"But," he said, replacing the gloves, "I fear this does little to help you. I am sorry I could not be of better service." He placed the palm of his hand on the parchment. "I agree with the friar. There is something in the letter that the baron does not wish known to a wider world."

Well, you could have knocked us down with a wren feather. We all looked at each other, the mystery deeper now than when we had begun.

Lady Merian found her voice first. "Nevertheless, it goes back. Whether we discover what it means or not," she declared, "it must be returned-all of it-as we agreed."

What do you want me to do?" asked the abbot, when, after Jago had been dismissed, he returned to see if we would like to join the monks for vespers.

Bran pressed the folded parchment into Daffyd's hands. "Make a copy of this," he commanded. "Letter for letter, word for word. Make it exactly the same as this one."

"I cannot!" gasped the abbot, aghast at the very suggestion.

"You can," Bran assured him. "You will."

"Leave it to me," said Tuck, stepping boldly forward. "This is an abbey, is it not?" He took the abbot by the elbow, turned him, and led him to the door. "Then let us go to your scriptorium and see what can be done." Odo is frowning again. He does not approve of our King Bran's high-handed ways. My scribe has put down his quill and folded his hands across his round chest. "Copying a stolen letter-you had no right."

This makes me laugh out loud. "Hell's bells, Odo! That is the least of the things we have done since this whole sorry affair began, and it en't over yet."

"You should not have done that," he mutters. "It is a sin against the church."

"Well, I suppose you could hold to that if you like," I tell him, "but your friend Abbot Hugo was willing to burn defenceless folk in their beds to get that letter. He sent men to their deaths to reclaim it, and was only too willing to send more. Seems to me that if we start totting up sins, his would still outweigh the lot."

In his indignation, my podgy scribe has forgotten this. He makes his sour face and pokes out his lower lip. "Copying a stolen letter," he says at last. "It's still a sin."

"Perhaps."

"Undoubtedly."

"Very well," I concede. "I suppose you have never stood on a battleground naked and alone while the enemy swarms around you like killing wasps with poison in their stings."

"No!" he snorts. "And neither have you."

I grant him that. "Maybe not. But we are sorely outmanned in this fight. The enemy has all the knights and weapons, and he has already seized the high ground. Whatever small advantage comes our way, we take it and thank God for it, too."

"You stole the letter!" he complains.

Oh, Odo, my misguided friend, takes what refuge can be found in dull insistence. Well, it is better than facing the truth, I suppose. But that truth is out now, and it is working away in him. I leave it there, and we roll on… There were but four days remaining before Twelfth Night, when the hangings would commence. At Bran's insistence, and with Tuck's patient cajoling, the monks of Saint Dyfrig's abbey prepared a parchment the same size and shape as that of the baron's letter; they then proceeded to copy the letter out exact, matching pen stroke to pen stroke. If they had been archers, I'd have said they hit the mark nine times for ten and the tenth a near miss-which is right fair, considering they didn't know what they were scribing. True, they were not able to use the same colour brown ink as the original; the ink they made for their use at the abbey had a more ruddy appearance when it dried. Still, we reasoned that since none of the Ffreinc in Elfael had ever seen the original, they would not know the difference.

While the monks toiled away, Bran and Iwan undertook to carve a seal of sorts out of a bit of ox bone. Working with various tools gathered from around the abbey-everything from knife points to needles-they endeavoured to copy the stamp that made the seal that was affixed to the letter. And, while they laboured at this, Merian and Cinnia made a binding cord, weaving strands of white satin which they then dyed using some of the ruddy ink and other stuff supplied by the abbey.

It took two days to finish our forgery, and a fine and handsome thing it was, too. When it was done, we placed the letters side by side and looked at them. It was that difficult to tell them apart, and I knew which was which. No one who had not seen the genuine letter would be able to tell the difference, I reckoned, and anyone who did not know, would never guess.

Abbot Daffyd held a special Mass of absolution for the monks who had worked on the parchment and for the monastery itself for its complicity in this misdeed; he sought the forgiveness of the High Judge of the world for the low crimes of his followers. I held no such qualms about any of this myself, considering it a right fair exchange for the lives of those who awaited death in the count's hostage pit.

When the service was finished, Bran ordered everyone to make ready to ride to Castle Truan to return the stolen goods to the count. "And just how do you intend to do that?" asked Daffyd; if his voice had been a bodkin, it could not have been more pointed. I suppose he imagined he had caught Bran in a mistake that would sink the plan like a millstone in a rowboat. "If you are caught with any of this, the sheriff will hang you instead."

"Good abbot," replied Bran, "your concern touches me deeply. I do believe you are right. Yet, since we have no interest in providing fresh meat for the hangman, we must make other arrangements."

Warned by the devious smile on Bran's face, Daffyd said, "Yes? And those would be?"

"You shall return the treasures to the count."

"Me!" cried the abbot, his face going crimson in the instant. "But see here! I will do no such thing."

"Yes," Bran assured him, "I think you will. You must."

Well, the abbot was the only real choice. When all was said and done, he was the only one who could come and go among the Ffreinc as neatly as he pleased without rousing undue suspicion.

"This will not do at all," the abbot fumed.

"It will," countered Bran. "If you listen well and do exactly as I say, they will hail you as a champion and drink your health." Bran then explained how the stolen goods would be returned. "Tomorrow you will awaken and go to the chapel for your morning prayers. And there, on the altar, you will find a bag containing a box. When you open the box you will find the letter and the ring and the gloves. You will recognize them as the very items Count de Braose is missing, and you will take them to him, telling him precisely how you found them."

"It hardly serves the purpose if they hang me instead," Daffyd pointed out.

"If you can contrive to have the sheriff and abbot present when you hand over the goods," continued Bran, "that would be better still. De Glanville was there. He knows you could not have been involved in the theft; therefore you will remain above suspicion. And since you did not see who left the bundle on the altar, they cannot use you to get at us."

The abbot nodded. "It would all be true," he mused.

"You would not have to lie to them."

"But it would pare the truth very narrowly, my lord," humphed Abbot Daffyd.

"Narrow is the gate," chuckled Tuck, "and strait is the way. Do as Rhi Bran says, and they will sing your praises."

"And I will give you silver enough to feed the hungry in your yard."

The abbot twisted and turned like a worm on a griddle, but even he had to admit that it was the only way. He agreed to do it.

"Stay long enough to see the prisoners released," added Bran. "Once the abbot and count have received the goods, they should set the captives free as promised."