on their craven heads, the abbot threatened strong punishment for any and all who disobeyed. The soldiers looked around, and when they saw King Raven fly, they did what Norman soldiers always do when an enemy retreats: they followed.
The soldiers, weighed down by their long mail shirts and shields and heavy cloaks and what have you, lurched through the snow after King Raven, who was swift and nimble as a bird. The abbot and marshal charged after them, guarding the rear. That soon, all of them disappeared from my view; I waited, wondering what would happen next. The drivers must have wondered, too, for they stood on the wagon benches and gazed into the murk after the departing soldiers. One of them shouted for the guardsmen, calling them back; but no reply was returned.
He did not shout again. Before he could draw breath, four cloaked figures swarmed out of the forest and onto the wain; I saw Tomas and Siarles leading the flock, two men to each wagon. While one of the Grellon threw a cloak over the head of the driver and pulled him off his bench, the other took up the ox goad and began driving the team.
The two wagons were taken up the road a little way to a place where the track dipped into a dell. Upon reaching the dingle, wonder of wonders, the wall of bush and brush beside the road parted and the oxen were led off the track and into the wood. As the second wagon followed the first into the brake, four more of the Grellon appeared and began smoothing out the tracks in the snow with pine branches.
The two drivers were bound in their cloaks, dragged to the side of the road, and each one left beside a dead horse where, I suppose, they might stay a mite warmer for a while. Frightened out of their wits, they lay still as dead men, offering only the occasional soft whimper to show the world they were still alive.
New snow was carried in reed baskets and spread lightly over any remaining tracks, and then the Grellon departed, flitting away into the gloaming, vanishing as quickly and quietly as they had appeared.
CHAPTER 11
I waited for a time, listening, but heard only the whispering hush of falling snow. I did not know what would happen next, and wondered if the attack was over and I should now begin making my way back to Cél Craidd. The wood was growing dark, and if I did not leave soon it would be a lonely slog on a frozen night for old Will.
Nothing moved in the forest or on the ground, save the lone wounded man who had taken the arrow in his back. He lay with the dead, moaning and trying now and then to rise, but lacking the strength. I felt that sorry for the fella, I thought that if someone did not come back for him soon, I might risk putting him out of his misery. But my orders were to watch and wait, so that is what I would do until told otherwise. I kept my eyes sharp and bided my time.
Winter twilight deepened the shadows, and the snow had been steadily melting into my cloak; the icy damp was spreading across my shoulders. As night came on, I knew I would have to leave my post soon or freeze there with the corpses on the trail.
As I was pondering this, I heard someone approaching on the road from the dingle where the wagons had disappeared in the direction of Elfael. In a moment, a man on horseback emerged from the gathering gloom. Not a tall man, he sat his saddle straight as a rod, his head high. Across his legs was folded a deerskin robe; his hat had a thin, folded brim which was pointed in front like the sharp prow of a seagoing ship. Heavily swaddled against the winter storm, he wore a monk’s cloak of brown coarse-woven cloth secured at the throat with a thick brooch of heavy silver. Even from a distance in the failing light, I could tell he was more devil than monk: something about that narrow hatchet-shaped nose and jutting chin, the cruel slant of those close-set eyes, gave me to know that Richard de Glanville was happier with a noose in his hand than a rosary.
He reined up at the carcase of the first dead horse, regarded it, and then slowly swept his eyes across to