Scarlet

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Who, I wonder, could have come? Instead, I ask him, “Then why did they let you come today?”

  “I begged the abbot to be the one to tell you,” he says, and adds, ever so softly, “and to shrive you.”

  So now, my death is to be for the entertainment of important guests. Well, that is the Normans first and last. The devils can think of nothing better than a good hanging to impress their betters. The notion makes me right angry, it does.

  “So, there it is,” I say. Odo cannot find his voice. He just stands there, suddenly miserable once more.

  Aye, there it is. I could have wished it had all turned out better. I could have wished Nóin and me had got married, that I’d had the chance to love that good woman as she deserves, that little Nia had known a doting father, and on and on . . . but then a man can wish all he likes his whole life through and it’s like flinging a raindrop into the raging sea, and just as much use.

  “When is it to be?”

  “Before the feast,” he says, and still will not look at me. “At midday.”

  Well, that takes some of the wind out of my sails, to be sure. “At least,” I say, trying to swallow around the lump in my throat, “I will not have long to think on it.” I offer a smile, but it is a thin, simpering thing. “Sitting here dwellin’ on a thing like that—why, a fella might lose heart.”

  Odo smiles. As quickly as it comes, it is gone again. “They will come soon. We should begin.”

  “Will you come in and sit with me?”

  “I was told not to,” he says.

  “Odo, please,” I say, “after all the days we’ve spent together. At least let us sit together one last time . . . as friends.”

  He doesn’t have it in him to disagree. He opens the door and steps in, but this time, judging by his mournful expression, it is as if he is entering a tomb. In a way, I suppose he is.

  “I know I grumbled and growled like a bear with a sore head most days,” I tell him. “But I did enjoy our talks. I did.”

  “You did all the talking,” Odo points out.

  “True,” I agree. “I reckon a fella never knows what he’s got stored up in his purse until it comes time to pay the tax man.”

  He smiles again. “Tax man?”

  “We all owe a debt to nature, Odo, never forget. Pay we must.”

  He nods sadly. I can see his feelings are running on a razor’s edge. He’s fighting to keep from melting into a puddle of grief on the floor.

  “Shrive me, Odo. I don’t want to go to meet our Maker filthy in sin and stinkin’ of brimstone. Let’s get it done so I can go in peace.”

  He brings out a little roll he has tucked into his sleeve. It contains the proper words for a man’s last rites. This makes me happier than I could have imagined. I knew I could trust him to see me right. I know our Black Abbot would never have troubled himself as much, and that’s a fact. If left to him, I’d be knockin’ at heaven’s gates one dirty, naked sinner instead of standing in the clean white robe of a saint. Odo has ensured that will not happen now, and for that I am forever grateful.

  Aye, and I am that close to forever.

  Odo bends his round head and offers a prayer. His voice is gentle and humble as a priest’s should be. Although he speaks to God in Latin, I hear that in it that puts me at ease. When he finishes, he says in English, “God our Father, long-suffering, full of grace and truth, you create us from nothing and give us life. Man born of woman has but a short time to live. We have our fill of sorrow. We blossom like the lowly flowers of the field and wither away. We slip away like a shadow and do not stay. In the midst of life we are in death. Where can we turn for help? Only to you, Lord, who are justly angered by our sins.

  “Though we are weak and easily led astray, you do not turn your face from us, nor cast us aside. When we confess, you are right glad to forgive. Hear, Loving God, the final confession of William Scatlocke . . .” He glances up and says, “Repeat the words as I say them.”

  I nod, and we go on.

  “Almighty and most merciful Father, maker of all things, judge of all people, like a poor lost sheep, I have wandered from your ways. I have followed too much my own will and ways. I have offended against your holy laws . . .”

  Odo pauses at each hurdle—and I climb over after him. The words are simple and sincere, not like those most priests use, and I know he is trying his best to do right by me.

  “We have left undone those things that we ought to have done; and we have done those things that we ought not to have done; and there is no righteousness in us,” he says, and I notice that he is including himself in my prayer now, and it makes me smile.

  “We confess that we have sinned against you and our brothers. We acknowledge and confess the wickedness which so often ensnares us. O Lord, have mercy upon us sinners. You spare those who confess their faults. We earnestly repent, and are deeply sorry for all our wrongdoings, great and small. Eternal and merciful judge, both in life and when we come to die, let us not fall away from you. Do not abandon us to the darkness and pain of death everlasting.

  “Have mercy upon us, Gracious Redeemer. Restore us as you have promised, and grant, O Merciful Father, that we may enter your peace. Hear us for the sake of your Son, and bring us to heavenly joy, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  I add my “Amen” as he has directed, and then we sit in silence a moment. I feel the thing was squarely done. There is no more to be said, nor need be. I am content.

  From down the corridor, I hear the grating whine of the iron door opening and know that my time has run its course. They are coming for me. My heart lurches at the thought, and I draw a deep breath to steady myself.

  I have thought about this day every day since I was dragged into Black Hugo’s keep. Truth to tell, I thought it would be different somehow, that I would meet the evil hour with a smile and a tip o’ my hat. Instead, my bowels squirm and ache, and I feel death’s cold hand resting heavy on my shoulder.

  There was so much I meant to do, and now the end has come. It is all done but the dyin’, and that’s a true fact.

  CHAPTER 37

  Saint Martin’s: The Pavilion

  Look! Here he comes,” cried Count de Braose, his voice fluttering high with excitement as the shambling heap of a man appeared at the door of the guardhouse.

  The count’s visitors turned to see a number of Ffreinc soldiers spilling out of the keep. Armed with lances and led by Marshal Guy, they started across the market square, dragging a ragged wreck between them. The man’s hands were bound and his legs were unsteady; he kept listing to one side as if the ground were constantly shifting beneath his feet.

  “Oh, he is a rogue!” continued Count Falkes. “You can tell that simply by looking at him.”

  The count’s words were directed to the visiting dignitaries, whose arrival two days before had surprised and thrilled the entire population of the emerging town of Saint Martin’s. The count’s words were translated and conveyed to the others by a priest named Brother Alfonso—a tall, sallow, somewhat sombre and officious monk in a new brown robe. While Count Falkes looked on, smiling, his guests exchanged a brief word amongst themselves. Being Spanish, they were strangers to England and to the rough ways of the March. Most of them bore the swarthy complexion of their countrymen, and the black hair and dark, inquisitive eyes. They professed to find everything fascinating and, in the brief time they had been with him, had shown themselves to be enthusiastic and appreciative guests. Then again, one might expect no less from the personal envoy of none other than Pope Clement himself.

  The ambassador, Father Dominic, was far younger than the count would have imagined for one in such an important, nay exalted, position. Dark and slender in his impeccable black robes, he held himself with a solemn, almost melancholy reserve, as if the thoughts inside him bore on body and soul alike and he sagged a little beneath their weight. Though there was dignity and reverence in his glance, his natural expression was the pensive reflection of a man who,
despite his youth, had seen and suffered much at the hands of an unrepentant world. His black hair was trimmed short and his tonsure newly shaved. He moved with deliberation, his steps measured and sure as he dispensed priestly blessings to those who looked on.

  Attending Father Dominic were two servants—most likely lay brothers but of a hardy sort. Tall and strong and none too genteel, they had no doubt been chosen to protect the envoy on his journey. Besides the interpreter, Brother Alfonso, there were two young women: a young highborn woman of unmistakable nobility, and her maidservant. The lady was quiet, well-spoken, gracious, and possessed of a warm and winsome manner, but also, alas, undeniably plain, with poor skin, dull hair, and discoloured teeth. “Drab as a farmyard drudge,” was Guy of Gysburne’s assessment. “I prefer her maid.” The sheriff had expressed a similar judgment, if in less kindly terms. Even so, Count Falkes found himself attracted to her despite her plainness and the difficulty imposed by the language divide. He even allowed himself to fancy that she regarded him with something more than passing affection.

  “Oh!” gasped Lady Ghisella, averting her eyes at the sight of the condemned man. Her maid followed the lady’s example.

  “Never fear, my lady,” offered the count, mistaking her reaction.

  “He cannot escape. You may rest assured, this one will soon trouble the world no longer.”

  Unexpected visitors, their abrupt arrival had initially roused the count’s suspicions. On second thought, however, it was more than reasonable given the circumstances: a small party travelling together without an extensive entourage of servants and courtiers might more easily pass unmolested through the countryside and, considering who they represented, would more easily elude the notice of the king. Such a group would not likely draw the unwanted attentions of rival factions and potential adversaries.

  Abbot Hugo, who had been south with Count Falkes’s uncle, Baron de Braose, at Bramber, had returned to find the dignitaries already established in his abbey. “All well and good,” he had complained to Falkes, “but we should have received word of their coming. This is awkward, to say the least.”

  “It is nothing of the sort,” the count reassured him. “You worry too much, Hugo.”

  “And you not enough.”

  “I suspect it is merely Clement’s way of judging the faith and loyalty of those who have pledged to him, before . . . you know . . .” He let the rest remain unspoken.

  Abbot Hugo fixed him with an ominous stare. “No,” he replied stiffly, “I do not know.”

  “Before the fighting begins,” said the count. “Must I shout it from the rooftop? Think, man. The king will have spies everywhere. It is open rebellion we are talking about.”

  The abbot’s frown deepened, but he held his tongue.

  “See here,” offered Count Falkes, adopting a lighter tone, “the envoy and his people will only be here another day or two. We will simply entertain them with good grace, reassure them of our intentions, and send them on their way. Where’s the harm in that?”

  “Why are they here?” demanded the abbot. “That’s what I want to know. His Holiness has given no indication of sending an envoy to England.”

  “And does the pope now confide his every private thought to you, Abbot?” Falkes gave an airily dismissive wave of his hand; the movement caused a twinge of pain in his chest—a lingering reminder of the arrow wound that had nearly taken his life. “All will be well. I propose that we host a feast in their honour and send them on their way.”

  “A feast,” murmured Hugo. “Yes, I think we might do just that. We could also hang that tiresome rogue for them—that should give them something to talk about.”

  “Hang the rebel?” wondered Falkes. “Are you finished with him, then?”

  “Long since,” answered the abbot. “It was folly to hope he would tell us anything worth hearing. It’s all a morass of confusion and lies, and so tedious it makes my teeth ache.”

  “Well, it cost us little enough to find out,” Falkes countered. “In any event, it hurts nothing to try.”

  “I suppose,” allowed the abbot. “I should hang him twice over for wasting my time.”

  “Well, you would have hanged him anyway in the end,” concluded Falkes. “De Glanville and I had our disagreements over the Twelfth Night executions, God knows. But I cannot say I will be sorry to see this one dangle. The sooner we rid ourselves of these bandits, the better.”

  Now, with the feast about to begin, they were all seated in a hastily erected pavilion facing the open ground behind the church, where some of Marshal Guy’s knights and a few of the sheriff ’s men were performing mock battle manoeuvres. In a show of military might, the great, galloping destriers’ hooves threw clots of turf high, churning up the soft earth. The glint of sword blade and lance head blazed like lightning strokes in the bright sunlight; the resounding crack of oak lance shafts, the clank of heavy steel, and the shouts of the soldiers lent excitement to an otherwise ordinary display. The feast-day crowd swarmed the square behind the canopy-covered platform, their voices filling the air with loud, if somewhat forced, levity as they bellowed rude songs and screamed with laughter at the antics of the wandering troupe of tumblers, minstrels, and storytellers the count and abbot had procured especially for the occasion.

  At the entrance to Saint Martin’s churchyard, a new gibbet had been erected from which to hang the criminal, whose execution was now to mark the occasion of the papal envoy’s visit. One sight of the captive as he was escorted from the guardhouse sent the crowd scampering for places from which to view the spectacle. Some cheered, others blew their noses, and still others threw rotten apples and eggs at the bearded, dishevelled prisoner as he was hauled across the square on the arms of his guards.

  As the wretch neared the pavilion, Father Dominic summoned his interpreter and whispered something into his ear. Brother Alfonso leaned close, nodded, then turned to the count and said, “My Lord Count, the envoy says that he is most interested in this case. He would like to know what crime this unfortunate has committed.”

  “Pray, tell His Eminence that he is a traitor to the crown,” the count explained. “He, along with other desperate rebels, has sought to pervert the course of the king’s justice, and has on numerous occasions attacked the king’s men and prevented them from engaging in their lawful duties. He has incited rebellion against the crown. This, of course, is treason.”

  “A very grave crime, indeed,” observed the envoy through his interpreter. “Is that not so?”

  “Indeed,” agreed the sheriff, intruding into the conversation. “But if that was not enough, this criminal is also a thief. He has stolen money and other valuables from travellers passing through the forest.”

  “A very rogue,” agreed the envoy.

  “That and more,” said Count Falkes. “We have good reason to believe that he was part of a gang of outlaws that have plagued this commot since we established our rule in this lawless region. Indeed, we have it from his own lips that he has violated Forest Law by killing the king’s deer—also a capital offence.”

  As these words were delivered to the envoy, the sheriff added, “These murderers have been responsible for the deaths of many good men. They answer to one known as King Raven, who styles himself a phantom of the greenwood.”

  At this, the special ambassador of Pope Clement turned suddenly, clapped his hands, and exclaimed, “Rhi Bran y Hud!”

  Both count and sheriff were taken aback by this unexpected outburst and regarded the priest with alarm. After a quick word with the ambassador, Alfonso, the interpreter, confided, “His Eminence says that word of this phantom has reached him.”

  “Truly?” wondered Count Falkes, greatly amazed.

  “It must be the same,” said Father Dominic through his interpreter. “There cannot be more than one, surely.”

  “Surely not,” confirmed the sheriff. “But never fear, Your Eminence. These outlaws cannot elude us much longer. We will bring them to justice. They will all h
ang before another year is out.”

  The condemned man was brought to stand before the nobles and dignitaries in the pavilion. He stared dull-eyed, his expression slack, hair and beard matted and filthy. The sheriff, splendid in his green velvet cloak and belt of gold discs, rose and held up a gloved hand for silence from the swiftly gathering crowd. “Be it known,” he called out, his voice cutting through the chatter, “that on this day, in accordance with the rule of law, the criminal William Scatlocke, also known as Scarlet, is put to death for crimes against the crown—namely treachery, rebellion, robbery, and the abuse of the king’s sheriff, Richard de Glanville.” The sheriff ’s eyes narrowed. “None other than myself.”

  He paused to allow these words to be translated for the foreigners, then continued, saying, “The hour of your death is upon you, thief and murderer. Have you anything to say before justice is served?”

  The outlaw known as Will Scarlet glowered at the sheriff and spat. “Do your worst, de Glanville,” he growled, his voice low. “We all know who the real rogues are.”

  With a disinterested flick of his hand, the sheriff said, “Take him away.”

  “It is said that the Welshmen are cunning archers,” observed Father Dominic as the prisoner was dragged away to the gibbet.

  “So they would have their ignorant countrymen believe,” sneered the sheriff. “Believe me, they are nothing more than a rabble—unruly as they are untrained.”

  “Even so, I have heard a Welsh archer can put an arrow into the eye of a blackbird in flight.”

  “Tales for children,” said Falkes, with a small, hollow laugh. “Although, I daresay the Welsh appear to believe it themselves.”

  “I understand,” replied the envoy through his interpreter. “As it happens, I myself am an archer.”

  “Indeed, my lord?” said Falkes, feigning interest.

  “Oh, yes!” said the envoy, his enthusiasm plain, even through the remove of a translator. “I count the days spent with a bow in my hand blessed. It helps ease the burden of my office, you see.”