"I am not an imbecile," sniffed the abbot. "I fully appreciate why we're going to all this trouble."

"As you say," replied Bran. "Please do not take offence, Abbot; I just wanted to make sure we were all working to the same end. It is the lives of those men and boys we are saving. Lest anyone forget."

While the others worked on preparing the forged letter, I had not been idle. I had been gathering bits of this and that from the abbey's stores and supplies. Tuck, Merian, and the others had helped, too, when they could, and on the Eve of Twelfth Night all was nearly ready.

We slept little that night, and dawn was a mere rumour in the east when we departed the abbey. There was no one about in the yard, and I do not think we were observed. But if any of the poor asleep in their miserable hovels had looked out, they would have observed a far different group of travellers leaving than that which arrived.

Saint Martin's

Richard de Glanville sat at table with a knife in one hand and a falcon on the other. With the knife he hacked off chunks of meat from the carcase before him, which he fed to the fledgling gyrfalcon-one of two birds the sheriff kept. He had heard from Abbot Hugo that falconry was much admired in the French court now that King Philip owned birds. De Glanville had decided, in the interest of his own advancement, to involve himself in this sport as well. It suited him. There was much in his nature like a preying bird; he imagined he understood the hawks, and they understood him.

The day, newly begun, held great promise. The miserable wet weather of the week gone had blown away at last, leaving the sky clean scoured and fresh. A most impressive gallows had been erected in the town square in front of the stable, and since there had been no communication on the part of the thieves who had stolen the abbot's goods, all things considered it was a fine day for a hanging.

He flipped a piece of mutton to the young bird and thought, not for the first time in the last few days, how to direct the executions for best effect. He had made up his mind that he would begin with three. Since it was a holy day there was a symbolic symmetry in the number three and, anyway, more than that would certainly draw the disapproval of the church. Count Falkes De Braose insisted on waiting until sundown rather than sunrise, as the sheriff would have preferred, but that was a mere trifle. The count clung doggedly to the belief that the threat of the hangings would yet bring results; he wanted to give the thieves as much time as possible to return the stolen treasure. In this, the sheriff and count differed. The sheriff held no such delusions that the thieves would give up the goods. Even so, just on the wild chance that the rogues were foolish enough to appear with the treasure, he had arranged a special reception for them. If they came-and somewhere in the sheriff 's dark heart he half hoped they would ride into Saint Martin's with the treasure-none of them would leave the square alive.

When he finished feeding the hawk, he replaced it on its perch and, drawing on his riding boots, threw a cloak over his shoulder and went out to visit his prisoners. Though the stink of the pit had long since become nauseating, he still performed this little daily ritual. To be sure, he wanted the wretches in the pit to know well who it was that held their lives in his hands. But the visits had another, more practical purpose. If, as the death day lurched ever nearer, any of the prisoners suddenly remembered the whereabouts of the outlaw known as King Raven, Sheriff de Glanville wanted to be there to hear it.

He hurried across the near-empty square. It was early yet, and few people were about to greet the blustery dawn. He let himself into the guardhouse and paused at the entrance to the underground gaol where, after waking the drowsy keeper, he poured a little water on the hem of his cloak. Holding that to his nose, he descended the few steps and proceeded along the single narrow corridor to the end, pausing only to see if anyone had died in either of the two smaller cells he passed along the way. The largest cell of the three lay at the end of the low corridor, and though it had been constructed to hold as many as a dozen men, it now held more than thirty. There was not enough room to lie down to sleep, so the prisoners took turns through the day and night; some, it was said, had learned to sleep on their feet, like horses.

At first sight of the sheriff, one of the Welsh prisoners let out a shout and instantly raised a great commotion, as every man and boy began crying for release. The sheriff stood in the dank corridor, the edge of his cloak pressed to his face, and patiently waited until they had exhausted their outcry. When the hubbub had died down once more-it took less time each day-the sheriff addressed them, using the few words of Welsh that he knew. "Rhi Bran y Hud," he said, speaking slowly so that they would understand. "Who knows him? Tell me and walk free."

It was the same small speech he made every day, and each time produced the same result: a tense and resentful silence. When the sheriff finally tired of waiting, he turned and walked away to a renewed chorus of shouting and wailing the moment his back was turned.

They were a stubborn crowd, but de Glanville thought he could detect a slight wearing down of their resolve. Soon, he believed, one of his captives would break ranks with the others and would tell him what he wanted to know. After a few of them had hanged, the rest would find it increasingly difficult to hold their tongues.

It was, he considered, only a matter of time.

The sheriff did not care a whit about retrieving Abbot Hugo's stolen goods, despite what Hugo told him about the importance of the letter. It was the capture of King Raven he desired, and nothing short of King Raven would satisfy.

After his morning visit to the gaol, the sheriff returned to the upper rooms of the guardhouse to visit the soldiers and speak with the marshal to make certain that all was in order for the executions. It was Twelfth Night and a festal day, and the town would be lively with trade and celebration. Sheriff de Glanville had not risen to his position by leaving details to chance.

He found Guy de Gysburne drinking wine with his sergeant. "De Glanville!" called Guy as the sheriff strolled into the guardhouse. A fire burned low in the grate, and several soldiers lolled half-asleep on the benches where they had spent the night. Empty cups lined the table and lay on the floor. "Une sante vous, Sherif!" Gysburne cried, raising his cup. "Join us!"

As the sheriff took a seat on the bench, the marshal poured wine into an empty cup and pressed it into de Glanville's hands. They drank, and the sheriff replaced his cup after only a mouthful, saying, "I will expect you and your men to be battle-sharp today."

"But of course," replied Guy carelessly. "You cannot think there will be any trouble?" When the sheriff did not reply, he adopted a cajoling tone. "Come, de Glanville, the rogues would never dare show their faces in town."

"I bow to your superior wisdom, Lord Marshal," he replied, his voice dripping honey. "I myself find it difficult to forget that a little less than a fortnight ago we lost an entire company of good men to these outlaws."

Guy frowned. "Nor have I forgotten, Sheriff," he said stiffly. "I merely see nothing to be gained by wallowing in the memory. Then again," he added, taking another swig of wine, "if it was my plan that had failed so miserably, perhaps I would be wallowing, too."

"Batard," muttered de Glanville. "You're rotten drunk." He glared at the marshal and then at the sergeant. "You have until sundown to get sober. When you do, I will look for your apology."