All through the winter and into the spring, the story sowed and tended its potent seeds; the meaning of the tale grew to fruition deep in Bran's soul until, one morning in early summer, he awoke to the clear and certain knowledge of what the tale signified. More, he knew what he must do to rescue Will Scarlet.

I wake in the night all a-fever with the odd conviction that I know what it all means. The letter, the ring, the gloves-I know what this strange treasure signifies, and why it has come to Elfael. For the first time, I am afraid. If I am right, then I have discovered a way to save Elfael, and I fear I may not live to pass on this saving knowledge to those who can use it. Oh, Blessed Virgin, Peter, and Paul, I pray I am not too late.

I sit in the cold dark and damp of my cell, waiting for daylight and hoping against hope that Odo will come early, and I pray to God that my scribe has true compassion in his heart.

I pray and wait, and pray some more, as it makes the waiting easier.

I am at this a long time when at last I see the dim morning light straggling along the narrow corridor to my cell. I hear Gulbert the jailer stumbling around as he strikes up a small fire to heat his room. I content myself with the sorry fact that our jailer lives only a little better than his prisoners. He is as much a captive of the abbot as I am, if not the more. At least I will leave this rank rat hole one day and he, poor fella, will remain.

Odo is long in coming. I shout for Gulbert, asking if the scribe has been seen, but my keeper does not answer me. He rarely does, and I remain a tightly wrapped bundle of worry until I hear the murmur of voices and then the scrape of an iron door against the stone flags of the corridor. In a moment, I hear the familiar shuffling footfall, and my heart leaps in my chest.

Easy now, Will me lad, I tell myself, you don't want to scare the scribe; he's skittery enough as it is without you gettin' him up all nervous. So to make it look like I have been doing anything but waiting for him, I lie back on my musty mat and close my eyes.

I hear the jingle of a key, and the door to my cell creaks open. "Will? Are you asleep?"

I open one eye and look around. "Oh, it is you, Odo. I thought it might be the king of England bringing my pardon."

Odo smiles and shakes his head. "No luck today, I fear."

"Don't be too sure, my friend." I sit up. "What if I told you I knew a secret that could save our sovereign king from black treachery and murder, or worse."

Odo shakes his head. "I know I should be well accustomed to your japes by now…" The look in my eye brings him up short. "I do begin to believe you are in earnest."

"Aye, that I am, lad."

I am pleased to see that he is in a mood to humour me this morning. He settles heavily into his accustomed place. "How will you save King William?"

"I will tell you, my friend, but you must promise me a right solemn oath on everything you hold most sacred in the world-promise me that what I tell you will not pass your lips. You cannot write it down, nor in any other way repeat what I say to another living soul."

He glances up quickly. "I cannot."

"You will, or I will not say another word."

"Please, Will, you do not understand what you're asking."

"See here, Odo, I am asking you to pledge your life with mine-no more, no less." He would look away, but I hold him with the strength of my conviction. "Hear me now," I continue after a moment, "if I am wrong, nothing will happen. But if I am right, then a great treachery will be prevented and hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives will be saved."

He searches my face for a way out of this unexpected dilemma. All his natural timidity comes flooding to the fore. I can see him swimming in it, trying to avoid being swept away.

Fight it, Odo, boy. It is time to become a man.

"Abbot Hugo…," he begins, then quits. "I could never… he would find out anything you said… he would know."

"Has he the ears of the devil now? Unless you told him, he would never know."

"He would find out."

"How?" I counter. Here is where the battle will be fought. Is his desire to do right stronger than his fear of the black abbot?

After a moment, I say, "Only the two of us will know. If you say nothing to him, then I fail to see how Hugo will ever know what I mean to tell you."

He looks at me, his round face a tight-pinched knot of pain.

"It is life and death, Odo," I tell him quietly. He is that close to fleeing. "Life and death in your hands."

He stands abruptly, scattering pen and parchment and spilling his inkhorn. "I cannot!" he says, and bolts from the cell.

I hear his feet slapping the stones in the corridor; he calls Gulbert to let him out, and then he's gone.

Well, it was a risk doomed from the start. I should have known better than to think he could help. Now escape is my only hope, and it is such a starved and wretched thing it brings sad tears to my eyes. I tug at the chain on my leg and feel the lump in my throat as frustration bites. To hold the solitary answer to the riddle of the baron's treasure-to be entrusted with the key to free Elfael and to be unable to use it-that fair makes the eye-water roll down my whiskered cheeks.

I lie on my filthy bed and think how to get word to Bran, and my head-dull from these weeks and months of captivity-feels like a lump of useless timber. I think and think… and it always comes out at the same place. I can do nothing alone. I must have help.

Oh, God, if it is true that you delight in a heartfelt prayer, then hear this one, and please send Odo back.

Odo returns, and so quickly that I am surprised. He has not shown such clear and ready resolve before. There is something on his mind-a blind man could see it-and he has come back with all the bluster of a fella who has made up his mind to embark on a dangerous journey, or a long-neglected chore that will get him mucked up from heel to crown. I do greatly wonder at the wild glint in his soft brown eyes. This is not the Odo I have come to know.

So, here is Odo, standing outside the door of my cell, like a faithful hound returning to a harsh master he would rather forgive than leave. I see he has his parchment and goose feather in one hand and inkhorn in the other as always; but the sharpness in his aspect gives me to know this is not like all the other times.

"Are you coming in, Odo?" I say. He has made no move to join me.

"I have to know something," he says, glancing down the corridor as if he fears we might be overheard. Gulbert, if he hears anything from the cells at all, is long past caring. "I have to know beyond all doubt that you will not betray me."

"Odo," I reply, "have we known each other so long that you ask me that?"

"Swear it," he insists. I hear in his voice what I have not often heard-a little bone and muscle, a little bit of iron. "Swear it on your soul that you will not betray me."

"As God is my witness, I swear on my everlasting soul that I will not betray you."

This seems to satisfy him; he opens the door to my cell and takes his customary place. I see by the firm set of his soft mouth that he is chewing on something too big to swallow, so I let him take his time with it.

"It is the abbot," he says at last.

"It usually is," I reply. "What has he done now?"

"He has been lying to me," remarks Odo. "Lying from the very beginning. I have caught him time and again, but said nothing."

"I understand."

"No, Will," replies my scribe, "you do not. I have been lying to him, too."

I stare at him. "Odo, you do amaze me."

"That is why I rushed away. If I am to do as you ask, I had to make confession. If I am killed, I want to go to God with clean hands and a clean heart."