Stephen Lawhead - Scarlet

She smiled, revealing her unfortunate, off-colour teeth. "His Eminence is delighted with your diligence and care. He will speak of it to His Holiness."

"The delight is ours alone, my lady," replied the count.

"They are getting away, and we sit here trading pleasantries," muttered the sheriff. "I don't like this."

"I cannot forbid their departure; they have done nothing wrong."

"This whole affair is wrong!" grumbled the sheriff.

"Then find a way to stop them if you can," said Count Falkes. "But unless you discover something very soon, they will be away on the tide."

The travellers moved on, descending the narrow road into the valley, passing quickly through the town and its low-built, dark houses and single muddy street to the large timber wharf on the river where the ship was moored. All seemed quiet aboard the vessel-no screams or shouting, no evidence of a struggle or fight-although there was no sign of Iwan or any of the others. Bran, his stomach tightening with every step, prayed that they might yet make good their escape. As they drew near the dock, there appeared on deck a man in a red cap and brown tunic which reached past his knees. He was barefoot and carried a knotted rope in his hand. He scanned the wharf quickly and then hurried to greet the new arrivals. "Mes seigneurs! Ma dame! J'offre vous accueille. Etre bienvenu ici. S'il vous plait, venir a bord et etre a l'aise. Tout est pret!"

At this, the French speakers fell silent, dumbstruck. Lady Ghisella gave a little gasp of pleasure.

"Saints and angels!" whispered Bran tensely. "What did he say?"

"We are welcome to come aboard," Merian told him. "He says everything is ready for us."

"Peter and Paul on a donkey!" exclaimed Bran. "How did they accomplish that?" Before she could answer, he said, "Hurry now. Get on board. Send Jago back to help me get rid of our friends here, and tell Iwan and Siarles to make ready to cast off." When Merian hesitated, he said, "Quickly! Before something goes wrong."

Bran, alone now, turned to his obliging, if suspicious, hosts and, summoning up his little store of Latin, attempted to sever the last ties and bid them farewell. "Vicis pro sententia Deus volo est hic, vae. Gratias ago vos vobis hospitium quod ignarus. Caveo, ut tunc nos opportunus."

This might have lacked the polish of a senior churchman, but it was more than either Sheriff de Glanville or Count Falkes possessed, at any rate. The two Frenchmen stared at him, unable to comprehend what had just passed.

"His Eminence says the time has come to bid you farewell," explained the one known as Brother Alfonso, hastening to join Father Dominic on the dock just then. "His Grace thanks you for your hospitality-a debt he can never repay-and wishes you a most wonderfully pleasant and uneventful journey home. Be assured that, owing to your kind and attentive service, your praises will ring in the pope's ears."

The man in the red hat, who, it turned out, was master of the ship, hurried to greet the papal emissary. He knelt to receive a blessing, which was deftly delivered, then rose, saying, "My apologies, Your Grace, but if we are to take the tide, we must hurry. The horses must be secured and the ship made ready to cast off."

"Now see here," protested the sheriff, still unwilling to see the suspicious foreigners slip away so easily.

"Was there something?" inquired the ship's master.

"No," said the count. "Be about your business." To the sheriff, he said, "Come, de Glanville, there is no more to be done here."

When this was translated for His Eminence, Father Dominic gave his Norman hosts a blessing and, with a last promise to mention their care and attention to the pope, released them from their duty of guarding him and his entourage. He walked onto the ship and went below deck. A moment later, the two lay brothers appeared and helped the ship's master lead the horses on deck and secure them for the voyage. When this was done, they helped the master cast off and, using stout poles, pushed the craft away from the dock and out into the river, where it drifted for a little while before finding the current. Then, as they entered the stream, Father Dominic, Lady Ghisella, and Will Scarlet came back onto the deck and waved farewell to the Normans, who, although they could not be sure, thought they heard the sound of laughter carried on the wind as the ship entered the centre of the channel and was carried along by the slowly building tide-flow, and away.

Rouen

King William Rufus, wet and miserable in the driving rain, rode at the head of a company of his best and most loyal knights. The royal ranks were followed by sixty men-at-arms grimly slogging through the sticky mud. Water streamed down from a low sky of seamless grey from horizon to horizon, falling in steady rivulets from helmet, shield, and lance blade, puddling deep in the wheel-rutted road. The farms and villages flung out around the low, squat city of Rouen appeared just as cheerless and desolate as the king and his dreary entourage.

Curse his fool of a stiff-necked brother, he thought. It should be Duke Robert-not himself, the king of England-who was saddle sore and catching his death in the rain. Blast the imbecile and his infernal scheming! Why could Robert not accept his divinely appointed lot and be happy ruling the family's ancestral lands? William told himself that if that had been his own particular fate, he would have embraced it and worked to make something of his portion and not be forever wasting his substance fomenting rebellion and inflaming the rapacious ambitions of France's endless supply of muttering malcontents.

These thoughts put the already irritated king in a simmering rage. And when he contemplated the time and money wasted on keeping his idiot brother appeased and under control, his thin blue blood began to boil.

Thus, William arrived in the yard of the archbishop's palace at Rouen already angry and spoiling for a fight. The palace, a solid square of cut stone three floors high and studded with wood-shuttered windows, occupied the top of a prominent hill a mile or so beyond the city wherein stood the cathedral. William's cool and indifferent welcome by the current incumbent of the palace did little to mollify the king, or sweeten his disposition.

"Ah,William," intoned Archbishop Bonne-Ame, "good of you to come." Heavily robed and leaning on his bishop's staff, the old man puffed, out of breath from his short walk across the vestibule. An honour guard of six knights and two earls entered with the king, the water from their cloaks dripping on the polished stone floor, which sent a bevy of clerical servants scampering for rags to mop up the mess.

"My pleasure," grumbled William, shedding his sopping cloak and tossing it to a waiting servant. "Where is he? What's it to be this time? Come, let's get to it."

The archbishop's pale hand fluttered up like an agitated bird. "Oh, my lord king, this is to be a most serious conclave. I hope you understand the gravity of the moment."

"I understand that my brother is as worthless," quipped William, "as is anyone who sides with him. Beyond that, there is only the money it will take to buy him off."

The archbishop stiffened and lowered his head in a bow. "This way, Your Majesty."

The archbishop turned and started away with King William a step or two behind; the king's men threw off their wet cloaks and assembled in a double rank behind him. And as servants rushed to pick up the sodden garments, the ageing archbishop led them down a lofty corridor to a large audience room where the king found assembled a few minor lords standing around the blazing hearth at one end of the room. They looked around guiltily as the king of England and his men entered. Duke Robert was not among them, nor anyone William recognised.