From down the corridor, I hear the grating whine of the iron door opening and know that my time has run its course. They are coming for me. My heart lurches at the thought, and I draw a deep breath to steady myself.

I have thought about this day every day since I was dragged into Black Hugo's keep. Truth to tell, I thought it would be different somehow, that I would meet the evil hour with a smile and a tip o' my hat. Instead, my bowels squirm and ache, and I feel death's cold hand resting heavy on my shoulder.

There was so much I meant to do, and now the end has come. It is all done but the dyin', and that's a true fact.

CHAPTER 37

Saint Martin's: The Pavilion

Look! Here he comes," cried Count de Braose, his voice fluttering high with excitement as the shambling heap of a man appeared at the door of the guardhouse.

The count's visitors turned to see a number of Ffreinc soldiers spilling out of the keep. Armed with lances and led by Marshal Guy, they started across the market square, dragging a ragged wreck between them. The man's hands were bound and his legs were unsteady; he kept listing to one side as if the ground were constantly shifting beneath his feet.

"Oh, he is a rogue!" continued Count Falkes. "You can tell that simply by looking at him."

The count's words were directed to the visiting dignitaries, whose arrival two days before had surprised and thrilled the entire population of the emerging town of Saint Martin's. The count's words were translated and conveyed to the others by a priest named Brother Alfonso-a tall, sallow, somewhat sombre and officious monk in a new brown robe. While Count Falkes looked on, smiling, his guests exchanged a brief word amongst themselves. Being Spanish, they were strangers to England and to the rough ways of the March. Most of them bore the swarthy complexion of their countrymen, and the black hair and dark, inquisitive eyes. They professed to find everything fascinating and, in the brief time they had been with him, had shown themselves to be enthusiastic and appreciative guests. Then again, one might expect no less from the personal envoy of none other than Pope Clement himself.

The ambassador, Father Dominic, was far younger than the count would have imagined for one in such an important, nay exalted, position. Dark and slender in his impeccable black robes, he held himself with a solemn, almost melancholy reserve, as if the thoughts inside him bore on body and soul alike and he sagged a little beneath their weight. Though there was dignity and reverence in his glance, his natural expression was the pensive reflection of a man who, despite his youth, had seen and suffered much at the hands of an unrepentant world. His black hair was trimmed short and his tonsure newly shaved. He moved with deliberation, his steps measured and sure as he dispensed priestly blessings to those who looked on.

Attending Father Dominic were two servants-most likely lay brothers but of a hardy sort. Tall and strong and none too genteel, they had no doubt been chosen to protect the envoy on his journey. Besides the interpreter, Brother Alfonso, there were two young women: a young highborn woman of unmistakable nobility, and her maidservant. The lady was quiet, well-spoken, gracious, and possessed of a warm and winsome manner, but also, alas, undeniably plain, with poor skin, dull hair, and discoloured teeth. "Drab as a farmyard drudge," was Guy of Gysburne's assessment. "I prefer her maid." The sheriff had expressed a similar judgment, if in less kindly terms. Even so, Count Falkes found himself attracted to her despite her plainness and the difficulty imposed by the language divide. He even allowed himself to fancy that she regarded him with something more than passing affection.

"Oh!" gasped Lady Ghisella, averting her eyes at the sight of the condemned man. Her maid followed the lady's example.

"Never fear, my lady," offered the count, mistaking her reaction.

"He cannot escape. You may rest assured, this one will soon trouble the world no longer."

Unexpected visitors, their abrupt arrival had initially roused the count's suspicions. On second thought, however, it was more than reasonable given the circumstances: a small party travelling together without an extensive entourage of servants and courtiers might more easily pass unmolested through the countryside and, considering who they represented, would more easily elude the notice of the king. Such a group would not likely draw the unwanted attentions of rival factions and potential adversaries.

Abbot Hugo, who had been south with Count Falkes's uncle, Baron de Braose, at Bramber, had returned to find the dignitaries already established in his abbey. "All well and good," he had complained to Falkes, "but we should have received word of their coming. This is awkward, to say the least."

"It is nothing of the sort," the count reassured him. "You worry too much, Hugo."

"And you not enough."

"I suspect it is merely Clement's way of judging the faith and loyalty of those who have pledged to him, before… you know…" He let the rest remain unspoken.

Abbot Hugo fixed him with an ominous stare. "No," he replied stiffly, "I do not know."

"Before the fighting begins," said the count. "Must I shout it from the rooftop? Think, man. The king will have spies everywhere. It is open rebellion we are talking about."

The abbot's frown deepened, but he held his tongue.

"See here," offered Count Falkes, adopting a lighter tone, "the envoy and his people will only be here another day or two. We will simply entertain them with good grace, reassure them of our intentions, and send them on their way. Where's the harm in that?"

"Why are they here?" demanded the abbot. "That's what I want to know. His Holiness has given no indication of sending an envoy to England."

"And does the pope now confide his every private thought to you, Abbot?" Falkes gave an airily dismissive wave of his hand; the movement caused a twinge of pain in his chest-a lingering reminder of the arrow wound that had nearly taken his life. "All will be well. I propose that we host a feast in their honour and send them on their way."

"A feast," murmured Hugo. "Yes, I think we might do just that. We could also hang that tiresome rogue for them-that should give them something to talk about."

"Hang the rebel?" wondered Falkes. "Are you finished with him, then?"

"Long since," answered the abbot. "It was folly to hope he would tell us anything worth hearing. It's all a morass of confusion and lies, and so tedious it makes my teeth ache."

"Well, it cost us little enough to find out," Falkes countered. "In any event, it hurts nothing to try."

"I suppose," allowed the abbot. "I should hang him twice over for wasting my time."

"Well, you would have hanged him anyway in the end," concluded Falkes. "De Glanville and I had our disagreements over the Twelfth Night executions, God knows. But I cannot say I will be sorry to see this one dangle. The sooner we rid ourselves of these bandits, the better."

Now, with the feast about to begin, they were all seated in a hastily erected pavilion facing the open ground behind the church, where some of Marshal Guy's knights and a few of the sheriff 's men were performing mock battle manoeuvres. In a show of military might, the great, galloping destriers' hooves threw clots of turf high, churning up the soft earth. The glint of sword blade and lance head blazed like lightning strokes in the bright sunlight; the resounding crack of oak lance shafts, the clank of heavy steel, and the shouts of the soldiers lent excitement to an otherwise ordinary display. The feast-day crowd swarmed the square behind the canopy-covered platform, their voices filling the air with loud, if somewhat forced, levity as they bellowed rude songs and screamed with laughter at the antics of the wandering troupe of tumblers, minstrels, and storytellers the count and abbot had procured especially for the occasion.