"How do you know they won't go running to the sheriff behind our backs?"
"Lord Bran built this monastery," he explained simply. "That is, our Bran gave the money so that it could be built. Asaph was the bishop of Llanelli, the monastery at Caer Cadarn before the Ffreinc took it and drove the monks out and turned the place into a market town.
Asaph accepts the patronage without asking who gives it."
I was not really concerned, but if I'd had any fear of betrayal, meeting Bishop Asaph removed even the most niggly qualm. The man was like one of those saints of old who have churches named after them. White haired and wispy as a willow wand, the old man pranced like a goat as he swept us into the holy precinct of the monastery, arms a-fly, bare heels flashing beneath his long robe, welcoming us even as he berated the porter for leaving us loitering at the gate.
"God's peace, my friends. All grace and mercy upon you. Silidons! It is good to see you again. Brother Ifor, how could you leave our guests standing outside the gate? You should always insist they wait inside. Come in! Come in!"
"Bishop Asaph," said Siarles, "I present to you a friend of mine"- he hesitated a moment, and then said-"by the name of… Goredd." Odo has stopped to scratch his head. He is confused. "Yes," I tell him, "Siarles and Silidons are one and the same. The monks know him as Silidons, see? They know me now as Goredd. Can we get on?"
"Just one question, Will…"
"One?"
"Another question, then. This monastery you speak of in Saint Tewdrigs? Where would that lie, specifically?"
"Why, it lies exactly on the spot where it stands, not a foot's breadth to the north nor to the south."
Odo frowns. "I mean to say it sounds a pagan name. Would you know the French?"
I let my temper flare at him. "No-I would not! If the Ffreinc will insist on renaming every village and settlement willy-nilly, it is unreasonable of them to expect honest men such as myself to commit them all to memory and recite them at the drop of a hat! If your good abbot wishes to visit the place, I suggest that he begin further enquiries in hell!"
Odo listens to this with a hurt, doglike expression. As I finish, his hurt gives way to wryness. "Honest men such as you?" he asks.
"There is more honesty in me than there is in a gaggle of Norman noblemen, let us not be mistaken."
Odo shrugs and dips his quill. After allowing me to cool for a moment, he repeats the last line written, and we trudge on… Long robes flapping around his spindly shanks, the old bishop led us across the yard. For all his joy at seeing us, a doleful mood seemed to rest heavy on the place, and I wondered about it.
The brother stabler took our horses away to be fed and watered, and the bishop himself prepared our rooms, which, I believe, had never been used. They were spare and smelled of whitewash, and the beds were piled with thick new fleeces. "I see they don't get many visitors," I observed to Siarles when Asaph had gone.
"The monastery is new still," he allowed, "and since the Ffreinc came to Elfael not many people travel this way anymore."
One of the brothers brought a basin of water and some soap for us to wash away the last few days of travel. Siarles and I took turns splashing our faces and rinsing our hands in the basin before joining the bishop for refreshment in his quarters above the building they called a refectory.
"We eat a meal after evening prayers," Asaph informed us, "but travel is hungry work." He stretched a hand towards the table that had been prepared for us. "So please, my friends, take a little something to keep body and soul together until then."
We thanked him and filled our wooden bowls from the fare on offer: boiled eggs and sliced sheep's cheese and cold mutton. There was some thin ale-no doubt the best they had-and fresh buttermilk. We sat down to eat, and the bishop drew his chair near the table. "You must tell me the news," he said, his tone almost pitiful. "How does our benefactor fare?"
"Never better," Siarles answered. "He looks forward to the day when he can visit you himself. And he sends me with this token of his earnest goodwill for your work here." With that, Siarles produced a small leather bag of coins from his purse, and placed it on the table before the cleric.
The bishop smiled and, thanking God and us both, opened the bag and poured out a handful of silver pennies. "Tell your lord that this will go far towards easing the burden of the poor hereabouts. The Ffreinc press everyone so very hard…" Here he faltered and looked away.
"Father?" I said. "You look like a fella who has just bit his tongue rather than speak his mind. Why not tell us what is wrong?"
"Things are bad just now-worse than ever before."
"Indeed?" asked Siarles. "What has happened?"
Asaph tried to talk, but could not. Siarles passed him a cup of the watery ale, and said, "Drink some of that down and maybe it will help loosen the words."
He drank and placed the cup carefully on the table before him as if he was afraid it might shatter. "I do not know how it came about," he said when he had found his voice again, "but something of great value to the count has gone missing. They are saying it was stolen by the creature called King Raven."
"We have heard of this," I told him, to encourage him and keep him talking now that he had begun. "What has the count done?"
"He has taken prisoners-men and boys-pulling them out of their beds in the dead of night. A decree has gone out. He says he will start hanging them on Twelfth Night…"
"The great steaming pile!" exclaimed Siarles.
The bishop turned large, sad eyes on us. "One man or boy each day at sunset until what was stolen is returned. That is what Count de Braose has said. How this will end, God only knows."
So that was it. When their attempt to burn us out failed, the cowardly Ffreinc turned to those unable to defend themselves. "How many?" I asked. "How many has he taken?"
"I don't know," said the bishop. "Fifty or sixty, they say." The ageing cleric drew both hands down his face and shook his head in despair. "God help us," he murmured.
"You know what they say," Siarles told him. "King Raven only takes back what was stolen in the first place. No doubt it is the same with whatever was taken this time…" What is that, Odo? Did the old bishop know that King Raven was his mysterious benefactor?" I give him a fishy smile. "Do I look such a fool that you think you can trap me so easily? Think again, my scribbling friend. Will cannot be drawn." I regard him with his smooth-shaved pate and his ink-stained fingers. "What do you think?"
"I think he must have known," Odo says. "A man knows whose largess keeps him."
"Does he now?" I crow. "Do you know who keeps you, monk?"
"God keeps me," replies the monk, his sanctimony nigh insufferable.
"Ha! It's Abbot Hugo keeps you, priest-and you're as much a captive as Will Scarlet ever was. Hugo owns you as much as he owns the food you put in your mouth and the bed you sleep in at night-don't think he doesn't. See here, our Bishop Asaph is not a stupid man. Only a right fool would pry into things that could bring ruin if all was known."
"Then he is a sinner," concludes Odo loftily.
"A sinner," I repeat. "How so?"
"Receiving the benefit of money acquired by theft makes a thief of any who accept it."
"Is that right?" I say. "Is that what they teach in the monkery?"
"It is." Oh, he is so smug in his righteousness, sometimes I want to throttle him with the belt around his sagging middle.
"Well," I allow, "you may be right. But tell me which is the greater theft-stealing a man's purse, or his homeland?"
"Stealing is stealing," he replies smoothly. "It is all the same in God's eyes."
"God's eyes! I will give you God's eyes, Odo! Get out! We are finished. I will speak no more today." He looks at me with a hurt expression. "Out with you," I roar. "Leave me."
He rises slowly and blows on the parchment and rolls it. "You take offence where none was offered," he sniffs. "I merely point out the church's position in the matter of theft, which-as we all know, is a mortal sin."
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"Well and good, but this is war, you scurvy toad. And war makes thieves of all good men who would oppose the cruel invader."
"There is no war," declares my weak-eyed scribe. His sanctimony is boundless. "There is only rebellion to the established rule."
"Out!" I cry, and pick up a handful of mouldy straw from the damp floor of my cell. I fling the clump at him. "Out! And do not come back."
He turns to go, showing as much haste as I have ever seen in him. But at the door he hesitates. "If I do not return, the hangman comes the sooner."
"Let him come!" I shout. "I welcome him. I would rather listen to him raising his gibbet than you telling me about the established rule. For the love of the Holy Virgin, Odo! It is a rule established in blood on a stolen throne. So now! Who is the saint and who the sinner?"
He ducks his head as he steps through the ironclad door of my cell and slinks away into the darkness. I lie back and close my eyes. Sweet Lord Jesus, I pray, let my enemies kill me, or set me free!
CHAPTER 20
Odo has not come today, and I begin to think that he has taken me at my word. Perhaps he has gone to our false abbot with my rantings and Hugo has decided to be done with me at last. If Odo does not come tomorrow, I will send for him and make my shrift. A lame piece of priesthood he may be, but in truth I do not trust anyone else in this nest of vipers to hear my confession. Odo can do that, at least, and though he riles me no end, I know he will see me right.
I hear from my keeper, Gulbert-or is it Gibbert?-that the wet weather has passed and the sun has returned. This is good news. It may be that my damp pit will dry out a little-not that ol'Will plans to wear out the world much longer. Even without my bone-headed outburst, the abbot's patience must be growing thin as his mercy. From all accounts, he was never a fella to suffer long to begin with.
So now, my execution day must be drawing nigh.
But, what is this?
There is a muffled scrabbling in the corridor beyond my cell… hushed voices… and then the familiar slow, shuffling footfall.
"Good day,Will Scarlet," says Odo as he appears at the door. "God with you." His voice is that much strained as if addressing a stroppy stranger.
"This day is almost done, my friend," I say to put him at ease. Well, he is the closest thing to a friend I have in this forsaken place. "I'll say good evening and God bless."
He makes no move to open the door, but stands in the narrow stone corridor. "Are you coming in, then?" I ask.
"No, it will be dark soon, and I could not get any candles."
"I see."
"The abbot does not know I am here. He has forbidden me to listen to you."
"He has had enough of my ravings and ramblings, I suppose."
"Oh, no," Odo is quick to assure me, "it is that he has gone and does not want me talking to you while he is away."
"Gone? Where has he gone?"
"I am not to say," Odo replied, but continued anyway. "There is an envoy from Rome visiting some of the towns hereabouts-a Spaniard, a Father Dominic. Abbot wishes him to visit, so he has ridden out to find him."
"I see." I suck my teeth and give him a shrug to show I will not try to pry any more out of him. "Well, then…"
Odo bites his lip. He has something more to tell me, but cannot yet trust himself to speak. So I fish a little and see if I can tickle him into my net. "How long will the abbot be away?"
"I cannot say, my lord," says Odo, and I smile. He does not know what he has said yet. Give him time.
He blushes as it comes to him. "Will, I mean…"
I chuckle at his small mistake. He has begun to think of me as a nobleman, and his superior. "No harm, monk," I tell him.
"It is just that there are a few things I do not understand."
"Only a few?" I laugh. "Then you are a better man than I."
"In your story, I mean."
"It is not a story, Odo," I tell him. "It is a man's life-I'm telling my life. And we both know how it's going to end. See you remember that."
He looks at me, blinking his big, soft eyes. "Well, the abbot has said we are not to pursue our tale any further just now."
"Ah, I see."
"So, I should be on my way." He stands flat-footed and hunched in the cramped corridor.
He says he cannot stay, and yet he will not leave. Something holds him here.
"Well, perhaps," I suggest lightly, "the abbot would not mind if you spent a little time stalking the understanding that eludes you. It is for the abbot's benefit, after all."
Odo brightens at once. "Do you think so?"
"Oh, aye. Who else cares about the ravings of a wild outlaw?"
"This is exactly what I was thinking," says he. "It would do no harm to clarify a few of the details-clear up any misunderstandings for the abbot's benefit."
"For the abbot's benefit, of course."
Odo nods, making a firm decision for once in his soft pudding of a life. "Good. I will come tomorrow." Then he smiles; pleased with himself and revelling in this milk-mild defiance. He turns to go, but lingers. "God's peace this night, Will."
"And also with you," I reply as off he scuttles.
There may be hope for Odo yet, please God.
Although the ending is in sight, there is, of course, much more of this tale, this life, to be told. How I came to be in this pinch, for one-but I will not tell this to Odo. Not yet. Distraction may be my best weapon just now-indeed, my only weapon. I must distract our ambitious abbot as long as I can to buy King Raven time to work and achieve his purpose. And it is all to do with that blasted ring and infernal letter.
Job's bones! I would not be here now if not for that stupid, bloody treasure. It will be the death of me, beyond a doubt. Truth be told, I fear it will be the death of many before this dreadful tale is done.
CHAPTER 21
Vale of Elfael
Marshal Guy de Gysburne leaned against the freshly daubed wall of Saint Martin's new tax house, and took in his first sight of the latest arrivals sparring at the edge of the square. Seven soldiers-three knights and four men-at-arms-they were the first muster of Abbot Hugo's personal army. Arguing that no abbot worthy of the name could long exist without a bodyguard to protect him as he performed his sacred office in a blighted wilderness full of hostile and bloodthirsty barbarians, Abbot Hugo had prevailed upon Baron de Braose to send troops for his protection and, Gysburne had no doubt, prestige. Indeed, the abbot seemed determined to create his own fiefdom within Elfael, right under de Braose's long, aristocratic nose.
Having arrived while Gysburne was away visiting his father in the north country, the seven newcomers had spent the last few days practising and idling in the town's market square. As Sir Guy watched them now, he found little to dislike. Though they were young men, judging from the way each deftly lunged and parried all were skilled in their weapons. Guy supposed that they had received their training in Aquitaine or Angevin before being recruited to join the baron's forces. Indeed, they reminded him of himself only a few short years ago: keen as the steel in their hands for a chance to prove themselves and win advancement in the baron's favour, not to mention increased fortune for themselves.
All the same, it would have surprised Guy if any of the newcomers had ever drawn human blood with their painstakingly oiled and sharpened blades, much less fought in a battle.
God willing, that would come. Just now, however, it was time to make the acquaintance of his new army. On a whim, Guy decided to take them hunting; a day in the saddle would give him a chance to see what manner of men they were, and it would do the fresh soldiers good to learn something of the territory that was their new home.
He walked out to meet his men in the square.
"To me!" he called, using the rally cry of the commander in the field. The soldiers stopped their practice and turned to see the lanky, fair-haired marshal striding across the square.
"Lord Gysburne!" shouted one of the knights to his fellows. "Put up! Lord Gysburne has returned."
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The others stopped their swordplay and drew together to meet their commander. "At your service, Lord," said the foremost knight, a bull-necked, broad-shouldered youth who, like the others, had the thick wrists and slightly bowed legs of one who has spent most of his short life on the back of a horse, with a sword in his hand. The others, Guy noted, seemed to defer to him as leader of the band and spokesman.
"The sergeant said you were away," the young knight explained. "I thought best to keep our blades busy until you returned." He smiled, the sun lighting his blue eyes. "Jocelin de Turquetil at your service."
"My best regards, Jocelin," replied Guy. "And to you all," he said, turning to the others. "Welcome to Elfael. Now then, if any of the rest of you have names, let's hear them."
They proceeded to introduce themselves around the ring: Alard, Osbert,Warin, Ernald, Baldwin, and Hamo. They spoke with the easy exuberance of men for whom the day held only possibilities, never disappointment. As Guy had surmised, two came from Angevin and three from the baron's lands in Aquitaine; the others had been born in England, but raised in Normandie. This was their first sojourn in Wallia, but all had heard of the ferocity of the native Britons and were eager to try their strength at arms against them.
Sergeant Jeremias appeared in the yard just then and, seeing the marshal, hurried to greet him. "God be good to you, my lord. We've been expecting you these last days. I trust you had a peaceful journey."
"Entirely uneventful," replied Guy.
"And your father is well?"
"He thrives." Regarding the soldiers gathered around him, he said, "It seems our ranks have grown in my absence."
"As you see, Lord Marshal," agreed Jeremias. "And, if I may say so, they are second to none. The abbot is well pleased."
"Then who am I to disagree with the abbot?" remarked Guy, and ordered his new cohort to saddle their horses and prepare for a day's hunting. The soldiers hurried off to ready their mounts, leaving the marshal and sergeant in the yard.
"See all is ready," instructed Guy. "I must go inform the abbot that I have returned."
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