Scarlet

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “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.”

  As the startled Ffreinc looked on aghast at what had just taken place, he whispered, “Never fear,Will, I have you now and will not let you go.”

  Will Scarlet, dabbing at his eyes with the back of his hand, clung to the black-robed envoy as to a kinsman long lost. “God bless you, my lord,” he murmured. “God bless you right well.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Hamtun Docks

  Mérian gently tied the ends of the rag binding Will Scarlet’s wounded hand and tucked the ends under. “If Angharad was here,” she apologized, “she would know better what to do for you.” She had carefully straightened his swollen and discoloured fingers and bound each one to a bit of hazel twig Iwan had cut and shaped to serve for splints. She surveyed her work with a hopeful smile. “Does it hurt much?”

  “Not much,”Will replied, grimacing even as he said it. “I am that glad to be feeling anything at all just now. It reminds me I am alive.”

  “And back with those who love you,” she said, brushing his fingertips with her lips as she released him.

  “I do thank you, my lady,” he said, his voice thick with sudden emotion. He raised his hand and regarded his bandaged fingers, amazed that something so small could hurt so much. Despite the throbbing insistence of the pain, however, he remained overawed at his rescue, and his friends’ continued deception. They had risked all for him, and his gratitude could not be contained. “My heart has no words to say thanks enough.”

  “I only wish we could have come sooner,” said Siarles, who had been hovering at Mérian’s shoulder.

  “And thanks to you, Siarles,” replied Will, acknowledging the forester’s presence. “It does a body good to see you again. God’s truth, I did not recognise any of you. “’Course, I had other things on my mind just then.”

  “When Bran said what we were to do,” replied Siarles, “I told him it would never work—we could never dupe the sharp-eyed sheriff.” He chuckled. “But Bran would not be moved. He was determined to steal you away and right from under their long Ffreinc noses. We collected Brother Jago from Saint Dyfrig’s, and we all dressed up like priests and such and”—he smiled again—“here we are.”

  Iwan, who had been standing watch on the little bower, hurried to rejoin them. “They’re coming back,” he announced. “Be on your best guard. We are not safe home yet.”

  Following the archery contest, Father Dominic had thanked the count and abbot for their inestimable hospitality and announced his desire to resume his journey. In taking their leave of the count the next morning, the papal envoy was surprised to learn that the count had decided to send an escort of knights and men-at-arms to see them safely to their ship at Hamtun Docks. Despite the envoy’s protestations that this was in no way necessary, the count—his own resolve bolstered by the insistence of an increasingly suspicious sheriff—would not allow his guests to depart on their own. “It is the least I can do for our Mother Church,” he insisted. “If anything should happen to you on the road—may heaven forbid it!—I would never be forgiven, especially since it is so easily prevented.”

  “Bloody meddler,” muttered Iwan, when he learned of the plan. “There is no ship waiting for us. We’ve never been anywhere near Hamtun Docks.”

  “They don’t know that,” Bran replied. “We will go on as we’ve begun and look for the first opportunity to send them on their way.”

  “And if we don’t find such an opportunity?” demanded Iwan. “What then?”

  “We can always disappear into the wood,” Bran told him. “Leave it to me. You keep your eyes on the soldiers and remain alert. If anything goes wrong, I want you ready to break some heads.”

  “Oh, aye,” agreed Iwan grimly, “if it comes to that. I’ll be ready right enough.”

  They had set off with Count de Braose, Sheriff de Glanville, and ten Norman soldiers—four knights and six men-at-arms—to provide protection from King Raven and his outlaw minions, who haunted the green
wood and preyed on unwary travellers. The papal envoy and his small entourage—the Lady Ghisella and her maidservant, Brother Alfonso the interpreter, and the two lay brothers surrounded by heavily armed Ffreinc men, kept to themselves for the most part. Outwardly, they behaved much as before—cheerful, if quiet, and appreciative of the largess lavished on them by their ever-watchful hosts.

  “I do not trust that priest,” the sheriff had said as the travelling party prepared to set off. “He is no more an ambassador of Pope Clement than my horse. Mark me, there is some deception playing out here, and we are fools if we let them get away with it.”

  “You may be right,” conceded Count de Braose. “But we dare not risk a confrontation until we are more than certain. This way, at least, we can keep a close watch on them.”

  “Be sure of it,” growled the sheriff. “The first time any one of them looks sideways, I’ll have him.”

  “You are not to antagonise them,” Falkes warned. “If word of any mistreatment were to reach my uncle—not to mention Pope Clement—we’d be peeled and boiled in our own blood.”

  “Never fear, my lord,” replied the sheriff. “I will be nothing but courtesy itself to our esteemed guests. But I will watch them—by the rood, I will.”

  Thus, a forced and wary pleasantness settled over the travellers. Because of the small coach in which Lady Ghisella and her maid rode, and which carried the tents used by the envoy and his company, they could not travel as quickly as the Normans might have wished. At night they made camp separately, each side watching the other, wary and suspicious, across the distance. The only time the foreigners were able to confer openly with one another was when the Ffreinc were occupied with picketing the horses and establishing the guard for the night.

  It was during one of these times that Bran moved among the members of his disguised flock, speaking words of encouragement and hope. He also apologized to Will and begged the forester’s forgiveness. “I am sorry,Will. It was my fault you were taken, and I grieve that you suffered because of it.”

  “I suffered a little, true,” Will granted. “But Gwion Bach would have suffered more, I reckon. Still, I forgive you free and fair. I won’t say I didn’t think ill of that night, all the same.” He smiled. “But you’ve more than made up for it by saving my scrawny neck from that hide noose. And for that I truly thank you, my lord.”

  “We’re not out of danger yet,” Bran said. “So you might want to wait until we say farewell to our nosey friends before thanking me.”

  “Whatever happens,” replied Will, “we’re square, my lord, and no hard feelings.”

  The party endured four more days of anxious watching, until at last coming in sight of the bluffs overlooking the river estuary at Hamtun.

  “What if there is no ship?” Iwan wondered. “What will we do then?”

  “You should pray there is no ship,” Siarles observed. “Then we can at least say they have gone to get supplies, or some such thing. The Ffreinc are not about to wait around many days to see us away.”

  “But what if there is a ship?” demanded Iwan, plainly worried.

  “We will take it,” concluded Bran. “Either way, it could not be simpler.”

  Simple as the choices may have been, the doing was only slightly more difficult. When, the next day, as they followed the road over the bluff and started down into the river valley, they caught sight of the docks on the waterfront below the town, the travellers could see there was, indeed, a ship waiting there—a sturdy, broad-beamed vessel built for hauling men and horses across the sea. To all appearances, it was just the sort of vessel that the patriarch of Rome might provide for his personal ambassador.

  “Well, there is your boat,” muttered Iwan. “Now what?”

  Bran glanced around. The sun was low, and the wind freshening out of the west. The count and sheriff had picked up the pace and were drawing closer, expressions of keen anticipation lighting their watchful eyes. “Ride to the ship and secure it. Take Siarles and Jago with you. Go now before the Ffreinc prevent you.”

  “And what do you suggest I tell them when I take their ship?”

  “Tell them the pope’s ambassador needs it,” replied Bran. “Tell them we will buy our passage. Tell them anything, but just secure it and keep the sailors out of sight when we get there.”

  Scowling with determination, Iwan signalled to Siarles and Jago, and all three galloped away. Bran, turning to Will, Mérian, and Cinnia, quickly explained that they were to continue on in the wagon and, upon reaching the ship, they were to go aboard as if that was what had been intended from the start. “Whatever happens,” he said hurriedly, “the two of you get down below deck and stay there. Mérian,” he said, dismounting and helping her down from the wagon, “you come with me.”

  Will, from his seat in the wagon, cast a last backward glance at the sheriff, then turned and set his face towards the river and the freedom waiting there.

  Seeing the monks gallop off, Count Falkes and the sheriff rode directly to Father Dominic for an explanation. “Where are they going?” demanded de Glanville suspiciously.

  “Qué?” replied the envoy with a smile of incomprehension. He gestured towards the ship, waving and nodding as if to indicate that they had arrived at last and all was well. Lady Ghisella, who possessed a smattering of French, tried to explain. “They go to make ready the sailing,” she said.

  “You mean to leave tonight?” asked the count.

  “But of course,” replied the lady pleasantly. “It is the wish of His Eminence to leave at once.”

  The sheriff, unable to think of any reason why this should not be perfectly reasonable, looked to the count to mount an objection. “Are you certain?” Falkes said lamely. “It will be getting dark soon.”

  “It is the wish of His Eminence,” the lady repeated, as if this was all the explanation required.

  “Well,” said the sheriff, “we will attend you to see that nothing is amiss.” He lifted the reins and started down the road once more.

  “Please, Lord Count,” said Lady Ghisella, “you must not trouble yourself.”

  “But it is no trouble at all, my lady,” replied the count. “If anything should happen to you while you remained in our care . . .” He allowed the thought to go unfinished. “Never fear,” he said with a stiff, somewhat condescending laugh, “we will see you safely aboard and properly under sail. We could do no less for the pope’s personal confidant.”

  “That is a relief, to be sure,” replied Ghisella crisply. “I will tell His Eminence.”

  Although it made her uncomfortable to speak to the Ffreinc, her reticent, regal manner went a long way towards easing the count’s suspicions. His attraction to her despite her undeniable plainness made him more willing to overlook his doubts. She relayed the count’s sentiments to Father Dominic, who gave a nod of approval. “What are we to do now?” she asked, keeping her voice low to avoid being overheard.

  “We see it through,” Bran told her, “and hope for the best. Thank them, and walk on.”

  She smiled, revealing her unfortunate, off-colour teeth. “His Eminence is delighted with your diligence and care. He will speak of it to His Holiness.”

  “The delight is ours alone, my lady,” replied the count.

  “They are getting away, and we sit here trading pleasantries,” muttered the sheriff. “I don’t like this.”

  “I cannot forbid their departure; they have done nothing wrong.”

  “This whole affair is wrong!” grumbled the sheriff.

  “Then find a way to stop them if you can,” said Count Falkes. “But unless you discover something very soon, they will be away on the tide.”

  The travellers moved on, descending the narrow road into the valley, passing quickly through the town and its low-built, dark houses and single muddy street to the large timber wharf on the river where the ship was moored. All seemed quiet aboard the vessel—no screams or shouting, no evidence of a struggle or fight—although there was no sign of Iwan
or any of the others. Bran, his stomach tightening with every step, prayed that they might yet make good their escape. As they drew near the dock, there appeared on deck a man in a red cap and brown tunic which reached past his knees. He was barefoot and carried a knotted rope in his hand. He scanned the wharf quickly and then hurried to greet the new arrivals. “Mes seigneurs! Ma dame! J’offre vous accueille. Etre bienvenu ici. S’il vous plaît, venir à bord et être à l’aise. Tout est prêt!”

  At this, the French speakers fell silent, dumbstruck. Lady Ghisella gave a little gasp of pleasure.

  “Saints and angels!” whispered Bran tensely. “What did he say?”

  “We are welcome to come aboard,” Mérian told him. “He says everything is ready for us.”

  “Peter and Paul on a donkey!” exclaimed Bran. “How did they accomplish that?” Before she could answer, he said, “Hurry now. Get on board. Send Jago back to help me get rid of our friends here, and tell Iwan and Siarles to make ready to cast off.” When Mérian hesitated, he said, “Quickly! Before something goes wrong.”

  Bran, alone now, turned to his obliging, if suspicious, hosts and, summoning up his little store of Latin, attempted to sever the last ties and bid them farewell. “Vicis pro sententia Deus volo est hic, vae. Gratias ago vos vobis hospitium quod ignarus. Caveo, ut tunc nos opportunus.”

  This might have lacked the polish of a senior churchman, but it was more than either Sheriff de Glanville or Count Falkes possessed, at any rate. The two Frenchmen stared at him, unable to comprehend what had just passed.

  “His Eminence says the time has come to bid you farewell,” explained the one known as Brother Alfonso, hastening to join Father Dominic on the dock just then. “His Grace thanks you for your hospitality—a debt he can never repay—and wishes you a most wonderfully pleasant and uneventful journey home. Be assured that, owing to your kind and attentive service, your praises will ring in the pope’s ears.”