Siarles wheeled his mount and galloped away without a backward glance as I tried once more to get my clumsy foot into the stirrup. I did catch the bar with my toe, but the horse, frightened by the noise and confusion, jigged sideways. My hands, slippery with blood, could not hold, and the reins slipped from my grasp. Unbalanced on one leg, I fell on my back, squirming on the frozen ground. I was still trying to get my feet under me when the Ffreinc rushed up and laid hold of me.

I glimpsed a swift motion above me, and the butt of a spear crashed down on my poor head… So that, Odo, is how they caught me," I tell him. He lifts his ink-stained hand from the page and looks at me with his soft, sad eyes. I shrug. "All the rest you know."

"The others got away," he says, and the resignation in his voice is that thick you could stuff it in your shoe.

"They did. Got clean away," I reply. "Fortunate for me that the sheriff was sleeping like the drunken lump he was, or I would have been strung high long since. By the time he woke up, Abbot Hugo already had me bound hand and foot and was determined to have his wicked way with me."

Odo scratches the side of his nose with the feathered end of his quill. He is trying to think of something, or has thought of something and is trying to think how to say it. I can see him straining at the thought. But as I have all the time God sends me, I do not begrudge him the time it takes to spit it out.

"About that night," he says at last. "Did Siarles leave you behind on purpose?"

"Well, I've asked myself the same thing once and again. Truth is, I don't know. Could he have helped me get away? He did bring the horse, mind. Could he have helped me more than he did? Yes. But remember, he had Gwion Bach with him, and any help he could have offered me would have risked all three of us. Could he have told Iwan or Bran to come back for me? Yes, he could have done that. For all I know, maybe he did. But then again, the Ffreinc were on me that quick, I don't think anyone could save me getting captured." I spread my hands and give him a shrug. "He did, more or less, what I would have done, I suppose."

"You would have made sure he got away, Will," Odo asserts.

"Why, Odo, what a thing to say," I reply. "A fella'd think you cared what happened to ol' Will here."

He makes a worm face and looks down at his scrap of parchment.

"You have to remember that it was dark and cold, and everything was happening very fast," I say. "I doubt anyone could have done more than they did. It was bad luck, is all. Bad luck from the beginning if you ask me." I pause to reflect on that night. "No," I conclude, "the only regret I have is that we didn't kill the sheriff when we had the chance."

"Why didn't you kill him?"

"We had some idea of holding him to justice," I say, and shake my head. "I suspect Bran wanted to make him answer before the king. God knows how we would have brought that about. Bran had a way, I guess. He has a way for most things."

Odo nods. He is thinking. I can see the tiny wheels turning in his head. "What about the ring and the letter?" he wants to know.

"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.