Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
Saint Martin’s
R
ichard de Glanville sat at table with a knife in one hand and a falcon on the other. With the knife he hacked off chunks of meat from the carcase before him, which he fed to the fledgling gyrfalcon—one of two birds the sheriff kept. He had heard from Abbot Hugo that falconry was much admired in the French court now that King Philip owned birds. De Glanville had decided, in the interest of his own advancement, to involve himself in this sport as well. It suited him. There was much in his nature like a preying bird; he imagined he understood the hawks, and they understood him.
The day, newly begun, held great promise. The miserable wet weather of the week gone had blown away at last, leaving the sky clean scoured and fresh. A most impressive gallows had been erected in the town square in front of the stable, and since there had been no communication on the part of the thieves who had stolen the abbot’s goods, all things considered it was a fine day for a hanging.
He flipped a piece of mutton to the young bird and thought, not for the first time in the last few days, how to direct the executions for best effect. He had made up his mind that he would begin with three. Since it was a holy day there was a symbolic symmetry in the number three and, anyway, more than that would certainly draw the disapproval of the church. Count Falkes De Braose insisted on waiting until sundown rather than sunrise, as the sheriff would have preferred, but that was a mere trifle. The count clung doggedly to the belief that the threat of the hangings would yet bring results; he wanted to give the thieves as much time as possible to return the stolen treasure. In this, the sheriff and count differed. The sheriff held no such delusions that the thieves would give up the goods. Even so, just on the wild chance that the rogues were foolish enough to appear with the treasure, he had arranged a special reception for them. If they came—and somewhere in the sheriff ’s dark heart he half hoped they would ride into Saint Martin’s with the treasure—none of them would leave the square alive.
When he finished feeding the hawk, he replaced it on its perch and, drawing on his riding boots, threw a cloak over his shoulder and went out to visit his prisoners. Though the stink of the pit had long since become nauseating, he still performed this little daily ritual. To be sure, he wanted the wretches in the pit to know well who it was that held their lives in his hands. But the visits had another, more practical purpose. If, as the death day lurched ever nearer, any of the prisoners suddenly remembered the whereabouts of the outlaw known as King Raven, Sheriff de Glanville wanted to be there to hear it.
He hurried across the near-empty square. It was early yet, and few people were about to greet the blustery dawn. He let himself into the guardhouse and paused at the entrance to the underground gaol where, after waking the drowsy keeper, he poured a little water on the hem of his cloak. Holding that to his nose, he descended the few steps and proceeded along the single narrow corridor to the end, pausing only to see if anyone had died in either of the two smaller cells he passed along the way. The largest cell of the three lay at the end of the low corridor, and though it had been constructed to hold as many as a dozen men, it now held more than thirty. There was not enough room to lie down to sleep, so the prisoners took turns through the day and night; some, it was said, had learned to sleep on their feet, like horses.
At first sight of the sheriff, one of the Welsh prisoners let out a shout and instantly raised a great commotion, as every man and boy began crying for release. The sheriff stood in the dank corridor, the edge of his cloak pressed to his face, and patiently waited until they had exhausted their outcry. When the hubbub had died down once more—it took less time each day—the sheriff addressed them, using the few words of Welsh that he knew. “Rhi Bran y Hud,” he said, speaking slowly so that they would understand. “Who knows him? Tell me and walk free.”
It was the same small speech he made every day, and each time produced the same result: a tense and resentful silence. When the sheriff finally tired of waiting, he turned and walked away to a renewed chorus of shouting and wailing the moment his back was turned.
They were a stubborn crowd, but de Glanville thought he could detect a slight wearing down of their resolve. Soon, he believed, one of his captives would break ranks with the others and would tell him what he wanted to know. After a few of them had hanged, the rest would find it increasingly difficult to hold their tongues.
It was, he considered, only a matter of time.
The sheriff did not care a whit about retrieving Abbot Hugo’s stolen goods, despite what Hugo told him about the importance of the letter. It was the capture of King Raven he desired, and nothing short of King Raven would satisfy.
After his morning visit to the gaol, the sheriff returned to the upper rooms of the guardhouse to visit the soldiers and speak with the marshal to make certain that all was in order for the executions. It was Twelfth Night and a festal day, and the town would be lively with trade and celebration. Sheriff de Glanville had not risen to his position by leaving details to chance.
He found Guy de Gysburne drinking wine with his sergeant. “De Glanville!” called Guy as the sheriff strolled into the guardhouse. A fire burned low in the grate, and several soldiers lolled half-asleep on the benches where they had spent the night. Empty cups lined the table and lay on the floor.
“Une santé vous, Shérif!”
Gysburne cried, raising his cup. “Join us!”
As the sheriff took a seat on the bench, the marshal poured wine into an empty cup and pressed it into de Glanville’s hands. They drank, and the sheriff replaced his cup after only a mouthful, saying, “I will expect you and your men to be battle-sharp today.”
“But of course,” replied Guy carelessly. “You cannot think there will be any trouble?” When the sheriff did not reply, he adopted a cajoling tone. “Come, de Glanville, the rogues would never dare show their faces in town.”
“I bow to your superior wisdom, Lord Marshal,” he replied, his voice dripping honey. “I myself find it difficult to forget that a little less than a fortnight ago we lost an entire company of good men to these outlaws.”
Guy frowned. “Nor have I forgotten, Sheriff,” he said stiffly. “I merely see nothing to be gained by wallowing in the memory. Then again,” he added, taking another swig of wine, “if it was my plan that had failed so miserably, perhaps I would be wallowing, too.”
“Bâtard,”
muttered de Glanville. “You’re rotten drunk.” He glared at the marshal and then at the sergeant. “You have until sundown to get sober. When you do, I will look for your apology.”
Marshal Guy mouthed a curse and took another drink. The sheriff rose, turned on his heel, and strode from the room. “There was never but one
bâtard
in this room, Jeremias,” he muttered, “and he is gone now, thank God.”
“I thought I smelled something foul,” remarked Sergeant Jeremias, and both men fell into a fit of laughter.
In truth, however, the sheriff was right: they were very drunk. They had been drinking most nights since that disastrous Christmas raid. Most nights they, along with the rest of the soldiers in the abbot’s private force, succeeded in submerging themselves in a wine-soaked stupor to forget the horror of that dreadful Christmas night. Alas, it was a doomed effort, for with the dawn the dead came back to haunt them afresh.
Upon leaving the guardhouse, the bell in the church tower rang to announce the beginning of Mass. The sheriff walked across the square to the church, pushed open the door, and entered the dim, damp darkness of the sanctuary. A few half-burnt candles fluttered in sconces on the walls and pillars, and fog drifted over the mist-slick stones underfoot. De Glanville made his way down the empty aisle to take his place before the altar with the scant handful of worshippers. As he expected, one of the monks was performing the holy service, his voice droning in the hollow silence of the near-empty cave of the church; the abbot was nowhere to be seen.
He watched as the Mass moved through its measured paces to its ordained finish and, with the priest’s benediction ringing in his ears, left the church feeling calm and pleasantly disposed towards the world. There were more people about now. A few merchants were erecting their stalls, and some of the villagers carried wood for the bonfire which would be lit in the centre of the square. He stood for a moment, watching the town begin to fill up, then looked to the sky. The sun was bright, but there were dark clouds forming in the west.
There was nothing he could do about that, so he hurried on, pausing now and again to receive the best regards of the townsfolk as he progressed across the muddy expanse, visiting some of the stalls along the way. There were a few provisions he needed to procure for his own Twelfth Night celebration. Odd: he was always ravenously hungry following a public execution.
He spent the rest of the morning going over the preparations with his men. There were but four of them now—the others had been killed in the raid—and de Glanville was concerned about the survivors falling into melancholy. They had been caught off guard in the forest, for which the sheriff took the blame; he had not anticipated the speed with which the outlaws had struck, nor the devastating power of their primitive weapons. Tonight’s executions would provide some redress, he was sure, and remove some of the lingering pain from the beating they had taken.
When he had determined that all was in order, the sheriff returned to his quarters for a meal and a nap. He ate and slept well, if lightly, and rose again late in the day to find that the sun had begun its descent in the west and the threatened storm was advancing apace. It would be a snowy Twelfth Night. He buckled his sword belt, drew on his cloak and gloves, and returned to the town square, which was now filled with people. Torches were being lit, and the bonfire was already ablaze. Judging from the sound alone, most had already begun their celebrations. Spirits were high, with song and the stink of singed hair in the air; someone had thrown a dead dog onto the bonfire, he noted with distaste. It was an old superstition, and one he particularly disliked.
He proceeded across the crowded square to the guardhouse to deliver final instructions to the marshal and his men. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a group of travelling merchants setting out their wares. The fools! The feast about to begin and here they were, arriving when everyone else was finishing for the day and making ready to celebrate. Two women he had never seen before lingered nearby, attracted, no doubt, by the possibility of a bargain from traders desperate to make at least one sale before the hangings began.
At the guardhouse, he delivered his message to the sergeant, who seemed sober enough now. That done, he proceeded to the abbot’s quarters to share a cup of wine while waiting for the evening’s festivities to begin. “So!” said Abbot Hugo as de Glanville stepped into the room. “Gysburne came to see me. He doesn’t like you very much.”
“No,” conceded the sheriff, “but if he would learn to follow simple commands, we might yet achieve a modicum of mutual accord.”
“Mutual accord—ha!” Abbot Hugo snorted. “You don’t like him, either.” He splashed wine into a pewter goblet and pushed it across the board towards de Glanville. “Personally, I do not care how you two get on, but you might at least accord me the respect of asking my permission before you begin ordering around my soldiers as if they were your own.”
“You are right, of course, Abbot. I do beg your pardon. However, I would merely remind you that I am aiding your purpose, not the other way around—and with the king’s authority. I require things to be done properly, and the marshal has been lax of late.”
“Tut!” The abbot fanned the air in front of his face, and frowned as if he smelled something rancid. “You pretty birds get your feathers ruffled and pretend you have been ill used. Drink your wine, de Glanville, and put these petty differences behind you.”
They began to discuss the evening’s arrangements when the porter interrupted to announce the arrival of Count Falkes, who appeared a moment later wrapped head to heel in a cloak of double thickness, thin face red after the ride from his castle, his pale hair in wind-tossed disarray. In all, he gave the impression of a lost and anxious child. The abbot greeted his guest and poured him a cup of wine, saying, “The sheriff and I were just speaking about the special entertainment.”
An expression of resigned disappointment flitted across Count Falkes’s narrow features. “Then you think there is no hope?”
“That the stolen items will be returned?” countered the sheriff. “Oh, there is hope, yes. But I think we must stretch a few British necks first. Once they learn that we are in deadly earnest, they will be only too eager to return the goods.” The sheriff smiled cannily and sipped his wine. “I still do not know what was in those stolen chests that is so important to you.”
Abbot Hugo saw Falkes open his mouth to reply, and hastily explained, “That, I think, is for the baron to answer. The count and I have been sworn to secrecy.”
The sheriff pursed his lips, thinking. “Something the baron would prefer to remain hidden—a matter of life and death, perhaps.”
“Trust that it is so,” offered the count. “Even if it were not at first, it is now. We have
you
to thank for that.”
The sheriff, quick to discern disapproval, stiffened. “I did what I thought necessary under the circumstances. In fact, if I had not anticipated the wagons, we would not have had any chance of catching King Raven at all.”
“You still maintain that it was the phantom.”
“He is no phantom,” declared the sheriff. “He is flesh and blood, whatever else he may be. Once word reaches him that we have hung three of his countrymen, he’ll be only too eager to return the baron’s treasure.”
“Three?” wondered the count. “Did you say three? I thought we had agreed to execute only one each day.”
“Yes, well,” answered de Glanville with a haughty and dismissive flick of his head, “I thought better to start with three tonight—it will instil a greater urgency.”