The Bretland Trilogy: The Complete Series

By John Broughton

All three books in John Broughton's 'The Bretland Trilogy', a series of historical fiction set in medieval Wales, now available in one volume!

Rhodri's Furies: Alun, a fisherman's son, seeks to fulfill his grandfather's wish for him to become a great warrior and save their homeland of Gwynedd. After meeting Cadfael, whose name means Battle Prince, the two become inseparable friends and blood brothers, determined to prove the seer's prophecy true.

Avenging Rhodri: Charismatic king Rhodri Mawr's death in battle leaves his son Anarawd to defend the small Welsh kingdoms against Saxon Wessex, Mercia, and the Vikings. Rhodri's legacy of nationalist sentiment and unity inspires one of his descendants to unite all of Wales under his kingship. Discover the gripping story of Rhodri and the triumph of a united Wales in the second book in the series.

Hywel the Good: This captivating historical novel is based on the life of Hywel, the King of Dyfed. As he becomes a just and wise king, introducing reforms to the Welsh legal system and forging alliances with neighboring kingdoms, Hywel goes on a pilgrimage to Rome and gets caught up in political intrigue, leading to a rebellion upon his return. Despite the challenges, Hywel strives to be a virtuous and enlightened king, and remains beloved by his people, making him one of the most important figures in Welsh history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Apr 13, 2023

Book preview

The Bretland Trilogy

THE BRETLAND TRILOGY

THE COMPLETE SERIES

JOHN BROUGHTON

CONTENTS

Rhodri's Furies

King Rhodri Mawr

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Avenging Rhodri

Frontpiece

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Author’s Note

Hywel the Good

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

The End

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 John Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

RHODRI'S FURIES

THE BRETLAND TRILOGY BOOK 1

Calligrapher Dawn Burgoyne’s interpretation of King Rhodri Mawr based on a crude illustration from a 15th century Welsh language version of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s highly influential Historia Regum Britanniae

ONE

Din-Gonwy, cantref of Rhôs, North Wales, 835 AD

Iolyn ap Celyn sat close to his hearth, warming his old bones against the chill of the estuary’s damp air. The snowy-white hair tied back in a knot contrasted with his lively dark eyes. He had once been lauded as a fierce warrior and later, using the spoils of victory, as a breeder of Welsh Black cows. At its peak, he boasted a herd of 120 cattle. After the bovine plague of 810, his family fortune changed. The herd, if he could call it that now, consisted of seven cows. These were hard times, but while his son, Drystan, whose name meant sorrow because Iolyn’s wife had died in childbirth, scraped a living as a fisherman, and the elderly housebound man, for some while, had brooded on more challenging times ahead.

For this reason, he had asked Drystan to come to his home after completing his day’s work. The moment had come to react to their plight; otherwise, what future would his grandson have? The seventeen years since Alun’s birth seemed to have flown by to Iolyn. Indeed, at his venerable age, every passing year sped by. Ironically, time hung heavily as he waited for his son, and stretched out his gnarled hands, tormented by bone fever, to warm them over the flames. Increasingly, he lived on memories of past glory and felt ever more alone and useless. Yet, he understood that the elders in the community could offer wisdom to the younger folk, which was his intention today.

At last, Drystan! How was your catch? Come in, Alun, sit next to your grandfather. You look blue with cold.

The boy laughed. At his age, the sea air was bracing and the breeze nothing more than an annoyance when he aimed his arrows at a likely prey: hare, puffin, or rarely, partridge. Nonetheless, he sat willingly next to his grandsire, whom he hero-worshipped, having grown up with enthralling tales of battle between their tribe, the Decanae and neighbours in border incursions. Alun ap Drystan never tired of the old man’s stories of derring-do. He knew them to be true since other elders had often confirmed Iolyn’s heroic courage to him. The young boy had no other ambition but to emulate his grandsire and to test his valour on a battlefield.

Now, he sat, thick dark hair tied back in a knot just like his grandsire and his father, like most of the men of Din-Gonwy, his irises such a black as to be indistinguishable from the pupils. In this, he took after his grandsire, not Drystan, whose eyes were an intense grey. The advantage of Alun’s gaze was that whoever he fixed it on had the impression of receiving sincere and deep attention, whether true or not. On this occasion, those eyes latched onto his grandsire, his concentration riveted, not least because Iolyn referred to his future.

Lately, the elderly man said, I have had premonitions. I’m not a prophet, but my forebodings are rarely wrong. I remember when— to Alun’s delight and Drystan’s impatience, the old warrior spoke at length of his foreboding before a battle against the neighbouring Cornovii tribe in a territorial dispute. The defeat of the Decanae that day proved his point.

When his son clicked his tongue impatiently, Iolyn smiled wryly and returned to his argument. As I said, these feelings of drifting towards disaster have tormented me for a while. I want you both to go to Myrddin ap Bren to consult him. Blood will out! Eight lifetimes ago, or thereabouts, his ancestor was a druid on Ynys Dryyll—the isle of shady groves. He is a druid, too, in everything but name. He prefers that we call him a seer or a bard since Christianity no longer permits Druidism. Pah! Religion! The old man shook with rage. "What does the Church know about the old ways? Myrddin will clear up my worries. If I could but shed ten years, I’d go myself." He gave detailed directions to the seer’s dwelling, which Drystan, who knew almost everyone in Din-Gonwy, didn’t need. Still, he pretended to absorb the instructions to humour his father, whose nature had become irascible recently.

Myrddin ap Bren wasn’t a hermit but lived alone in a round, stone building with a tiny window and door on the lee side on the extremity of the promontory. Nobody else was hardy or foolish enough to live in such an exposed place, where ill-tempered winds and waves lashed the rocky shore. Yet, Myrddin ascribed his rude health at a venerable age to this choice of location. While people occasionally came out as far as his tiny cell on the cape, more often, the seer wandered into the town that lay either side of the estuary, where Drystan and his wife, Alis ferch Betrys, had their home at five hundred paces from Iolyn’s.

The morning after their conversation with his father, Drystan led Alun along the left bank of the river Conwy that divided the settlement of Din-Gonwy, up to the mouth of the estuary. As a seasoned fisherman, Drystan knew the tide times as if they were tattooed on his forearm instead of the crossed swords that Alun so admired. He also wanted a tattoo, but his father had insisted he wait until manhood, when assuredly he would ink the rampant lion of his tribal banner. Such thoughts were far from his mind as he waded in after his father, so sure of the dangerous tidal currents, to step ashore on the opposite bank. He delighted in the alarmed cries of the oystercatchers as they flew reluctantly to another feeding ground to flee from the humans intruding upon their territory.

As they followed a beaten trail along the promontory, Alun gazed away to the west over the ocean, to the brooding shape of Ynys Dryyll, mentioned by his grandfather as the home of the druids in times past. Fleetingly, he wondered if Myrddin had chosen the location of his isolated dwelling to keep the home of his ancestors in sight every day. He would find out, he promised himself.

They found the old man purging and scrubbing clams he had gathered that morning.

Without raising his head from his task, Myrddin said, Ah, Drystan ap Iolyn and his boy. What brings you to my humble abode?

Alun marvelled that the seer had recognised them without looking, and it confirmed the man’s premonitory credentials to him.

It is Iolyn who sends us, Myrddin, for he has been assailed by forebodings lately.

"Ah, my old friend! He is wise and likely has the gift even if he knows it not and surely cannot use it. The austere, wrinkled face with its prominent aquiline nose broke into a gap-toothed grin. Come, sit down by me. He took his place on a wooden bench that he’d shaped to follow the curved stone wall of his house. His hands patted the space to either side. Alun nipped smartly to sit on his right while Drystan took the place to his left. All three stared silently out over the waves until Alun broke the silence, looking towards Ynys Dryyll, Did you ever go to yon isle, Myrddin ap Bren?" he addressed the seer formally as befitting one of his youth.

Anglesey? Myrddin said, using the recently adopted Norse name, Onguls-ey, for the isle. Never, but my ancestors lived there, and from them, I possess the gift of divination. He sighed heavily. "Maybe I will choose to end my days there, young fellow.

As you know, his pale-blue eyes gazed into the twin coals of Alun’s eyes, I chose to live here to see my spiritual home every day.

Alun suspected the seer could read his mind and wriggled uneasily on his seat.

The feeling soon passed as the blue eyes stared unseeingly out to sea, and the old man began to tremble, intriguing his visitors. Suddenly, he moaned. It was a long, drawn-out groan that ended with a deep sigh and the glazed appearance of his eyes changed into an alert, shrewd expression.

"Hitherto, the wolves have left us in peace. They have chosen easy pickings. The nearest places they reach are Northumbria, Kent, and Alba, and when they venture down to the Channel, they are distracted by Brittany and Frankia. The inconvenience of our geographical position has saved us. When they come, the time is not yet, for first, they will settle on Man and Ireland. They will not come for livestock or timber but silver, gold, and gems.

Arun was puzzled and, despite his respect for the ancient seer, blurted, Who? Who are these wolves?

Norsemen, boy. Raiders who live by piracy, sea wolves, bringing death and destruction with them, his voice rose with his anger. "Be sure that they will come and you, Alun ap Drystan, must be ready to fight. You will be a great warrior and mingle with the greatest in the land. Alun’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened.

Meanwhile, Drystan, you must go— his eyes unfocussed again, and in a language as old as the mountains, murmured, —to y tarn bach dros yr hen dderwen."

To the small tarn over the old oak, Alun translated aloud. I know where that is, father. I sometimes hunt hare up there.

Ay, so you do, said the seer, "and there you must find the battle prince. Befriend him, and you will write your name in the annals of Gwynedd."

Again, Alun’s jaw dropped. The ancient seer seemed to be building him up for greatness that nobody could suspect by looking at the skinny, callow youth. Yet, surely, a lad could dream! But who was this battle prince? He quelled the mischievous thought that he should challenge the seer and protest that he was a nonentity. That wasn’t how he saw himself, or what he wanted his future to make of him. Far better to believe the venerable man’s words and treasure them in his heart as if gospel truth.

Father, we should go before the tide rises further.

Drystan waved an impatient hand. But I don’t know what it is I should do at the tarn. He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

The seer replied immediately, smiling smugly as if considering himself the receptacle of all knowledge.

Find Iowerth ap Afon there, and everything will fall into place.

Father and son hurried away, hardly exchanging words until Alun asked, Father, do you believe the seer?

"Of course, I do. He has the gift, and he is never wrong. It’s not always easy to interpret his words, but when you do, he’s proved right every time."

"B-but, father, he said I’d be a great warrior and mingle with the greatest in the land. How can that be?"

Drystan frowned because those words hadn’t been lost on him. He weighed his reply carefully. He’s never wrong, he repeated. One thing is for sure, Alun, that cannot be tomorrow. To become a great warrior requires training and determination.

I have harboured a secret for some time, father. He tripped over a gorse root, almost fell, and swore under his breath, but regained balance and composure. It has long been my dream to be a warrior like my grandsire.

Drystan grunted and said nothing. Instead, he thought, the old fool has filled the boy’s head with exaggerated nonsense. Now Myrddin ap Bren has added his words for good measure. I will have to keep the boy’s feet on the ground, or he’ll be slain.

Again, they dislodged the protesting oystercatchers and a curlew, whose call echoed across the estuary to Alun’s delight. He was an ardent student of wildlife and enjoyed watching and hearing its behaviour.

The tide had risen several inches, so they forced their way towards the other bank with more fatigue. Where on the outward trip, the seawater had been halfway up their calves, now it soaked their breeches at mid-thigh.

It’s as well we lingered no longer with Myrddin ap Bren, his father called. Soon, we’d be up to our waists and risking a strong undertow. But they weren’t in danger because not long after he’d uttered these words, Drystan moved forward more swiftly as he neared the shallower water by the shore. With relief, they stepped onto dry, coarsely grassed dunes, and grumbled but with a smile about their uncomfortably wet breeches and footwear. The taller man had not wet his tunic, but the hem of the youth’s clung damply to his thighs and groin.

We’ll dry out as we walk. Where is this tarn you know so well?

Follow me, Alun chirped, pleased and proud to act as a guide to his father, we’ll take this trail. He pointed to a sheep track running between two spiky gorse bushes. The Decanae farmers still had some free-roaming sheep grazing along the coastal plain, as testified by a small wad of wool snagged on the thorns and ruffled by the sea breeze, like Alun’s dark locks.

By the time they had marched up the winding path until they came to a gnarled ancient oak, their clothes had dried, and they felt more comfortable. Alun pointed up the side of the steeply rising hill to where his father could just make out the shape of a roof.

The house is by the tarn, so we’ll have to follow that path. He indicated a cut in the rock, likely hewn generations long gone, which created a passable trail littered with stones.

Luckily, both were physically fit thanks to their different activities, so they arrived at the trail’s end with no shortage of breath. Drystan rubbed his aching thighs ruefully because his work didn’t include climbing steep slopes. Thankful to have come to a plateau, he gazed admiringly at the silvery water of the tarn.

I’ll wager there are fish a-plenty in there, he said to his son, but it wasn’t Alun who answered. Instead, a gruff voice said, You’d win your bet. There are trout and perch, and I’d guess at carp, although I’ve never caught one in all these years.

They turned to stare at the grinning face of a stocky fellow with a pale complexion and a carrot-coloured beard and hair. Drystan remembered him from several years before the bovine plague struck when the herder, practising seasonal transhumance, drove his cattle in late spring from the pasture by the estuary to the lush meadow by the tarn.

Greetings, Iorwerth ap Afon. Myrddin the Seer has sent me to meet with you, although I know not why.

Come into my home and sup an ale with me. We rarely have visitors.

The two guests followed their host into a house empty of other occupants. The general air of disorder spoke of a lack of feminine care.

Do you live alone, Iorwerth? Drystan asked.

Nay, Cadfael lives with me. His mother died some winters past. It’ll be seven this coming winter. He’s out hunting. I reckon he’ll be about your age, young fellow.

At the mention of the son’s name, Alun sat up. In their language, Cadfael, like all names, had a meaning. Alun’s name meant little rock, but that was neither here nor there. His heart beat faster at the meaning of Cadfael: battle prince.

What’s Cadfael hunting? he asked.

Oh, he’s gone to the woods with his bow, back there. Iorwerth tilted his head vaguely. He’s an excellent shot, and whatever he comes across will go in the cauldron. He jerked his thumb at a blackened iron container hanging over the charred remains of a fire. I’ll wager he’ll come back with something to fill our stomachs.

I’d like to go hunting with him, Alun said cheerfully, I’m handy with a bow myself.

In that case, you’ll get on well. As I say, he’s about your age and could do with a friend. It’s a companionless life up here, he said regretfully.

What became of your herd? Drystan asked.

The same as your father’s, I dare say. The deep-green eyes narrowed, and the previously cheerful expression grew thoroughly miserable. Wiped out, the lot of them! The damned plague spread through them like fire driven by the wind. It ruined me! The pestilence took them all except for Tawr.

Tawr?

Ay, my bull. If only I had the money to afford just one cow. I could start again! But, my friend, cattle used to be my currency. I haven’t touched a coin in years.

This bull, Drystan said eagerly. Is it healthy? Where do you keep it? He could sense the reason Myrddin had sent him here.

Healthy? Oh yes, I treat Tawr better than my son. Come and have a look at the poor old fellow. I say that because he has no cow to calm his fiery spirits.

The one-time herdsman chatted proudly about the virtues of his black bull as he led them to a small enclosure where the horned creature tossed its head and snorted aggressively at the sight of the three men.

He’s not so old! Alun exclaimed.

No, only four years. My old bull survived the plague, and so did two cows. This beast is Tawr junior, although to tell the truth, he is the son of the son of Tawr. His great-grandsire died a year after the birth of the first Tawr junior, and the old cows went the way of all flesh. The breeder’s contorted account brought confused frowns to the faces of his listeners.

So, he’s in prime breeding age, the ever-practical Drystan said.

He would be if he had a mate.

Drystan pondered briefly about the best approach, then asked, Iorwerth ap Afon, do you trust Myrddin the Seer?

Of course, who doesn’t?

Well, know that Myrddin instructed me to come here to persuade you to bring your bull to mate with my father’s cows down in Din-Gonwy, he lied. Although he believed that he’d given the reason behind the seer’s words. He also said that Alun should befriend your son because they have crossed destinies.

Alun spoke up, It’s true. The seer said that we will write our names in the annals of Gwynedd.

The former herdsman looked impressed and stroked his flame-coloured beard. Did he say that? Well, I’ve always thought my Cadfael had something special about him. But hark, Drystan ap Iolyn, what’s in it for me if I bring Tawr down to Din-Gonwy?

Drystan laughed. He’d noticed the approaching youth with a dead hare over his arm. A decent game stew cooked by my Alis—she’s a wonderful cook.

Who’s a wonderful cook? Cadfael joined them, staring curiously at Alun.

My mother, Alun said. Come with us to Din-Gonwy and find out for yourself. I know we’re going to be friends. Grab whatever you need to come with us, and I’ll explain on the way. I’ll hold your hare while you fetch your belongings.

You’d better gather the items you need, Iorwerth, Drystan said.

I haven’t agreed to anything yet. It’ll take more than a tasty hare stew to persuade me.

It’s up to you and my father to thrash out the details, friend. When the calves are born, you will share the profits. My father won’t be able to work as before, he suffers from complaints of old age, but his knowledge of your trade will be of use. He’s an honest man. You won’t regret it. And you wouldn’t fly in the face of Myrddin’s advice, I hope.

Nay, I’ve known Iolyn ap Celyn since we were lads. He’s a good man and a noble warrior.

And he has seven cows waiting to be serviced, Alun added with a wicked grin and a wink to Cadfael, who grinned and handed over the hare. As he walked towards the house, calling over his shoulder, Come on, father, what are you waiting for? Alun admired the lad’s assertiveness and his yew bow, well-greased to maintain pliancy, draped down his back. A leather quiver hung at his belt, where he noted five arrows fletched with black feathers.

They’re joining us, father, Alun whispered excitedly.

It looks like you’ve made a new friend, son. You can go hunting together. He seems a likely lad.

Ay, he’s taller than me. I wonder if he’s older?

They speculated and made arrangements for a while until Drystan spotted them leaving the house.

You’ll have a lot to find out, but look, here they come!

Cadfael did not share his father’s carroty hair, for his thatch was dark chestnut red. Alun appraised him as he approached, noting the ready smile and strong jawline as favourable features. The nose was another matter. That was something else to discover: how had he broken it? The slightly distorted nose gave the otherwise almost girlishly pretty face a saving ruggedness. The overall effect pleased Alun, as the loose-limbed youth drew near with a bulging sack in his hand. Iorwerth instead, was carrying a stout rope.

For Tawr, he explained. He’ll be no trouble. He’ll enjoy his walk after being so limited up here. He won’t be any bother, he raised the rope, but I don’t want him straying either. He swished a cane in his other hand.

Just hold that a few minutes, young fellow, he said, handing the rod to Alun.

His hands flew expertly as he created a slip knot when he was free of the cane. My bull rope knot, he explained as he noticed Alun’s keen interest in his wizardly manipulation. It took me the best part of a year to train Tawr to accept the halter by associating it with the reward of food. Now, he’s biddable if he’s in a good mood. I’ll ensure that, he called over his shoulder, by feeding him as soon as the halter is in place.

To Alun’s astonishment, the bull showed no interest as Iorwerth approached and draped the rope around his neck. The herdsman spoke gently to the bull, which snorted and lifted one forehoof to drag it on the ground. Iorwerth led the mighty beast to a trough, where its nose immediately verified that there was no food. The bull tossed its head, and Alun feared the worst, but the herdsman hurried to fetch an armful of hay, which he dropped into the trough for the hungry bull. The animal devoured the food. and when finished, Iorwerth winked at Alun and gently pulled on the rope, steering the willing creature out of the enclosure. We’re going for a walk, old boy, he spoke to the animal as if to a person, reaching out a hand for the cane from Alun, but didn’t need to whack the bull once on the way down the trail since, snuffling and snorting it followed its owner as meekly as a duckling follows its mother.

Drystan took turns with Cadfael to carry the heavy sack of belongings. In this way, they arrived at Iolyn’s home by mid-afternoon. The elderly man hobbled to the door to greet the newcomers.

By all the saint’s Iolyn, you’ve aged! Look at that white hair! Iorwerth chortled.

Time passes for everyone, my friend. Are those grey hairs in that carrot top of yours? He wheezed a laugh and, eyeing the bull, said admiringly, He’s a fine creature. What are you doing here with him?

That depends on you, my friend. Myrddin ap Bren seems to think that we can agree about breeding.

I’d never gainsay the seer, Iolyn said craftily. Take your bull into yon empty pen, and then come inside, and we’ll discuss the details of a deal.

Alun exchanged a grin with Cadfael. Our house is nearby. I think we should take your hare to my mother so that she can prepare a meal. Besides, you and your father will certainly be staying with us.

Thus, was born a lifelong friendship that would only end with death.

Attribution - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/en:GNU_Free_Documentation_License

TWO

Din-Gonwy and Llanfairfechan, North Wales, 835 AD

Cadfael held out his left hand under Alun’s nose. Look, I did this at the same time as my nose. I was only a child with five winters behind me. Alun stared at the deformed little finger that stuck out unnaturally at the knuckle. He hadn’t noticed it before. I’d gone to an old tree near the tarn seeking cormorant eggs, lost my footing, and fell on my hand and face. I hit my nose on a rock as bad luck would have it. Everything went black, and my father found me unconscious and carried me home. In his anxiety, he didn’t spot the finger; otherwise, he’d have put a splint on it. It set itself, crooked like this.

Does it give you any trouble?

No, I’m used to it.

Alun and Cadfael were inseparable—the terrible twins, Drystan called them—they shared secrets and dreamed up adventures while out hunting. The one tried to outdo the other in shooting prowess until their bragging came inevitably to a head.

We should find out who is the better shot in a contest, Alun suggested. We’ll need a judge. My grandsire is as honest as the day’s long.

Let’s go to him then. Cadfael was confident in his skill.

Iolyn’s gap-toothed grin and chuckle charmed the youths, whose idea had stirred and revitalised the old man’s warrior blood. The contest will have to be hereabouts, the snow-haired patriarch said. You know I can’t walk far. This is what we’ll do, he explained as he took an apple from a shelf and painfully led them to a wooden fence near his door. He placed the apple on the flat top of a pole and ordered Cadfael, Mark an oche on the ground after a hundred paces of those long legs. The apple is the target.

They looked in disbelief at the wizened face which became as wrinkled as a dried plum as it creased with laughter. If it’s too hard for you, what kind of archers are you? he wheezed.

"I can do it! Cadfael’s mouth set in a thin line. I’ll pace out the distance. One-two-three–ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred!" He drew the heel of his boot across the dry earth.

Alun pulled at two blades of grass, breaking one to make it shorter. Concealing the operation from Cadfael with his body, he held out a hand with two apparently equal lengths of grass in his fist.

The longer grass shoots first. To his dismay, Cadfael tugged, and the blade seemed never-ending. Alun opened his hand and stared gloomily at his short grass. Just my luck! he muttered.

Never mind. Watch and learn, Cadfael said lightly. He peered for what seemed an age at the target that seemed like a dot in the distance. Planting his feet firmly, he shuffled them until satisfied, raised the bow with arrow nocked, and drew back the string to his right ear. The black-fletched dart sped in a speeding arc to impale the pole two thumb-lengths below the apple. The white-haired figure wrapped tightly in a green cloak and leaning on his doorpost called out something in a frail voice lost in the breeze.

Alun lowered his bow, clicking his tongue in exasperation, and waited a moment for the wind to drop. Between gusts, he loosed his arrow, which sailed magnificently to embed itself in the same post right next to Cadfael’s. They stuck there, inseparable as their owners, with contrasting feathers, Alun’s fletched with easily procured white gull quills.

My turn! Cadfael insisted. A moment later, his second attempt grazed the edge of the wooden upright.

Good try, my friend! Alun called generously, but in his head added, but not good enough!

Alun’s next effort caught a gust of wind and sailed an arm’s length wide of the target.

Tough luck, Cadfael admitted. We should call a halt. Your grandsire has bested us!

Let’s see whose arrow is the nearest. The old man saw them coming and hobbled over to the apple. Three heads bent over the two shafts, yet none could say which shaft was the closest with confidence.

I declare a tie! Iolyn said. I’m proud of you youngsters. That’s fine shooting. If the post had been an enemy spearman, he’d be dead on the ground. As to who’d slain him, that’s anybody’s guess. The frail figure rocked with laughter and Alun accompanied him back to his fireside while Cadfael retrieved the arrows.

After chatting with the old man for some time, Alun suggested a hunt in the woods Cadfael knew so well, near his home by the tarn. They chatted gaily on the way until Alun mentioned the nature of their friendship. It was predestined. Myrddin told me that we would be friends and that we’d write our names in the Gwynedd Annals.

Cadfael stopped, caught Alun’s arm, spun him around, and stared into the black eyes.

"He was right. You’re like a brother to me, and even if I have no other friends, I know that none could ever be as close as you. He drew a knife from its sheath at his belt and dragged the blade across his palm. A crimson pool formed there. Alun understood at once, took the blade and repeated the gesture on his palm. He gasped as the steel sliced into his flesh, but the ritual had to be completed. The two bloodied hands clasped.

Brothers for life! Cadfael proclaimed.

Ay, brothers and I will protect you, and you, me, Alun intoned.

Let’s soak our hands in the river, Cadfael said. The cold water will stop the bleeding. They wandered down the meadow to the Conwy and knelt to rinse their hands. Tell me more about the seer. Cadfael had led a sheltered life and knew nothing about Myrddin.

"He has the gift of seeing. They say that he is a descendant of the Chief Druid, on the Isle of Ynys Dryyll, over yonder—the knower of the oak tree. Alun pointed in the general direction before sucking in his breath and clutching his wounded hand. It’s still bleeding."

Hold it in the cold water. Why did you cut so deeply? Cadfael smirked.

It meant a lot to me.

Me too, but I didn’t want to risk my sinews.

They both laughed, but Cadfael suddenly looked serious. Will you take me to this seer?

Alun gazed along the estuary. "We can go now if we hurry, for the tide’s right. We have to wade across the river, but keep your bowstring dry, brother." How it pleased him to call his friend by that name!

They found Myrddin ap Bren sitting on his bench, head bowed over his fingers, entirely concentrated, engaged in mending a net. Without looking up, he startled the friends by saying, Ah, the brothers have come to seek knowledge.

Good day, Myrddin ap Bren, Alun said formally. I have found the battle prince and wish to know what to do next.

Next, we must heal that hand. Either you or your blade was too keen to draw blood, Little Rock.

Cadfael stared in puzzlement at the hook-nosed seer.

What kind of person doesn’t know his brother’s name? Myrddin chuckled.

His name is Alun, Cadfael protested.

Ay, which means?

Little rock! Alun said triumphantly.

The seer chortled. But a rock that doesn’t blunt steel it would appear! Come, we’ll put a salve on your cut and bind it for the day. The morrow will bring healing.

He led Alun into the gloomy interior of his house, where bunches of herbs hung inverted from the wooden beams of the ceiling and pottery jars containing unguents lined the shelves like ranked warriors. Myrddin took one down and pulled away a flat cork stopper, revealing a grey-green salve. Your hand! he ordered brusquely and smeared a generous amount of the ointment across the wound. Alun winced as the cream stung the raw cut initially, but soon, it soothed the throbbing that had accompanied him along the promontory.

We’ll bind it with this linen. Myrddin looked around for a knife and hacked at the material to create a narrow strip of cloth. Expertly, he bound it around the palm, under the thumb, and tied it off at the wrist. There, he said satisfied, a surface wound that will run deep for a lifetime. It was blood well shed Little Rock. You are well named because you must seek a rock. Come, we’ll join your friend who is gazing at Ynys Dryyll—

Alun stared in disbelief from the seer to the solid stone wall of the tiny dwelling. How do you kn—

"Myrddin ap Bren knows that and many other things! the seer snapped as if Alun had challenged him, which he had not. Let’s join your brother, for you must both heed my words."

Alun wasn’t surprised to find Cadfael staring out towards Ynys Dryyll.

Ay, it’s to Anglesey you must go to fulfil the next prophecy.

Prophecy, Myrddin? Alun queried.

Ay, as before. Did you not befriend the battle prince? So, too, you will go to Llanddwyn. Seek the cave of the heartbroken princess. Little Rock, you will know the rock you must bring to me when you see it.

Why do you speak in riddles, Myrddin ap Bren? Alun failed to disguise the bitterness and impatience in his voice. I’ve never heard of Llanddwyn. Where is it? And who is this heartbroken princess?

Do not despair, Alun ap Drystan. Llanddwyn is to Ynys Dryyll as you are to Cadfael ap Iorwerth.

Alun gazed at his friend, who shrugged his shoulders and returned his gaze to the brooding isle.

Myrddin spoke again, and he gripped Alun’s thigh just above the knee, squeezing gently with a gnarled hand speckled with brown spots. The heartbroken princess was a hermit many lifetimes ago. You’ll have no difficulty learning about her when you are on Anglesey. Remember, it’s vital that you find what you seek.

A rock? Alun sought confirmation.

Ay, and nay.

What does that mean? Alun snapped with irascibility that would have done justice to Iolyn.

The seer grimaced. "I know you have little patience, especially for riddles, but remember this one:

I’m as old as the hills

As clear and hard as glass,

Sand and salt are my kin

Although water cannot devour me.

The rock embraces me

Yet, I am not he.

In common, we are hard to cleave.

What am I?

The seer stared out to sea his eyes unfocused. While Alun and Cadfael struggled to understand the riddle, Myrddin began to moan or was he humming? He stopped abruptly. Be patient, my friends. All will be clear! The future of our people depends upon the success of your mission. So, go, without delay. Find the cave of the broken-hearted princess. Ah, take this and make whatever use of it you can. He handed Alun a beautifully carved ivory comb, produced with a flourish from within his tunic. Puzzled, Alun studied the skilfully wrought object. Myrddin was full of surprises. Did he want him to order his unruly locks? He slipped the comb into his tunic pocket.

The youths bowed, and said polite farewells, especially Cadfael, for Alun was seething inside. Did he want their mission to remain a secret? Was that it? Then, why not say so? If Myrddin ap Bren had given them such a crucial mission, why speak in riddles? Alun did not doubt the wisdom and accuracy of the seer’s predictions, but he swore to himself that he would avoid further contact with the soothsayer until he had solved the riddle and held the rock—that was not a rock—in his hand.

Since he never hid his feelings from Cadfael, Alun grumbled on the way back to their home.

But you believe his every word and look how well he bound your hand.

Why couldn’t he just come out and give us clear directions to this Llanddwyn? Why not give the heartbroken princess a name and tell me plainly what I’m looking for? I can’t even remember the riddle.

Cadfael had never heard Alun so exasperated and tried to help. I can! He repeated the riddle word for word.

That’s why he wanted us both to hear so that one of us would recall the words. Remember it for when we’re in the cave, Alun said more cheerfully. As for my hand, tomorrow we’ll see how good Myrddin is.

After he’d drunk a small bowl of goat’s milk the next morning, Alun surreptitiously unbound his hand. His gasp of surprise didn’t escape Cadfael, who crossed the room to peer at it. Whereas an angry red line marked his palm, Alun’s wound was little more than one of the pink lines a beldam might read to interpret the future.

I wish I’d let him spread his balm over my hand, Cadfael said.

He knew your cut wasn’t so deep. Myrddin sees everything without looking!

So, your faith has returned, brother. In that case, we must heed the seer’s words and leave for Llanddwyn as soon as possible.

You’d better tell your father, Cadfael. Mine will be already at sea, hauling nets. He rises early every day. Iorwerth can explain to him where we have gone and why. While you do that, I’ll bid farewell to my grandsire. Meet me at his house.

Iolyn listened attentively to his grandson’s tale. It seemed as if the old man would not comment, so long was the pause. I’ve heard tell of the heartbroken princess. My memory fails me, but I know she’s a saint in those parts. She was a nun and devoted her life to God because her father wouldn’t let her wed the man she loved. The lovelorn visit her well. They say that a chaste maid, pure in heart, can see her future husband in the waters. The old man peered short-sightedly at his grandson. I say, you’re not pining for a maid, are you, boy?

Nay, grandfather, Alun laughed, I told you, Myrddin ap Bren is sending me on a mission with Cadfael. We have to collect something from the princess’s cave, but I don’t understand what it is I have to find.

May the Lord be with you. Take some winter apples from that net. A gnarled finger pointed at a bulging net hanging on the wall. Alun remembered how he loved the apple his grandsire would give him when he was tall enough for his head to reach the man’s belt as he stood over him. The apples were small and green but surprisingly sweet when he bit them. How he looked forward to that treat when he was a child! He stuffed four apples into his tunic pocket.

Thanks, grandfather. I’ll be on my way.

The old man blessed him, using ancient words used over generations addressed to travellers setting out. Leaning on the fence, waiting for him, Cadfael greeted him with a broad grin. Was he sad to see you go?

Nay, he knew the tale of the princess but couldn’t remember her name. He explained what he had learnt from Iolyn.

I like the miller’s daughter. I wonder if the princess will take up my cause, Cadfael beamed.

You like Rhonwen? Good luck with that. She’s snooty and never exchanges my greeting.

Odd, that! Cadfael pretended to have a serious face. She always gives me a wave and a pretty smile, he teased.

Banter exchanged about the miller’s lovely daughter occupied them until they were out of sight of Din-Gonwy and along the coastal path to the west. The Isle of Ynys Dryyll was visible and seemed closer than ever, but that was a trick of the light. We’ll stop at Llanfairfechan, Alun said. I land fish there with my father when we venture westwards from time to time. It has a good beach, so we can sleep under the stars tonight. We have no money for an inn.

The one thing my father said when I told him we were going to Ynys Dryyll was to steer clear of inns. He reckons most are squalid, dangerous places. Do you know what he said?

No idea.

He said, Cadfael could hardly get the words out for laughing, I don’t want you coming back with the pox from some poxy whore! Can you believe that? he giggled. Neither had sexual experience, which made Iorwerth’s admonition somehow exciting and more amusing.

How far is this beach from here?

We can be there by midday. Look, there’s no point in wearying ourselves by going farther. Grandfather says that the crossing place for the isle is about the same distance from the beach, so I thought breaking our march would be easier, and tomorrow we could reach the ferry at Ceris fresh enough to tramp on, deep into the isle. Here, what do you think Myrddin meant when he said Llanddwyn is to Ynys Dryyll as I am to you?

He speaks in riddles all the time; I suppose it’s to keep us thinking!

Blast him! He’s done that, alright. What do you reckon? We need to work it out.

It’s not that hard, brother. He knows that we are very close—almost inseparable—I guess he means that Llanddwyn is close to Ynys Dryyll."

Ah, now I see! Llanddwyn must be an island close to Anglesey, Cadfael said.

That would make sense, but we can find out once we’re on the isle. If my grandsire is right, they venerate the heartbroken princess there. Most folk will know how to locate her sanctuary.

Didn’t he speak about a well?

If we discover that, we’ll find the cave, I reckon.

The friends found a sheltered spot on a wide stretch of sand exposed as the tide had dropped away. It was more comfortable than the pebbles lower down. There, they ate their lunch, strips of dried fish from their pantry washed down with water drawn from the well near their home. That would keep them going until the following morning. After lunch, Cadfael suggested hunting for birds’ eggs along the coast. An evening meal appealed to his stomach.

They continued westwards, knowing it was the direction they would travel the following day. The path skirted marshland, adhering to the shore until they came to an estuary, which they crossed quickly owing to the low tide. Soon afterwards, they saw a rocky headland.

Cadfael nudged his companion. That looks promising. There are bound to be nests in the crags, and it’s the right season for eggs.

They scrambled over the rocks on the shore. Alun slipped and cracked his knee, but after vigorous rubbing, he could continue climbing. Cadfael hissed and waved an arm to make him duck down. Alun watched his friend unsling his bow from his shoulder to fit an arrow. With the whoosh of the shot, Cadfael straightened and, laying down his bow, climbed rapidly across to his prey. There was no mistaking the large colourful red and orange beak of a puffin when he held up the dead trophy. Cadfael’s arrow had passed through the throat of the unsuspecting black and white bird. Egg collecting forgotten, Cadfael chirped, We have a meal for this evening. They say puffin is a delicacy.

"I’ve never tried it, but we’d better search for dry wood. We can’t eat it raw. A steady climb to the top of the low cliff provided them with sufficient twigs and branches to make a fire. They found a suitable hollow where they might sleep that night, relatively sheltered from the sea breeze, a place where the fire could be lit without being overly fanned by the wind. Alun arranged the wood, as he claimed to be an expert at starting fires. He did it all the time for his grandsire, he explained.

While you do that, I’ll go back to the marsh. I saw reeds a-plenty. We’ll need a cane as a skewer to hold the bird over the fire. Do you have a knife?

Why? Didn’t you bring yours?

Cadfael drew back his cloak. Of course, I did. But you’ll need yours to clean the bird. Can you pluck the feathers?

I suppose it’ll be no harder than plucking mother’s hens, Alun muttered sourly.

"Good, I’ll be back later. Don’t light the fire till I get back. It’s too early to eat anyway.

Later, he returned, grinning broadly. At his belt hung another puffin.

I came back up the cliff to shoot another of these.

Don’t you think one is enough for our meal? Alun said sulkily. He had just finished preparing the first bird and had no intention of cleaning another.

Don’t be so short-sighted, brother. How do you think we’ll pay the ferryman tomorrow? We haven’t a single coin between us.

Alun stared admiringly at his friend. I hadn’t thought of that. I believe people use puffins as currency in these parts.

Cadfael’s stomach protested. He had a ravenous appetite at the best of times. His long walk to fetch the cane in his right hand had increased it. You’ve done a good job, brother. He bent to pick up the plucked and gutted bird. On his way back from the marsh, he had sharpened his skewer in readiness for cooking and now thrust the spit through the body of the headless bird.

What are you waiting for? Light the fire!

Used to Cadfael’s brusque manner, Alun grinned, and reached for his steel and flint striker that he had placed on the grass beside him. Expertly, he created sparks that set his tinder alight as he gently blew to fan the flame. In moments, the twigs they had collected were crackling merrily. Pale grey smoke curled above them to be swept into nothingness by the sea breeze. Alun added thicker pieces of driftwood so that soon, the red embers were suitable for cooking over. Cadfael assumed the role of cook, turning the puffin to avoid burning the flesh as fat hissed and spat as it dripped among the embers. The aroma of the meat made their mouths water in anticipation, and when Cadfael declared the meal ready, he cut strips of flesh off the breast.

Alun sniffed at his first piece impaled on the knife point suspiciously, but as he chewed, he savoured the rich, smooth smoked slither that tasted livery and slightly fishy. He grunted his appreciation and reached for more. He had to admit Cadfael’s usefulness. His friend was full of initiative, and he did not doubt that their mission the following day would be a great success.

They slept well by their fire, bellies satisfied, wrapped tightly in their mantles, and woke with the first light to greet a weak dawn. Indeed, the day of destiny started unpromisingly with Anglesey shrouded in grey clouds as a light rain seemed to hang like a curtain of smoke over the isle. The weather dampened their cloaks but not their spirits, for adventure beckoned on the Isle of Ynys Dryyll.

THREE

Isle of Ynys Dryyll, North Wales, 835 AD

Events are mutable, but places remain essentially unchanged. In the case of Ynys Dryyll, even the youthful Alun ap Drystan sensed ancient immutability hanging over the isle as perceptible as the grey cloud shrouding it. The companions arrived at Ceris, the narrow point of the strait separating the isle from the mainland, where the Roman legions had once crossed to the place of druids, to the island they called Mona.

A ferry served to cross the channel, and the friends found the ferryman pottering about in the tiny hut that was his home.

A puffin to take us across to the isle, Cadfael said, sticking his head without ceremony into the gloomy interior.

The ferryman laughed and waved a net attached to a pole at the intruding face. Why would I need a puffin? I catch my own with this. He smirked unkindly, revealing a series of blackened teeth. Cadfael recoiled with dismay clear in his countenance. The ferryman seemed to thrive on the youth’s chagrin. If you want to cross, you’ll pay good coin or swim! He guffawed. Not that I’d chance the currents if I were you. I wouldn’t want you to feed the fishes, young fellow! He chortled and rubbed the laughter tears from the corners of his eyes.

I can’t swim. Cadfael shook his head and unobtrusively fingered his knife hilt. Alun noticed the gesture and, fearing the worst, pulled his friend away from the ferryman. His mind was racing, and an idea came to him: ‘make whatever use of it you can.’ Somehow, they had to cross to the isle.

Friend, we don’t have a coin, but I have something here that might interest you, however, I’ll only part with it if you agree to bring us back across after we’ve concluded our business.

It had better be worth my while. The ferryman had turned his back on them, and his tone was querulous.

I won’t part with it lightly, Alun said, drawing the ivory comb from his pocket.

Give it here! The swarthy ferryman’s face peered in curiosity as he inspected the finely carved object in his palm. Ay, it’s a fair price for two trips. I’ll take you across.

And give us information, if you please.

What do you want to know?

We have to go to Llanddwyn, but we don’t know where it is, he ended lamely.

Ha-ha! You’re in luck. The tide will be right. From where I drop you off, cut across due west without wandering, and you’ll come to the isle after two leagues. There’s a sand bar at low water, and you can walk across.

Isn’t Llanddwyn where the heartbroken princess lived?

Ha-ha! Everyone knows that! Saint Dwynwen! That’ll be your business on the isle, for one of you is crossed in love, I’ll be bound! Well, she’ll sort you out if you pray at her well. The ferryman clapped Alun on the back, who forced himself to smile into the weathered, roguish face.

Where will we find the well, friend?

Easy enough. You’ll find the isle is nought more than a long strip of land. He pointed his dirty forefinger under Alun’s nose. Walk down the middle, he ran his other finger over the first joint, until you come to a bay on the west. There are cliffs to your right. There’s a cove opposite the bay. Keep it at your back, and you’ll find the well above the rocks over the bay.

This conversation took place as his strong arms pulled them across the strait. He repeated the directions before they set off.

They thanked the ferryman, who indicated a horn. When you return, if I’m on the other shore, just blow a couple of blasts on the horn, and I’ll come and fetch you.

Two hours later, their path brought them through woodland down to a bay lined by a sandy beach. What looked at first glance like a slender peninsula proved to be the island they sought. It lay like a twin, attached to the main island by a little over a hundred yards of a sandbank.

We’re in luck, as that snaggle-toothed villain said, the tide is out, and we can walk across.

A shag, disturbed, turned a beady eye on them and, after tilting its head, flew away low over the sea to a rock off the coast, where it stood upright to survey its watery kingdom.

The youths strode across the strand, spirits high, when Alun suddenly said, Can you remember the riddle? I need an idea of what I’m looking for.

We’re looking for a well and a cave, but I memorised it. He remembered without hesitation.

"So, it will be clear and hard as glass. What I don’t understand is when it says, the rock embraces me. What does that mean? If it’s a rock, how can rock embrace it?"

Unless it’s a lodestone, Cadfael said thoughtfully. You know, like gold or iron—a rock inside a rock!

They discussed the matter as they walked, joking about gold, and not paying much attention to their surroundings. Suddenly, Alun stopped. He turned to look back to the main island, and holding out a finger, he turned back to look out to sea. The extremity of the island was about a hundred yards farther on. He gazed at his pointing finger, looked back again and, touching his outstretched digit, said, I think we’re about here."

Cadfael bent over, saw that Alun’s fingernail was resting halfway between the joints, raised his head and, peering in both directions, calculated, If the ferryman was right, we need to go another fifty yards.

Over to the cliff, see if there’s a bay. I’ll go to the other side and look for a cove.

Alun ran back in a moment. Well? he cried.

There’s a large bay here. It must be the one the ugly fellow referred to.

You were right, brother. The cove is another fifty yards ahead. So, come on! He strode across the low-lying golden hair lichen and liverwort, calling over his shoulder, Let’s find the well. Didn’t Myrddin say I’d know the rock when I saw it? We can forget the riddle!

He hurried on another thirty paces, then turned abruptly to his right and peered down the rocky side of the island. The cove lay exactly below him. Since it was one of three coves but the only one opposite the bay, he marched confidently across the narrow islet to the cliff, where he joined Cadfael, who was on his knees, peering down into a hole in the ground. The chestnut-haired youth pulled back an overhanging shrub and declared, I think that’s water down there! Find a stone, Alun.

A quick search of the ground provided him with a sizeable pebble, likely thrown up from the seabed in a storm.

Will this do?

Cadfael took it and let it drop into the depths. Almost instantly, they heard the unmistakable splosh of a stone entering the water. This is the well, Cadfael said with certainty, but where is the hermit’s cave? It should be nearby.

You search that way, and I’ll take this part.

Neither youth found the entrance to a cave among the rocks. Cadfael, despairing, turned his attention to a crowberry bush. It was laden with juicy, black berries. Avidly, his fingers flew to pick as many as he could, cramming them into his mouth so that deep red juice trickled at the corner of his lips.

Haven’t you anything better to do than stuffing your face? Alun said disparagingly.

You should try them, they’re juicy and sweet, Cadfael’s full-mouthed, muffled reply was defensive.

If you haven’t gobbled them all. Ah, there’s another clump!

Alun began picking the delicious fruit but froze suddenly. As he pulled at a berry, drawing the low bush towards him, he noticed a hole in the ground. Ripping at the well-anchored, stubborn plant, he achieved nothing, so he took his knife and hacked at the plant, throwing soft succulent clumps over his shoulder as he detached them.

What are you doin—? Cadfael stopped short when he saw the hole. Do you think that’s the cave? Here, let me help. He went to the opposite side of the ten-inch shrub and began pulling and hacking. Their combined efforts soon cleared the vegetation from the entrance, and Alun exchanged glances with Cadfael. I’ll go. Myrddin entrusted the mission to me. But I’ll enter feet first!

He sat with his legs In the hole and peered down. With some relief, he saw that the cave wasn’t inky black since there was a hint of light tempering the darkness. It was not enough to tell him how far he would drop if he slid down. Not wishing to break his legs or neck, he shuffled downwards, turning onto his belly. Cadfael saw his head in the opening staring back at him. We should have brought a rope. I don’t know how much of a drop there is. I could break every bone in my body!

I don’t think so, Cadfael reasoned. Dwynwen was a woman, and she couldn’t have lived there if she couldn’t lower herself in. Give me your hands. I’ll let you down; between us, our arms must be five feet long.

It’s worth a try. Alun brought up an arm, and Cadfael, kneeling in front of the entrance, grabbed his companion’s hand.

Now, the other one.

Grunting, he overbalanced with the weight and fell forward, achieving what they wanted. Alun dropped three feet before Cadfael took the strain.

Phew, you weigh more than two sacks of grain!

Alun’s foot scraped against the cave wall. Just a minute, he said. I’ve found a foothold! He put his foot there and pushed upwards, releasing pressure on Cadfael’s burning arms. Let go of my right hand. He ran the hand across the wall in front of his face and located it, another hold. There’s a series of holes in the wall, I think. Let go of my wrist. Balancing his weight carefully, he repeated his search with his left hand and discovered another hole. That’s how Dwynwen got down here. She, or someone else, cut a kind of ladder into the rock. I’m going down."

Careful you don’t slip! The rock will be damp. Remember, I haven’t got a rope if you fall.

Alun didn’t bother to reply, but the warning increased his caution as his free foot sought and found a hold. Now, he had four firm grips as he clung to the rock wall like a giant spider. His left hand was higher than his right, so he lowered it carefully. Sure enough, he found another groove about fifteen inches lower. His admiration for the hermit nun reached new levels. Not only could she live a life of solitude, but she’d had the