"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… Yes, 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… This 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 banfaith 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- Beg 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… So 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.