stone-flagged yard. “Bran! Get your sorry tail out here! We’re leaving!”
Red-faced with exasperation, King Brychan ap Tewdwr climbed stiffly into the saddle, narrowed eyes scanning the ranks of mounted men awaiting his command. His feckless son was not amongst them. Turning to the warrior on the horse beside him, he demanded, “Iwan, where is that boy?”
“I have not seen him, lord,” replied the king’s champion. “Neither this morning nor at the table last night.”
“Curse his impudence!” growled the king, snatching the reins from the hand of his groom. “The one time I need him beside me and he flits off to bed that slut of his. I will not suffer this insolence, and I will not wait.”
“If it please you, lord, I will send one of the men to fetch him.”
“No! It does not bloody please me!” roared Brychan. “He can stay behind, and the devil take him!”
Turning in the saddle, he called for the gate to be opened. The heavy timber doors of the fortress groaned and swung wide. Raising his hand, he gave the signal.
“Ride out!” Iwan cried, his voice loud in the early morning calm.
King Brychan, Lord of Elfael, departed with the thirty-five Cymry of his mounted warband at his back. The warriors, riding in twos and threes, descended the rounded slope of the hill and fanned out across the shallow, cup-shaped valley, fording the stream that cut across the meadow and following the cattle trail as it rose to meet the dark, bristling rampart of the forest known to the folk of the valley as Coed Cadw, the Guarding Wood.
At the edge of the forest, Brychan and his escort joined the road. Ancient, deep-rutted, overgrown, and sunken low between its high earthen banks, the bare dirt track bent its way south and east over the rough hills and through the broad expanse of dense primeval forest until descending into the broad Wye Vale, where it ran along the wide, green waters of the easy-flowing river. Farther on, the road passed through the two principal towns of the region: Hereford, an English market town, and Caer Gloiu, the ancient Roman settlement in the wide, marshy lowland estuary of Mor Hafren. In four days, this same road would bring them to Lundein, where the Lord of Elfael would face the most difficult trial of his long and arduous reign.
“There was a time,” Brychan observed bitterly, “when the last warrior to reach the meeting place was put to death by his comrades as punishment for his lack of zeal. It was deemed the first fatality of the battle.”
“Allow me to fetch the prince for you,” Iwan offered. “He could catch up before the day is out.”
“I will not hear it.” Brychan dismissed the suggestion with a sharp chop of his hand. “We’ve wasted too much breath on that worthless whelp. I will deal with him when we return,” he said, adding under his breath, “and he will wish to heaven he had never been born.”
With an effort, the aging king pushed all thoughts of his profligate son aside and settled into a sullen silence that lasted well into the day. Upon reaching the Vale of Wye, the travellers descended the broad slope into the valley and proceeded along the river. The road was good here, and the water wide, slow flowing, and shallow. Around midday, they stopped on the moss-grown banks to water the horses and take some food for themselves before moving on.
Iwan had given the signal to remount, and they were just pulling the heads of the horses away from the water when a jingling clop was heard on the road. A moment later four riders appeared, coming into view around the base of a high-sided bluff.
One look at the long, pallid faces beneath their burnished warcaps, and the king’s stomach tightened. “Ffreinc!” grumbled Brychan, putting his hand to his sword. They were Norman marchogi, and the British king and his subjects despised them utterly.
“To arms, men,” called Iwan. “Be on your guard.”
Upon seeing the British warband, the Norman riders halted in the road. They wore conical helmets and, despite the heat of the day, heavy mail shirts over padded leather jerkins that reached down below their knees. Their shins were covered with polished steel greaves, and leather gauntlets protected their hands, wrists, and forearms. Each carried a sword on his hip and a short spear tucked into a saddle pouch. A narrow shield shaped like an elongated raindrop, painted blue, was slung upon each of their