Scarlet

'What about them?'

'Well,' says he, 'who were they for?'

'Now, I've thought about that, too. The letter was addressed to the pope, so I suppose they were for him.'

'Which pope?'

I stare at him. 'The pope-head of the Mother Church.'

'Will, there are two popes.'

Dunce that he is, some of the most fuddling things come out of his mouth. 'There are not two popes,' I tell him.

'There are.'

He seems quite certain of this.

I hold up two fingers-my bowstring fingers-and repeat, 'Two popes? I'll wager a whole ham on the hoof that you didn't mean that just now. It cannot happen.'

'It can,' he assures me. 'It happens all the time.'

'See now, Odo, have you been staring at the sun again?' I shake my head slowly. 'Two popes! Whoever heard of such a thing? Next you'll be tellin' me the moon is a bowl of curds and whey.'

Odo favours me with one of his smug and superior smirks. 'I do not know about the moon, but it happens from time to time that the church must choose between two popes. So it is now. I do not wonder that, living in the forest as you do, you might not have heard about this.'

'How in the name of Holy Peter, James, and John has it come about?'

I have him now. A wrinkle appears on Odo's smooth brow. 'I do not know precisely what has happened.'

'Aha! You see! You think to play me for a fool, monk, but I won't be played.'

'No, no,' he insists, 'there are two popes right enough.' It is, he contends, merely that the facts of such an event taking place so far away are difficult to obtain, and more difficult still to credit. All that can be said for certain is that there has been some kind of disagreement among the powers governing the Holy Church. 'Papal succession came under question,' he tells me. 'How it fell out this time, I cannot say. But kings and emperors always try to influence the decision.'

'Now that I can believe, at least.' Indeed, this last did not surprise me overmuch. It is all the same with kings of every stripe; nothing they get up to amazes me anymore. But as Odo spoke, I began to discern the glimmering of suspicion that this strange event and the appearance of the ring and letter in Elfael might in some way share a common origin, or a common end. Find the truth of one, and I might well discover the truth of the other.

'No doubt this is what has caused the rift this time.'

'Go on,' I tell him. 'I'm listening.'

'However it came about, the disagreement has resulted in a dispute in which the two opposing camps have each chosen their own successor who claims to be the rightful pontiff.'

'Two popes,' I mutter. 'Will wonders never cease?'

Odo has been toying with the scrap of parchment before him. 'This is what made me think of it,' he says, and holds up the ragged little shred. There, in one corner of the scrap, someone has drawn a coat of arms. I glance at it and make to hand it back. My hand stops midway, and I jerk back the parchment. 'Wait!'

I study the drawing more closely. 'I've seen this before,' I tell him. 'It is on the ring. Odo, do you know whose arms these are?'

'The arms of Pope Clement,' he says. 'At least, that is what the abbot has said.'

'Abbot Hugo told you that?'

Odo nods.

I regard him with an excitement I have not felt for months. Odo has never lied to me. That is, perhaps, his singular virtue. I think about what he has said before speaking again. 'But see here,' I say slowly, 'it is not Clement we recognise as head of the church. It is Urban.'

'This is the difficulty,' he replies. 'Some hold with Urban, others with Clement.'

'Yes, as you say. Now, Odo, my faithful scribe, tell me the truth.'

'Always, Will.'

'Which Pope does Baron de Braose support?'

He answers without hesitation, his tone flat, almost mocking. 'Clement, of course.'

I hear that in his tone which strikes a tiny spark of hope in my empty heart. 'The way you say it, a fella'd think you didn't entirely approve.'

'It is not for me to approve or disapprove,' he counters.

'Perhaps not,' I allow slowly, desperate to keep alive that wee spark. 'Perhaps not, as you say. Probably it is better to let the kings and nobles fight it out amongst themselves. No doubt they know best.'

Odo yawns and stretches. He gathers his inkhorn and his penknife, stands, and shuffles to the door of my cell, where he hesitates. 'God with you, Will,' he says, almost embarrassed, it seems.

'God with you, Odo,' I reply. When he has gone I lie awake listening to the dogs bark, and thinking that there is something very important in all this two popes business… if this dull head of mine could only get a grip on what it might be.

CHAPTER 33

Coed Cadw

The damage was done. In a single ill-advised, ignorant stroke, Bran had dashed Angharad's carefully considered design for defeating the Ffreinc invaders and driving them from Elfael. In a mad, impulsive rush he had destroyed months of subtle labour and, she could well imagine, stirred the ire of the enemy to white-hot vengeance. For this and much else, the hudolion blamed Bran-but, more, she blamed herself. Angharad had allowed herself to believe that she had weaned Bran away from that unreasoning rage that he had possessed when she first met him, that she had at long last extinguished the all-consuming fire of an anger that, like the awen of the legendary champions of old, caused the lord of Elfael to forget himself, plunging him into the bloodred flames of battle madness-a worthy attribute for a warrior, perhaps, but unhelpful in a king. No mistake, it was a king she wanted for Elfael, not merely another warrior.

Alas, there was nothing for it now but to pick up the pieces and see if anything could be salvaged from the wreckage of that disastrous attempt to capture the sheriff.

What she had seen in the cave while testing the onrushing stream of time and events had caused her to return to Cel Craidd with as much haste as she could command. Her old bones could not move with anything near their former speed, and she had arrived too late to prevent Bran from acting on his ludicrous scheme. The small warband had already departed for Saint Martin's, and the die was cast.

The wise hudolion was waiting when the raiders returned. Dressed in her Bird Spirit cloak, she stood beneath the Council Oak and greeted them when they returned. 'All hail, Great King,' she crowed, 'the people of Elfael can enjoy their peace this night because you have gained for them a mighty victory over the Ffreinc.' As the rest of the forest tribe gathered, she said, 'I see a riderless horse. Where is Will Scarlet?'

'Captured,' Bran muttered. There was a stifled cry from the crowd, and Noin rushed away from the gathering.

'Captured, is he?' the hudolion cooed. 'Oh, that is a fine thing indeed. Was that in your plan, Wise King?'

Heartsick over his failure, he knew full well that he had made a grave and terrible mistake and was not of a mood to endure her mockery-deserved as it might be. 'Silence, woman! I will not hear it. We will speak of this tomorrow.'

'Yes,' she croaked, 'the rising sun will make all things new, and the deeds done in darkness will vanish like the shadows.'

'You go too far!' Bran growled. Weary, and grieving the loss of Will, he wanted nothing more than to slink away to his hut and, like the beaten hound he was, lick his wounds. 'See here,' he said, pointing to Gwion Bach as Siarles eased the lad down from his mount. 'We rescued the boy from the Ffreinc. They would have killed him.'