1—The Boy

 

Bran ducked behind the rain barrel, and even though he was a small lad for ten, his knees bumped his ears. He ignored the discomfort. He wouldn’t be there long. Already he could smell soup and freshly baked bread, which meant Cara would soon be calling him.

      The thought had barely passed through his mind when he heard the familiar clomp of his caregiver’s boots on the cobbled alley leading from the kitchen. He held his breath as she stepped from the shadows into the sunlight.

      Shading her eyes with her hand, Cara scanned the courtyard filled with people. “Bran! It is time to eat.”

      The boy sniggered through his fingers but didn’t reply or show himself.

      Cara asked the folk nearby if they’d seen him. They shrugged and shook their heads, prompting her to mutter that she’d told him to stay close and how he never listened. She ventured farther into the courtyard and called again. 

      When she was well beyond Bran’s hiding spot, he slithered out from behind the barrel and scooted into the alley. He would have liked to see the look on her face when she realized he’d tricked her, but he couldn’t risk being caught. Cara didn’t share his love of jokes.

      Bran was already halfway through his meal when Cara stomped back into the kitchen.

      He looked up and grinned. “Good soup.”

      She scowled and wagged her finger. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, you wee menace. Do you imagine I have nothing better to do than chase after the likes of you?”

      Inside Bran was bubbling with laughter, but outside his expression was solemn. “Whatever do you mean, Cara?” 

      “You know very well what I—” she began but gave it up and waved a hand at him in disgust—or defeat. Bran wasn’t sure. Then she dropped onto the bench across from him and called to one of the serving girls. “A bowl of soup if you please, Beca.”

      While Bran chattered non-stop about his morning, Cara ate her bread and soup in stony silence—speaking only to scold him for slurping and talking with his mouth full. But when he rose to leave, she gestured for him to resume his seat, and then she continued eating.

      Bran knew this was her way of punishing him. She would make him stay until she was done. And judging by how slowly she was eating, the afternoon would be over by then.

      Finally she put down her spoon and stood up.

      “May I go now?” Bran asked, also rising.

      She lifted a finger to still him. “First we must prepare a tray.” She motioned to Beca.

      “A tray?” he echoed. “What for?”

      “For your mother. She has not yet eaten.”

      “But—”

      Cara shook her head. “No buts. A few minutes of your day is a small sacrifice to make for the woman who gave you life.”

      Bran rolled his eyes and sighed. “Then may I go to the forest?”

      “After you have visited with your mother, yes. You needn’t return the tray. I shall fetch it later.”

 

***

There were many things to like about living in a castle but carrying a tray of food from the kitchen at one end of the bailey to the keep at the other was not one of them.

      The tray was heavy. That was partly because it held a small iron pot of soup and another of tea. The endless stairs to the keep further added to the tray’s weight, and by the time Bran got to the top, he was sure his arms were going to drop off.

      As usual, the door to his mother’s quarters was ajar, and a breeze flowed through the rooms. Lady Linnet’s physicians urged her to keep her doors closed and windows shuttered against the bad air, but she disregarded their cautions. She reasoned that if she couldn’t get outdoors, the outdoors would have to come to her. And that was the end of that. Bran often marvelled that though his mother’s body was frail, her mind was made of iron, and once it was made up, there was no changing it. The only one he could think of who was more stubborn was Cara.

      “Mother?” he called as he entered the antechamber. 

      “Come through, Bran,” she called. Her voice was weak but cheerful.

      In the bed chamber, Bran set the tray on a table. In her massive bed his frail mother was propped up by a small mountain of pillows.

      “I’ve brought you soup,” he said.

      Lady Linnet beckoned to him. “Come and greet your mother properly. It has been days since last I saw you. What have you been up to? Staying out of trouble, I hope.”

      “Of course,” Bran fibbed, leaning into his mother for a kiss. She smelled of lavender and the many tonics prescribed by her doctors. 

      So small and thin that she was dwarfed by her bed, Lady Linnet was nevertheless flawlessly groomed—her fine hair brushed and plaited, her hands manicured. She would have been a picture of loveliness were it not for her complexion. Her skin was pale to the extreme, except for two bright spots of rouge on her cheeks. They were meant to give her a bloom of health, but in truth she looked more like a painted doll.

      “Tell me how you’ve been keeping busy,” she said as she released him from her hug.

Bran retrieved the tray and laid it across her legs. “I mucked out the stables this morning,” he told her. “After that, Master Garth had me clean and polish the tack.”

      “So no riding yet?” she said.

      “No.” He scowled. “The master says I must grow first. He says I am too small to mount or straddle a horse. How can he know that without letting me try? I can do it—I know I can.”

      His mother smiled dotingly and blew on the soup. “Of course you can. And your lessons? How are they coming along?”

      Bran rolled his eyes. “So boring. When Father talks, I am lulled to sleep. The tiresome laws of Howell the Good are all he cares about.”

      “That is his job,” Lady Linnet pointed out. “It is his duty to know and interpret the laws of the land. When Lord Cedric is making judgments, he counts on your father to advise him. That is why the lord likes us to abide in his castle.”

      “But it isn’t my job,” Bran argued. “What do I care how many pennies are owed a man who loses an ear but can still hear and how many to a man who keeps his ear but loses his hearing?”

      “Your father expects you to take his place someday.”

      “And if I don’t want to?” He stuck out his chin belligerently. 

      She smiled again. “You are too young yet to close doors. Time will show you your path.” She pushed the tray away. “Tell Cara the soup was very tasty.”

      “But you’ve hardly touched it,” Bran protested. “And you’ve eaten no bread at all.”

She tore off a small morsel and popped it into her mouth. “There. Now take the tray away and bring me my basket.”

      Bran heaved a sigh but did as she bade him. “Have you new pressings?” he asked as he set the basket down on the bed.

      “Just one.” She smiled as she lifted a sheaf of papers onto the bed and peeled one small sheet from another to reveal a tiny purple flower. It looked as if it had been painted there. “Your father brought me this from the meadow last week. I don’t know its name, but it’s lovely and sings of spring.” She looked longingly toward the window and sighed. “I do miss the meadow.”

      “And what of woodland flowers, Mother? Do you like those?”

      She playfully slapped his arm. “You know I do. I might be trapped in this castle, but I am still a Druid.”

      Bran grinned. “Then I shall collect some for you. I am off to the forest as soon as I leave you.” He gestured to the mound of papers in her lap. “Show me the flowers you have, and I’ll look for others to add to your collection.”

 

***

Llanberis Castle had not been used as a fortress since the Normans left Cymru, and that was many years ago. Occupied now by Lord Cedric, servants, and tradespeople, it was the only home Bran had ever known.

      It fronted a stream, and so a drawbridge marked its entrance. Each day at dawn it was lowered, and the local folk poured in, turning the courtyard into a market. The fiefdom was a peaceful place now, but it hadn’t always been, and for that reason, the castle walls were ten feet thick—and very tall. The upper ramparts boasted embrasures for loosing arrows on attackers below. But there had been no call for that in a long time, and most folk thought of the narrow openings as poorly made windows. 

      As far as castles went, Llanberis wasn’t large, but it was big enough for a boy to lose himself in, and Bran had explored every nook and cranny. 

      Most people thought the drawbridge was the only way in and out of the castle, but Bran knew otherwise. So instead of leaving the keep the way he’d come, he took a different route. He stole unnoticed to the rear and tugged on a torch holder mounted on the back wall, Immediately a section of stone slid away to reveal a hidden staircase. 

      As soon as he started down, the entrance closed itself again, making the passage black as tar. It didn’t matter. Bran knew his way. When he reached the bottom the stairs, he felt his way along a tunnel shored with timber. It was high enough to stand in and went on for quite a distance until eventually ending at an earthen wall matted with tree roots. Against it leaned a ladder. Bran scrambled up the rungs and stepped off above ground. And though it was almost as dark here as in the tunnel, he closed his eyes and took the pungent, earthy smell into his lungs. He wondered if anyone else knew of this hidden passage. He imagined it had been built as an escape in the days when the occupants of the castle had had enemies. But all he cared about was that it offered him an easy way to get to the forest. 

      Kneeling on the damp ground, he pushed a dead bush aside and crawled out of the hollow tree.

 

 

 

2—Cara

 

“More.” Cara raised an eyebrow sternly at her mistress. “I’ll not have you carried off by the next breeze. Eat.”

      Lady Linnet tried to push the tray away. “I’m not hungry, and in any case, the soup is cold.”

      “It wasn’t when the boy brought it. You could’ve eaten it then. I’ll not be leaving until the bowl is empty and you are full.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot.

      With a resigned sigh, Lady Linnet picked up her spoon. “You really are a tyrant,” she grumbled between mouthfuls. “Your skills are being wasted here. Instead of tending my son and overseeing Lord Cedric’s household, you should be commanding an army.”

      Cara changed the subject. “Did you have a good visit with the boy?”

      Irritation left her mistress’s face and her eyes sparkled. “Yes. Thank you for sending him.”

      “Why wouldn’t he come?” Cara protested. “He adores you.”

      Lady Linnet sent her a sideways glance. “He is a boy. He likes to be running and climbing trees, exploring hollow logs, and looking for bugs under rocks. Visiting his invalid mother might be tolerable on a rainy day, but when the sun is shining, he would rather be out of doors.

      “Which reminds me,” she continued. “Could you stop by the stables on your way to the kitchen and tell Master Garth I would like to speak with him?”

 

***

It was a good thing Cara’s feet knew their way through the bailey for her mind was no help at all. Dogs barked, vendors shouted, and women blathered. Cara heard none of it. Children ran into her and chickens pecked her boots. Drays loaded with market goods cut across her path. She was oblivious. Her thoughts were with Lady Linnet. 

      It seemed to her that her mistress was shrinking by the minute. She didn’t eat enough to sustain a sparrow. It was sheer will that kept her alive. She had brought a son into the world, and she was determined to see him grown to manhood. Setting her jaw, Cara turned toward the stable. And she would do everything in her power to see that happened.

 

 

 

3—The Boy 

 

Bran set out to find a flower for his mother. It wasn’t an easy task since she already had most every flower there was. Finally though he came across one he couldn’t recall seeing in her collection and stuffed it into his pocket.

      Then he made his way to the hill. No matter where he was in the forest, he could always see the hill, and it drew him to it as if he were being dragged there by a rope. He ran the whole way up. When he reached the top, he doubled over with his hands on his knees until his breathing came easy again and his legs stopped aching. 

      From the top he could see all there was to see. The hill was as tall as the treetops scattered randomly round it like stones in a stream. He laughed as he imagined hopping from one to the next across the entire sky—perhaps all the way to another land. 

      Bran looked toward Llanberis Castle as if seeing it for the first time. It was so strange. When he was within its stone walls, the castle was his life. But when he was in the forest, all thoughts of it vanished. Everything that mattered was in the forest.

      Well, perhaps not everything, he reminded himself with a twinge of guilt. His mother wasn’t in the forest, though she would have liked to be. As she had pointed out, she was a Druid, and Druids were forest folk. She came from an important Druid family. Her uncle, Bradan, was a revered seer, and her father, Alun, was the arch-druid. That was like being king of the Druids. That meant his mother was like a Druid princess. Bran knew there was no such thing, but it was pleasant to think of her that way.

      Bran’s father was also Druid, but he didn’t practise Druid ways nor uphold Druid values. His life was built around the law of the land. From morning to night, that’s what consumed him. The only other thing he cared about was Lady Linnet. But then, she captured everyone’s heart, so why should Penn of Gwynedd be any different?

      Bran stayed on the hill a long time. Though spring had barely arrived, and the ground was still cold and damp, he lay on his back and stared at the clouds scudding across the sky, imagining dragons, wizards, and sea monsters—until he eventually fell asleep.

      When he awoke, he could tell by the changed light and cool air that it was well past the time he should be back at the castle. Cara would be cross. His ears burned at the mere thought of the cuffing they would get. 

      He leapt to his feet and half-stumbled, half-rolled down the hill. When he reached the bottom, he checked the pocket of his coat and sighed with relief. The sprig of wild garlic was still there. The cluster of small white flowers was a bit squashed, but he reasoned that his mother was going to flatten it anyway; he had just got it started.

      Without wasting another second, he raced through the trees out into the field that separated the forest from the backside of the castle. He wished he could return to Llanberis by the tunnel, but if there was a way to open the sliding wall from within the secret passage, he had yet to discover it. He had to return to the castle via the drawbridge. But he had to cross the stream to get to it. Thankfully there were always rafts on the banks manned by fellows willing to pole folk across. Bran felt in his pocket for the necessary penny and prayed the drawbridge would still be down.

 

***

Cara gave him a thorough tongue-lashing all the way through the evening meal. Not that Bran was bothered. She wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t said before, so he adopted a contrite expression and concentrated on his own thoughts. Naturally they took him back to the forest, and that is when he remembered the garlic flower.

      He sprang up and cut Cara off in mid-rant. “I shall take the supper tray to my mother.”

      She frowned. “Sit down. How many times have I told you not to interrupt?”

      “Sorry,” he said, then quickly added, “but I will deliver the tray.”

      Cara clucked her tongue. “Your father has already done that. You know he and your mother always sup together.”

      “Then I’ll fetch it back,” Bran offered, jumping up again.

      Cara’s eyes narrowed. “What are you playing at, boy?”

      He sighed and reached into his pocket. There was no point trying to keep his business to himself. His nani could pry the truth from a clam.

      “I picked this today for my mother’s collection,” he said, holding out the flower. “It is one she doesn’t have. If I wait until tomorrow, it will be wilted.” 

      The little flower was already looking the worse for wear, but Cara’s expression softened. “Is that why you were late? You were picking flowers for your mother?”

      Bran lowered his gaze but said nothing. Yes, he’d picked flowers, though that wasn’t why he was late. It was because he’d fallen asleep. But Cara didn’t need to know that. If it meant she would stop harping at him, she could think whatever she liked. 

 

***

To Bran’s relief, his father had left by the time he arrived at his mother’s rooms. And even better, one of the servants had taken the tray away.

      “Two visits in one day!” Lady Linnet exclaimed as she offered him her cheek. “To what do I owe this honour?”

      Bran pulled the white sprig from his pocket and thrust out his hand.

      She gasped. “White garlic! How wonderful.” Then she beamed at him. “You are a good son.”

      “It got a little crushed,” he apologized.

      “It is fine. But I need to get it pressed. Bring me my basket.”

      His mother prepared the flower and placed it within the papers and then within two pieces of soft cloth. Bran set it between the flat stones on the table.

      “There,” she announced happily when he’d finished. “That’s a job done. Time will do the rest. She patted the coverlet. “Come and sit with me. I have something to tell you.”

      “What?” He climbed onto the bed.

      “I spoke with Master Garth this afternoon.”

      Though Bran had no notion what news his mother wished to share, he hadn’t been expecting that. Now he was curious. “Do you want him to give me more chores?”

      She burst into laughter which quickly turned to coughing. Finally she fell back into the pillows. Bran frowned. Any physical effort seemed to sap his mother of the little strength she had.

      After a few moments, she pushed herself back into a sitting position. “I asked Master Garth what you could do to convince him you are ready to ride.”

      “What did he say?” Bran held his breath.

      “Well,” she sighed, “his biggest fear is that the horse will throw you.”

      “Every rider—no matter his size—gets thrown,” Bran grumbled.

      “Yes,” his mother nodded, “that is true, but being small, you are more likely to fall under the horse’s feet and get trampled.”

      “I won’t!” he argued.

      She raised a finger to quiet him. “Master Garth claims the best way to avoid such an accident is to develop a bond with the animal. If the horse trusts you, it is more likely to be docile and cooperative.” She paused. “And less likely to cause you harm if you do fall.”

      Bran’s eyes narrowed. He was hopeful but wary. “What are you saying?”

      “Master Garth would like to see you build a closeness with one of the horses.”

      Bran’s stomach performed a series of flips, but his mother was still talking, so he forced himself to focus.

      “You will take charge of one of the horses. Each day after you have mucked out the stalls, you will feed and water the animal, brush it, and walk it. When Master Garth is convinced you and the horse have formed a friendship, you will be given the chance to ride.” She regarded her son solemnly. “Does that sound fair?”

      It wasn’t exactly what Bran had hoped for, but it was more than he had now.

 

***

“She’s a good-natured beast,” Master Garth said, patting the horse’s flank. “Treat her with kindness and she’ll return the favour. Abuse her and she’ll nip yer arse.” He laughed. “You want to be friendly with her, but you also need to let her know who’s in charge.”

     Bran looked at the mare. With her chestnut coat and black mane, she looked much like the other horses in the stable. And though she wasn’t as big as a stallion, he would still need a stool to mount her. The horse watched him with critical brown eyes, and he felt guilty even though he’d not yet do anything wrong. It was clear who was in charge, and contrary to what Master Garth had implied, it wasn’t Bran.

      “We’ll start you off slow and once you can do those tasks, we’ll add more,” Master Garth began his explanation of Bran’s new duties. “And don’t miss a single day,” he said when he was finished. “It matters not if you are tired or sick or have something else you’d rather be doing. The horse needs tending, and it is your responsibility to see to it. Do you understand?”

      Bran nodded. He’d had no idea horses required so much attention. 

      His duties started the next morning.

      “Don’t be snorting at me,” he told the mare as he tied the rope to her halter and prepared to lead her out of the stall and into the small paddock behind the stable. 

Calling to mind Master Garth’s instructions, he drew himself up to his full height, threw back his shoulders, and shaped his face into a mask of authority. Then stepping away from the mare, he took the lead and planted his hands on his hips, leaving a slack length between the horse and himself and a generous tail of rope dangling from one hand. 

      “Ready?” he said.

      The mare bobbed her head and snorted as if she understood perfectly. But before Bran could take a step, she started forward. His first instinct was to jump back, but then he remembered how Master Garth had showed him to keep the animal at a distance. He began twirling the end of the lead in a gentle circle so that it came ever nearer the mare’s head, and just as when Master Garth had performed the trick, she backed away.

      Though Bran was pleasantly surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he said firmly, “Good horse,” and proceeded to the paddock.

 

 

 

4—The Boy

 

Bran dawdled over his morning meal until there were only five others left eating. Since he usually gulped down his food, he knew Cara would become suspicious if he lingered any longer. So he waved good-bye and ambled to the door. Once it closed behind him, he tore down the alley and out to the courtyard. 

      The bailey was busier than usual. Besides the folk coming to market, there was a swarm of others with legal grievances to air before Lord Cedric—for this was the day of the spring assizes. 

      Already a knot of people was growing at the entrance to the Great Hall where the complaints would be heard. The Great Hall was part of a string of buildings stretching down one side of the bailey. It was last in the line, separated from the kitchen by the alley.

      Squinting into the bright afternoon, Bran made his way to a shadowy corner beside a vendor’s stall—and watched. When he saw two grooms emerge from the alley and head to the stable, he knew it was time. The only ones left in the kitchen now were Cara and her helpers, and they’d be staying there.

      He bolted back across the bailey and into the alley again. Once more engulfed in shadows, he slowed to a walk and tiptoed past the kitchen entrance and across the alley to a wooden door in the side wall of the Great Hall.

      The door wasn’t tall—a grown man would have to duck to keep from hitting his head—but it was wider than a normal door and made of rough planks with sharp splinters ready to catch a boy’s hand. There was no latch or handle. Instead, a chain secured with a rusted lock was threaded through a pair of holes in the door and frame.

      Bran tugged on it. Though the chain jangled and the door jiggled, the lock held fast. Bran reached into his pocket for the key. It wasn’t one Cara often used, so he hoped she wouldn’t notice it missing from the ring on the kitchen peg.

      He told himself he was doing nothing wrong. Everyday his father touted the laws of the wonderful Hywel Dda. Now, when Bran could finally see those laws in action, he was forbidden to attend the assizes. The court was not a place for children, his father said. Bran could sit in on the proceedings when he was older. But Bran was curious now. The court was a public venue. While Lord Cedric and Bran’s father listened to cases on the main floor of the Great Hall, folk from across the fiefdom would line the gallery above, watching and listening. If some other lad came with his father, he would be granted entry. So why shouldn’t Bran be allowed to attend? 

      Perhaps his father thought he might interrupt, call out a question, or offer an observation. He had to admit that was possible. Still, it wasn’t fair. What was the point of memorizing the laws if he couldn’t witness them being applied?

      The way Bran thought about it, he was doing the responsible thing. Since his father couldn’t teach him on this day, the assizes could be his lesson, and if he couldn’t watch from the gallery, he would watch from the back of the Great Hall. He wouldn’t stay for the whole thing—he had the horse to tend to—but he could stay long enough to get a feel for things.

      Bran slid the key into the lock and turned it, wincing as it scraped against the accumulated rust. Even unlocked, the shackle didn’t give way, and Bran had to yank on it several times before it let go. He returned the key to his pocket and removed the lock. Leaving one end of the chain dangling from the door frame, he quietly dragged the other from the hole in the door. Then he entered the storage room and pulled the door shut behind him.

      Sudden blindness awakened Bran’s other senses. The place had a musty odour and there was a dampness to it. He wished he had a torch. The items stored here were prone to move and change, and the last thing he needed was to crash into something and bring folk running. 

      He saw a crack of daylight under a second door at the other end of the room and made his way toward it, carefully feeling around the barrels and stacked crates. His boot bumped a jug on the floor, and it started to teeter. Dropping quickly to his haunches, he steadied it.

      That’s when the hum of voices and clomping of boots began—soft and distant at first, but then louder and louder until it felt as if they were trying to push through the wall. Then the sound moved overhead, and Bran realized the gallery was filling. Proceedings were about to begin. He resumed feeling his way to the far door.

      There was no lock on this one. Bran was in the Great Hall almost every day with his father, and from time to time had been left alone long enough to explore. That’s how he’d discovered the storage room door. It was hidden behind a magnificent tapestry, where no one—other than a curious boy—would think to look.

      The latch lifted from both sides, so Bran eased the door open and slipped through into the Great Hall. The tapestry was hung far enough from the wall to allow him to shuffle sideways to the centre of the hall without being seen. The din was quieting. The hearings must be about to start.

      As he reached the end of the tapestry and peeked around its edge, a trumpet blared. 

      “All will come to order,” a herald announced to the now quiet gallery. “The spring assizes of the District of Arfon, Kingdom of Gwynedd in the land of Cymru are declared open. Lord Cedric presides.”

      Bran looked toward the long table in the middle of the room where his father sat with Lord Cedric. If he could see them, could they see him too? He retreated into the shadows, lowered himself to the floor and lay on his side, being careful not to touch the tapestry.

      Bran’s father murmured something to Lord Cedric and then gestured to the herald, who nodded and turned to the gallery.

      “The court will hear the complaint of Rhys of Arfon. Present yourself before the judge and state your case.”

      A murmur rolled through the gallery and Bran heard boots on the stairs. 

      A man walked into his view and stopped in front of the table. His voice trembled and he shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. “I’s Rhys of Arfon.”

      Lord Cedric examined the paper in front of him before looking at the man. “You claim to have been robbed and that Hari of Arfon is the thief. Is that correct?”

      The man’s head bobbed. “It is, me Lord.”

      “Explain how this came about and what was taken.”

      Rhys of Arfon twisted his cap in his hands. “Well, your Lordship, it were like this. In the fall I butchered me finest pig. I sold most of the meat at market, but I kept a good-sized ham for me own use and hung it in me shed—you know—to cure like. Well, Hari—” he pointed to the gallery, “—he be me neighbour, so o’course he knowed about the ham. I even showed it him one day just when it were near ready for eating.”

      Lord Cedric nodded. “Go on.”

      “Well, sir, it weren’t more ‘n a couple day after that, I decided it were time, so I went to shed,” he shrugged, “and there it were—gone.”

      “What makes you think your neighbour took it? Could it not have been a wild animal?”

      The man shook his head. “No, your Lordship, I don’t believe it could. You see the ham were hung high, the hook were still there, and the door to the shed were shut tight. Wild animals aren’t known for closin’ doors after theirselves.”

      A chorus of titters rolled through the gallery, and the man grinned.

Lord Cedric cleared his throat and the laughter died down. “That still doesn’t prove it was your neighbour.”

      “Well, I couldn’t think who else woulda took it, so I went straight to his cottage, I did. There were smoke comin’ from the hole in his roof, so I knowed he were home. What’s more I could smell cooked meat. So I pushed open the door, and there he be—Hari and his missus and five wee uns gorgin’ theirselves on my ham!”

      “What did you do then?”

      “Well, I were angry, and that’s the truth, but I aren’t a violent man, so I tells him I’ll be reporting the matter to the authorities—that bein’ you o’course, your Lordship—then I grabs what was left of me ham and goes back home.”

      “I see,” Lord Cedric said. “I would like to hear what the accused has to say in the matter before I make my ruling.” 

      He gestured to the herald who shouted into the gallery for Hari of Arfon to come down and give his side of the story.

      Soon Bran heard another pair of boots on the stairs, and then a thin whip of a man took his place beside his accuser.

      “You are Hari of Arfon?” Lord Cedric said.

      The man bobbed his head. “I be him, your Lordship.”

      “And you have heard the accusation against you?”

      The man’s head bobbed again. 

      “How do you plead?”

      The man didn’t answer.

      “You hesitate, man,” Lord Cedric said. “It is a simple question. Are you guilty of the crime for which you are accused, or are you innocent?”

      Even from Bran’s limited vantage point, the man looked uneasy. “No disrespect, your Lordship,” he replied as if someone had a hand down his throat and was dragging out the words. “I’d answer if I could, but it ain’t that easy.”

      Lord Cedric clasped his hands on the table. “If there is more to the story, this is your opportunity to tell it. I’m listening.”

      “Well, sir, I can’t argue with what Rhys here told you. I did take his ham. He caught me with it just like he said. And I feel real bad about stealin’ it—I do. Rhys has always been a good neighbour to me, so I’m real sorry—but I woulda felt a whole lot sorrier if me family starved. It were a bad winter comin’ after a bad crop. I weren’t able to put much by.”

      “Have you no animals?” Lord Cedric asked.

      “A cow and a couple of chickens,” Hari said. “The cow gives us milk and the chickens lays eggs, but it’s unbelievable hard to quiet seven hungry bellies with a few eggs and a wee bit o’ milk.”

      “Could you not eat the chickens and cow?”

      The man nodded. “Except then there’d be no milk or eggs, and when the cow and chickens were finished, there’d be nothin’ at all.” He hung his head, but then he lifted it again and blurted, “I ain’t never stole nothing before, your Lordship. I swear. And when I gets back on me feet, I’s goin’ to get Rhys another ham for the one I took.”

      Bran’s father said something to Lord Cedric who nodded and turned back to Hari. 

      “Are there five men present in this court who can attest to your declaration that you are an honest man and that you have provided a true reason for stealing the ham?”

      Hari looked hopefully toward the gallery. A buzz of voices rose up and there was a shuffling of feet on the floor above Bran’s head. Then there was another thump of boots on the stairs and four men stepped forward to back up Hari’s claim.

      “I asked you for five references, sir,” Lord Cedric said. “I see only four. If you cannot produce a fifth, you give me no choice but to uphold—”

      Rhys of Arfon cut him off. “I can vouch for Hari, your Lordship.”

      Bran almost laughed when Lord Cedric’s mouth dropped open. “You are the accuser, sir,” he pointed out.

      Rhys of Arfon nodded. “I know, but what Hari says is true. You wouldn’t want me to lie, would ya?”

      Lord Cedric closed his eyes and mumbled, “Case dismissed.”

      Cheers and applause immediately erupted in the gallery, and forgetting himself, Bran whistled and clapped too. 

      And that’s when he saw his father glaring at him.

 

 

 

5—The Boy

 

Penn of Gwynedd didn’t cause a scene. He would never do that. Bran’s father was a private man who liked folk to think everything in his world was the right way up. But that didn’t mean Bran wasn’t in trouble, and the boy knew it.

      He retreated to the storage room, threaded his way through the crates and barrels and let himself back into the alley. He didn’t bother trying to go unnoticed for it no longer mattered. Nothing he did now could make matters better or worse. He wasn’t sure which troubled him more—the punishment he knew was coming or the worry of it.

      Bran aimed his feet toward the stable. Master Garth had said he must see to the horse every day without fail, and there was no sense getting on the wrong side of him too. Besides, doing chores might take his mind off his worries.

      As horse and boy plodded round the paddock, Bran voiced his troubles. The mare didn’t interrupt, and when he was done, she nuzzled his neck. He wasn’t familiar enough with the ways of horses to know what that meant, but it was a comfort.

      Bran had no appetite for the midday meal, and every mouthful sat on his tongue like a lump of mud, refusing to be swallowed. He had nothing to say either. Normally he could outtalk an echo, but this day he was silent as stone. Cara had to have noticed, but she let him be.

      When he left the kitchen, he walked aimlessly through the bailey, in and around the market stalls, up and down the ramparts, staring blindly out the embrasures. He was too lost in his black thoughts to notice the world had not changed. It was as full of wonder as it had been before his father spied him in the Great Hall, but he could no longer see it. 

      The one thing that might have cheered him was visiting his mother. But he didn’t dare go to her. She would know in an instant something was wrong, and before he could stop himself, he would confess his crime. After that, he didn’t know. She would scold him of course, but not in the way his father would—not in a way that would make him wish the world would end. And when his father found out he’d told his mother, things would go even worse for him.

 

***

The afternoon dragged on forever. Bran stood atop the motte, gazing down the length of the bailey at the entrance to the Great Hall. It couldn’t be long now.

      He was right, for at that precise moment the doors opened, and people began spilling into the courtyard. Even from this distance Bran could hear the hum of voices as the crowd made its way toward the castle gates and drawbridge.

      He turned and walked into the keep, past his mother’s rooms and across the wide hall to his father’s quarters. The heavy oak door was unlocked, so he let himself in and sat down in the nearest chair.

      He looked around without interest. He had only ever been in these rooms when he was being punished, and he’d never been farther than this antechamber. An arched opening led to the next room. The antechamber was furnished sparingly, but the pieces were well-crafted. The man wasn’t one for fuss or clutter, but he valued quality.

      In his mind’s eye Bran once again saw his father glaring at him in the Great Hall, and regret overwhelmed him. Why had he been disobedient? Why had he let his curiosity get the better of him? Why hadn’t he considered the consequences?

      He tried to calm his anguish. It was too late to change things now. What was done was done, and what was going to happen was going to happen. He’d created this problem himself, and now he had to pay the price.

      He looked up as the oak door opened and Penn of Gwynedd let himself into the room. He closed the door behind him and without looking at his son, walked into the next chamber. 

      But he knew Bran was there. Of that Bran had no doubt. Though his father hadn’t spoken a word in the Great Hall—hadn’t told him to come here—he hadn’t needed to. The boy knew what was expected. To pretend otherwise would only make the punishment worse.

      Bran sat on his hands to still their trembling.

      After enough time had passed to take him to the brink of terror, his father returned. At the same time there was a knock on the door. Penn of Gwynedd looked at his son for the first time.

      “Answer it,” he said quietly.

      Bran pushed himself to his feet, padded to the door and pulled it open. His father’s manservant stood on the threshold. He acknowledged Bran with a blank nod and held out his hand. In it was a switch freshly cut from a hazel tree. The sharp twigs had been removed.        Bran cringed but took it. The servant bowed and left.

      The boy took the switch to his father, steeling himself to be whipped on the spot. But the man merely laid the switch on a table.

       “Sit,” he said. When Bran had done so, he leaned over him and said, “Do you recall asking if you could attend today’s assizes in the Great Hall?”

      His father’s face was all Bran could see. He lowered his gaze and nodded.

      “Speak up, boy. I cannot hear you.”

      “Yes, father,” he said quietly. “I remember.”

      “And do you recall my answer?”

      “You said I should wait until I’m older.”

      There was a pause before Penn of Gwynedd said, “And yet, you were there. How do you explain that? Did someone drag you into the Great Hall against your will? Or were you accidentally drawn in with the crowd?”

      Bran shook his head. “No, Father.”

      “Well?”

      “I came in through the storage room,” he confessed.

      “How could that be? The storage room is kept locked.”

      “I had the key.”

      “Was it given to you?”

      Again Bran shook his head. His voice was barely a whisper. “I took it from the peg in the kitchen.”

      “With or without permission?”

      “Without.”

      “In other words, you stole it.”

      Bran’s head jerked up. His father was so close, he could see the vein in his neck pulsing. “I borrowed it. I was going to put it back.”

      The man’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained calm. “You dare to quibble points of law with me? You took the key without permission. That is stealing. So not only are you disobedient, you are also a thief and a liar.”

      “I disobeyed you, yes,” Bran said in a rush, “but I’m telling the truth. I’m not a thief or a liar. I just wanted to see the work you do. I was only going to stay a few minutes.”

      “So you say. But how am I to know this is not another lie intended to make me feel sorry for you?”

      Bran hung his head again. There was no point arguing. His case was already lost. His father’s mind had been made up the moment he spied Bran behind the tapestry.

      “I am legal counsel to the lord of this land,” his father continued. “He trusts me to know the law and interpret it for all matters pertaining to the fiefdom. How much faith do you think he would have in me if he knew my son was a rebellious liar, sneak, and thief? If I cannot control a single small boy, how am I to be trusted to make decisions for all the people of his fiefdom? You are not above the law, boy. The sooner you learn that the better.”

      He walked over to the table and picked up the switch. He slashed the air with it, assessing its flexibility. Then he moved the jug of wine and goblet from the table and turned to his son.

      “Lower your breeches and lean on the table,” he said without emotion.

      Bran gripped the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles went white. “I’m sorry, Father. I will never disobey you again. I swear! Please don’t whip me,” he pleaded. “I have learned my lesson.”

      “If that is so, you will do as you are told without further protest.” Penn of Gwynedd’s eyes and voice were ice. He might have been doling out a sentence to a murderer instead of disciplining his son. “Lean on the table.”

 

***

Bran hadn’t cried out. That would only have angered his father and added lashes to the count. When it was done, he pulled up his breeches and waited stoically to be dismissed.

      His father stared at him without emotion and held out the switch. “Dispose of this.” As Bran turned to leave, he added, “I shall not tell your mother of your disobedience and thievery.  Nor will you. She has suffered enough on your account. I do not wish to see her further troubled.”

      Bran let himself out, and though he couldn’t block out the pain, nor stop himself from shaking, he kept his shoulders back and walked without stumbling—down the stairs and all the way to the end of the bailey.

      It wasn’t until he was safely behind the door of the rooms he shared with Cara that he broke down and wept.

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                       Chapters 6 -10 coming March 15th, 2026.