Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“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 . . .”
W
hat 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.”
“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!
O
do 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.
Vale of Elfael
M
arshal 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.”
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 Turquétil 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.”
“Ah,” said the sergeant, “no need. He is away and not expected back before Saint Vincent’s Day.”
“Well, then, we will just have to struggle on as best we can,” said Guy, his heart lifting at the thought of not having to pay court to the abbot for a spell. Truth be told, he did not care much for Abbot Hugo—Guy respected him, and obeyed him, and had vowed to serve him to the best of his ability . . . but he did not like the arrogance, vanity, and ever-more-insistent demands that were becoming a burden.
He owed Hugo a great deal for taking his part and saving him following that first disastrous encounter with King Raven—as the abbot was ever swift to point out. The baron would have had the young marshal horsewhipped and driven from his ranks if not for Hugo’s intervention. Guy knew it was not out of sympathy or compassion for himself that the power-grasping cleric had acted but, as with the newly acquired soldiers, it was all part of a carefully devised scheme to gain a force of men who answered to no one but Abbot Hugo alone.
Guy, the abbot’s commander, was liking the circumstances of his service less and less. In fact, the reason for braving the cold journey to the North Riding was to see if there might be some place for him in his father’s retinue. Sadly, the state of affairs that had sent him south and forced him to link his fortunes with Baron de Braose remained unaltered. There was no living to be had in the north and, as he had long ago discovered, it was too far away from the dance of power and influence attending the king and his court—which was the only hope of the landless lord for advancement, or even a living.
Marshal Guy de Gysburne still needed the abbot because he still needed the baron and ultimately the king. But he was determined that when a better situation presented itself, he would not hesitate to seize it. For now, however, the prospect of commanding a new company of men was an agreeable development and one he determined to bend to his own advantage.
After taking a few mouthfuls of wine and some bread, the knights mounted their horses and rode out, striking north from the town towards the shaggy hills and great encircling arms of the forest. The day was brisk and the sky speckled with grey-edged clouds which passed as shadows over the smooth green snow-spattered hillsides before them. The soldiers, glad for a chance to explore the unfamiliar territory of their new home, galloped through the long grass, exulting in the strength of the horses beneath them.
They reached the edge of the forest, found the entrance to a game run, and entered the long, dim, tree-lined tunnel. The path was wide and they rode easily along, each with a spear ready in case they caught a glimpse of a stag or doe, or some other creature to give them a good chase. But, though they followed the trail as it coursed deeper into the heart of the greenwood, the would-be hunters found nothing worthy of their sport, and as the day began to wane, Guy signalled to Jocelin, riding ahead, that it was time to turn toward home.
Loath to come away without bloodying his spear, Jocelin suggested, “My lord, let us ride on to the top of the ridge just there. If we haven’t found any fresh tracks by then, we will turn back.”
“The trail is cold today,” Guy replied, “and I am getting hungry. Leave it,” he said, turning his mount to begin the ride back, “and save a stag or two for another day.”
The soldiers followed reluctantly, and as soon as they had quit the forest once more, the ride became a race. Letting their horses have their heads, they flew over the low hills towards the low-sinking sun. Guy, unwilling to restrain their high spirits any longer, let them go.
“Shall I call them back?” asked Jeremias, reining in beside the marshal as the last of the soldiers disappeared over the crest of the hill.
“No, Sergeant, it would serve no purpose,” Guy answered. “They will have their ride and feel better for it.”
The two proceeded at an easy trot until, reaching the place where they had seen the last rider, they heard shouts and cries echoing up from the valley below. Little more than a crease between two slopes, the valley angled away towards the south and east, broadening slightly before ending in a rocky outcrop. There, in the centre of this close-set defile, was a Welsh herdsman with his cattle.
The soldiers had the man and his few forlorn beasts surrounded and were attempting to separate them from each other. Darting this way and that, their horses wheeling and plunging, they charged and charged again as the frantic Welshman tried to keep his frightened cows together.
As Marshal Guy and his sergeant watched, one of the terrified animals broke from the herd and ran bawling along the valley floor. Jocelin gave out a wild whoop and set out after the beast. He quickly closed on his quarry and, with a quick thrust of his lance, drove the spearhead into the cow’s side. The poor creature bellowed the more as the soldier speared it again, and yet again.
The cow crashed to its knees and, still bawling, rolled onto its side as the soldier galloped past. Wheeling his mount, the knight returned to deliver the killing blow with a quick thrust between the dying cow’s ribs and into its heart.
Seeing this was all the fun to be had, the other knights followed their comrade’s example. Ignoring the shouts and cries of the herdsman, the Ffreinc soldiers quickly cut another cow from the herd and drove it screaming down the valley to its eventual slaughter. The third, a young bullock, gave a good account of itself, turning on its attacker and raking its horns along the pursuing horse’s flanks and causing the soldier to abandon the saddle before being killed where it stood by the uninjured but angry knight.
“I shall stop this, my lord, before it goes too far,” said Jeremias as a fourth cow was cut out and just as swiftly slaughtered. He lifted the reins and made to ride on.
“Hold,” said Guy, putting out a hand to restrain him. “There is little enough harm in it, and they are almost finished. It is the only sport they’ve had since they came out here.”
The herdsman, beside himself at what was happening to his cattle, happened to glimpse the marshal and sergeant watching from the hilltop and decided to take his appeal to them. He started up the slope, shouting and waving his arms to be recognized. One of the Ffreinc knights saw the farmer starting away and rode him down. The Welshman tried to evade his pursuer, but the knight was quicker. Turning his spear butt first, he struck the fleeing herdsman from behind, knocking him to the ground, where he squirmed in pain until the knight gave him a solid thump on the head and he lay still.
When the last animal had been slaughtered, Lord Guy rode down to join his troops.
“Bon chance,”
he said, regarding the carnage: seven head of cattle lay dead on the valley floor, along with a stunned herdsman who was holding his head and moaning gently. “It would seem our hunt has provisioned a feast after all. Jeremias, you and the men gut that young bullock and we’ll take it back with us.” He pointed to another young animal, “And that heifer as well. I’ll ride ahead and tell the cook to prepare the roasting pit. We will eat good Welsh beef tonight.”
Jeremias looked around at the dead cattle and their wounded herdsman. “What about the Welshman, my lord?”
“What about him?”
“He might make trouble.”
“He is in no condition to make trouble.”
“That never seems to stop them, my lord.”
“If he persists, then I am certain you will deal with him accordingly.” Marshal Guy turned and rode back up the hillside, leaving his sergeant and men to their work.
Later, Gysburne sat on a stump behind the abbey cookhouse watching the bullock turn slowly on the spit while the cook and kitchener’s boy basted the roasting meat with juices from the basin nestled in the glowing embers below the carcase. The smell of the meat filled the air and made his mouth water. He lifted his jar and drank down another healthy draught of new ale. Yes, he thought, at times like this he could almost forget that he was stranded in a backward no-account province awaiting the pleasure of the abbot to advance or deny him.
Although it might have been the ale making him feel benevolent and expansive, Guy considered that, despite his frustration and disappointment, perhaps life in the March was not so bad after all.
At that moment, if only then—as the blue winter twilight deepened across the Vale of Elfael and the voices of the knights chorused rough laughter beneath the glow of a rising moon—that was true.