Gazing quickly around the empty space for a place to hide, he saw-could it be? Yes! In the far corner of the nave stood a strange, curtained booth. Oh, these Normans-chasing every new whim that whispers down the road: a confessional. Tuck had heard of them, but had never seen one. They were, it was said, becoming very fashionable in the new stone churches the Ffreinc built. The notion that a body could confess without looking his priest in the eye all the while seemed faintly ludicrous to Tuck. Nevertheless, he was grateful for this particular whim just now. He crossed quickly to the booth. It was an open stall with a pierced screen down the centre: on one hand was a chair for the priest; on the other a little low bench for the kneeling penitent. A curtain hung between the two, and another hid the priest from view.

Tuck could not help clucking his tongue over such unwonted luxury. Not for the Norman cleric a humble stool; no, nothing would do but that Hugo's priests must have an armchair throne with a down-filled cushion. "Bless 'em," said Tuck. Pulling aside the curtain, he stepped in and closed the curtain again, then settled himself in the chair, thanking the Good Lord for his thoughtful provision.

No sooner had he leaned back in his chair than the door of the church opened and the soldiers entered.

Tuck remained absolutely still, hardly daring to breathe.

The footsteps came nearer.

They were coming towards the confessional. One of the knights was standing directly in front of the booth now, and Tuck braced himself for discovery. The soldier put a hand on the curtain and pulled it aside. The soldier saw Tuck, and Tuck saw the soldier-only it was no ordinary knight. The squat, thick body, the powerful chest and slightly bowed legs from a life on horseback, the shock of flaming red hair: it was none other than King William Rufus in the flesh.

Tuck pressed his eyes closed, expecting the worst.

But the king turned away without the slightest hint of recognition in his pale blue eyes and called over his shoulder to the two with him. "Le pretre est ici," he said. "Me partir."

The priest is here, thought Tuck, translating the words in his head.God help me, he thinks I am the priest to hear his confession.

King William dropped the curtain and settled himself on the kneeling bench. "Pere, entendre mon aveu," he said wearily.

Knowing he would have to speak now-and that his French was not up to the challenge-he said, "Mon seigneur et mon roi, Anglais s'il vous plait."

There came a heavy sigh from the other side of the curtain, and then the king of England replied, "Oui-of course, I understand. My Anglais is not so good, forgive moi, eh?"

"God hears the heart, my lord," offered Tuck. "It makes no difference to him what language we use. Would you like me to shrive you now?"

"Oui, pere, that is why I have come." The king paused, and then said, "Forgive me, Father, a sinner. Today I ride into battle, and I cannot pay for the souls of those who will be slain. The blood-price is heavy, and I am without the silver to pay, eh?"

It took Tuck a moment to work out what William was talking about, and he was glad the king could not see him behind the curtain. "I see," he said, and then it came to him that William Rufus was talking about the peculiar Norman belief that a soldier owed a blood debt for the souls of those he had slain in battle. Since one could never know whether the man he had just killed had been properly shriven, the souls of the combat dead became the survivor's responsibility, so to speak-he was obligated to pray for the remission of their sins so that they might enter heaven and stand blameless before the judgement seat of God.

"Oh, yes," intoned Tuck as understanding broke upon him. The king, like many great lords, was paying priests to pray for the souls of men he had slain in battle, praying them out of purgatory and into heaven.

"By the Virgin, the cost is heavy!" muttered William. "Intolerable, eh? It is all I can do to pay my father's debt, and I have not yet begun to pay my own."

"A very great pity, yes," Tuck allowed.

"Pitie, oui," sighed William. "Tres grande pitie."

"Begging your pardon, mon roi," said Tuck. "I am but a lowly priest, but it seems to me that the way out of your predicament is not more money, but fewer souls."

"Eh?" said William, only half paying attention. "Fewer souls?"

"Do not kill any more soldiers."

The king laughed outright. "You know little about warring, priest! Un innocent! I like you. Soldiers get killed in battle; that is the whole point."

"So I am told," replied Tuck. "But is there no other way?"

"It could all be settled tomorrow-Dieu sang, today!-if the blasted Welsh would only lay down their weapons. But they have raised rebellion against me, and that I will not have!"

"A great dilemma for you," conceded Tuck. "I see that."

Before he could say more, William continued. "This cantref infortune has already cost me more than it will ever return. And if I do not collect my tribute in Normandie in six days' time, I will lose those too. Philip will see to that."

Tuck seized on this. "All the more reason to make peace with these rebels. If they agreed to lay down their arms and swear fealty to you-"

"Et payer le tribut royal," added William quickly.

"Yes, and pay the royal tribute, to be sure," agreed Tuck. "Your Majesty would not have to feed an army or pay for the souls of the dead. Also you could go to Normandie and collect the tribute that is due-all this would save the royal treasury a very great load of silver, would it not?"

"Par le vierge! Save a great load of silver, yes."

Tuck, hardly daring to believe that he was not in a dream, but unwilling to wake up just yet, decided to press his luck as far as it would go. "Again, forgive me, mon roi, but why not ask for terms of peace? This rebel-King Raven, I believe they call him-has said that all he wants is to rule his realm in peace. Even now, I believe he could be convinced to swear fealty to you in exchange for reclaiming his throne."

There was a long and, Tuck imagined, baleful silence on the other side of the curtain. He feared the king was deciding how to slice him up and into how many pieces.

Finally,William said, "I think you are a man of great faith." The wistful longing in that voice cut at Tuck's heart. "If I could believe this…"

"Believe it, Sire," said Tuck. "For it is true."

"If I am seen to allow rebellion, every hand will be raised against me."

"Perhaps," granted Tuck. "But if you are seen to practice mercy, it would inspire others to greater loyalty, would it not?" He paused. "The sword is always close to hand."

"Helas, c'est vrai," granted the king.

"Alas, yes, it is too true."

There was silence again then. Tuck could not tell what was happening beyond the curtain. He prayed William was seriously considering the idea of suing for peace.

When he spoke again, the king said, "Will you yet shrive me?"

"That is why I am here. Bow your head, my son, and we begin," replied Tuck, and proceeded with the ritual. When at last the king rose to depart, he thanked his priest and walked from the church without another word.

Tuck waited until he heard the sound of horses in the square, and then crept to the door. King William and his knights were riding away in the grey dawn of a new day. He waited until they were out of sight and then ran to his own horse and flew to the greenwood as if all the hounds of hell were at his heels.