To the last man, the sheriff 's toadies are as cruel and vengeful as the day is long; a more rancorous covey of plume-proud pigeons you never want to meet. God bless me, it is true.

The folk of Derby still talk of the time when Sheriff de Glanville and three of his men cornered a poor tinker who had found his way into mischief. The tale as I heard it was that one bright day in April, a farmwife went out to feed the geese and found them all but one dead and that one not looking any too hearty. Who would do a mean and hateful thing like that? Well, it came to her then that there'd been a tinker come to the settlement a day or two before hoping to sell a new pot or get some patchwork on an old one. Sharp-tongued daughter of Eve that she was, she'd sent him off with both ears burnin' for his trouble.

Now then, wasn't that just like a rascal of a tinker to skulk around behind her back and kill her prize geese the moment she wasn't looking? She went about the market with this news, and it soon spread all over town. Everyone was looking for this tinker, who wasn't hard to find because he wasn't hiding. They caught him down by the river washing his clothes, and they hauled him half-naked to the sheriff to decide what to do with the goose-killer.

As it happened, some other townsfolk had rustled about and found a serf who'd broken faith with his Norman lord from somewhere up north. He'd passed through the town a day or so before, and the fella was discovered hiding in a cow byre on a settlement just down the road. They bound the poor fella and dragged him to town, where the sheriff had already set up his judgement seat outside the guildhall in the market square. De Glanville was halfway to hanging the tinker when the second crowd tumbles into town with the serf.

So now. What to do? Both men are swearing their innocence and screaming for mercy. They are raising a ruck and crying foul to beat the devil. Well, the sheriff can't tell who is guilty of this heinous crime, nor can anyone else. But that en't no matter. Up he stands and says, "You call on heaven to help you? So be it! Hang them both, and let God decide which one shall go to hell."

So his men fix another noose on the end of the first rope, and it's up over the roof beam of the guildhall. He hangs both men in the market square with the same rope-one wretch on one end, and one on t'other. And that is Richard bloody de Glanville for you beginning and end… What's that, monk?" I say. "You think it unlikely?"

Odo sniffs and wrinkles his nose in disbelief. "If you please, which one of them killed the geese?"

"Which one? I'd a thought that would be obvious to a smart fella like you, Odo. So now, you tell me, which one did the deed?"

"The tinker-for spite, because the farmwife refused to buy his pots or give him work."

"Oh, Odo," I sigh, shaking my head and tutting his ignorance. "It wasn't the tinker. No, never him."

"The serf then, because he…" He scratches his head. "Hungry? I don't know."

"It wasn't the serf, either."

"Then who?"

"It was a sneak-thief fox, of course. See, Odo, a man can't kill a goose but that the whole world knows about it. First you gotta catch the bloody bird, and that raises the most fearsome squawk you ever heard, and that gets all the others squawking, too. By Adam's axe, it's enough to wake the dead, it is. But a fox, now a fox is nimble as a shadow and just as silent. A fox works quick and so frightens the flock that none of them lets out a peep. With a fox in the barn, no one knows the deed is done till you walk in and find 'em all in a heap of blood and feathers."

Odo bristles at this. "Are you saying the sheriff hanged two innocent men?"

"I don't know that they were innocent, mind, but de Glanville hanged two men for the same crime that neither could have done."

Odo shakes his head. "Hearsay," he decides. "Hearsay and slander and lies."

"That's right," I say. "You just keep telling yourself that, priest. Keep on a-saying it until they find a reason to tighten the rope around your fine plump neck, and then we'll see how you sing."

The snow continued through the night and over the next days, covering all, drifting deep on field and forest, hilltop and valley throughout Elfael. As soon as the hard weather eased up a little, we fetched the captured spoils back to Cel Craidd, along with the four oxen kept in a pen not far from the road, trusting to the windblown snow to remove any traces of our passing. We kept a right keen watch for the sheriff and his scabby men, but saw neither hank nor hair of them, and so hurried about our chores. The wagons we dismantled where they stood, keeping only the wheels and iron fittings; the animals were more useful, to be sure. One we kept to pull the plough in the spring; the others would be given to farmers in the area to replace those lost in one way or another to the Ffreinc.

It was the same with the money. Bran did not keep what he got from the raid, but shared it out among the folk of his realm, helping those who were most in need of it-and there were plenty of them, I can tell you. For the Normans had been in Elfael going on two years by then, and however bad it was in the beginning it was much worse now. Always worse with that hell crew, never better. So, the money was given out, and those who received it blessed King Raven and his men.

Oh, but that great gold ring began to weigh heavy on the slender strap around Bran's princely neck. Worth a king's ransom it was, and we all stoked a secret fear that one day the Red King himself would come after it with an army. We were all atwist over this when Friar Tuck showed up.

I had heard his name by then, and some few things about him-how he had helped Bran in his dealings with the king and cardinal. But whatever I had heard did nothing to prepare me for the man himself. Part imp, part oaf, part angel-that is Friar Tuck.

His arrival was announced in the usual way: one of the sentries gave out the shrill whistle of a crake. This warned the Grellon that someone was coming and that this visitor was welcome. An intruder would have demanded a very different call. For those few who were allowed to come and go, however, there was a simple rising whistle. Well, we heard the signal, and folk stopped whatever they were doing and turned towards the blasted oak to see who would appear through the hedge. A few moments later, a fat little dumpling rolled down the bank, red face shining with a sheen of sweat despite the chill in the air, the hem of his robe hiked up and stuffed in his belt to keep it from dragging through the snow.

"Happy Christ-tide!" he called when he saw all the folk hurrying to greet him. "It is good to see you, Iwan! Siarles! Gaenor, Teleri, Henwydd!" He called out the names of folk he knew. "Good to see you! Peace to one and all!"

"Tuck!" shouted Siarles, hurrying to greet him. "Hail and welcome! With all this snow, we did not think to see you again until the spring."

"And where should I be at Christ-tide, but with my own dear friends?"

"No bag this time?"

"Bag? I've brought half of Hereford with me!" He gestured vaguely toward the trail. "There's a pack mule coming along. Rhoddi met me on the trail and sent me on ahead."

Bran and Merian appeared then, and Angharad was not far behind. The little friar was welcomed with laughter and true affection; I glimpsed in this something of the respect and high regard this simple monk enjoyed amongst the Grellon. The king of England might receive similar adulation on his travels, I'll warrant, but little of the fondness.

"God with you, Friar," said Merian, stepping forward to bless our visitor. "May your sojourn here well become you." She smiled and bent at the waist to bestow a kiss on his cheek. Then, taking that same round red cheek between finger and thumb, she gave it a pinch. "That is for leaving without wishing me farewell the last time!"