"No. Wager or no, it is impossible," declared the sheriff. "Out of the question."

But the discussion had already moved on. "His Eminence suggests that as his own skill with the bow is exceptional, he begs the boon of participating in an archery contest with the condemned, and that in accordance with the best tradition the prisoner be allowed to draw for his freedom."

"What?" wondered the sheriff in slack-jawed dismay at the insane proposal.

Brother Alfonso continued, "His Eminence says that the contest can have no meaning or excitement without consequences, and of course the only prize to rouse the poor wretch's interest would be the chance to draw for his life."

"If His Eminence should fail, a dangerous criminal-one who has attacked me personally, mind!-would be spared the consequences of his crimes. Justice would be made a laughingstock."

"The man has been in your dungeons for how long?"

"Five months or so," replied the sheriff. "Why?"

"Five months is a very great punishment in itself," observed Brother Alfonso. "Aside from that, Father Dominic will no doubt hold the advantage over the prisoner and wishes to assure you that the wretch will hang this day. Nevertheless, there must be a prize at stake-otherwise the sport is meaningless."

It took a moment for the emissary's meaning to become absolutely clear. "An archery contest," considered Count Falkes carefully, "with freedom of the prisoner as the prize."

"It is what the pope's ambassador wants," answered Brother Alfonso. "Lady Ghisella would be much amused as well. They are certain to carry back a good report to His Holiness."

Both sheriff and count appealed to Abbot Hugo, who had suddenly become very quiet and thoughtful. "Well? Speak up!" hissed the sheriff. "Tell His Eminence it is impossible. The rogue hangs here and now, and that is that."

"But it is not," whispered the abbot sharply in reply. "Our guest seems determined to have his way, and Baron de Braose would not be pleased to hear that we refused the envoy any simple request it was in our power to grant."

"Any simple request!" muttered the sheriff in a strangled voice. "We cannot risk setting that rogue free."

"Nor will we," Hugo assured him. "Let the pope's fool have his contest. All we need do is make certain the Welshman does not win."

"He is right," concluded Falkes. "My uncle would not look kindly on anything that threatened his good favour with Clement. We must find a way to please His Eminence, however strange the request. Need I remind you that we are not in favour with the baron just now? Letting the legate have this ridiculous contest might be just what we need to return ourselves to the baron's good graces."

The sheriff gazed at the other two as at men bereft of their reason.

"Find a bow, and let the contest begin," commanded the count. "Meanwhile, de Glanville, I think you should go"-he paused so the sheriff would not mistake his meaning-"and prepare the prisoner."

"Yes," added the abbot. "See to it nothing is left to chance."

"Very well," answered the sheriff, catching their meaning at last. "I will attend the prisoner personally."

Turning to his guests, Count Falkes adopted a grand and gracious air and announced, "Please convey to His Eminence and his entourage that I am pleased to grant his request. I have therefore arranged for the contest to take place. However, I fear it may not be as entertaining as His Grace might wish. As we shall see, these bandits are not as skilled as they make out."

"My thanks to you, Lord Count," said the envoy, and immediately climbed down from the pavilion and began making his way across the grounds towards the gibbet.

"Wait! Your Eminence, a moment, if you please!" cried the count, hurrying after him. "You must allow us to ready the contest."

The papal envoy was led back to his place in the pavilion to be entertained by Abbot Hugo; meanwhile, the count hurried on to order a target to be made up, and a bow and arrows to be found and brought to the field.

"This is absurd!" growled Marshal Guy when Falkes explained what was going to take place. "Is he insane?"

"No doubt," remarked the count, "but he has Pope Clement's ear and goodwill. We dare not upset him or give him cause to complain of his reception while he was here."

The marshal glanced at the pavilion across the greensward. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just make it look like a reasonable competition between two archers. The sheriff is taking measures to make certain our prisoner is in no way able to win this contest," said the count, stepping away. "Do your best to make it look fair, and all will be well."

Guy de Gysburne looked across to the bound captive with the rope around his neck as he stood waiting beneath the gallows. "Knowing the sheriff, the contest is well in hand."

CHAPTER 38

Saint Martin's: The Green

To Will Scarlet, it seemed as if all of Elfael had turned out to see him swing. A bright and festive air hung over the little town, which was alight with flags and the coloured banners of a wandering troupe-the same that was performing tricks in the square to the bawdy laughter of the crowd. Of all those in attendance, only Will himself failed to rise to the full mirth of the occasion. He had other things on his mind as the soldiers half walked, half dragged him out of the guardhouse and across the thronging square. Only a few of the town's citizens left off their merrymaking to watch the condemned man hauled to his doom, and these few were Welshmen who dared come into town, braving the scorn and ridicule of the townsfolk, to witness the death of one of those who had risked his life to prevent the Twelfth Night hangings of their countrymen.

Will Scarlet did not notice the silent Britons looking on from the margins of the celebration. He did notice how very bright the sunlight was and how soft and impossibly fresh the breeze that bathed his shaggy features. How sad, really, that his last moments should be lived out on such a fine, hopeful day in direct opposition to the black gloom that filled his soul. Just his luck, he thought unhappily, to go down to the grave while all the rest of the world was awash in singing and dancing and the glad feast a-roast on the fire. Not to taste a lick of that handsome fare, nor a drop of the ale that would be served up in cups overflowing-now there was real pity.

As the rough procession passed along the side of the stone church, he saw that a platform had been set up for the visiting dignitaries, a pavilion with a splendid blue canopy from which the nobles and their guests could watch him kick his last as the cruel rope choked out his life. The idea of providing sport for these highborn scum roused a fleeting flame of anger he thought might sustain him in his last moments. Alas, this was not to be. For the moment the cold length of braided leather touched his neck and the soldiers began lashing his legs together, anger fled and was replaced by a stark, empty, bottomless fear. Lord have mercy, he thought, looking up at the gibbet arm and the clear blue boundless sky beyond. Christ have mercy on my soul.

This swift prayer had no sooner winged through his mind than Sheriff de Glanville was standing before him, his sharp features set in a malicious sneer. "Untie him," he commanded the soldiers. "It seems we are to have a little sport before he hangs."

Will, whose French stretched at least this far, understood from what the sheriff said that death had been delayed a little, and was grateful for even that little. He drew a deep breath as the noose was removed and the bands loosed. From behind the sheriff he saw two dark figures approaching-a tall, slender priest in long black robes, and another, a monk in brown, beside him. Behind these two came the count, hurrying to keep up with the black-robed priest's long, eager strides.