"As do we all, Odo. But tell me more about this deception."

He nods. "I knew you would not give up Bran-not even to save yourself."

"Truly, I never would."

"When I saw that you were a man of honour, I decided to spin the abbot a tale that would keep us talking, but would tell him little."

Astonished at this turn, I do not know what to say. It seems best to just let him talk as he will. "Oh?"

"That is what I did. Some of what you said, I used, but most I made up." He shrugs. "It is easy for me. The abbot knows nothing of Merian, or Iwan, Siarles, or Tuck, and what he knows of Bran is mostly fancy." He allows himself a sly smile. "The more you told me of the real Bran, the less I told the abbot."

"Well, you have me, Odo. I don't know what to say."

But Odo is not listening.

"Abbot Hugo has been lying to me from the beginning. Nothing he says can be trusted. He thinks I am stupid, that I cannot see through his veil of lies, but I have from the start." He pauses to draw breath. I can see that he is working himself up to do the thing he has come to do. "Like the letter Bran stole-abbot says it was nothing, a simple letter of introduction only. But if that was true then why was he so desperate to get it back?"

"And they were that desperate, I can tell you," I said, recalling the Christmas raid. "A good many men died that night to recover it. I think you can fair be sure it was far more than a letter of introduction."

"What you said about treachery against the crown…" His voice falls to a creaky whisper. "Knowing the abbot, I do not doubt it. Still, I cannot think what it might be."

"Nor could I, Odo, nor could I-not for the longest time," I tell him. "But the answer was starin' me in the face all along. Blind dog that I am, I could not see it until you showed me where to look."

"I showed you?" he says, and smiles.

"Oh, aye," I tell him, and then explain how I tumbled to what the Bloody Baron and Black Abbot were up to at last. He listens, nodding in solemn agreement as I conclude, "Fortunately, we are not without some tricks of our own."

"Yes?" He nods and licks his lips, eager now to hear what I propose.

"But as you made me swear on my solitary soul, so must I hear your pledge, my friend. We are in this together now, and you can tell no one-not even your confessor." This I tell him in a tone as bleak as the tomb which will certainly claim us both if he fails to keep his vow.

Odo hesitates; he knows full well the consequence of what I am about to ask him. Then, squaring his round shoulders, he nods.

"Say it, Odo," I say gently. "I must hear the words."

"On my eternal soul, I will do exactly as you say and breathe a word to no one."

"Good lad. You have done the right thing," I tell him. "It is not easy to go against your superior, but it is the right thing."

"What do you want me to do?" he says, as if anxious now to get the deed done.

"We must get a message to Bran," I say. "We must let him know what is about to happen so he can move against it."

Odo agrees. He unstops the inkhorn and pares his quill. I watch him as he spreads the curled edge of parchment beneath his pudgy hands-I have seen this countless times, yet this time I watch with my heart in my mouth. Do not let us down, monk.

He dips the pen and holds it poised above the parchment. "What shall I write?"

"Not so fast," I say. "It is no use writing in Ffreinc, as no one in Cel Craidd can read it. Can you write in Saxon?"

"Latin," he says. "French and Latin." He shrugs. "That's all."

"Then Latin will have to do," I say, and we begin.

In the end, it is a simple message we devise, and when we finish I have him read it back to me to see if we've left anything out. "See now, we must think what word to add to let Bran know that this has come from me, and no one else. It must be something Bran will trust."

It takes me a moment to think of a word or two-something only Bran and I would know… about Tuck, or one of the others?… Then it comes to me. "Odo, my fine scribe, at the end of the message add this: 'The straw man was shaved twice that day: once by error, and once by craft. Will's the error, Bran's the craft. Yet Will took the prize.' This Bran knows to be true."

Odo regards me with a curious look.

"Write it," I tell him.

He dips his quill and leans low over the parchment scrap, now all but covered with his tight script. "What does it mean?"

"It is something known between Bran and myself, that is all."

"Very well," says Odo. He bends to the task and then raises his head. "It is done."

"Good," I say. "Now tuck that up your skirt, priest, and keep it well out of sight."

"It is my head if I fail," he says, and frowns. "But how am I to find Rhi Bran?"

I smile at his use of the name. "It is more likely that he will find you, I expect. All you have to do is start down the King's Road, and, if you do what I tell you, he'll find you soon enough." I begin to tell him how to attract the attention of the Grellon, but he makes a face and I stop. "Now what?"

"I am watched day and night," he points out. "I can't go wandering around in the forest. The abbot would catch me before I was out of sight of the town."

He has a point. "So, then…" I stare at him and it comes to me. "Then we will look for someone in town-a Welshman. Despite everything, they must come to the market still."

"Sometimes," Odo allows. "Would you trust a Welshman? Someone from Elfael?"

"Would and do," I reply. "All the more if the fella knew it was to serve King Raven and Elfael."

"Tomorrow is a market day," Odo announces, "and with the snows gone now there will likely be traders from Hereford and beyond. That always seems to bring a few of the local folk into town. They don't stay long, but if I was able to keep close watch, I might entrust the message to someone who could pass it along."

Bless me, Mother Mary, there are more things wrong with this plan than right. But in the end, we are left face-to-face with the plain ugly fact that we can do no better. I reluctantly agree, and tell Odo he is a good fella for thinkin' of it. This small praise seems to hearten him, and he hides the scrap of parchment in his robes and then stands to leave. "I should like to pray before I go, Will," he says.

"Another fine idea," I tell him. "Pray away."

Odo bows his head and folds his hands and, standing in the middle of the cell, begins to pray. He prays in Latin, like all priests, and I can follow only a little of it. His soft voice fills the cell like a gentle rain and, if only for a moment, I sense a warming presence-and sweet peace comes over me. For the first time in a long time, I am content.

I make it five days since Odo took the message out of the cell. He has not come back, and I fear he has been caught. A weak choice to begin with, true, but if the poor fella'd got even a thimble's worth o' luck he might have got a fair chop at it. I guess even that little was too much to hope for.

No doubt he did his best with the scant handful he was given, but Odo was not born to the outlaw life, like ol' Will, here. I do not hold him to blame.

Blame, now. There is a nasty black bog if ever there was one. If I think about it long enough I come 'round to the conclusion that if blame must be spooned out to anyone at all the Good Lord himself must take the swallow for making it so fiendishly easy for the strong and powerful to crush down the weak and powerless. Would that he had foreseen the host of problems arising from that little error. Oh, but that en't the world we got. I suppose we don't deserve a better one.

I close my eyes on that bitter thought and feel myself begin to drift off when… what's this, now? I hear the door open at the far end of the corridor. I guess it is Gulbert bringing me some sour water and the scrag end of a mutton bone to gnaw on.