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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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“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—”
Scarlet Page 20
