One of the brothers brought a basin of water and some soap for us to wash away the last few days of travel. Siarles and I took turns splashing our faces and rinsing our hands in the basin before joining the bishop for refreshment in his quarters above the building they called a refectory.

"We eat a meal after evening prayers," Asaph informed us, "but travel is hungry work." He stretched a hand towards the table that had been prepared for us. "So please, my friends, take a little something to keep body and soul together until then."

We thanked him and filled our wooden bowls from the fare on offer: boiled eggs and sliced sheep's cheese and cold mutton. There was some thin ale-no doubt the best they had-and fresh buttermilk. We sat down to eat, and the bishop drew his chair near the table. "You must tell me the news," he said, his tone almost pitiful. "How does our benefactor fare?"

"Never better," Siarles answered. "He looks forward to the day when he can visit you himself. And he sends me with this token of his earnest goodwill for your work here." With that, Siarles produced a small leather bag of coins from his purse, and placed it on the table before the cleric.

The bishop smiled and, thanking God and us both, opened the bag and poured out a handful of silver pennies. "Tell your lord that this will go far towards easing the burden of the poor hereabouts. The Ffreinc press everyone so very hard…" Here he faltered and looked away.

"Father?" I said. "You look like a fella who has just bit his tongue rather than speak his mind. Why not tell us what is wrong?"

"Things are bad just now-worse than ever before."

"Indeed?" asked Siarles. "What has happened?"

Asaph tried to talk, but could not. Siarles passed him a cup of the watery ale, and said, "Drink some of that down and maybe it will help loosen the words."

He drank and placed the cup carefully on the table before him as if he was afraid it might shatter. "I do not know how it came about," he said when he had found his voice again, "but something of great value to the count has gone missing. They are saying it was stolen by the creature called King Raven."

"We have heard of this," I told him, to encourage him and keep him talking now that he had begun. "What has the count done?"

"He has taken prisoners-men and boys-pulling them out of their beds in the dead of night. A decree has gone out. He says he will start hanging them on Twelfth Night…"

"The great steaming pile!" exclaimed Siarles.

The bishop turned large, sad eyes on us. "One man or boy each day at sunset until what was stolen is returned. That is what Count de Braose has said. How this will end, God only knows."

So that was it. When their attempt to burn us out failed, the cowardly Ffreinc turned to those unable to defend themselves. "How many?" I asked. "How many has he taken?"

"I don't know," said the bishop. "Fifty or sixty, they say." The ageing cleric drew both hands down his face and shook his head in despair. "God help us," he murmured.

"You know what they say," Siarles told him. "King Raven only takes back what was stolen in the first place. No doubt it is the same with whatever was taken this time…" What is that, Odo? Did the old bishop know that King Raven was his mysterious benefactor?" I give him a fishy smile. "Do I look such a fool that you think you can trap me so easily? Think again, my scribbling friend. Will cannot be drawn." I regard him with his smooth-shaved pate and his ink-stained fingers. "What do you think?"

"I think he must have known," Odo says. "A man knows whose largess keeps him."

"Does he now?" I crow. "Do you know who keeps you, monk?"

"God keeps me," replies the monk, his sanctimony nigh insufferable.

"Ha! It's Abbot Hugo keeps you, priest-and you're as much a captive as Will Scarlet ever was. Hugo owns you as much as he owns the food you put in your mouth and the bed you sleep in at night-don't think he doesn't. See here, our Bishop Asaph is not a stupid man. Only a right fool would pry into things that could bring ruin if all was known."

"Then he is a sinner," concludes Odo loftily.

"A sinner," I repeat. "How so?"

"Receiving the benefit of money acquired by theft makes a thief of any who accept it."

"Is that right?" I say. "Is that what they teach in the monkery?"

"It is." Oh, he is so smug in his righteousness, sometimes I want to throttle him with the belt around his sagging middle.

"Well," I allow, "you may be right. But tell me which is the greater theft-stealing a man's purse, or his homeland?"

"Stealing is stealing," he replies smoothly. "It is all the same in God's eyes."

"God's eyes! I will give you God's eyes, Odo! Get out! We are finished. I will speak no more today." He looks at me with a hurt expression. "Out with you," I roar. "Leave me."

He rises slowly and blows on the parchment and rolls it. "You take offence where none was offered," he sniffs. "I merely point out the church's position in the matter of theft, which-as we all know, is a mortal sin."

"Well and good, but this is war, you scurvy toad. And war makes thieves of all good men who would oppose the cruel invader."

"There is no war," declares my weak-eyed scribe. His sanctimony is boundless. "There is only rebellion to the established rule."

"Out!" I cry, and pick up a handful of mouldy straw from the damp floor of my cell. I fling the clump at him. "Out! And do not come back."

He turns to go, showing as much haste as I have ever seen in him. But at the door he hesitates. "If I do not return, the hangman comes the sooner."

"Let him come!" I shout. "I welcome him. I would rather listen to him raising his gibbet than you telling me about the established rule. For the love of the Holy Virgin, Odo! It is a rule established in blood on a stolen throne. So now! Who is the saint and who the sinner?"

He ducks his head as he steps through the ironclad door of my cell and slinks away into the darkness. I lie back and close my eyes. Sweet Lord Jesus, I pray, let my enemies kill me, or set me free!

Odo has not come today, and I begin to think that he has taken me at my word. Perhaps he has gone to our false abbot with my rantings and Hugo has decided to be done with me at last. If Odo does not come tomorrow, I will send for him and make my shrift. A lame piece of priesthood he may be, but in truth I do not trust anyone else in this nest of vipers to hear my confession. Odo can do that, at least, and though he riles me no end, I know he will see me right.

I hear from my keeper, Gulbert-or is it Gibbert?-that the wet weather has passed and the sun has returned. This is good news. It may be that my damp pit will dry out a little-not that ol'Will plans to wear out the world much longer. Even without my bone-headed outburst, the abbot's patience must be growing thin as his mercy. From all accounts, he was never a fella to suffer long to begin with.

So now, my execution day must be drawing nigh.

But, what is this?

There is a muffled scrabbling in the corridor beyond my cell… hushed voices… and then the familiar slow, shuffling footfall.

"Good day,Will Scarlet," says Odo as he appears at the door. "God with you." His voice is that much strained as if addressing a stroppy stranger.

"This day is almost done, my friend," I say to put him at ease. Well, he is the closest thing to a friend I have in this forsaken place. "I'll say good evening and God bless."

He makes no move to open the door, but stands in the narrow stone corridor. "Are you coming in, then?" I ask.

"No, it will be dark soon, and I could not get any candles."

"I see."

"The abbot does not know I am here. He has forbidden me to listen to you."