The count finished his wine in a gulp and took his leave. "I must see to my men," he said.

"A good idea, Count," said Abbot Hugo. Turning to the sheriff, he said, "You must also have much to do. I have kept you from your business long enough."

In the square outside, Gulbert, the gaoler, had assembled the prisoners-sixty men and boys in all-at the foot of the gallows. They were chained together and stood in the cold, most of them without cloaks or even shoes, their heads bowed-some in prayer, some in despair. Marshal Guy de Gysburne, leading his company of soldiers, established a cordon line to surround the miserable group and keep any from escaping-as if that were possible-but also to keep townspeople from interfering with the proceedings in any way. A few of the wives and mothers of the Cymry captives had come to plead for the release of their sons or husbands, and Sheriff de Glanville had given orders that no one was to have even so much as a word with any of the prisoners. Guy, nursing a bad headache, wanted no trouble this night.

To a man, the Ffreinc knights were helmed and dressed in mail; each carried a shield and either a lance or naked sword; and though none were expecting any resistance, all were ready to fight. Count Falkes had brought a dozen men-at-arms, and these all carried torches; additional torches had been given to the townsfolk, and two large iron braziers set up on either side of the gallows-along with the bonfire-bathed the square in a lurid light.

The mostly Ffreinc population of Saint Martin's had gathered for the Twelfth Night spectacle, along with the residents of Castle Truan and the merchants who had traded in town that day. Abbot Hugo appeared, dazzling in his white satin robe and scarlet cloak; two monks walked before him-one carrying a crosier, the other a gilt cross on a pole. Fifteen monks followed, each carrying a torch. The crowd shifted to accommodate the clerics.

Richard de Glanville, Sheriff of the March, stepped up onto the raised platform of the gallows. An expectant hush swept through the crowd. "In accordance with the Rule of the March, and under authority of King William of England," he called, his voice loud in the silence of fluttering torches, "we are come to witness this lawful execution. Let it be known to one and all, here and henceforth, that refusal to aid in the capture of the outlaw known as King Raven and his company of thieves will be considered treason towards the crown, for which the punishment is death."

The sheriff glanced up as the wind gusted, bringing the first frigid splash of the promised rain. He took a last look around the square-at the bonfire, the torches, the soldiers armed and ready, the close-gathered crowd. It occurred to him to wonder what had become of those late-arriving merchants, who seemed to have disappeared. Finally, satisfied that all was as it should be, de Glanville gave the order to proceed. Stepping to the edge of the platform, he turned his gaze upon the cringing victims. None dared raise their heads or glance up to meet his eye, for fear of being the one singled out.

He raised his hand and pointed to an old man who stood shivering in a thin shirt. Two soldiers seized the man and, as they were removing the wretch's shackles, the sheriff 's finger came to rest over another. "Him, too," said the sheriff.

This victim, shocked that he should have been chosen as well, gave out a shout and began struggling with the soldiers as they removed his chains. The man was quickly beaten into submission and dragged to the platform.

One more. From among the younger captives, de Glanville chose a boy of ten or twelve years. "Bring him." The youngster, dazed by his captivity, was too brutalized to put up a fight, but some of the men nearest him began pleading with their captors, offering to take the lad's place. Their desperate protests went unheeded by soldiers who did not speak Welsh, and did not care anyway.

Excitement fluttered through the crowd as the captives were dragged onto the platform and the spectators realized they would be feted to three hangings this night.

Ropes were produced and the ends snaked over the strong beam of the gallows arm; sturdy nooses were looped around the necks of the three Cymry-one old, one young, and one in his prime-whose only real crime under heaven was having been captured by the Normans.

As the nooses were being tightened, there came a shout from the crowd. "Wait! Stop the execution!"

Those gathered in the square, Ffreinc and Welsh alike, heard the cry in priestly Latin and, upon turning towards the commotion, saw a company of monks in dull grey robes pushing their way through the throng to the front of the gallows. "Stop! Release these men!"

The sheriff, his interest piqued, called for the crowd to let them through. "Dare you interrupt the execution of the law?" he asked as they came to stand before him. "Who are you?"

"I am Abbot Daffyd of Saint Dyfrig's near Glascwm!" he called in a loud voice. "And I have brought the ransom 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."