Scarlet

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Bran considered the ring of great value,” replies Odo. I lick my lips and rumble on . . .

  The next day, when Angharad learned what Tuck had revealed about the parchment, she thanked Bran for telling her, gave him a few words of advice, and took her leave. Pulling on her cloak, she bunged a few leftovers from our truncated feast into a leather bag slung on her back, took up her staff, and departed Cél Craidd then and there.

  Some of us saw her leave. “Is she angry?” Tomas asked. “She seems fair put out with the world.”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe.”

  “Where is she going?”

  “She has a cave somewhere in the greenwood,” said Huw, one of the elder Grellon. “She goes there of a time to think.”

  Well, the sheriff ’s attack had cast a shadow of gloom over our none-too-happy home, I can tell you. As soon as Angharad left, Bran hived himself in his hut with Iwan and Tuck to decide what to do next.

  “God with you, Will,” said Mérian, coming to stand beside me.

  “And with you, my lady,” I answered.

  She rubbed her hands to warm them. “I wonder what they will decide.”

  “Difficult to say. Weighty decisions require patience and pondering aplenty.”

  “Do you think it dangerous, this ring?”

  “I think it valuable, and that is usually danger enough.” I nodded towards the hut. “I think Tuck is right when he says there is a dread mystery in the thing.”

  As we were talking, I caught sight of someone out of the corner of my eye. I looked across the clearing to see Nóinina disappearing between two huts; she cast a last look over her shoulder as she moved from view. Something about her expression as she passed out of sight gave me to think she had been watching Mérian and me and did not approve, not one tiny little scrap.

  It was just the merest glimmer of a glance, to be sure. Still, it gave me a curious warmth that lasted throughout the day.

  The king and his advisors emerged a short time later. “What was decided?” I asked Iwan as he came out to join us.

  “We will take the treasure to Saint Tewdrig’s for safekeeping as Angharad has advised,” he told me. “We will also show the letter to Bishop Asaph. Perhaps he or one of his monks can read it and tell us something about how and why this ring has come to Elfael.”

  “That sounds a sensible plan,” Mérian remarked.

  I nodded my agreement. “Good,” I said.

  “I’m glad you approve, Scarlet,” he answered, turning on his heel and walking backwards a step or two. “Because it’s you that’s going.”

  CHAPTER 19

  In less time than it takes a fella to lace up his boots, I was on my way. I suppose others reckoned that, as a half-Saxon with a snip of Ffreinc under my belt, I could more easily pass among the Normans as a wandering labourer—which is what I was until joining King Raven’s flock.

  This decision did not sit well with at least one member of our band. Siarles got it into his thick head that I was more affliction than remedy and asked to be allowed to accompany me. After a brief discussion, it was agreed that Siarles, who had been to the monastery before and knew the way, would go with me to act as guide. We were given a deerskin bundle containing the ring and gloves, and the parchment in its wrap, which we were to take to the bishop at Saint Tewdrig’s and learn whatever we could from the monks—they, being men of learning, might know how to read the letter and could be trusted to hold their peace about whatever there was that might be gleaned. The rest of the treasure was to be placed with them for safekeeping.

  “If the sheriff or any of his men catch you with these things,” Bran warned, the flat of his hand on the parcel as he handed it to Siarles, “they will hang you for thieves—and that is the least they will do. Stay sharp, and hurry back with all speed.”

  “My lord,” I replied, “this skin of mine may be poor quality as some would judge, but it is my own and I have grown to love it. Rest assured, I will not risk it foolishly.” I might have added that Nóin also had a definite interest in seeing me return hale and whole.

  “There is yet one thing more,” said Tuck. He had been standing beside Bran, listening to the instructions. “Hear me, if you will. Hear me, everyone.”

  “Silence!” called Bran. “Friar Tuck will speak.”

  When all had quieted, he said, “The ring has value and therefore power, does it not? It may be that God has given it to us to aid in the redemption of Elfael. Brothers and sisters all, we must hold tight to this hope and guard it with a mighty strength of purpose. Therefore, know that this is a solemn charge that has been laid upon you, Will and Siarles.” He regarded Siarles and me with a commanding stare. “You take our lives in your hands when you leave this place. See you do nothing that would endanger them, or there will be hell to pay. Is this understood?”

  We nodded our assent, but he would have more. “Say it,” he insisted. “Pledge it on your honour.”

  This we did, and Tuck declared himself satisfied. He turned to Bran and said, “We have done what we can do. Now, it is for God to do as he will do.” Raising his hands high, he said, “I pray the Lord of Hosts to send an army of angels to guard you every step of the way, to smooth your path in the rough world and bring you safely home. Amen and God with you.”

  “Amen!”

  Nóin and I shared a kiss of farewell. She clutched me tight, and whispered, “Come back to me, Will Scarlet. I have grown that fond of you.”

  “I will come back, Nóin, never fear.”

  With that, we took leave of our king and rode out, taking a path that was only rarely used by the Grellon. The trail, which was tangled and overgrown in many places, would lead us north a fair distance where, once well away from Cél Craidd, we would double back to the Norman lands of the south and east. It was decided that we should stay off the King’s Road so as to avoid any travellers, especially Norman soldiers. For two days we made our slow way through the winterland and shivered in a frosty silence as we moved through a world bleached white by the snow and cold—the stark, bloodred berries of holly and the deep green strands of ivy twining round boles of elm and oak the only hues that met our colour-starved eyes.

  The Forest of the March seemed to slumber beneath its thick mantle, although here and there we saw the tracks of deer and pigs, sometimes those of wolves and other creatures—the long slashing strides of the hare, and the light skittery tracings of mice and squirrels. Overhead we heard the creak and crack of cold boughs and branches, and the occasional twit and chirp of birds interested in our passing. But these were the only things to relieve the dull sameness of the slumbering greenwood.

  Nor was Siarles the easiest companion a man might choose. Short-tempered and quick to judge; easily stirred to anger or despair; in character, steadfast; in mood as changeable as water—he is Cymry through and through, Siarles is. Poor fella, he is one of God’s creatures that is happiest when most miserable. And should he lack sufficient cause for misery, an imaginary source is all too easily conjured. For some reason he had taken against me from that first day I dropped out of the tree. By day’s end, I reckoned I had endured enough of his rudeness. “Siarles, my friend, there is a boil of contention between us as wants lancing.”

  “So you say.”

  “I do say it. You act like a fella with bees in his breeches every time we meet. For the life of me, I cannot think why that should be. Nevertheless, I know an unhappy man when I see one, and here I have one in my eye.”

  “I am not unhappy,” he said, his whole face puckered in a petulant scowl.

  “I think you are. Or, if not unhappy, then displeased. Tell me what you’ve got caught in your craw, and I will do my best to help you.”

  He glared at me, then turned away. “Finish saddling your horse. It is time we were on our way.”

  “No,” I replied. “Not until you tell me what is wrong with you.”

  He turned on me with sudden anger. “With me?” he said, almost shouting. “You f
ind fault with me when it is yourself you should be chiding.”

  “Me! What have I done?”

  He made a sound like the growl of a frustrated dog and turned away again.

  “Well, this is going to be a long day a-standin’ here,” I told him. “I’m not moving until I know your mind.” He glared at me balefully, and I thought he would not speak.

  “Well? What is it to be? Either we make peace between us, or stand here and glower at one another like two stubborn roosters in a yard.”

  He snarled again, his frustration boundless, and I could not help but laugh at the hopelessness of the situation. “See here, Siarles, my contrary friend. You’re going to have to give me something more than grunts and growls if we are to get to the meat of the matter. So you might as well tell me and get it done.”

  “I don’t like Englishmen,” he grimaced through gritted teeth. “Never have. Never will.”

  “Half an Englishman only,” I corrected. “My mother was a Briton, mind. As was your own if you had one.”

  “You know what I mean. Bran had no business taking you in.”

  “No? It seems to me that a lord can take a vassal of any fella willing to swear fealty to him. I bent the knee to Bran right gladly, and my word holds fast through fair or foul,” I declared. “You wanted to come along because you don’t trust me. You thought I’d steal the ring and fly away as soon as I got out of sight.”

  He glowered at me, and I could see I’d hit near the mark. “You don’t know what I think,” he muttered at last.

  “Yes, I do,” I told him. “You had a cosy little nest in the greenwood and then along comes this big ol’ Englishman, Will Scarlet, stomping all over your tidy garden with his great boots, and you’re afraid he’s going to squash you like a bug.” Siarles frowned and climbed into the saddle. “But, see here, I en’t about squashing you or anybody else, nor usurping ’em from their rightful place. Neither am I leaving my sworn liege lord just because you don’t like the cut of my cloth. Lord Bran’s dealings are his own, and if that sticks in your gizzard, then talk to him. Don’t punish me.”

  He turned his mount and rode away. I followed a few paces behind, giving him space and time, hoping he would come ’round to a better humour sooner or later. But though I tried my best to cheer him along and show him I bore no ill feelings over his churlishness, his mood did not improve. I resolved to ignore his sour disposition and get on with the chore at hand.

  Saint Tewdrig’s in the north is but a short distance beyond the border of Elfael—a new monastery tucked in the curving arm of a valley across the river close on the border of the cantref. I counted five buildings, including a small church, all of timber arranged in a loose square and surrounded by a low whitewashed wall. Small fields—flat squares of snow with barley stubble showing through like an unshaved chin—flanked the monastery. We crossed one of these and arrived at the gate and pulled the braided bell cord hanging at the gatepost. A light, clinking ring sounded in the chill air, and presently a small door opened within the larger. “Pax vobiscum. How can I help you?” asked the porter. He looked blandly at me, and then at Siarles, and his eyes lit with recognition. “Silidons! Welcome! Come in. Come in! I will tell Father Asaph you are here.” He turned and hurried off across the yard, leaving us to stand outside with our mounts, which could not pass through the small door.

  “Silidons?” I said. “What is that?”

  “It was Bran’s idea,” he said. “He thought it would be better for the monks if they did not know our real names.”

  True enough, I reckoned, for if the Normans suspected the monks knew anything to help them find us, they would be in danger deep and dire. “Nor can they sell us out,” I considered.

  “Not likely, that.”

  “You must have a high opinion of priests. I’ve known one or two that would not spare a moment’s thought to trade their mothers to the Danes for a jug of ale and two silver pennies.”

  “The priests you know may be rogues,” he said, “but the brothers here can be trusted.”

  “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 t
ell 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?”