Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“I see,” replied the count coolly. “What sort of wager does your master think appropriate here?”
After a quick consultation, Brother Alfonso replied, “His Eminence suggests that a demonstration of some sort would be amusing.”
“Perhaps,” granted the count. “What sort of demonstration?”
“As an archer himself, Father Dominic is especially keen to see this prisoner’s skill.”
“Well, I suppose something might be arranged,” Count Falkes conceded at last. “If it is what our guest wants, I see no good reason to deny him.”
“No. Wager or no, it is impossible,” declared the sheriff. “Out of the question.”
But the discussion had already moved on. “His Eminence suggests that as his own skill with the bow is exceptional, he begs the boon of participating in an archery contest with the condemned, and that in accordance with the best tradition the prisoner be allowed to draw for his freedom.”
“What?” wondered the sheriff in slack-jawed dismay at the insane proposal.
Brother Alfonso continued, “His Eminence says that the contest can have no meaning or excitement without consequences, and of course the only prize to rouse the poor wretch’s interest would be the chance to draw for his life.”
“If His Eminence should fail, a dangerous criminal—one who has attacked me personally, mind!—would be spared the consequences of his crimes. Justice would be made a laughingstock.”
“The man has been in your dungeons for how long?”
“Five months or so,” replied the sheriff. “Why?”
“Five months is a very great punishment in itself,” observed Brother Alfonso. “Aside from that, Father Dominic will no doubt hold the advantage over the prisoner and wishes to assure you that the wretch will hang this day. Nevertheless, there must be a prize at stake—otherwise the sport is meaningless.”
It took a moment for the emissary’s meaning to become absolutely clear. “An archery contest,” considered Count Falkes carefully, “with freedom of the prisoner as the prize.”
“It is what the pope’s ambassador wants,” answered Brother Alfonso. “Lady Ghisella would be much amused as well. They are certain to carry back a good report to His Holiness.”
Both sheriff and count appealed to Abbot Hugo, who had suddenly become very quiet and thoughtful. “Well? Speak up!” hissed the sheriff. “Tell His Eminence it is impossible. The rogue hangs here and now, and that is that.”
“But it is not,” whispered the abbot sharply in reply. “Our guest seems determined to have his way, and Baron de Braose would not be pleased to hear that we refused the envoy any simple request it was in our power to grant.”
“Any simple request!” muttered the sheriff in a strangled voice. “We cannot risk setting that rogue free.”
“Nor will we,” Hugo assured him. “Let the pope’s fool have his contest. All we need do is make certain the Welshman does not win.”
“He is right,” concluded Falkes. “My uncle would not look kindly on anything that threatened his good favour with Clement. We must find a way to please His Eminence, however strange the request. Need I remind you that we are not in favour with the baron just now? Letting the legate have this ridiculous contest might be just what we need to return ourselves to the baron’s good graces.”
The sheriff gazed at the other two as at men bereft of their reason.
“Find a bow, and let the contest begin,” commanded the count. “Meanwhile, de Glanville, I think you should go”—he paused so the sheriff would not mistake his meaning—“and
prepare
the prisoner.”
“Yes,” added the abbot. “See to it nothing is left to chance.”
“Very well,” answered the sheriff, catching their meaning at last. “I will attend the prisoner personally.”
Turning to his guests, Count Falkes adopted a grand and gracious air and announced, “Please convey to His Eminence and his entourage that I am pleased to grant his request. I have therefore arranged for the contest to take place. However, I fear it may not be as entertaining as His Grace might wish. As we shall see, these bandits are not as skilled as they make out.”
“My thanks to you, Lord Count,” said the envoy, and immediately climbed down from the pavilion and began making his way across the grounds towards the gibbet.
“Wait! Your Eminence, a moment, if you please!” cried the count, hurrying after him. “You must allow us to ready the contest.”
The papal envoy was led back to his place in the pavilion to be entertained by Abbot Hugo; meanwhile, the count hurried on to order a target to be made up, and a bow and arrows to be found and brought to the field.
“This is absurd!” growled Marshal Guy when Falkes explained what was going to take place. “Is he insane?”
“No doubt,” remarked the count, “but he has Pope Clement’s ear and goodwill. We dare not upset him or give him cause to complain of his reception while he was here.”
The marshal glanced at the pavilion across the greensward. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just make it look like a reasonable competition between two archers. The sheriff is taking measures to make certain our prisoner is in no way able to win this contest,” said the count, stepping away. “Do your best to make it look fair, and all will be well.”
Guy de Gysburne looked across to the bound captive with the rope around his neck as he stood waiting beneath the gallows. “Knowing the sheriff, the contest is well in hand.”
Saint Martin’s: The Green
T
o Will Scarlet, it seemed as if all of Elfael had turned out to see him swing. A bright and festive air hung over the little town, which was alight with flags and the coloured banners of a wandering troupe—the same that was performing tricks in the square to the bawdy laughter of the crowd. Of all those in attendance, only Will himself failed to rise to the full mirth of the occasion. He had other things on his mind as the soldiers half walked, half dragged him out of the guardhouse and across the thronging square. Only a few of the town’s citizens left off their merrymaking to watch the condemned man hauled to his doom, and these few were Welshmen who dared come into town, braving the scorn and ridicule of the townsfolk, to witness the death of one of those who had risked his life to prevent the Twelfth Night hangings of their countrymen.
Will Scarlet did not notice the silent Britons looking on from the margins of the celebration. He did notice how very bright the sunlight was and how soft and impossibly fresh the breeze that bathed his shaggy features. How sad, really, that his last moments should be lived out on such a fine, hopeful day in direct opposition to the black gloom that filled his soul. Just his luck, he thought unhappily, to go down to the grave while all the rest of the world was awash in singing and dancing and the glad feast a-roast on the fire. Not to taste a lick of that handsome fare, nor a drop of the ale that would be served up in cups overflowing—now there was real pity.
As the rough procession passed along the side of the stone church, he saw that a platform had been set up for the visiting dignitaries, a pavilion with a splendid blue canopy from which the nobles and their guests could watch him kick his last as the cruel rope choked out his life. The idea of providing sport for these highborn scum roused a fleeting flame of anger he thought might sustain him in his last moments. Alas, this was not to be. For the moment the cold length of braided leather touched his neck and the soldiers began lashing his legs together, anger fled and was replaced by a stark, empty, bottomless fear.
Lord have
mercy,
he thought, looking up at the gibbet arm and the clear blue boundless sky beyond.
Christ have mercy on my soul.
This swift prayer had no sooner winged through his mind than Sheriff de Glanville was standing before him, his sharp features set in a malicious sneer. “Untie him,” he commanded the soldiers. “It seems we are to have a little sport before he hangs.”
Will, whose French stretched at least this far, understood from what the sheriff said that death had been delayed a little, and was grateful for even that little. He drew a deep breath as the noose was removed and the bands loosed. From behind the sheriff he saw two dark figures approaching—a tall, slender priest in long black robes, and another, a monk in brown, beside him. Behind these two came the count, hurrying to keep up with the black-robed priest’s long, eager strides.
“This is your lucky day, traitor,” de Glanville told him in a low, menacing voice. “Our guest desires an archery contest. Your life is the prize.” The sheriff eyed him closely. “Do you understand?”
It took Will a moment to work out what the sheriff had said.
There was to be a contest for his life. He nodded. “I understand,” he replied in Ffreinc.
“Good,” said the sheriff. Taking Will’s bound hands in his gauntleted fist, he seized the fingers of his right hand and began to squeeze.
“Just so there will be no mistake,” de Glanville added. Before Will knew what was happening, the sheriff gave his fingers a sudden, vicious twist. There was a pop and crack like that of dried twigs as his finger bones snapped. “We will make certain you understand who is to win this contest.”
Pain streaked up his arm and erupted in a fiery blast that stole Will’s breath away. Tears instantly welled up in his eyes, distorting his vision. He sank to his knees, whimpering with agony and struggling to remain conscious.
“There,” said de Glanville with a satisfied nod. “Now there will be no surprises.”
The condemned man glowered up at the sheriff, mouthing a silent curse as he cradled his ruined fingers to his chest, tears streaming from his eyes.
He was jerked to his feet again and marched between two knights out onto the centre of the green. There he stood upright as best he could, shaking with the effort. He struggled to keep from weeping from the humiliation of being so easily bettered by his enemies—as much as from the physical pain itself.
While Will was trying to regain some small part of his composure, Marshal Guy of Gysburne appeared with a longbow and bag of arrows. The sight of the bow cast Will into a dismal, all-embracing despair. Here was the instrument of his salvation, now useless to him because of the sheriff ’s wicked ploy. He could no more draw a bow with broken fingers than he could have walked across the sea to Ireland.
But, what was this? Guy was handing the bow to the tall, dark priest.
Forcing the pain from his mind, Will brought all his concentration to bear on what was being said. Because the marshal’s instructions had to be repeated for the visiting priest, Will could just about work out what was happening. They were each to loose three arrows in turn, and the closest to the mark would be declared the winner. The priest gave a sign that he understood and accepted the terms of the contest; no one asked Will if he understood, or accepted, anything.
Then, while a hastily constructed straw man was set up a hundred paces or so down the greensward, the two contestants walked out to take their places, followed by a large, excited crowd of onlookers. Two soldiers stood at Will’s elbow, watching his every move. Guy, who was supervising the contest, handed the bow to the priest, saying, “You will each use the same bow, Your Eminence. Here is the weapon.”
The young priest took the offered bow and tried the string, bending the bow tentatively: back stiff, elbows awry. The action, while not entirely awkward, lacked something of the confidence of great skill. Will, even in his agony, was not slow to see it, and the gesture kindled a flicker of hope in his woeful heart.
That hope leapt up the higher when the priest turned to him and offered the bow, indicating that he should try it as well. “My thanks,” muttered Will through teeth clenched against the pain in his throbbing fingers.
Although it had been some time since he had held a bow, Will found the instrument balanced well enough; but the draw, when tested with his thumb, was far too loose. Clearly, this was a toy the Ffreinc had either made themselves or found somewhere; it was not the war bow of a Welshman. Still, it might serve for a simple contest; if both of them were to use it, there could be no advantage to either party.
Will made to pass the bow back to his smiling adversary, who waved him off and, taking an arrow from Guy, handed it to the captive and then stepped back to allow him the honour of loosing first.
Sweating now, his jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth would shatter, Will tried to nock the arrow onto the string. But the injured fingers would not obey, and the arrow slipped from his grasp and fell at his feet. The priest was there in an instant to retrieve it for him. With a flourish of his hand and a smile to the sheriff and Marshal Guy, who stood looking on with unmitigated malice, the envoy indicated that he would allow the condemned man another chance to draw.
Will, with great difficulty and much fumbling, at last fitted the arrow to the string and held it there with his left hand while attempting to hook his swollen, mangled fingers into some semblance of an archer’s grip. Sweating and shaking with the effort, he did not so much draw back the string as simply hold it and press the bow forward. The arrow flew from the string with little conviction and described a lacklustre curve to plant its point in the turf a good many yards short of the straw target.
The injured criminal passed the bow to the priest and bent down, arms on his knees, gasping, trying to remain conscious as the pain coursed up through his arm like a fire-spitting snake. Meanwhile, his black-robed rival took up the bow and with far more aplomb nocked the arrow to the string. Marshal Guy gave de Glanville a knowing nudge with his elbow and smiled as the visiting dignitary pulled back and loosed his first arrow. Somehow, what seemed an easy draw suddenly went wildly wrong: the missile flew not out as it should have but almost straight up, spinning sideways in a loopy spiral to land behind the onlookers on the green.
Some of the townspeople gathered around laughed. The priest, still smiling, shrugged and held out his hand for another arrow. Marshal Guy gave him another arrow with the admonition to take his time and aim. Nodding, the priest made a gesture of dismissal and handed the bow and arrow back to his opponent.
Will, his face white and beaded with sweat, took up the bow once more and strained with every nerve, the target swimming before his eyes as he strove to pinch the string between thumb and forefinger. When he could hold the string no longer, he released it and sent the arrow forward in a low arc to skid along the grass, almost reaching the foot of the target.
Full of confidence and beaming with bravado, the priest took the bow and received an arrow from Guy, who repeated his counsel to take time, draw, and aim properly. The priest made a reply, which the translator passed along, saying, “His Eminence is aware of the problem and will adjust his stance accordingly.”
Taking the arrow, he placed it on the string and, gazing hard at the target, narrowed his eyes and drew the string to his cheek, holding the bow straight and strong in front of him. He released after the briefest pause, and the crowd’s eyes followed the path of the arrow as it seemed to streak towards the target. But, wonder of wonders, the arrow did not arrive. A second glance confirmed that it had not, in fact, left the string at all, but there remained dangling, caught somehow, one of its feathered flights ripped off and sent halfway across the green. The arrow fell at the embarrassed priest’s feet, its iron point in the ground.
More people laughed now.
“The idiot!” grumbled the sheriff. “This is no contest. Neither one of them can draw worth a fart.”
“I will draw for the priest,” suggested Marshal Guy. “I can do no worse than he has done.”
The sheriff stared at him. “Don’t be stupid. The contest has begun,” he grumbled. “We cannot change now; it would not be seemly.”
“Why not?” demanded the marshal. “You broke that wretch’s fingers—that was not seemly. How did you ever agree to such a thing anyway?”
“He said he could draw!” replied the sheriff. He forced a sour smile and nodded at the envoy.
“He is hopeless,” insisted Guy once more. “Let me take his place.”
“Too late,” answered the sheriff. “Everyone is watching now. We cannot be seen to force the outcome.” Scanning the pavilion, he caught sight of Count Falkes and Abbot Hugo frowning furiously at the disaster slowly unfolding before them. “One more arrow,” he said.
“Make certain the envoy understands what is at stake here.”
Taking the last arrow, Guy of Gysburne handed it to Brother Alfonso, saying, “This is his last chance to win the contest. Make him understand.”
Brother Alfonso made a bow and turned to confer with the papal emissary, who frowned and snatched the offered arrow with a gesture of haughty impatience. As before, the papal cleric stepped close and passed the bow and arrow to Will Scarlet, who drew a long breath as he took the weapon.
“One more, Will,” whispered the priest. “It is almost over. I will not let you fail.”
It was all Scarlet could do to catch himself shouting, “Bran?” For the first time he looked into the face of the man he had been drawing against and recognized his lord and friend.
“Shh!” said the priest with a wink.
“Bloody de Glanville broke my fingers!” whispered Will, his voice tight and quivering with pain.
“Do your best, Will,” Bran whispered. “Try a left-handed pull.”
The condemned man took the bow and, with a groan and gritting of teeth, wrapped his discoloured fingers around the belly of the bow this time and took the strain against the cradle of his palm and thumb. Then, even as the pain sent flags of ragged black misery fluttering before his eyes, he drew with his left hand, steadied the trembling weapon, and loosed. The arrow slanted up, flashing into the air higher and higher; it seemed to hang momentarily before falling, spent, to the ground at the straw man’s feet.
This brought a murmur from the crowd, most of whom had by now worked out what was unfolding before their eyes.
The priest, still gracious, took the bow and waited for the final arrow to be passed to him along with the marshal’s stern caution to take care and aim properly this time. Nodding, he nocked an arrow to the string and, even as he bent the bow, Guy stepped in behind him and placed his hands over the priest’s, steadying his aim as the priest let fly.
The envoy, shocked at this bold intrusion, gave out a yelp and jerked back. But the arrow was already on its way. This time it flew true, but the distance was woefully misjudged, for the missile sang over the straw man’s head and flew on, swiftly disappearing into the long grass far beyond the greensward. The condemned man saw it, knew that he had won the contest, and sank to his knees, tears of relief and agony rolling down his bewhiskered cheeks.
Before anyone could intervene, the black-robed envoy summoned his aide, Brother Alfonso, to take the injured criminal under his care. “Stupid!” roared the sheriff at Guy. “What did you do?”
“I was only trying to help,” said the marshal. “It would have worked, too, if he hadn’t pulled so hard.”
The black priest accepted his failure with good grace. Beaming with pleasure, he offered his hand to the condemned man, raising him to his feet. Placing his arm around the criminal’s shoulders, the slender priest proclaimed in a loud voice so all could hear, “I declare the contest was fair and the results are conclusive. This man is the winner!”
He paused so that Brother Alfonso could relay his words to the gathering. “I do not know what he has done to merit his punishment, but let his example teach us the humility of forgiveness and redemption. For all men stand in need of salvation. Therefore, as our Lord’s vicar on earth, I stand ready to absolve him of guilt and lead him into the paths of righteousness. I accept full responsibility for his life and will do all in my power to redeem him from his reprobate ways.”