Scarlet (20 page)

“Now, see here!” objected the count. “I must rule these people. It is difficult enough without you—”

“Me! We would not be in this quagmire if you had—”

“Peace! There is enough blame for all to enjoy a healthy share,” said the abbot, breaking in. Holding the wine jar, he refreshed the cups. “I, for one, find this continual acrimony as tiresome as it is futile.” Turning to Falkes, he said, “Sheriff de Glanville has responsibility for controlling the forest outlaws. Why not trust him to effect the return of our goods in his own way?”

The count finished his wine in a gulp and took his leave. “I must see to my men,” he said.

“A good idea, Count,” said Abbot Hugo. Turning to the sheriff, he said, “You must also have much to do. I have kept you from your business long enough.”

In the square outside, Gulbert, the gaoler, had assembled the prisoners—sixty men and boys in all—at the foot of the gallows. They were chained together and stood in the cold, most of them without cloaks or even shoes, their heads bowed—some in prayer, some in despair. Marshal Guy de Gysburne, leading his company of soldiers, established a cordon line to surround the miserable group and keep any from escaping—as if that were possible—but also to keep townspeople from interfering with the proceedings in any way. A few of the wives and mothers of the Cymry captives had come to plead for the release of their sons or husbands, and Sheriff de Glanville had given orders that no one was to have even so much as a word with any of the prisoners. Guy, nursing a bad headache, wanted no trouble this night.

To a man, the Ffreinc knights were helmed and dressed in mail; each carried a shield and either a lance or naked sword; and though none were expecting any resistance, all were ready to fight. Count Falkes had brought a dozen men-at-arms, and these all carried torches; additional torches had been given to the townsfolk, and two large iron braziers set up on either side of the gallows—along with the bonfire—bathed the square in a lurid light.

The mostly Ffreinc population of Saint Martin’s had gathered for the Twelfth Night spectacle, along with the residents of Castle Truan and the merchants who had traded in town that day. Abbot Hugo appeared, dazzling in his white satin robe and scarlet cloak; two monks walked before him—one carrying a crosier, the other a gilt cross on a pole. Fifteen monks followed, each carrying a torch. The crowd shifted to accommodate the clerics.

Richard de Glanville, Sheriff of the March, stepped up onto the raised platform of the gallows. An expectant hush swept through the crowd. “In accordance with the Rule of the March, and under authority of King William of England,” he called, his voice loud in the silence of fluttering torches, “we are come to witness this lawful execution. Let it be known to one and all, here and henceforth, that refusal to aid in the capture of the outlaw known as King Raven and his company of thieves will be considered treason towards the crown, for which the punishment is death.”

The sheriff glanced up as the wind gusted, bringing the first frigid splash of the promised rain. He took a last look around the square—at the bonfire, the torches, the soldiers armed and ready, the close-gathered crowd. It occurred to him to wonder what had become of those late-arriving merchants, who seemed to have disappeared. Finally, satisfied that all was as it should be, de Glanville gave the order to proceed. Stepping to the edge of the platform, he turned his gaze upon the cringing victims. None dared raise their heads or glance up to meet his eye, for fear of being the one singled out.

He raised his hand and pointed to an old man who stood shivering in a thin shirt. Two soldiers seized the man and, as they were removing the wretch’s shackles, the sheriff ’s finger came to rest over another. “Him, too,” said the sheriff.

This victim, shocked that he should have been chosen as well, gave out a shout and began struggling with the soldiers as they removed his chains. The man was quickly beaten into submission and dragged to the platform.

One more. From among the younger captives, de Glanville chose a boy of ten or twelve years. “Bring him.” The youngster, dazed by his captivity, was too brutalized to put up a fight, but some of the men nearest him began pleading with their captors, offering to take the lad’s place. Their desperate protests went unheeded by soldiers who did not speak Welsh, and did not care anyway.

Excitement fluttered through the crowd as the captives were dragged onto the platform and the spectators realized they would be feted to three hangings this night.

Ropes were produced and the ends snaked over the strong beam of the gallows arm; sturdy nooses were looped around the necks of the three Cymry—one old, one young, and one in his prime—whose only real crime under heaven was having been captured by the Normans.

As the nooses were being tightened, there came a shout from the crowd. “Wait! Stop the execution!”

Those gathered in the square, Ffreinc and Welsh alike, heard the cry in priestly Latin and, upon turning towards the commotion, saw a company of monks in dull grey robes pushing their way through the throng to the front of the gallows. “Stop! Release these men!”

The sheriff, his interest piqued, called for the crowd to let them through. “Dare you interrupt the execution of the law?” he asked as they came to stand before him. “Who are you?”

“I am Abbot Daffyd of Saint Dyfrig’s near Glascwm!” he called in a loud voice. “And I have brought the ransom you require.”

The sheriff cast a quick glance at Abbot Hugo, whose plump round face showed, for once, plain wide-eyed astonishment. On the ground, Count Falkes shoved his way towards the newly arrived monks. “Where is it?” he demanded. “Let us see it.”

“It is here, Lord Count,” said Daffyd, his face glistening with sweat from the frantic scramble to reach the town. “Praise Jesu, we have come in time.” He turned to one of the priests behind him and took possession of a small wooden box, which he passed to the count. “Inside this casket, you will find the items which were stolen from you.”

“Here! Here!” cried Abbot Hugo. “Make way!” He pushed through the crowd to the count’s side. “Let me see that.”

Seizing the chest from the count’s hands, he opened the lid and peered inside. “God in heaven!” he gasped, withdrawing the gloves. He took out the leather bag and, shoving the casket into the count’s hands, fumbled at the strings of the bag, opened it, and shook the heavy gold ring into his hand. “I don’t believe it.”

“The ring!” said the count. Looking up sharply, he said, “Where did you get this?”

“These are the things that were stolen in the forest raid at Christ-tide, yes?” Daffyd asked.

“They are,” confirmed Count Falkes. “I ask again, where did you get them?”

“With God and the whole Assembly of Heaven bearing witness, I went to the chapel for prayers this morning, and the box was on the altar. When it was left there, no one knows. We saw no one.” Raising his arm, the Welsh abbot pointed to the gallows. “Seeing that the goods have been returned and accepted, I beg the release of all prisoners.”

For the benefit of the Cymry hovering at the edges of the crowd, he repeated his request in Gaelic; this brought a cheer from those brave enough to risk being identified by the count and sheriff as potential troublemakers.

Abbot Hugo, still examining the contents of the box, withdrew the carefully folded bundle of parchment. “Here it is—the letter,” he said, holding it up so he could see it in the torchlight. “It is still sealed.” Looking to the count, he said, “It is all here—everything.”

“Excellent,” Falkes replied. “My thanks to you, Abbot. We will now release the prisoners.”

“Not so fast, my lord,” said Hugo. “I think there are still questions to be answered.” He turned with sudden savagery on the Welsh abbot. “Who gave these things to you? Who are you protecting?”

“My lord abbot,” began Daffyd, somewhat taken aback by his fellow churchman’s abrupt challenge. “I do not th—”

“Come now, you don’t expect us to believe that you know nothing about this affair? I demand a full explanation, and I will have it, by heaven, or else these men will hang.”

Daffyd, indignant now, puffed out his chest. “I resent your insinuation. I have acted in good faith, believing that box was given to me so that I might secure the release of the condemned men—doomed, I would add, through no fault of their own. It would seem that your threat reached the ears of those who stole these things and they contrived to leave the box where it would be found so that I might do precisely what I have done.”

The abbot frowned and fumed, unwilling to accept a word of it. Count Falkes, on the other hand, appeared pleased and relieved; he replied, “For my part, I believe you have acted in good faith, Abbot.” Turning towards the gallows, where everyone stood looking on in almost breathless anticipation, he shouted,
“Relâcher les prisonniers!”

Marshal Guy turned to the gaoler and relayed the command to release the prisoners. As Gulbert proceeded to unlock the shackles that would free the chain, Sheriff de Glanville rushed to the edge of the platform. “What are you doing?”

“Letting them go,” replied Gysburne. “The stolen goods have been returned. The count has commanded their release.” He gave de Glanville a sour smile. “It would appear your little diversion is ruined.”

“Oh, is it?” he said, his voice dripping venom. “The count and abbot may be taken in by these rogues, but I am not. These three will hang as planned.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“No? That is the difference between us, Gysburne. I very much would.” He turned and called to his men. “Proceed with the hanging!”

“You’re insane,” growled the marshal. “You kill these men for no reason.”

“The murder of my soldiers in the forest is all the reason I need. These barbarians will learn to fear the king’s justice.”

“This isn’t justice,” Guy answered, “it is revenge. What happened in the forest was your fault, and these men had nothing to do with it. Where is the justice in that?”

The sheriff signalled the hangman, who, with the help of three other soldiers, proceeded to haul on the rope attached to the old man’s neck. There came a strangled choking sound as the elderly captive’s feet left the rough planking of the platform.

“It is the only law these brute British know, Marshal,” remarked the sheriff as he turned to watch the first man kick and swing. “They cannot protect their rebel king and thumb the nose at us. We will not be played for fools.”

He was still speaking when the arrow sliced the air over his shoulder and knocked the hangman backwards off his feet and over the edge of the platform. Two more arrows followed the first so quickly that they seemed to strike as one, and two of the three soldiers hauling on the noose rope simply dropped off the platform. The third soldier suddenly found himself alone on the scaffold. Unable to hold the weight of the struggling prisoner, he released the rope. The old man scrambled away, and the soldier threw his hands into the air to show that he was no longer a threat.

The sheriff, his face a rictus of rage, spun around, searching the crowd for the source of the attack as an uncanny quiet settled over the astonished and terrified crowd. No one moved.

For an instant, the only sound to be heard was the crack of the bonfire and the rippling flutter of the torches. And then, into the flame-flickering silence there arose a horrendous, teeth-clenching, bone-grating shriek—as if all the demons of hell were tormenting a doomed soul. The sound seemed to hang in the cold night air; and as if chilled by the awful cry, the rain, which had been pattering down fitfully till now, turned to snow.

De Glanville caught a movement in the shadows behind the church. “There!” he cried. “There they go! Take them!”

Marshal Gysburne drew his sword and flourished it in the air. He called to his men to follow him and started pushing through the crowd towards the church. They had almost reached the bonfire when out from its flaming centre—as if spat from the red heat of the fire itself—leapt the black feathered phantom: King Raven.

One look at that smooth black, skull-like head with its high feathered crest and the improbably long, cruelly pointed beak, and the Cymry cried out, “Rhi Bran!”

The soldiers halted as the creature spread its wings and raised its beak to the black sky above and loosed a tremendous shriek that seemed to shake the ground.

Out from behind the curtain of flame streaked an arrow. Guy, in the fore rank of his men, caught the movement and instinctively raised his shield; the arrow slammed into it with the blow of a mason’s hammer, knocking the ironclad rim against his face and opening a cut across his nose and cheek. Gysburne went down.

“Rhi Bran y Hud!” shouted the Cymry, their faces hopeful in the flickering light of the Twelfth Night bonfire. “Rhi Bran y Hud!”

“Kill him! Kill him!” screamed the sheriff. “Do not let him escape! Kill him!”

The shout was still hanging in the air as two arrows flew out from the flames, streaking towards the sheriff, who was commanding the gallows platform as if it was the deck of a ship and he the captain. The missiles hissed as they ripped through the slow-falling snow. One struck the gallows upright; the other caught de Glanville high in the shoulder as he dived to abandon his post.

Suddenly, the air was alive with singing arrows. They seemed to strike everywhere at once, blurred streaks nearly invisible in the dim and flickering light. Fizzing and hissing through the snow-filled air, they came—each one taking a Ffreinc soldier down with it. Three flaming shafts arose from the bonfire, describing lazy arcs in the darkness. The fire arrows fell on the gallows, kindling the post and now-empty platform.

Count Falkes, transfixed by the sight of the phantom, stood as arrows whirred like angry wasps around him. He had heard so much about this creature, whom he had so often dismissed as the fevered imaginings of weak and superstitious minds. Yet here he was—strange and terrible and, God help us all, magnificent in his killing wrath.

The last thing Falkes de Braose saw was Sheriff de Glanville, eyes glazed, clutching the shaft of the arrow that had pierced his shoulder, passed through, and protruded out his back. The sheriff, staggering like a drunk, lurched forward, dagger in his hand, struggling to reach the phantom of the wood.