I could tell from the way the ox handlers were gesturing and squawking that they were filling the sheriff 's ears with their weird and wonderful tale. Oh, yes! And I could tell by the way the sheriff 's scowl deepened by the moment that he was having none of it. He listened to them prate a while, and then cut off their mewling with a shout that travelled through the silent wood like a clap. Wheeling his mount, he cantered down the King's Road in the direction the abbot and soldiers had gone, passing so close to my perch I could have reached down and plucked that absurd hat from his pointy head.

He rode on, leaving his men and the ox drivers behind. Meanwhile, I studied hard to see what they might find, but was relieved to see that the snow had mostly filled in the tracks of men and beasts and wagon wheels; the only disturbance now to be seen was that left by the sheriff and his men themselves.

Soon enough, de Glanville returned. Close on his heels came Abbot Hugo and the marshal and the surviving soldiers. The fighting men were that weary and out of breath, they could hardly hold their weapons upright. King Raven had led them a wild chase right enough. Their snow-caked feet dragged, and their hair was stringy wet beneath their steel caps; they looked as cold and damp and limp as their own soggy cloaks.

They assembled in the road, gawking at the dead horses and knights, casting many a sideways glance into the wood lest the phantom catch them unawares. After a brief word with the sheriff, Marshal Guy sent his knights and the remaining soldiers and wagon drivers down the road. It would be a long, frozen walk to Count de Braose's castle, and I did not envy them the welcome they would likely receive. The wounded soldier, clinging to life, was taken up behind one of the sheriff 's men, and they all clattered off with a rattle of tack and weapons.

Thoughts of home fires and welcomes put me in mind of a nice steaming bowl of something hot, and I was that close to quitting my post and finding my way back home… but glanced back to see that the sheriff had not yet departed. He simply sat there on his horse, alone, in the middle of the road, waiting. I could in no wise leave before he did, so I stayed put.

Good thing, too.

For as winter twilight settled over the forest, out from the undergrowth stumbled a man with two fat hares slung on a snare line over his neck, and another in his hand. I did not recognise the fella and supposed he was from Elfael-a farmer, out to get a little meat for his table.

"You there!" shouted the sheriff, his voice loud in the quiet glade. Startling as it was, it took a moment before I realised old rat face was speaking English. "Stand where you are!"

The poor man was so surprised he dropped the hare in hand and turned to run. The sheriff was that quick; he spurred his mount forward to catch the poacher. The fleeing man lunged for the brush at the side of the road, but was caught and hauled back by the hood of his cloak.

The fella gave out a yelp and tried to struggle free of the cloak. The sheriff, well used to catching folk this way, pulled him off his feet. He hung there at the side of the sheriff 's saddle, feet dangling off the ground, swinging his fists, and yelling to be released. When the sheriff drew his knife and put it to his squirming captive's neck, I reckoned the affair had gone far enough. Easing myself from my place, I tucked three arrows in my belt, put another on the string, and moved down onto the road as quickly and quietly as stiff muscles would allow.

Creeping like a shadow, I came up behind the sheriff 's horse and, with an arrow already on the string, drew and took aim. "Let him go," I said, in my best English. "Or wear this arrow to your wake."

The sheriff 's head spun around so fast I thought his neck would snap. He gaped at me and at the bow in my hand, opened his mouth, then thought better and closed it.

"You might be thinking your little knife will save you," I said, "but I think it won't. If you want to find out, just you hold on to that Welshman."

De Glanville recovered himself then, and said, "I am sheriff of the March. This thief is caught poaching in the king's forest, and unless you want a share of what is coming to him, turn aside and go your way."

"Bold words, Sheriff," I replied. "But it is myself who holds the bow, and my fingers on this string are getting tired."

I gave my arm a jiggle to sharpen my point, as it were, whereupon the sheriff dropped our man. "Pick up the hare," I told the farmer, "and light out." He scrambled to his feet, snatched up his prize, and dived into the wood.

"You cannot hope to gain anything by this," the sheriff informed me. "I have marked you for a felon. You will not escape the king's justice."

"The king's justice!" I hooted. "Sir, the king's justice is rough, to be sure, but it is fickle and inconstant as a flirty milkmaid. I will gladly take my chances."

"Fool!" cried the sheriff, suddenly angry. Heedless of the arrow, he spurred his horse at me so as to run me down. I stepped lightly aside, and he made a wild, looping slash at me with his small blade as he passed.

He wheeled the horse at once. A beast well trained to war, it turned so fast the sheriff 's long cloak flung out behind him. I saw it flying like a dull flag against the dark bulwark of an oak bole as he made to drive me down, and loosed the shaft.

The arrow whined through the air, catching the heavy cloak and pinning it to the oak as he passed. The cloak snapped taut, the horse charged on, and de Glanville was jerked clean from the saddle.

The sound of ripping fabric cut sharp in the little glade, but the cloth and arrow held fast. Sheriff de Glanville was strung up like a ham in a chimney to dangle with his feet a few inches from the snowy ground. Oh, he squirmed and wriggled and cursed me up one side and down t'other. But I was not ready to let him go so easy, so I sent two more arrows into the trunk to better nail my captive to the tree.

Red-faced and foamin' with rage, if that fella coulda spit poison, he would have. No mistake. Instead, he swung there, ripening the air with his rage. I calmly trained an arrow at the centre of his chest.

I was this close to loosing the shaft when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Put up," said a familiar voice in my ear. "The sheriff 's men are returning. It is time to fly."

"I have him," I insisted. "I can take him and save the world a load of trouble."

"It may bring more trouble than it saves. Another day. We have what we came for-and now we must fly."

With that, Bran pulled me into the brushwood at the side of the road and we were away.

No sooner in the wood and on the path than we heard the sheriff shouting behind us, "After them! Through there! Ten marks to the man who brings them back!"

Immediately, we heard the crack and snap of branches as the soldiers searched for our trail. In less time than it takes to tell, they found it and were onto us.

So now, here was a bother: fleeing through the woods over snow-covered pathways and no way to cover our tracks. Those fellas would have no difficulty at all seeing where we went. The first clearing we came to, I stopped to make a stand. "We can take them here, my lord," I said. "I'll drop the first one, you take the second."

"I don't have a bow,Will," said Bran. "So, tonight, we let them live."

"They will not pay us the same coin if they catch us," I replied. "That is a fair certainty."

"True enough," Bran allowed. Gone was the feathered cloak and the long-beaked headpiece; dressed in his customary black tunic and trousers, he shivered slightly with the cold. "Consider it just one of the many things that makes us better men than they are."

Our pursuers could be heard thrashing through the wood, coming closer with every heartbeat.