rhys!' Branwen gasped, taking a tumbling step towards him.

'Branwen!' the old lord cried, his arms breaking her fall. Those arms he wrapped around her so tightly, so securely, that he lifted her feet from the floor. 'Cariad,' he wept. 'What have they done to you?'

'Nothing more,' she cried, 'than that done to many over many years.'

The lovers embraced and Owain glanced over his shoulder. All was quiet in the corridor; nevertheless, Cynan was instructed to keep watch there.

Stepping back, the Lord Rhys ran a tender finger over Branwen's cheek. Lowering her head, she rested, safely, in the crook of his arm.

'Your part in this adventure is now over,' Owain told Rhys Goch. 'You may leave with your lady, if you so wish.'

Pausing for a moment, the Lord Rhys glanced at his lady. Running his fingers through her hair, he summoned up a smile. 'You ask that I should walk out of here with Branwen upon my arm, me, a man dressed in a monk's habit!' He shook his head in decisive fashion. 'No. Branwen has a tale to tell and I know now that I will feel rage at her words. I will not leave this castle while the de la March's remain standing. I will join with you and I will see this through to the end. We march to the king, together.'

'Then we march to the Great Hall,' Owain announced, 'for, chances are, the king is already at the banquet.'

'And there they will kill him,' Branwen whispered. 'I know; I have heard word tell.'

'Who will kill him?' Owain prompted.

'Payn...the family de la March. They will place a poison upon his table.'

'And how do you know all this?'

'I was present...' Branwen paused to bite her lip at the aching memory. '...I was present when they discussed the plot.'

'Then we get word to the king,' Owain insisted, 'with all haste.'

Turning, the companions took a step out of the prison only to pause at the sound of a disturbance overhead.

'Guards!' Cynan yelled as he came running towards them. 'The burgess in the town must have got word to Rig.'

And with that, the man himself appeared, accompanied by a handful of cohorts. What to do? Should they retreat to the prison and barricade themselves in? For what purpose? For, surely, they would starve and be left to rot. Better to fight and to demonstrate their principles. Numerically, the odds were against them, but experience and skill suggested that they would fight with greater strength.

'Surrender,' Rig challenged, his sword drawn, his face ugly as he strode towards them. 'Surrender now or face slaughter.'

'I surrender to no man!' Owain roared, offering a call to arms.

In response, Rhys Goch, Madog and Cynan all unsheathed their weapons. Standing foursquare, they prepared to meet their foe.

The terrain, such as it was, favoured the defenders for the area around the prison was small and the attackers could advance in no more than equal number. Soon, two of them had been brushed aside, Madog's and Cynan's blades drawing blood.

Now they were down to single combat, each man pitting his wits and his skill against his opponent. Owain allowed his companions to challenge the guards; he would confront Rig Fitzsimon.

Physically, the two men were well matched, and the blows they exchanged spoke of an even contest. Owain parried Rig's thrust, acknowledging his strength, if not his skill, for Rig fought with little more than naked aggression, raining down blow upon blow, each accompanied by a bestial grunt.

Taking hold of his blade, Rig sought to bring the hilt down in hammer-like fashion, but Owain was too quick, his raised sword defending the blow. Another slash from Rig's sword removed a chunk of masonry while a further thrust saw Owain forced against a wall. From there he advanced, his dexterous movements forcing Rig on to the defensive, his skilful blows driving the chief sergeant to the foot of the basement steps.

A further heavy blow was blocked by Rig, but at a cost as he lost his balance; thrown against the steps, his body was now open, vulnerable to a decisive thrust. Owain made the attempt, only for Rig to kick out in desperate fashion, his boot jarring Owain's arm, deflecting the thrust. However, blood had been drawn; Rig had been wounded.

Rig climbed to his feet, his free hand clutching at Owain's sword arm. In a savage movement, he raised his sword in an attempt to cleave Owain's cranium wide open, but Owain swayed away from the blow, his quick feet dancing forward, his shimmering blade making contact with flesh. Once again, Rig fell back against the steps, this time with a groan and a look of anguish. Owain stepped in for the kill, his mind primed for one last fearful bout of resistance. However, with his blade hovering over Rig's neck, that resistance did not materialize. To Owain's surprise, the wound appeared to be substantial, the blood on the basement steps testifying to that fact. Dropping his sword, Rig admitted defeat; with his hands clutching at his wound, he did more than surrender, he conceded that life itself was ebbing away.

'Finish me,' Rig pleaded, the contortions upon his face displaying his agony, the guttural groans, emanating from his throat, speaking of his pain.

'You require a priest,' Owain replied, matter-of-factly, the wave of emotion subsiding, now that the mêlée had reached its conclusion; to his left and to his right all had gone quiet: Cynan, Madog and Rhys Goch all remained standing; the battle had been won.

'You are dressed as a priest,' Rig spluttered. 'Grant me absolution.'

Strictly speaking, Owain was dressed as a monk, but this was no time to be pedantic; the man was dying; sinner, or saint, he should be granted his final wish.

'Confess your sins.'

'I have killed many.'

'Including Brother Helias?'

'With this sword...' With a groan, Rig pointed to his discarded blade. '...upon the Roman road.'

'And what of the king?'

'Poison,' Rig gasped. 'In an aquamanile.' Reaching up, he took hold of Owain's habit, his fingers no more than alabaster, a colour paler than the cloth. 'Now do it.'

Looking into Rig's eyes, Owain thrust his blade forward. With a sound akin to a sigh, those eyes closed, never to open.

Turning away, Owain observed as his companions stretched their aching muscles, Cynan and Madog tending to minor flesh wounds. Emerging from the prison, Branwen placed her arms around a grazed Rhys Goch.

'We best take our leave,' the old lord pointed out, 'for soon they will arrive with reinforcements.'

'We dally no longer,' Owain agreed. 'We make haste to the king.'

* * *

Geoffrey de la March sat at the dais table, flanked, on his right hand, by King Richard, Edward of Aumerle, Sir Reginald Grey and Sir Thomas Despenser. On his left hand sat his mother, Matildis, and a host of churchmen and noble lords. The dais table had never known such an assemblage and, in the absence of Sir Roger and Payn, he, Geoffrey, had been called upon to represent the family. Upon this most auspicious of occasions, he had been left in charge. Of course, such an honour was only nominal for Matildis still retained overall authority. Nevertheless, Geoffrey felt a pride fit to bursting, a sense of superiority he could barely contain.

The Great Hall was packed with knights, church dignitaries and various noblemen. Indeed, so vast were their number that tables had been set up outside the confines of the donjon, namely in the guest hall, in the barns and in the courtyard. Already an abundant amount of food had been consumed, the feast consisting of three courses starting with furmenty with venison, boiled capons, swan, pheasant, peacock and meatballs in jelly. A subtlety, in the form of a crown had then been presented. This had been followed by the second course, which consisted of an almond milk soup, piglets, kid, crane, roast venison, cokentrys - a roast consisting of piglet and capon - stuffed poussins, partridge and a subtlety in the form of a white hart. After the stuffed poussins, Geoffrey had felt a little sick, but the moment had abated and he had tucked into the partridge with renewed relish. Now, the assembly sat back, refreshing themselves with wine, awaiting the arrival of the third course, a selection of fried meats and delicacies, including poultry in almond milk, bittern, curlew, pigeon, plovers, rabbits, quails, larks, pastries and jelly. A throne, fashioned out of sugar, would be presented as the subtlety.

Sipping their wine, the members of the dais table watched as the king's troupe of mummers performed an interlude. Initially slumped, seated at the centre of the table, Richard leaned forward, taking a keen interest in the drama even though he had witnessed the performance on many occasions.

When the play was over, jesters and tumblers took to the floor. The minstrels, from their position opposite the dais, high in the gallery, began a song, a Bavarian dance with lutes to the fore. The song was a favourite of the king's late wife, Anne of Bohemia.

At the sound of the opening notes, Richard slumped back; sighing heavily, he closed his eyes.

'I note that Sir Roger is still not with us,' Sir Thomas Despenser ventured, his eyes upon his silver wine goblet, his tongue savouring the wine's evocative flavour.

'He is away,' Matildis explained, 'still hunting outlaws.'

'And Payn?'

'Payn offered to lend his assistance.' Matildis paused so that she might drink from her goblet, a device to hide her face, particularly her eyes, and any hint of betrayal. 'He apologises,' she added, glancing up, smiling sweetly at Sir Thomas, 'he apologises most profusely for his absence.'

Meanwhile, the minstrels played on, entertaining the feasters with an old song of the crusades. They sang: 'I shall sing to cheer my heart, for fear lest I die of my great grief or go mad, when I see none return from that wild land where he is who brings comfort to my heart when I hear news of him. O God, when they cry "forward", help the pilgrim for whom I am so fearful, for the Saracens are evil.'

'Soon you will cross the seas to Ireland,' Matildis reflected, her gaze falling upon Sir Reginald Grey.

'Indeed, my lady,' Sir Reginald responded. 'And the king will revisit former glories. Only, this time, there will be a subtle difference: his successes will be all the greater and his name will be held in even higher esteem; from here to Rome, all will be in awe of the Good King Richard.'

With his back teeth already well afloat, Sir Reginald downed the contents of his wine goblet. Quickly, a steward moved to his side to replenish the empty cup.

Sir Reginald made short work of this latest offering. Then, the king's physician, Master Melton, entered the hall. Carrying a medicine phial, he marched to the king's table.

'Your medication, your majesty,' Master Melton announced, offering his patron a salve of rose oil. The rose oil contained properties that would calm the king's nerves, a consequence deemed desirous by both friends and physician.

Opening his eyes, the king groaned. Leaning forward, he fixed Melton with a wild-eyed stare. 'I do not require any medication!' he boomed, his fist landing on the dais table.

'I strongly advise...'

'And I strongly advise you to flee this instant,' the king interrupted, 'or else be sent back to London.'

With his physician summarily dismissed, the king reached for his goblet. He studied the contents of the vessel for some time before, slowly, raising that vessel to his lips.

'Are you enjoying your meal, your majesty?' Matildis asked, the royal gaze having descended upon her.

'The food is adequate,' Richard replied, his tongue teasing a droplet of wine from his hirsute upper lip. 'The wine,' he reflected, his eyes probing the depths of his goblet, his easy expression suggesting a moment of peace, 'the wine is agreeable, of reasonable quality.'

Graciously, Matildis bowed, her forced smile hiding her sense of relief. 'Then I am pleased,' she added.

'When we arrive in Ireland,' Sir Thomas Despenser mumbled through a mouthful of the subtlety, 'Edward has promised that he will teach those rascals a lesson, one they will never forget; isn't that so, Edward?'

'If the king's name is to be held in glory then,' Edward confessed, 'you can rest assured that my name will also resound with triumph.'

'I have heard,' Geoffrey giggled, 'that the Lord of Aumerle has pretensions to be king.'

Sharp looks were sent Geoffrey's way, matched only by those who chose to look at him askance, for he had displayed his naivety, he had laid bare his lack of political acumen. That he had uttered the truth was neither here nor there; that he had placed such thoughts into words, offered the very suggestion that one of the king's closest confidants had desires upon his throne, meant that he had transgressed and could expect few favours: the rancorous expression upon the king's face as he turned to look, not at Edward, but at Geoffrey, spoke louder than a hundred pealing bells. With his head bowed, his eyes fixed upon the ceremonial salt cellar, Geoffrey whispered: 'I am sorry, mother.'

Turning his attention to the knives, the spoons and the gleaming silver forks, an implement that Richard had introduced to the dais table, Geoffrey sought to regain his composure. Although his mother did not reach across the damask cloth to offer a comforting hand, she did try to salvage the occasion, murmuring:

'Your majesty, we intend to make alterations to the Great Hall. Possibly a new tapestry hung against the south wall, depicting Christ and the resurrection and maybe we could commission a scene, depicting your forthcoming success in subduing the Irish. Also, a new floor; with your permission, we would like to incorporate your white hart into the design...'

Matildis left her comments hanging in the air while Richard gazed sightlessly at the sanap, an item placed on top of the damask cloth to protect it from greedy mouths and careless fingers.

Then, just as a flame appears from the centre of a dampened, dormant fire, so the king recaptured his spark and came to life. Raising his heavy eyelids, he refocused his large eyes before turning his gaze upon Matildis. His unusually high cheekbones coloured with a smile and his features, once again, hinted at a former beauty. Talk of the fineries was more to his liking, Geoffrey was left to reflect; talk of war and talk of politics appeared to chill his soul. In that regard, they were alike, this would-be assassin and his potential victim. And maybe that was true of humanity the world over, Geoffrey mused, the depth of his profundity taking him by surprise.

'The lady's suggestion sounds most splendid,' Richard advanced. 'A vast improvement, wouldn't you say, my Lord of Ruthin?'

'Indeed, your majesty,' Sir Reginald chirped, his drunken hand spilling wine upon the sanap. 'But,' he added, in an aside, 'given the state of their land, I am surprised that they have the finance.'

Affronted, Matildis entered the fray: 'We have been most frugal,' she stated, through clenched teeth.

Sir Reginald merely shrugged at her comment; the de la March's finances and their white hart tiles were of little concern to him; after a satisfying belch, he returned to his wine.

And so cup followed cup until all became a little merry and the din within the Great Hall became that much louder. The minstrels struggled on, though few bothered to lend an appreciative ear to their efforts. Slowly, but surely, the king appeared to be warming to the evening, taking to Matildis' matriarchal charms, enjoying the ease of her banter.

To the sound of trumpets, the third course was paraded through the Great Hall. The sewer – the headwaiter – and the chief cook accompanied the stewards to the dais table. As they approached, Matildis caught the king's eye. Fluttering her eyelashes in ingratiating fashion she was moved to remark:

'Your majesty, may we say that we are honoured to be in your company? When we gaze upon the white harts we shall always recall the magnificence of this day.'

Displaying his pleasure, Richard waved a hand in royal approval. Though the road had been long and the journey tortured, it seemed that in the end he had found a friend.

The dishes, tinted a regal gold with saffron, were placed upon the dais table and, sampling one-by-one, the chief cook sought to dispel any fear of poison. That he was able to walk unaided from the hall encouraged the feasters to gorge themselves still further upon this fresh range of gastronomic delights. Of course, all waited until the king had made his selection, though some – Geoffrey, out of nervousness, Sir Reginald out of greed – displayed less patience than others.

Richard washed his hands in a basin. Meanwhile, Matildis gave Geoffrey a decisive nod. The moment had arrived; it was time to kill the king. Swallowing hard, Geoffrey reached for his wine goblet.

'Before you eat, your majesty,' Matildis began, 'maybe you would like to inaugurate our burgesses' gift, the aquamanile.'

Richard dried his hands before glancing at the shimmering figure, the finely sculptured representation of a knight. Curling his top lip in a show of distaste, he shook his head: 'No, thank you, my lady; I have no need of water.'

'Then allow me to flavour it,' Matildis suggested, 'with a little wine.'

From beneath the level of the table she produced a vessel. Offering that vessel up to the figurine, she proceeded to pour out a measure of poison.

Inwardly, Geoffrey groaned. Closing his eyes, he took hold of the sanap and wound it tightly around frantic fingers; if the king should fall dead this instant, he pleaded, please God, ensure that he does not fall my way.

'Very well,' Richard replied, lost in Matildis' smile, 'I will do as you say.'

Consequently, the king reached across and took hold of the aquamanile. No one moved to protest: Sir Thomas Despenser was earnestly engaged in conversation, discussing the merits of falconry with an archbishop; a wine-soaked Sir Reginald Grey stared into the hall, apparently at a loss as to his surroundings; Edward of Aumerle, meanwhile, kept his own counsel: head bowed, he devoured another quail.

The aquamanile reached Richard's lips and with Matildis' smile encouraging, he tilted his head back so as to sample its delights. Moreover, those delights would have reached his throat but for a shout from the hall and a scene of high commotion, for Owain Glyn Dwr, Rhys Goch, Cynan, Madog and Branwen had forced their way past the guards and were now holding court.

'My lord king!' Owain yelled. 'I advise you to lay down that vessel this instant.'

Startled, Richard did just that, easing the aquamanile on to the sanap. 'Whatever is this?' the king complained, his forehead furrowed, his face troubled, the black dog of depression bearing its heavy weight upon his shoulders.

'Guards!' Matildis screamed. 'Seize that man!' Upon her feet, the matriarch pressed her whitened knuckles into the dais table; Geoffrey, meanwhile, had a mind to slide out of view, into oblivion.

'Seize us,' Owain granted, 'seize us all, but first, I beseech you; listen to what we have to say.'

Rising to his feet, Sir Thomas Despenser sought to take charge of proceedings. 'Let him speak,' he commanded, his right hand reaching for his sword.

'That vessel, my lord king,' Owain began, 'touch it not, for it contains a poison.'

'At whose hand?' Sir Thomas demanded.

Slowly, Owain raised a hand and pointed a finger towards the dais table. In a steady voice he intoned: 'The family de la March.'

All in the hall gasped. All turned to stare at Geoffrey and Matildis. The former looked around frantically, in search of escape. The latter, meanwhile, held her gaze, as flint-like as it was determined, her eyes not wavering from Owain, not for one second.

'Plainly,' the matriarch complained, 'this is a nonsense.'

'What proof have you?' Sir Thomas challenged. 'Why so bold in making this claim?'

'My lord king,' Owain explained, 'over many months I have uncovered a plot to dethrone you. Indeed, I sent word of my suspicions in the form of a letter, addressed to the Lord of Aumerle.'

Now the assembly turned their gaze upon Edward. Chewing the last of his quail, he glanced first to his left, then to his right, his face frozen, as though taken by surprise. Sitting back, he dabbed his lips with a handkerchief, a present from Richard. Then, with probity's mask dominating his expression, he explained:

'The letter must have been intercepted, my serene prince and lord, for I did not receive it. Nonetheless, I must now confess that, I too, have long held the suspicion that a traitor lives amongst us. My tongue has remained silent until now for fear of upsetting your majesty. However, it would appear that the appropriate moment has arrived, and I move that we listen with all intent to the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy.'

Bowing graciously, Owain replied: 'Thank you, my Lord of Aumerle.' From his position, just forward of the minstrel's gallery, standing amongst the feasters, Owain began: 'I believe that this plot led to the murder of a monk, Brother Helias by name. He was killed by Rig, chief sergeant of this borough, a falling out amongst felons, for both were supporters of the family de la March.'

'Were?' Sir Thomas challenged.

'Indeed, for we encountered Rig on our way to this place; I regret to say that his blood was spilt. Without boast or claim to honour, I confess that he fell upon my sword.'

'And what of Payn and Sir Roger?' Sir Thomas asked, his features creasing into a frown.

'They are parties to the plot, though Sir Roger's absence offers the suggestion that he has been banished.'

'For what reason?'

Owain Glyn Dwr paused as he considered Sir Thomas' question and Sir Roger's position. Eventually, he replied: 'I cannot be sure, but his nonattendance hints at deposition, possibly because he is harbouring doubts.'

At this, Sir Thomas nodded, as though concurring with this summation. Drawing his sword, he levelled its tip at Geoffrey de la March:

'What say you to this, my lord?'

Dumbstruck, Geoffrey said nothing.

'And you, my lady: what say you to this?'

'I say,' Matildis began in high indignation, 'that the man who stands before us is the man harbouring poison, for he speaks with a poisonous tongue.'

'I speak only the truth,' Owain avowed, 'the truth as I know it.'

Kneeling before the king, Matildis bowed in supplication. Daring to place a hand upon his foot, she sought the comfort of recent familiarity, the hope of winning his approval. 'Your highness,' she pleaded, 'this man is accompanied by outlaws, murderers, and surely that says everything that is to be said about him. He proffers these lies in the feeble hope that such pretence will save their lives.'

Stirred by this, Rhys Goch sought to intervene, only for Madog to offer restraint. Recognising the sense of the steward's actions, the old lord nodded, his hand parting company with his sword.

The Great Hall was abuzz, its number swelled by an influx of Cheshire archers; clearly, word of the assassination attempt had spread throughout the castle and those, previously not on duty, had now rushed to the king's aid. However, for now, they held their ground, offering menace as opposed to their customary violence, though no one could remain in any doubt that, for the guilty, there was little chance of escape.

'Your highness...' Once again, Sir Thomas Despenser captured everyone's attention. Hoisting the aquamanile, he bowed before the king. 'There is a solution to this problem...'

'If there is a solution to this travesty,' Richard wailed, 'then usher it forth. I would be done with you all; I would be done with the iniquities of this world.'

The king threw his handkerchief upon the table. Sinking back into his chair, he succumbed to a familiar malaise: despite pretensions to the contrary, he was reminded of the fact that he was a mere mortal. Cursed with the belief that he was a god, fed with that belief by sycophants and by flatterers, he had occasionally lost his mind; he had certainly lost his way. Yet, what should they expect from a man of such high breeding? He was not like them. He was closer to the gods. However, he was not a god. Furthermore, with his life held within a silver chalice, the reminder of his mortality had been made. It was all too much. Closing his eyes, he would leave them to it; drawing in the darkness of the night, he would let them have the day.

And so, his minions continued the play, Sir Thomas Despenser, aquamanile in hand, offering his version of justice: 'If the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy lies,' he suggested, 'then our host, Geoffrey de la March, will have no qualms about drinking from this aquamanile. If, on the other hand, he is aware of the poison, then he will set down the vessel thus confirming his, and his family's, guilt. What say you, my lady...your son should drink from the aquamanile.'

Horrified, Matildis clawed at the king's person, her fingers slipping through the ermine, her head coming to rest against his shin. 'No,' she cried. 'This is a nonsense. We are surrounded by lies and by liars; I beg you, your majesty, be deaf to what they say.'

Indeed, the king was deaf, deaf to her words, deaf to his surroundings. Chasing himself through his perpetual nightmare, he had no time for Matildis' troubles, no mind to enter this play. His obsequious friends could take care of proceedings; after all, they ruled his life: they offered him advice, they told him what to do, they had guided him into this maze. The boy who had become king had depended upon their guidance. The man, when acting alone, had made so many mistakes. It was not his fault that he felt compelled to listen to unwise counsel. It was not his fault that he had surrounded himself with so many obtuse friends...

With the assembly holding its collective breath, awaiting the king's judgement, it was left to Edward of Aumerle to place their thoughts into words: 'Do it,' he instructed, 'drink from the vessel.'

Trembling, Geoffrey reached out for Matildis. 'Mother,' he cried, only for Edward to lean across and place the aquamanile into his hands.

'Do it,' he repeated, 'or hang where you stand.'

'Mother!' Geoffrey wailed and, this time, Matildis responded:

'Your highness,' she pleaded, 'have mercy upon my son.'

Geoffrey's hands now shook so badly that a measure of liquid spilt from the aquamanile. From all corners of the Great Hall the Cheshire archers advanced; soon, they would be upon him; with the mob at their backs, they would act like hounds, devouring their prey.

At that moment, drinking from the aquamanile appeared more attractive. So, Geoffrey raised the vessel to his lips. He sipped, a little at first, then a substantial mouthful. The wine did little for his palate; its taste was dull, not unpleasant, but certainly not appealing; one mouthful was enough. With a steadying hand, he set down the vessel. With a light-footed walk, he strode into the main body of the Great Hall.

As he weaved his way through the feasters, Geoffrey attained a sense of freedom. As he approached the open door, he acquired a sense of escape. Maybe the custorin had failed in her bid to make a suitable poison. Maybe her skills had been lacking, or maybe she had refused simply out of resentment and spite. Maybe...and then his mind froze and his body crumpled. Vaguely, he became aware of his position, prone upon the floor. The image was hazy but, in the distance, he saw a child, running. The child called out for its mother and then Geoffrey heard and saw no more.

* * *

The tolling of the church bells called the brothers from the fields; dutifully, they attended the office of Vespers. Brother Blanchigernonis was amongst them, his countenance easy, his disposition well blessed, his destiny assured and well cared for. For the brethren, a period of meditation would nourish the mind before the body sought the sustenance of supper. For Brother Blanchigernonis, he could give no thought to his stomach and its rumblings; supper could wait, a reflection mirrored by the appearance of Payn at the gate, his over-eagerness displayed in his restless footsteps.

'I thought we agreed to meet beside the standing stone,' Brother Blanchigernonis mused, the hood upon his habit suitably adjusted to protect both his neck and his head from the cool evening breeze.

'We meet upon my say-so,' Payn insisted. 'Now, we delay no longer; lead me to the outlaws.'

Without further ado, Brother Blanchigernonis raised his staff and the two men set off, heading in a northerly direction.

'Where are we going?' Payn asked as they diverted from the Roman road, their footsteps taking them deep into the brushwood.

Brother Blanchigernonis paused to rest upon his staff. Then, he pointed at the hillside, to the trees and to the density of their surroundings. 'To Fforest yr Ysbrydion,' he smiled, 'to the forest of ghosts, and there God will make His judgement.'

Unsettled, unnerved, his shoulders responding to a nervous twitch, Payn took hold of the monk's habit. 'You had better not deceive me,' he spat, his sword appearing in his hand, its tip levelled at the monk, its edge threatening to cleave through his comfortable midriff.

'Without me,' Brother Blanchigernonis replied calmly, 'you will not reach your destination. Kill me and the man you seek will never be found.'

Much to his chagrin, Payn conceded the point; releasing his grip, he pushed the white monk towards the forest, his wounded hand leaving a bloody stain, sullying the purity of the habit.

As they climbed the knoll, no words were exchanged. The two men, apart in age, apart in character, had breath only to grunt as they scrambled towards their destination. High up in the trees, birds settled down for the evening, while deep within the undergrowth, scavengers scurried, enjoying a last meal before sunset. The breeze rustled the leaves. Occasionally, a gust became an eerie moan, a warning to any would-be trespasser. The sound arrested Payn. Concerned, he paused, his eyes wandering through the trees, up to the sky then down to the ground.

'Are you frightened?' the monk asked, a gleam in his eye, a gleam that twinkled all the brighter as Payn pushed past him.

Then, they stumbled upon a clearing, a virgin space within the forest, a glade as green as the brightest emerald. At first, it appeared as though they were alone. Payn turned, as if to complain, his face angry at this perceived deception. Then, a dog barked. Then, shadows emerged from the forest. Then, Ci, Meirian, Anest and Tangwstyl joined them.

'What is going on?' Payn asked, his arms flaying about him, his anger coalescing with confusion. 'What are these people doing here?'

'Be patient,' Brother Blanchigernonis counselled, 'hold your tongue. Allow your senses to absorb the delights of the forest.'

In no mood for such erudition, Payn drew his sword. Stepping towards the monk, he was about to exact his revenge when Ci barked; the dog wagging his tail in excited fashion. Instinctively, Payn turned to face the dog, fearing attack. However, instead, the animal continued to gaze across the length of the glade, focusing on a distant figure, a figure approaching at a steady pace. Payn too stared at the figure, his reason deserting him as he swore sight of Euros.

'What is this?' Payn complained, his anger now directed at Anest. 'What is this sorcery?'

Anest, equally amazed, had no time for Payn; ignoring his invective, she ran towards Euros, only for Brother Blanchigernonis to intervene; stepping forward, he placed a restraining hand upon the healer's shoulder, leaving her frozen to the spot, her mouth agape.

'This man is dead,' Payn insisted.

'Really, my lord?' came Brother Blanchigernonis' amused reply.

'I killed him with my own sword.'

'How apt then that he should reappear in the forest of ghosts.'

Squinting, Payn took a step backwards, away from the apparition: was he real, a ghost or a figment of his imagination? Drawing his sword, Payn held the blade at arm's length. On Brother Blanchigernonis' instruction, the onlookers faded to the fringes; that left ample room for the wounded figure to steadily march on.

'Where is Rhys Goch?' Payn demanded, his voice harsh, his blade wavering; out of fear or out of determination his muscles became so taut that they stretched the fabric of his tunic. To Brother Blanchigernonis, he complained: 'You said that you would take me to him.'

'I will,' the white monk promised. 'But, first, allow our guest to speak.'

With measured tread, evermore resolute, the apparition approached the onlookers. Plainly, all could now see that his face was badly scarred, his tunic bloodied. His eyes were hollow; dark holes that spoke of oblivion. His face was set, a look of constrained anger, a force that, by the drawing of his sword, was about to be unleashed.

'I come for revenge,' he avowed. 'I come to claim justice for the murder of Brother Helias, and the part you played in his ruin. I come to claim justice for the people of the vill and for all the suffering you have caused them. I come to claim justice for the king and for the fact that you would have him dead. I come to claim justice for myself and for the scar I shall forever bear. Moreover, I come to claim justice for Tirion and for the brutality you visited upon her.'

Impulsively, Payn's hand went to his waistband and the quillon dagger, the weapon previously owned by Tirion. Releasing the blade, he complained: 'I know not of what you speak.'

'The lady's words,' the apparition continued, his gaze falling upon the Lady Meirian, 'so vociferous against the Castle, had long been a puzzle to me. However, after words with Brother Blanchigernonis, all became clear: the Lady Meirian is Tirion's mother and Tirion was violated when pregnant by Payn de la March.'

'I took what was mine!' Payn yelled. 'Besides,' he sneered, 'she came willingly.'

'She was on the point of giving birth, heavily pregnant with child.'

'She offered herself willingly,' Payn insisted. 'Is it my fault that she was no more than a whore?'

At this, the Lady Meirian threatened to step forward only to acquiesce at Brother Blanchigernonis' insistence. It was left to the two figures striding across the greensward to settle this with the sword.

'Your story is at odds with the tale told to the good brother,' the apparition continued. 'She was taken with a force, with a barbarity that has become your custom.'

'You lie,' Payn spat.

'I echo Tirion's words, no more, no less. And who in this world would have it that your word is more sincere than hers?'

His advancing stride had taken him to within striking distance of his opponent. True, Payn too had advanced, but with miniscule tread.

Raising his sword above his head, Payn cried: 'You will not leave this forest alive!'

'Then strike me,' the apparition replied. 'Strike down a ghost.'

Payn brought down his sword in scything fashion, only for the blow to be parried, the combined force knocking him off his feet. Scrambling to his feet, Payn was forced on to the defensive; deflecting blow after blow, he was driven towards the trees. Payn fought as though inhibited, as though confronted by a force greater than the natural. It was only when he drew blood that his satanic aggression was truly released. Baring his teeth, he thrust forward, his roar sending the birds screaming from the trees, his power forcing Euros on to the defensive. Nearby, Anest and Meirian looked on, apprehensive, doubtless aware that they too would not survive, should their man fall. And what of Tangwstyl? The thought did not bear contemplation; Euros had to succeed. A heavy blow was deflected, only for Euros to slip on the mulch, the action bringing him to his knees. Like a hawk hovering above its prey, Payn circled his adversary. He was waiting for the moment when Euros would endeavour to rise, for that split second when he would be off balance, at his most vulnerable. Sensing that moment, Payn went in for the kill, sweeping his sword towards Euros' undefended neck. And maybe that blow would have landed, had a stray branch not deflected its arc; maybe mass slaughter would forever have stained this sylvan scene. Yet, nature had intervened and Euros had been spared to prolong the battle. This he did, slicing at Payn's torso, drawing blood from an arm and then a leg. Crying in anguish, Payn thrust forward; placing all his strength behind the blow, he removed Euros' sword from his hands. And there they stood, panting, their breath heavy in the gloaming, Euros crouched in a defensive position, ready to sway this way or that, ready to lean out of harm's way. Payn was in control, the moment delayed while he regained his breath and the last of his vigour, his features twisting into a half-grin, a half-grimace. Then, he brandished his blade, striking at Euros' unprotected torso, only for fatigue and a loss of blood to weaken his aim. Euros swayed to his left and Payn's sword drew not blood but a measure of sapwood; embedded in a tree, there the weapon would stay, for neither man had the strength to remove it; out on their knees, they could do no more than wrestle; fighting for their lives, they could gouge, they could punch and they could seek to break limbs.

Euros grabbed hold of Payn's wrist, threatening to break the bone. Rolling free, Payn placed his hand upon his waistband. There, he drew the dagger, the beautifully bejewelled blade. One thrust nicked Euros' neck, another added pain to a leg wound. A third sought Euros' heart, only to strike his shoulder as both men slipped on the damp ground. Taking advantage of the moment, Euros encircled Payn's wrist in an iron-like grip. They stood toe to toe, fighting for the blade, fighting for the weapon that would determine the contest. Euros squeezed and Payn cried out, more in anguish than in hurt as slowly, but surely, the blade began to fall. Then, it was upon the ground. Then, Euros swooped and gained possession. Then, the blade was kicked from his hand. Euros stooped to retrieve the blade and Payn went in search of the young lords' weapon. Locating the sword, Payn dived forward, his momentum carrying with it a mortal blow. However, that blow did not arrive. Instead, Payn met with Euros' thrust, he met with Tirion's dagger.

As he rolled upon the ground, breathing his last, Payn was heard to whisper: 'God is the Devil...we're all going to hell.'

Staggering to his feet, Euros was met by Anest. Embracing, they held each other so tightly yet so tenderly, so desperately that they threatened never to let go.

* * *

With the sky darkening, Euros turned his back on Fforest yr Ysbrydion. With Ci at his side, he led Anest, Tangwstyl, Meirian and Brother Blanchigernonis down the hillside towards the Coal Brook. There, they paused, resting weary limbs beside the grassy bank, taking refreshment from the water, bathing recently forged wounds. Of course, Euros was the prime beneficiary of the latter, Anest kneeling at his side as she offered up her care. This she did via her cloak, which had been dipped into the cold, clear stream. Anest tended Euros' multifarious cuts and abrasions, including the opening of his facial wound. Meanwhile, Meirian fed Tangwstyl, offering her the earthenware bottle and its measure of goats' milk.

In time, Anest returned to the stream to wash her cloak, thereby leaving Euros unattended. Alone with his thoughts, the young lord stretched his aching limbs and his troubled joints. Sensing the moment, Meirian offered Tangwstyl up to Brother Blanchigernonis. Warily, watchfully, the white monk took hold of the baby, cradling her in his arms. He fed her the last of the goats' milk. Then, both sat content, Tangwstyl grinning mischievously, her fingers toying with the wise man's beard.

Meirian approached Euros and the young lord reached for his under-tunic. She watched in detached fascination as carefully, cautiously, he eased the garment over scar-torn muscle; the task complete, he leaned back with a sigh.

'Without question,' Meirian ventured, whilst maintaining a respectful distance, 'I should thank you. And I do, for Tirion's sake.'

'I did the needful,' Euros replied, his arms slipping into his overtunic. 'I did what was required, nothing more.'

'And for that,' Meirian complained, 'you feel pain.'

'I feel pain,' the young lord corrected, 'only in that Tirion cannot sit here with us and share in this evening; how can I claim merit in actions that take, rather than restore, life?'

Nodding, as though in understanding, Meirian took a step towards Euros. Pausing beside him, she allowed her thoughts to clear; she allowed her face to break into a smile. 'I am glad that you are alive,' she sighed, thankfully.

Glancing up, Euros' features mirrored her smile. 'I am glad too,' he added, by way of appreciative reply.

Having restored familiarity, Meirian felt comfortable in sitting beside Euros; adjusting her skirts, she took her place upon the lush grass. 'I assume,' she began, 'that Brother Blanchigernonis told you all about Tirion?'

'Everything,' Euros admitted. 'He told me everything about her. He also told me everything about you. He explained about your background, about Tirion's upbringing, about her encounter with Payn while working at the castle, about passing this knowledge on to you.' The more Euros reflected upon Tirion's tale, the more his face flushed with anger. Striking his sword against the matted grass, he allowed that anger to shine through. 'Why didn't you tell me?' he complained 'Why didn't you ask for my help?'

'You were not here at the time,' Meirian reasoned. 'Besides, I thought that my good self and my family would be of no interest to you.'

'Then you misjudged me, my lady.'

Bowing her head, Meirian admitted her culpability. In a small voice, she confessed: 'I see that now.' Glancing up, she observed as Anest wrung the last of Euros' blood from her cloak, the purity of the water cleansing the cloth. Soon she would return and take her place at Euros' side. 'You will take her as your wife?' Meirian asked, although already well aware of the answer.

'Yes,' Euros replied, requiring no pause for reflection, for his experiences had banished any hint of suspicion or cause for doubt. 'I will ask her to be my wife.'

'But she is a commoner,' the Lady Meirian pointed out.

'True,' Euros conceded, 'she is. 'Yet,' he added, 'she has a heart more regal than that of any queen.'

Easing herself to her feet, the Lady Meirian took time to adjust her skirts, paying undue attention to a multitude of stains and creases; could the fabric be saved? She had her doubts. Nevertheless, before taking her leave, she had one more question for Euros: 'Will you forgive me?' she asked. 'Will you forgive my actions against Anest?'

'Does Anest forgive you?'

'I think she does.'

'Then rest easy; go forward, without any doubt.'

'Then I wish you both well,' the Lady Meirian concluded. 'Enjoy your happiness.'

'Of that,' Euros assured her, 'we will.'

Having grown tired of the wise man's beard, Tangwstyl sought to exercise her lungs, her cries threatening to free the leaves from their branches and send all creatures within earshot scurrying into the undergrowth. Recognising the need for a maternal touch, the Lady Meirian offered her arms. Only too eager to avail himself of this assistance, Brother Blanchigernonis ceded custody of the baby. Upon presenting Tangwstyl to Meirian, he clambered to his feet, accepting Anest's outstretched hand. Together, monk and healer walked along the riverbank, pausing before Euros. The young lord was now upon his feet, sheathing his sword, adjusting his clothing. Apparently satisfied, he offered his friend the warmth of his smile.

'How are you feeling?' Brother Blanchigernonis asked.

'Sore,' Euros admitted, before placing an arm around Anest's shoulders. 'But I am in good hands.'

'That you are,' Brother Blanchigernonis agreed. Glancing back towards Fforest yr Ysbrydion, the white monk became more meditative; leaning upon his staff, his placed his be-whiskered chin upon his hands. 'You performed wonders in the forest,' he reflected, his voice hinting at admiration.

'With a little help,' Euros acknowledged, his fingers first tapping the dagger, then his father's sword.

'And what of God?'

Now those fingers went to the wooden crucifix, to the cross so skilfully carved by Brother Blanchigernonis, to the gift so generously given upon the young lord's return from Compostela.

'I do not wish to claim all the credit,' Euros began, 'if indeed credit be due. But, of God's help,' he admitted, 'I am still not sure.'

'Then how do you explain your salvation?' Brother Blanchigernonis responded. 'You should have drowned within the pool.'

'That is true,' Euros conceded. 'I should have died when Payn's henchmen placed me in the water. But they were slovenly in their work and the water revived me...it was a miracle, to be sure.'

'And who, but God, would perform such a miracle? Reflect: maybe this was the proof, the attestation that you have been seeking.'

The white monk had a point and Euros was moved to reflection. He thought back to the blow, struck by Payn. He recalled the haze of semi-consciousness, the hands of Payn's henchmen, thrust upon him. Vaguely, he remembered being dumped into a boat and the swell of the water and then, with more clarity, the coldness of the water as he was thrown into Kenfig Pool. How he found the strength and the ability to extricate himself from such a predicament remained a mystery. Did God lend a hand? In desperation, did he find a strength previously hidden? Or did some unknown, primeval force touch him?

Gazing into the Coal Brook, Euros put this point to Brother Blanchigernonis: 'Maybe I was touched by God. Or maybe I was touched by a force that we do not understand.'

'You were touched by both,' the white monk concluded, 'for we call that force God.'

'But your God would denounce me as mad or a heretic for daring to question His existence.'

'My Church would denounce you,' Brother Blanchigernonis corrected.

'But your Church and your God...surely they are the same entity.'

'They are.'

'Then I cannot believe in your God. My God would not act through a Church, through an authority that persecutes its people.'

'That is a matter of opinion,' the white monk challenged.

'I have seen the suffering,' Euros countered. 'That is a matter of fact.'

'Then are we to dismiss the existence of God? For argument's sake, we will...if you can explain your rescue.'

'I am a simple man,' Euros pleaded. 'I am not blessed with great learning. All I can say is that maybe there is a spirit within us, something beyond our conscious mind and our control. But that spirit has an entity unique to the individual. The nature of the spirit and where it comes from, I cannot tell you, but I felt its power when in the pool that day. This is the only way that I can explain my rescue.'

'If you believe in such a deity,' Brother Blanchigernonis reasoned, 'then you will allow me my belief in my God?'

'Truly,' Euros nodded, 'for I would not wish to deprive any man of his beliefs. But allow me to ask you one question: where was your God the night Tirion died?'

Now, it was Brother Blanchigernonis' turn to gaze into the water. Leaning upon his staff, he considered the question for some time. Eventually, he replied: 'We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, for the good of those who have been called according to His purpose.'

'An answer,' Euros conceded, 'but I vouchsafe, an answer that will bring the Lady Meirian little comfort.'

In the cool of the evening, Anest shivered, and Euros placed his arm more tightly around her. He had travelled the pilgrim trail, in search of truth, in search of adventure, only to find love upon his return. For this, should he sink to his knees and thank God? Or should he thank a wider providence, or mere good fortune? The questions remained the same. He concluded: maybe he should rejoice in the questions and refrain from seeking the perfect answer; maybe he should glory in that simple truth.

'While I am in the mood for questions,' Euros challenged, 'allow me to ask of you another: tell me of Tangwstyl's father; what is his name?'

At this, Brother Blanchigernonis laughed: 'You ask me such questions! Do you believe me to be God?'

Straightening his stiffening back the white monk cast his gaze, first to the darkening sky, then to the town of Kenfig. 'It is getting late,' he mused. 'We must arrive at the town before nightfall.' Then, he turned to face Euros, his wizened features creasing into the widest of smiles: 'That is, providing you can walk whilst carrying such questions and their burden.'

'Questions are not a burden,' Euros replied, 'they are a treasure; sometimes it is the answer that weighs you down.'

* * *

Sir Thomas Despenser cast his gaze around the Great Hall. All the guests had long gone ushered from the scene of the would-be regicide. The king had departed with his physician, Master Melton, seeking the tranquillity and the sanctuary of Margam Abbey. Reflecting upon the king's appearance and his manner, Sir Thomas concluded that the plotters had been successful, for his liege lord had left the Great Hall as a ghost. In time, he would no doubt recover. However, would his enemies grant him that time? Or would they recognise his frailty, born of so many difficulties, born of so many trials and tribulations, and so seek to gain an advantage? Sir Thomas was loyal to his king and he lay no blame at his door; the injustices his majesty had had to endure would have tried the patience of any man; the iniquities of so-called friends would have tested the tolerance of a saint; the responsibility of kingship would have weighed heavily upon the broadest of shoulders: was it any wonder that the king had, upon occasion, wandered into the darker recesses of the mind and stumbled upon dubious resolutions? Should he be castigated for turning his anger upon his friends? Should he be called to account for displaying qualities that are, in essence, all too human? Alternatively, should he be seen as a god, lacking all human feeling, all human frailty, all of humankind's foibles? Everyone knew that God appointed kings. Equally, everyone was aware that Richard projected an image beyond mere majesty, hinting at the divine. Maybe he would have to change, become more tolerant, become more human. Yet, then he would become like everyman and his mystique would peel away.

With heavy foreboding, the door opened and in strode Edward, the Duke of Aumerle. He glanced towards Sir Thomas and then towards Sir Reginald Grey. The latter remained slumped in his position, his head resting upon his hands, sleeping off the excesses of the feast. Sir Reginald moved only to grunt as the servants walked past him, their busy hands clearing away a mountain of discarded food. Upon the king's departure, Edward of Aumerle had been granted full authority; a servant of the king, he had been charged with cleaning up a more regal mess: he had been instructed to resolve all of Kenfig's outstanding issues.

Making his way into the Great Hall, the Duke of Aumerle glanced towards Sir Reginald. The look of distaste upon Edward's face mirrored that of a man who had defecated in his armour; his deepening look of revulsion screamed that more was soon to follow.

'Is he dead?' the duke asked, his voice betraying more than a hint of morbid optimism.

'I don't think so,' Sir Thomas replied.

'Pity,' Edward sighed, his considerable weight easing against a trestle table.

Sir Thomas made to comment, however, he felt compelled to wait while a servant swept past, his wrists dexterously flicking a broom. 'The king has moved further west,' he began, 'yet I am thinking that we should return to London.'

'Whatever for?' Edward complained. 'The danger has passed and those Irish rebels need to be crushed. We continue as planned, for to return would be to signal weakness. From this moment on, in everything we do, we must be bold.'

Sir Thomas felt a sense of unease at this proposal, not least because the words emanated from Edward's tongue; always wary of the duke, now he found his sense of mistrust deepening. Nevertheless, he was acutely aware that to offer a challenge, to insist that they retreat, to demand that they withdraw would smack of cowardice on his part, thus paving the way for personal ridicule. Furthermore, upon reflection, he reasoned that the duke's suggestion had some merit: the Irish had to be taught a lesson and Bolingbroke had to recognise that they would not be intimidated. Sir Thomas concluded that it would be more prudent to focus upon personal matters, wiser to ensure that he placed his own house in good order. And, to that end, he asked: 'What are we to do about Sir Roger de la March?'

'First,' Edward replied, 'we find him; I suspect he will be at Ogmore castle, residence of his betrothed. Then, we question him as to his involvement in the plot. I believe we will find him innocent; otherwise, he would have been here to greet us and to conduct matters with his own hand. I assume he fled Kenfig, out of fear for his life.'

'If he knew of the plot,' Sir Thomas reasoned, 'then surely he could have stayed and warned the king.'

'And thus condemn his family...until we discover the truth, let us be benevolent; let us conclude that his actions were born out of a misplaced sense of loyalty.'

'Then he should remain as constable of Kenfig?'

'Kenfig is your domain,' Edward pointed out. 'The constableship of Kenfig castle remains within your gift.'

Again, Sir Thomas could find no reason to challenge Edward's logic: Sir Roger may, or may not, be innocent; their friendship spoke of purity, and that purity longed for an equitable solution. Unless a charge of treason could be upheld, then Sir Roger would remain as constable of Kenfig.

'Despite obvious misgivings, I trust Sir Roger,' Sir Thomas concluded, 'but what of his mother, Matildis? Plainly, it was her intention to murder the king.'

'Of her guilt, there can be no doubt,' Edward judged. 'But her youngest son has been taken. She has been punished enough. Besides, do you really think that we have the stomach to hang an old woman? Of course, Sir Roger will have to offer surety both for himself and for his mother, thereby ensuring their obedience for the rest of their days. Nothing would be gained by the spilling of more blood. The leaders have been killed, or captured; their failure alone will serve as a warning to others.'

'But who is their leader?' Sir Thomas mused. 'Who proposed this deed to the family de la March?'

'Maybe the plot was an act of their personal invention. Or maybe they were seduced by promises made by Sir William Scurlag. After all, the old lord did swear allegiance to that rogue, Bolingbroke.'

'You said that Owain Glyn Dwr was acting for Bolingbroke, yet he saved our king, Richard.'

'True,' Edward confessed. 'But it would appear that the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy decided to change sides. Personally, I would not trust him from this moment on.'

'The Lord of Glyndyfrdwy sent you a warning letter yet, of this, you made no mention.'

'As I said earlier,' Edward replied calmly, 'I did not receive such a letter.'

The smile, the ease upon his face defied serious challenge. Yet, why did Sir Thomas feel the urge to slap that rotund face, why did he doubt the duke's good word? For Sir Thomas had no proof, merely suspicion, suspicion, he had to concede, born out of personal enmity. Furthermore, he reminded himself, lest he should forget, he was talking to one of the most powerful men in the land. Heaven forbid, but should Richard fall then Edward had every chance of realising his ambition; the line of kings christened Edward, broken only by Richard's accession, would again continue apace.

As Sir Thomas stood in the Great Hall, a room now silent save for Sir Reginald's snoring, he was moved to a moment of realisation: just how great was his love for the king? Enough to confront Edward and risk damnation? Alternatively, he could keep his thoughts to himself and play the poisonous political game. Wisdom suggested the latter, but his beating heart would not remain silent: his love for Richard demanded that a challenge should be made.

'Tell me, my lord,' Sir Thomas began, 'all this talk of leniency and forgiveness; is it born out of the plot and out of a greater knowledge?'

'I have no greater knowledge,' Edward insisted, his face remaining impassive, his tone remaining even. 'And that remark and its insinuation are resented. I am loyal and true to our king. If I have acted with caution then that is because I too have held my suspicions. I was seeking the truth while, at the same time, attempting to soothe Richard; for you know how easily he becomes upset. I conclude that there is a traitor amongst us, a traitor within the king's court.' And, with those words, he cast a suspicious glance towards the somnolent figure of Sir Reginald Grey.

Upon following the duke's gaze, Sir Thomas was moved to scoff: 'Sir Reginald? But he is no more than a fool.'

'It takes a wise man to play the fool,' the duke reasoned, 'to the point where no one takes him seriously.'

As Sir Thomas digested the duke's words, the door swung open, allowing Owain Glyn Dwr, Rhys Goch, Cynan, Madog and Branwen to step forward, into the Great Hall.

Moving only his heavy, lazy eyelids, Edward glanced at the weary, bedraggled party. 'It would seem,' he sighed, 'that providence now calls us; we should offer our thanks to this parcel of rogues.'

Leading the party, Owain bowed before Edward. 'My lord,' he began, 'you wish to see us.'

'Indeed, I do,' Edward confirmed. 'My lord of Glyndyfrdwy,' he effused, 'we thank you most warmly for your actions here this day. Is there anything that we can offer by way of reward?'

'There is one personal matter,' Owain ventured, 'a subject I wish to bring to my lord's attention, namely land stolen from my family by that scoundrel, Grey.'

Upon hearing his name, Sir Reginald stirred from his slumbers. However, his senses were still swimming in an ocean of wine and, without a word, he placed his head back on to his hands and lay content to snore away.

'My lord,' Edward proclaimed, 'such complaints have been made repeatedly, and we are tiring of their echo. I suggest that, upon our return, you raise the matter with parliament.'

A prudent reply, Sir Thomas judged, for such an argument could not be conceded. Indulgence would encourage every Welshman in the land to come crawling from his cave. Every one of them would seek to claim back his land; all of them would demand rights to territory previously held by their ancestors. Parliament would not endorse such upheaval; the status quo would prevail, save for more land, slipping the marcher lord's way.

If Owain Glyn Dwr felt annoyance at this answer, he hid his displeasure well, for his countenance displayed no hint of dissatisfaction. Instead, in a steady, determined voice, he averred: 'Then I would raise a complaint on behalf of my friends: many of them have been taxed unfairly and are owed money for the price of victuals, provisions that have been placed upon these very tables.'

Deigning to rouse himself, Edward glanced over his shoulder to the mound of wasted food; the servants had worked hard and had disposed of plenty, some finding its way into their own stomachs, while a quantity had been set aside for alms. However, the bulk of the task still lay before them; come the dawn there would be a mass outbreak of indigestion, for never in their lives had these minions dined as on this day.

'We talk now of a local matter,' Edward deflected. 'My Lord Despenser...I shall leave this to you.'

Again, Sir Thomas did not require any degree of deep thought before providing an answer, for any concession would result in an empty purse. Striding towards Owain, he affirmed: 'The victuals were a gift for the king. Moreover, a man should not complain; he should feel pride in paying his taxes. The matter is closed; I shall hear no more complaints from the vill.'

'Then I will plead one more case,' Owain responded. 'Upon that, I shall take my leave of you. This man,' he began, his solid frame turning towards the Lord Rhys, 'he has been made an outlaw for an act no more brutal than that of voicing his opinion. I move that he be granted his freedom as reward for his part in the king's salvation.'

At this, Sir Thomas paused, his hesitant glance deferring the matter to the Duke of Aumerle. The duke took a moment to gather his thoughts, his fingers toying with a wine goblet, previously discarded. Even though he had taken his fill, that last drop of wine proved oh so tempting, if only to moisten his palate, if only to entice more loquacious quotes from his tongue. With a movement, both surprisingly swift and dexterous, he raised the goblet to his lips and the wine was consumed.

'This man refused to sign an oath of allegiance,' Edward asserted. 'Should he bend his knee and admit his mistake, then I feel sure that a pardon will be forthcoming.'

Now all eyes turned to the Lord Rhys. He, in turn, gazed at Branwen. With a wan smile and a nod of her head, she confirmed that this deed should be done.

'I ask for your forgiveness, my lord,' Rhys Goch pleaded, his bended knee defying the stiffening of muscle as it found its way to the ground.

'And you will sign the oath when presented before you?'

'That, I will.'

'Then,' Edward announced, 'let these words be heard and noted by all present. And let a charge of treason be placed should the Lord Rhys break his vow.'

Upon reaching that agreement, and the realisation that he would sacrifice everything should he desert the cause espoused by Richard, Rhys Goch rose to his feet, seeking the solace of Branwen's arms.

'And now, my lords,' Edward belched, the empty goblet finding its way back to the table, 'if you will forgive us, we must enquire after our sovereign's health. Go,' he instructed, 'with our thanks and our eternal gratitude.'

Bowing, Owain led his disgruntled troop away from the king's decision makers, leaving Sir Thomas Despenser to reflect that, even though calm had descended the air was still heavy, its portents threatening a storm.

'Maybe we should have been more generous,' Sir Thomas suggested.

'And acted against the king's wishes?' Edward scoffed: 'We were true to his writ. And pray that forever it will always be so.'

* * *

Euros, Brother Blanchigernonis, Anest, Meirian, Tangwstyl and Ci arrived at Kenfig to find Owain Glyn Dwr, Madog, Rhys Goch, Cynan and Branwen waiting at the town gate. The two parties strode towards each other, each displaying a weary pleasure as smiles broadened in the frosty moonlight.

'So,' Madog grinned, upon catching sight of his lord, Euros, 'I was right to place my faith in you.'

'I take strength from your conviction,' the young lord replied, opening his arms, inviting a warrior's embrace.

The reunion concluded with much backslapping before Branwen darkened the mood, her husky voice adding further chill to the night air as she enquired: 'Where is Payn?'

'We left him in Fforest yr Ysbrydion,' Euros replied, soberly. 'The place is well defined and so, in time, his body may be collected by his kin.'

All reflected upon that, lowering their heads in respect. It was left to Branwen to stand tall and defy any hint of hypocrisy. Lest they forget, Payn had been a deeply hated man, despised by all outside the castle. The embodiment of the Devil himself, his passing would bring a quiet satisfaction to the people of the vill. Moreover, when tales were told and the people learned of Euros' deeds, he would become a hero. Not that such a consideration troubled his mind. Indeed, his tired eyes called only for sleep and his aching limbs cried for his bed: a hero, maybe, but no mystical idol.

'You leave the town as free men,' Brother Blanchigernonis observed, 'so I trust that your efforts were indeed valiant.'

'We saved the king,' Rhys Goch replied.

'Just,' Cynan added by way of an aside.

'And your reward?' Euros asked.

'Scant,' Madog sighed, before detailing the discussions held within the Great Hall.

'Then,' Euros reflected sadly, 'we have laboured to no purpose.'

'We have upheld the justice of this land,' Owain Glyn Dwr replied. 'That is purpose enough, surely?'

All nodded at that before taking to the road, following the Roman Way as they continued upon their travels. They walked in a scattered file, Euros, Anest and Tangwstyl in the lead, Rhys Goch, Cynan and Meirian bringing up the rear.

Meirian walked slowly, as if to detain the others, as though to ensure that they would not escape her attentions, for she knew that Rhys Goch and Cynan made to be bold, that they stood by the principle of chivalry. As such, they would keep pace with her. However, would they agree to her demands? It was time to broach that question.

'My lord,' she began, her voice small, her wiles leaning towards the feminine, the fragile, 'may I say how pleased I am, how delighted that the king has seen fit to grant you your freedom.'

'I am free,' Rhys Goch replied, gruffly, 'providing I hold my tongue.'

'A task,' Cynan muttered to himself, 'more difficult than that of achieving sainthood.'

'But now,' Meirian enthused, 'you are in full possession of your lands.'

'For now,' Rhys Goch shrugged, 'I suppose I am.'

'Including the quarry...'

At mention of the quarry, Rhys Goch stopped, his heels digging into the road, his companions turning, sensing intrigue. 'It is late,' the old lord began, 'and today I have killed; I am in no mood for argument.'

'Then grant me my rights,' Meirian pleaded; 'allow me to take possession of the quarry so that I may make a present of it to the abbey.'

'For what purpose?' Rhys Goch frowned.

'So that the monks may pray for my daughter's soul, so that I may be a mother to my beloved Tirion.'

'Tirion was your daughter?'

Rhys Goch's words hung in the air and it was left to Brother Blanchigernonis to elaborate on Meirian's family history. With the secret revealed, the old lord was left to scratch his beard as he pondered the probity of his position.

'If I yield,' he replied, 'then you would have me as feeble. But if I refuse then you would have me a rascal.'

'In time, your honour will be offended, you will loosen your tongue and the king will reclaim your lands; everything will be lost, taken by the Crown. So, I plead, upon this day display yourself as a great lord and bestow the quarry unto me.'

At this, Rhys Goch laughed, long and loud; like thunder, his laughter rolled into the darkness. The lady was right, all took that as fact: in time, his impetuosity would get the better of him. And so, the laughter died away, a mocking sound in recognition of his accursed imperfection.

'Take the quarry,' he sighed, his hand waving it away, the futility of argument revealed within that gesture.

'Thank you, my lord,' Meirian cried, her knee taking root upon the ground, her fingers taking hold of Rhys Goch's hand, her lips kissing his fingers. 'And let all here bear witness,' she intoned, upon rising to her feet, her eyes seeking, and gaining, her companions' endorsement.

'Now that you have won your prize,' Cynan surmised, 'you will have no further need of me.'

'For the sanctity of my soul,' Meirian replied, 'I must devote myself to the maladeria.'

In his disappointment, Cynan shook his head, his eyes finally alighting upon the baby. 'But what of Tangwstyl?' he cried. 'She is your kin; how can you turn your back on her?'

'I have talked with Anest; from the sale of Ty Maen, provision will be made and she has agreed to look after Tangwstyl.'

Upon this decision becoming public knowledge, Anest glanced towards Owain, seeking his reaction. However, to her disappointment, he offered no more than his back, thus keeping his feelings, if any, well hidden.

'Then I can only wish you contentment,' Cynan concluded, 'along with the hope that you will rest easy upon your decision.'

'I will,' Meirian insisted. And with that, she strode beyond Cynan setting the pace for all as they journeyed on to North Corneli.

The vill was in darkness when they arrived, save for the occasional flicker from a lantern. They grouped around Groes-y-Gryn, reluctant to depart, unwilling to break the bond that had developed between them. Then, in the darkness, a figure was sensed, furtively moving amongst the bushes, for Einion ap Rhiryd, acting on a whim, responding to that sense, that intuition that always took him to the point of most interest, had left his bed behind, had left his forge, had found himself standing before them.

Euros gave the blacksmith a cold, hard stare. In response, Einion swallowed hard before taking flight, his slippery heels carrying him into the darkness. The young lord's hand went to his sword, only for Brother Blanchigernonis to intervene, a calming hand and a shake of the head offering wise counsel.

'You have broken the spell,' the white monk judged; 'Einion is in fear for his life; allow him to run and to settle in Kenfig.'

'And should he return?'

'He will stay away from the vill; he will stay away from Anest, for he knows that the merest indiscretion will result in his downfall.'

Nodding, Euros could accept that, could see the reason behind Brother Blanchigernonis' wisdom. Sheathing his sword, he glanced longingly towards the Hall, only for a cry to divert his attention: desperate movement within a villein's cot, pained expressions upon tired faces announced that the fever had claimed yet another victim.

'What are we to do?' Euros asked of Brother Blanchigernonis.

'That,' the wise man shrugged, 'I will leave to others. Safe to say, your salvation lies away from the Crown.'

'We will get no joy from the king,' Cynan announced, 'for he is surrounded by bad advisors and appears beyond wise counsel.'

'One day he will fall,' Rhys Goch reasoned, 'and Bolingbroke will place his stamp upon the kingdom.'

'And where will that leave us?' Cynan cried, warming to his theme, his restless stride weaving its way through the group of attentive listeners. 'We will be subservient, slaves in our own land; in short, no better than we are now.'

'So what is the answer?' Euros asked, his tone even, all thoughts of the Hall dismissed, his tiredness all but forgotten.

'The answer is rebellion,' Cynan replied, the fire burning in his eyes, the passion spilling from his lips. 'We need to take power into our own hands; we need to take control of our own destiny. We can no longer afford to place ourselves at the whims of English kings.'

Euros took time to study the fervour etched upon Anest's face for, clearly, Cynan was articulating her thoughts, he was giving voice to her sincere beliefs. And maybe Anest was right, maybe Cynan was right; but how would Euros explain that to his father? In fighting for the Crown, had his father died for nothing? How could Euros turn his back on his father's beliefs and not support the Crown? What would he make of his son, should he side with the rebels? Would he recognise that the political landscape had changed, that the divide within this society had gone on for too long?

'We are tired of being pawns to the majesty of English kings!' Cynan roared. 'This land was ours before the Saxons, before the Normans, before the invaders claimed possession. We must seek to reclaim this land in the name of all true Britons. And we must encourage those Britons to govern this land for themselves.'

Euros could taste the argument, its flavour teasing his tongue, at once both bitter and sweet. For a resolution, he turned to the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy, imploring: 'What say you to this, my lord of battles?'

Owain Glyn Dwr took a step away from Groes-y-Gryn, seeking a moment's solitude, searching for a quiet place, so that he might gather his thoughts. When he returned to his companions, he reasoned: 'War is a bloody business; follow the path to rebellion and you will encounter many hard days ahead.'

'Stay as we are,' Cynan protested, 'and we will continue to suffer. Fight, I say; if our souls are to burn, then let them burn with passion and not with suppressed anger; we can stand by and complain no longer: we must stand up, we must fight for what we believe in.'

'If you are to fight,' Brother Blanchigernonis reasoned, 'then you will require a leader.'

No sooner had the white monk's breath cut the cold night air than all turned to stare at Owain Glyn Dwr.

'We already have our leader,' Anest insisted, giving voice to their collective thoughts. 'The prophets say that the man who fathered Tangwstyl is the new Arthur. The prophets say that our deliverer will be called Owain. The prophets say that you, my lord, Owain Glyn Dwr, were born to don Arthur's mantel.'

'I am not worthy of such an accolade,' Owain protested. 'I am but a simple lord. Besides, I am not Tangwstyl's father, and all talk of such speaks only of sin.'

'The people already have a saint in David,' Anest persisted. 'What we need is a man of compassion, a man of courage, a man of understanding, a man of intelligence, a leader of royal Welsh blood. And men are men,' she reasoned; 'born to desire many, they carry with them that basic human flaw.'

To that, Branwen and Meirian murmured their agreement while the men, wisely, held their counsel. Nevertheless, all continued to stare at Owain Glyn Dwr.

Eventually, the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy sought to break the spell; approaching Anest, he gazed into her eyes before taking hold of her hands. 'You are a remarkable woman,' he judged. 'You saved my life and for that I will allow you belief in your fantasy.'

'My lord...' Brother Blanchigernonis strode forward with great purpose. Then, he adopted his customary pose, crouched over his staff. 'If I may be so bold I would like to offer my opinion: whether you are this child's father, or not, no longer matters, for belief is the spark that fires a man's soul. And the people hold the belief that you are the new Arthur; it is a heavy burden, for sure, but one you will carry well.'

The grin upon the wise man's face was soon mirrored by the smiles of all those present, all save Euros and Rhys Goch, for both were still wrestling with their own personal demons, both were still trying to reconcile the past with the promise of an uncertain future.

'Should the call to arms sound,' Owain challenged, 'what say you, my Lord Rhys, would you be among the first to join my number?'

'I stand to lose everything if I so much as raise my voice against the Crown.'

'But we stand to gain everything should we succeed,' Cynan argued; 'we stand to gain our freedom.'

With a look of weary acceptance, Rhys Goch turned to face Branwen. Stepping forward, she nodded, before embracing her lord. At that, Rhys Goch could do no more than shrug and offer Owain his loyalty. With fists clenched and sinews straining he displayed his determination while, in a resolute voice, he roared: 'You have my sword!'

'And what of you, Euros?' Owain asked. 'What of your decision?'

Euros, in turn, focused his gaze upon Anest. Predictably, she too offered her assent, sealing her support with a kiss.

'What is gone is gone,' Euros concluded, 'and we must look to a greater prosperity, we must hope for a brighter future: should you call my name, I will stand proud and I will hear that call.'

All stood around Groes-y-Gryn, all in silent agreement, reasoning that if a lord as temperate as Euros could be swayed to insurrection, then so could many others, offering the hint that any future rebellion could well be worth the struggle, offering the hope that any future struggle could bring with it the promise of success.

'Come the dawn,' Owain announced, 'I will leave for my family home at Sycharth. I will reflect upon what has been said and I will send word. But I am Owain Glyn Dwr,' he insisted, 'I am no Arthur.' And with that, he reached into his purse and offered a handful of coins to the child.

'You are a man of royal Welsh blood,' Anest affirmed, whilst accepting the money on behalf of Tangwstyl. 'You are our sovereign and it is an honour to kneel before you.'

Following her lead, all bent a knee and swore allegiance to Owain Glyn Dwr. Then, they drifted home. Rhys Goch, Cynan and Branwen made their way to Hevedaker, while Meirian wandered towards Ty Maen, alone. Owain Glyn Dwr followed Madog and Ci, seeking the Hall and its shelter. Meanwhile, Brother Blanchigernonis leaned upon his staff, his face bathed in a contented smile.

'I must return to the grange,' the white monk announced, 'but I take it that soon there will be a wedding feast and that I will be invited?'

Anest gazed into Euros' eyes. Before he could reply, she nodded: 'A feast there will be, if Euros agrees to take me and Tangwstyl.'

'Tangwstyl brought us together,' Euros replied with ease; 'how could I refuse her now?'

'Then let us hasten to our beds and sleep well this night,' Anest suggested, 'for, come the dawn, we will commence the battle; we will wander the fields, we will collect herbs and we will make fresh medicines.'

Content, Brother Blanchigernonis straightened. Patting Euros warmly upon the back, he judged: 'You have made the right choice, in every sense.'

Then, the wise man strode away from Groes-y-Gryn, only to pause and rest upon his staff. Turning, he offered one more reflection: 'The fight for justice is not easy, and sometimes it can be long and painful. But the fight for justice is intrinsic to every man. All we can do is be thankful, for the fight itself provides a balm to ease the struggle. And, one day, you will look back and realise that you have laid the foundation stone to freedom, and upon that foundation stone the people will build this country's parliament.'

# Historical Note

On the fourth of July 1399, Henry of Bolingbroke landed at Ravenspur in the northeast of England with one hundred supporters. As he travelled across England, that number swelled to 100,000 men. Meanwhile, in Ireland, King Richard pondered his position, delaying his return on the advice of Edward of Aumerle and other leading nobles. Eventually, the king decided to return to Wales, landing at Milford Haven, later that month. On returning to Wales, Edward was sent east to raise troops, while Sir Thomas Despenser returned to Glamorgan to rally support; in both cases, few men flocked to the king's banner. Dispirited by this response, King Richard travelled to Chester, disguised as a Franciscan friar. At the same time, Henry of Bolingbroke also advanced on Chester, entering the city on the ninth of August when the castle surrendered without a fight. Confronted with yet another setback, Richard retreated to the unfurnished castle of Conway where he stayed, with Sir Thomas Despenser. During the days and nights of the twelfth to the fifteenth of August, Richard waited while his emissaries negotiated with Henry of Bolingbroke at Chester. By this date, Edward of Aumerle had abandoned the king's cause, offering his support to Henry of Bolingbroke. Deceived, Richard surrendered to Bolingbroke at Flint on the sixteenth of August. Richard was taken to London where, on the thirtieth of September, he resigned the Crown. Henry of Bolingbroke was crowned king on the thirteenth of October, the feast day of St Edward the Confessor. Later that month Richard was sentenced to imprisonment, in perpetuity, and was taken to Pontefract castle. With the king held secure, Henry turned his attention to Richard's supporters. Despite his duplicity, Edward was stripped of his ducal title while Sir Thomas Despenser also lost titles and lands. Disgruntled, Richard's followers plotted their revenge. They met on the seventeenth of December and resolved to free Richard from his captivity on epiphany, the erstwhile king's birthday. Unfortunately, for Richard and for Sir Thomas Despenser, Edward of Aumerle betrayed the plot. Sir Thomas Despenser was captured in Cardiff and was subsequently taken to Bristol where he was executed at the market cross by an angry mob. By mid-January 1400, rumours abounded that Richard too had died. A month later this was confirmed when Richard's body was transported from Pontefract to London. King Henry let it be known that Richard had died of starvation due to his refusal to eat the food provided by the king's men.

While Henry set about ruling England, resentment continued to rise in Wales. This led Owain Glyn Dwr's supporters to proclaim him Prince of Wales, a proclamation announced on the sixteenth of September 1400. Two days later Grey's town of Ruthin was attacked and ransacked. During late September and early October, King Henry led an invasion force into Wales. There, he captured some Welshmen. Rebels or not they were hung, drawn and quartered. This action only served to inflame the situation further and more and more men flocked to Owain Glyn Dwr's standard. In the following twelve months, the rebellion gathered pace compelling Henry to return to Wales in October 1401. Then, he despoiled the abbey of Strata Florida, leading many churchmen to side with the rebels. In November 1401, with the country alive to Owain Glyn Dwr's name, the Lord of Glyndyfrdwy duly unfurled the flag of Arthur. Success was followed by setback only to be followed by further success and, in April 1402, Owain Glyn Dwr captured Grey. The Lord of Glyndyfrdwy's bitter opponent was then offered for ransom. Later that year a sum of 10,000 marks was duly paid, an economic burden that financially ruined the Lord of Ruthin. In September 1402, Henry led another invasion into Wales only for the weather to turn against him. This led people to suggest that Owain Glyn Dwr was a wizard, a magician, able to control the elements. With such words ringing in his ears, Henry was forced into an inglorious retreat. By the end of 1403, only three castles remained in a position to oppose Owain Glyn Dwr. Henry's authority had collapsed; no rents or taxes were collected and Wales was restored to its ancient boundaries. This was confirmed in the early summer of 1404 when, in Machynlleth, Owain Glyn Dwr held his first parliament, attended by lords, churchmen, commons and emissaries from overseas. The people had witnessed the rebirth of an independent state; the bards' prophecies had been made real, moving Iolo Goch to write:

Here's the life I've sighed for long

Abashed is now the Saxon throng

And Britons have a British Lord

Whose emblem is a conquering sword.

There's none I trow that knows him well

The hero of the watery dell

Owain of bloody spear in field

Owain his country's strongest shield.

# PENDRAGON

by Mansel Jones

Set in 497 A.D., PENDRAGON tells the story of Arthur and his fight against the invading Saxons. In a land ravaged by war the ageing Pendragon, Ambrosius Aurelianus, seeks a successor only to encounter the twin threats of the Saxon advance and treason. He places his trust in Arthur, a man torn between the defence of his country and the defence of the woman he loves. Based on ancient Welsh sources, PENDRAGON promises to be the most authentic novel about Arthur that you will ever read.

You can learn more about PENDRAGON and the author by visiting:

http://www.manseltheauthor.com

And http://manseljones.com
