Scarlet

you require.'

The sheriff cast a quick glance at Abbot Hugo, whose plump round face showed, for once, plain wide-eyed astonishment. On the ground, Count Falkes shoved his way towards the newly arrived monks. 'Where is it?' he demanded. 'Let us see it.'

'It is here, Lord Count,' said Daffyd, his face glistening with sweat from the frantic scramble to reach the town. 'Praise Jesu, we have come in time.' He turned to one of the priests behind him and took possession of a small wooden box, which he passed to the count. 'Inside this casket, you will find the items which were stolen from you.'

'Here! Here!' cried Abbot Hugo. 'Make way!' He pushed through the crowd to the count's side. 'Let me see that.'

Seizing the chest from the count's hands, he opened the lid and peered inside. 'God in heaven!' he gasped, withdrawing the gloves. He took out the leather bag and, shoving the casket into the count's hands, fumbled at the strings of the bag, opened it, and shook the heavy gold ring into his hand. 'I don't believe it.'

'The ring!' said the count. Looking up sharply, he said, 'Where did you get this?'

'These are the things that were stolen in the forest raid at Christ-tide, yes?' Daffyd asked.

'They are,' confirmed Count Falkes. 'I ask again, where did you get them?'

'With God and the whole Assembly of Heaven bearing witness, I went to the chapel for prayers this morning, and the box was on the altar. When it was left there, no one knows. We saw no one.' Raising his arm, the Welsh abbot pointed to the gallows. 'Seeing that the goods have been returned and accepted, I beg the release of all prisoners.'

For the benefit of the Cymry hovering at the edges of the crowd, he repeated his request in Gaelic; this brought a cheer from those brave enough to risk being identified by the count and sheriff as potential troublemakers.

Abbot Hugo, still examining the contents of the box, withdrew the carefully folded bundle of parchment. 'Here it is-the letter,' he said, holding it up so he could see it in the torchlight. 'It is still sealed.' Looking to the count, he said, 'It is all here-everything.'

'Excellent,' Falkes replied. 'My thanks to you, Abbot. We will now release the prisoners.'

'Not so fast, my lord,' said Hugo. 'I think there are still questions to be answered.' He turned with sudden savagery on the Welsh abbot. 'Who gave these things to you? Who are you protecting?'

'My lord abbot,' began Daffyd, somewhat taken aback by his fellow churchman's abrupt challenge. 'I do not th-'

'Come now, you don't expect us to believe that you know nothing about this affair? I demand a full explanation, and I will have it, by heaven, or else these men will hang.'

Daffyd, indignant now, puffed out his chest. 'I resent your insinuation. I have acted in good faith, believing that box was given to me so that I might secure the release of the condemned men-doomed, I would add, through no fault of their own. It would seem that your threat reached the ears of those who stole these things and they contrived to leave the box where it would be found so that I might do precisely what I have done.'

The abbot frowned and fumed, unwilling to accept a word of it. Count Falkes, on the other hand, appeared pleased and relieved; he replied, 'For my part, I believe you have acted in good faith, Abbot.' Turning towards the gallows, where everyone stood looking on in almost breathless anticipation, he shouted, 'Relacher les prisonniers!'

Marshal Guy turned to the gaoler and relayed the command to release the prisoners. As Gulbert proceeded to unlock the shackles that would free the chain, Sheriff de Glanville rushed to the edge of the platform. 'What are you doing?'

'Letting them go,' replied Gysburne. 'The stolen goods have been returned. The count has commanded their release.' He gave de Glanville a sour smile. 'It would appear your little diversion is ruined.'

'Oh, is it?' he said, his voice dripping venom. 'The count and abbot may be taken in by these rogues, but I am not. These three will hang as planned.'

'I wouldn't-'

'No? That is the difference between us, Gysburne. I very much would.' He turned and called to his men. 'Proceed with the hanging!'

'You're insane,' growled the marshal. 'You kill these men for no reason.'

'The murder of my soldiers in the forest is all the reason I need. These barbarians will learn to fear the king's justice.'

'This isn't justice,' Guy answered, 'it is revenge. What happened in the forest was your fault, and these men had nothing to do with it. Where is the justice in that?'

The sheriff signalled the hangman, who, with the help of three other soldiers, proceeded to haul on the rope attached to the old man's neck. There came a strangled choking sound as the elderly captive's feet left the rough planking of the platform.

'It is the only law these brute British know, Marshal,' remarked the sheriff as he turned to watch the first man kick and swing. 'They cannot protect their rebel king and thumb the nose at us. We will not be played for fools.'

He was still speaking when the arrow sliced the air over his shoulder and knocked the hangman backwards off his feet and over the edge of the platform. Two more arrows followed the first so quickly that they seemed to strike as one, and two of the three soldiers hauling on the noose rope simply dropped off the platform. The third soldier suddenly found himself alone on the scaffold. Unable to hold the weight of the struggling prisoner, he released the rope. The old man scrambled away, and the soldier threw his hands into the air to show that he was no longer a threat.

The sheriff, his face a rictus of rage, spun around, searching the crowd for the source of the attack as an uncanny quiet settled over the astonished and terrified crowd. No one moved.

For an instant, the only sound to be heard was the crack of the bonfire and the rippling flutter of the torches. And then, into the flame-flickering silence there arose a horrendous, teeth-clenching, bone-grating shriek-as if all the demons of hell were tormenting a doomed soul. The sound seemed to hang in the cold night air; and as if chilled by the awful cry, the rain, which had been pattering down fitfully till now, turned to snow.

De Glanville caught a movement in the shadows behind the church. 'There!' he cried. 'There they go! Take them!'

Marshal Gysburne drew his sword and flourished it in the air. He called to his men to follow him and started pushing through the crowd towards the church. They had almost reached the bonfire when out from its flaming centre-as if spat from the red heat of the fire itself-leapt the black feathered phantom: King Raven.

One look at that smooth black, skull-like head with its high feathered crest and the improbably long, cruelly pointed beak, and the Cymry cried out, 'Rhi Bran!'

The soldiers halted as the creature spread its wings and raised its beak to the black sky above and loosed a tremendous shriek that seemed to shake the ground.

Out from behind the curtain of flame streaked an arrow. Guy, in the fore rank of his men, caught the movement and instinctively raised his shield; the arrow slammed into it with the blow of a mason's hammer, knocking the ironclad rim against his face and opening a cut across his nose and cheek. Gysburne went down.

'Rhi Bran y Hud!' shouted the Cymry, their faces hopeful in the flickering light of the Twelfth Night bonfire. 'Rhi Bran y Hud!'

'Kill him! Kill him!' screamed the sheriff. 'Do not let him escape! Kill him!'

The shout was still hanging in the air as two arrows flew out from the flames, streaking towards the sheriff, who was commanding the gallows platform as if it was the deck of a ship and he the captain. The missiles hissed as they ripped through the slow-falling snow. One struck the gallows upright; the other caught de Glanville high in the shoulder as he dived to abandon his post.

Suddenly, the air was alive with singing arrows. They seemed to strike everywhere at once, blurred streaks nearly invisible in the dim and flickering light. Fizzing and hissing through the snow-filled air, they came-each one taking a Ffreinc soldier down with it. Three flaming shafts arose from the bonfire, describing lazy arcs in the darkness. The fire arrows fell on the gallows, kindling the post and now-empty platform.

Count Falkes, transfixed by the sight of the phantom, stood as arrows whirred like angry wasps around him. He had heard so much about this creature, whom he had so often dismissed as the fevered imaginings of weak