Scarlet (5 page)

O
bviously, you won the contest,” says Odo, raising his sleepy head from his close-nipped pen.

“You think so, do you?” I reply.

“Of course,” he assures me smugly. “Otherwise, you would not be here in Count De Braose’s pit waiting to be hung for a traitor and an outlaw.”

Brother Odo is feisty. He must have got up on the wrong side of his Hail Marys this morning. “Now, monk,” I tell him, “just you try to keep your eyes open a little while longer, and we’ll get to the end of this and then see how good you are at guessing.” I settle myself on my mat of mildewed rushes and push the candle a little closer to my scribe. “Read back the last thing I said. Quick now before I forget.”

“Siarles? Iwan? Your bows,” says Odo, in rough imitation of my voice.

“Oh, right.” And I resume . . .

T
he two foresters, Iwan and Siarles, handed Rhi Bran their longbows and, taking one in either hand, he held them out to me. “Choose the one you will use.”

“My thanks,” I said, trying first one and then the other, bending them with my weight. There was not a spit of difference between them, but I fancied winning with Siarles’s bow and chose that one.

“This way, everyone!” called Bran, already striding off towards the far side of the settlement. We came to the head of a miserable patch of barley. They were about growing a few pecks of grain for themselves, but it was a poor, sad field, shadowed and soggy as it was. The people ranged themselves in a wide double rank behind us, and by now there were upwards of sixty folk—most all of the forest dwellers, I reckoned, saving a few of the women and smaller children. The grain had been harvested and only stubble remained, along with the straw man set up at the far edge of the clearing to keep the birds away. The figure was fixed to a pole some eighty or a hundred paces from where we stood—far enough to make the contest interesting.

“Three arrows. The scarecrow will be our mark,” Bran explained as Iwan passed arrows to us both. “Hit it if you can.”

“It’s been that long since I last drew—” I began.

“No excuses,” said Siarles quickly. “Just do your best. No shame in that.”

“I was not about making excuses,” I replied, nocking the arrow to the string. “I was going to say it’s been that long since I last drew, I almost forgot how good a yew bow feels in my hand.” This brought a chuckle or two from those gathered around. Turning to Rhi Bran, I said, “Where would you like this first arrow to go, my lord?”

“Head or heart, either will do,” Bran replied.

The arrow was on its way the instant the words left his mouth. My first shaft struck the bunched tuft of straw that formed the scarecrow’s head, with a satisfying
swish!
as it passed through on its way to the far end of the field.

A murmur of polite approval rippled through the crowd.

“I can see you’ve drawn a longbow before,” said Bran.

“Once or twice.”

Lord Bran drew and loosed, sending his first shaft after mine, and close enough to the same place that it made no matter. The people cheered their lord with loud and lusty cries.

“My lord,” I said, “I think you have drawn a bow once or twice yourself.”

“The heart this time?” he suggested, as we accepted our second arrows from Iwan.

“If straw men have hearts,” I said, drawing and taking good aim, “his has thumped its last.” This time I sent the shaft up at a slight arc so that it dropped neatly through the centre of the scarecrow and stuck in the dirt behind it.

“Your luck is with you today,” sniffed Siarles as polite applause spattered among the onlookers.

“Not a bit of it,” I told him, grinning. “That was so the lads wouldn’t have to run so far to retrieve my arrow.”

“Then I shall do likewise,” said Bran, and again, drew and aimed and loosed so quickly that each separate motion flowed into the next and became one. His arrow struck the scarecrow in the upper middle and stuck in the ground right beside mine. Again, the people cheered heartily for their young king.

“Head and heart,” I said. “We’ve done for your man out there. What else is left?”

“The pole on which he hangs,” said Iwan, handing over the last arrow.

“The pole then?” asked Bran, raising an eyebrow.

“The pole,” I confirmed.

Well, now. The day was misty and grey, as I say, and the little light we had was swiftly failing now. I had to squint a bit to even see the blasted pole, jutting up like a wee nubbin just over the peak of the scarecrow’s straw head. It showed maybe the size of a lady’s fist, and that gave me an idea. Turning to Bran’s dark-haired lady, I said, “My queen, will you bless this arrow with a kiss?”

“Queen?” she said, recoiling. “I am not his queen, thank you very much.”

This was said with considerable vehemence . . .

Y
es, vehemence, Odo.” My scribe has wrinkled his nose like he’s smelled a rotten egg, as he does whenever I say a word he doesn’t understand. “It means, well, it means fire, you know—passion, grit, and brimstone.”

“I thought you said she was the queen?” objects Odo.

“That is because I thought she was the queen.”

“Well, was she or wasn’t she?” he complains, lifting his pen as if threatening to quit unless all is explained to his satisfaction forthwith. “And who is she anyway?”

“Hold your water, monk, I’m coming to that,” I tell him. And we go on . . .

T
his time we draw together,” said Bran. “On my count.”

“Ready.” I press the bow forward and bring the string to my cheek, my eyes straining to the mark.

“One . . . two . . . three . . .”

I loosed the shaft on his “three” and felt the string lash my wrist with the sting of a wasp. The arrow sliced through the air and struck the pole a little to one side. My aim was off, and the point did nothing more than graze the side of the pole. The arrow glanced off to the left and careered into the brush beyond the tiny field.

Bran, however, continued the count. “Four!” he said, and loosed just a beat after me—enough, I think, so that he saw where my shaft would strike. And then, believe it or not, he matched it. Just as my arrow had grazed the left side of the scarecrow’s pole, so Bran’s sheared the right. He saw me miss, and then missed himself by the same margin, mind. Proud bowman that I was, I could but stand humbled in the presence of an archer of unequalled skill.

Turning to me with a cheery grin, he said, “Sorry, William, I should have told you it was four, not three.” He put a friendly hand on my shoulder. “Do you want to try again?”

“Three or four, it makes no matter,” I told him. Indicating the straw man, I said, “It seems our weedy friend has survived the ordeal.”

“Arrows, Gwion Bach!” called Bran, and an eager young fella leapt to his command; two other lads followed on his heels, and the three raced off to retrieve the shafts.

Iwan walked out to examine the scarecrow pole. He pulled it up and brought it back to where we were waiting, and he and Angharad the banfáith scrutinized the top of the pole, with Siarles, not to be left out, pressing in between them.

“Judging by the notches made by the passing arrows,” announced the old woman after her inspection, “Iwan and I say the one on the right has trimmed the most from the pole. Therefore, we declare Rhi Bran the winner.”

The people cheered and clapped their hands for their king. And, suddenly disheartened as the meaning of their words broke upon me, I choked down my disappointment, fastened a smile to my face, and prepared to take my leave.

“You know what this means,” said Bran, solemn as the grave.

I nodded. “The contest was fair—all it wanted was a better day.” I lifted my eyes to his, hoping to see some compassion there. But where the moment before they had been alive with light and mirth, his eyes were flat and cold. Could he change his demeanour so quickly?

“You deserved better,” said the dark-haired lady.

“I make no complaint,” I said.

“It is a hard thing,” Bran observed, glancing at the young woman beside him, “but we do not always get what we want or deserve in this life.”

“Sadly true, my lord,” I agreed. “Who should know that better than Will Scarlet?”

I lowered my head and prepared to accept my defeat, and as I did so I saw that he was not looking at me, but at the young woman. She was glaring at him—why, I cannot say—seeming to take strenuous exception to the drift of our little talk.

“But, sometimes, William,” the forest king announced, “we get better than we deserve.” I looked up quickly, and I saw a little of the warmth ebbing back into him. “I have decided you can stay.”

It was said so quick I did not credit what I had heard. “My lord, did you say . . . I can
stay
?”

He nodded. “Providing you swear allegiance to me to take me as your lord and share my fortunes to the aid of my
Grellon
, and the oppressed folk of Elfael.”

“That I will do gladly,” I told him. “Let me kneel and I will swear my oath here and now.”

“Did you hear that, everyone?” His smile was suddenly broad and welcoming. To me, he said, “I would I had a hundred hardy men as right ready as yourself—the Ffreinc would be fleeing back to their ships and reckoning themselves lucky to escape with their miserable hides.” With that Iwan—

B
eg pardon?” says Odo, interrupting again.

“Are we never to get this told?” I say with a sigh of resignation, although I do not mind his questions as much as I let on, for it lengthens the time that much more.

“That word
Grellon
—what does it mean?”

“It is Britspeak, monk,” I tell him. “It means
flock
—like birds, you know. It is what the people of Coed Cadw—and that means, well that’s a little more difficult. It means something like
Guarding Wood
, as if the forest was a fortress, which in a way, it is.”

“Grellon,” murmurs Odo as he writes the word, sounding out the letters one by one. “Coed Cadw.”

“As I was saying, Grellon is what Rhi Bran’s people call themselves, right? Can we move on?” At Brother Odo’s nod, I continue . . .

S
o now, Iwan sent someone to fetch Bran’s sword; and I was made to kneel in the barley stubble; and as the first drops of rain begin to fall upon my head, I plighted my troth to a new lord, the exiled king of Elfael. No matter that he was an outlaw hunted even then by every Norman in the territory, no matter that he had less in his purse than a wandering piper, no matter that a fella could pace the length and breadth of his entire realm while singing “Hey-Nonny-Nonny,” and finish before the song was done. No matter any of it, nor that to follow him meant I took my life in my own two hands by joining an outlaw band. I knew in my heart that it was right to do, if only to annoy the rough and overbearing Normans and all their heavy-handed barbarian ways.

Oh, but it was more than that. It felt right in my soul. It seemed to me even as I repeated the words that would bind my life and fortunes to his that I had come home at last. And when he touched my shoulder with his sword and raised me to my feet, a tear came to my eye. Though I had never seen him or that forest settlement before, and knew nothing of the people gathered close around, it felt as if I was being welcomed into the fellowship of my own tribe and family. And nothing that has happened since then in all our scraps and scrapes has moved me from that stand.

The rain began coming harder then, and we all returned to the village. “Your skill is laudable, William,” said Bran as we walked back together.

“Almost as good as your own,” said the lady, falling into step beside him. “You may as well admit it, Bran, your man William is as good with a bow as you are yourself.”

“Just Will, if you please,” I told them. “William Rufus has disgraced our common name in my eyes.”

“Rufus!” Bran laughed. “I have never heard him called that before.”

“It is common enough in England,” I replied. Willy Conqueror’s second son—the rakehell William, now king over us—was often called Rufus behind his back, on account of his flaming torch of red hair and scalding hot temper. His worthless brother, Duke Robert, is called Curthose owing to his penchant for wearing short tunics.

Thinking of those two ne’er-do-well nobles made me that sorry for Thane Aelred who, like all right-thinking men of his kind, had thrown in his lot with Robert, the lawful heir to the throne. Alas, Robby Shortshift turned out to be unreliable as a weathercock, forever turning this way and that at the slightest breath of a favourable wind from each and any quarter. That poor numbskull never could make up his mind, and would never fully commit himself to any course, nor stay one once decided. He was a flighty sparrow, but imagined himself a gilded eagle. The shame of it is that he led so many good men to ruination.

Aye, the only time he really ever led.

Of course, Red William held tight to the throne he’d stolen from his brother, and used the confusion over the succession—confusion he himself caused, mind—to further strengthen his grip. After he seized the royal money mintery, he had himself crowned king, sat himself on the throne, and decreed that what was in truth little more than a family disagreement had actually been a rebellious uprising, and all those who supported sad brother Robert were made out to be dangerous traitors. Lands were seized, lives lost. Good men were banished and estates forfeited to the crown. Only a small handful of fortune-kissed
aristos
came away scapegrace clean.

Turning to the lady, I said, “Speaking of names, now that I’ve given mine . . .”

“This is Lady Mérian,” Bran said. “She is our . . .” He hesitated.

“Hostage,” she put in quickly. The way she mouthed the word with such contempt, I could tell it was a sore point between them.

“Guest,” Bran corrected lightly. “We are to endure the pleasure of her company for a little while longer, it seems.”

“Ransom me,” she said crisply, “or release me and your trial will be over, my lord.”

He ignored the jibe. “Lady Mérian is the daughter of King Cadwgan of Eiwas, the next cantref to the south.”

“Bran keeps me against my will,” she added, “and refuses to set a price for my release even though he knows my father would pay good silver, and God knows the people here could use it.”