For as winter twilight settled over the forest, out from the undergrowth stumbled a man with two fat hares slung on a snare line over his neck, and another in his hand. I did not recognise the fella and supposed he was from Elfael—a farmer, out to get a little meat for his table.
“You there!” shouted the sheriff, his voice loud in the quiet glade. Startling as it was, it took a moment before I realised old rat face was speaking English. “Stand where you are!”
The poor man was so surprised he dropped the hare in hand and turned to run. The sheriff was that quick; he spurred his mount forward to catch the poacher. The fleeing man lunged for the brush at the side of the road, but was caught and hauled back by the hood of his cloak.
The fella gave out a yelp and tried to struggle free of the cloak. The sheriff, well used to catching folk this way, pulled him off his feet. He hung there at the side of the sheriff ’s saddle, feet dangling off the ground, swinging his fists, and yelling to be released. When the sheriff drew his knife and put it to his squirming captive’s neck, I reckoned the affair had gone far enough. Easing myself from my place, I tucked three arrows in my belt, put another on the string, and moved down onto the road as quickly and quietly as stiff muscles would allow.
Creeping like a shadow, I came up behind the sheriff ’s horse and, with an arrow already on the string, drew and took aim. “Let him go,” I said, in my best English. “Or wear this arrow to your wake.”
The sheriff ’s head spun around so fast I thought his neck would snap. He gaped at me and at the bow in my hand, opened his mouth, then thought better and closed it.
“You might be thinking your little knife will save you,” I said, “but I think it won’t. If you want to find out, just you hold on to that Welshman.”
De Glanville recovered himself then, and said, “I am sheriff of the March. This thief is caught poaching in the king’s forest, and unless you want a share of what is coming to him, turn aside and go your way.”
“Bold words, Sheriff,” I replied. “But it is myself who holds the bow, and my fingers on this string are getting tired.”
I gave my arm a jiggle to sharpen my point, as it were, whereupon the sheriff dropped our man. “Pick up the hare,” I told the farmer, “and light out.” He scrambled to his feet, snatched up his prize, and dived into the wood.
“You cannot hope to gain anything by this,” the sheriff informed me. “I have marked you for a felon. You will not escape the king’s justice.”
“The king’s justice!” I hooted. “Sir, the king’s justice is rough, to be sure, but it is fickle and inconstant as a flirty milkmaid. I will gladly take my chances.”
“Fool!” cried the sheriff, suddenly angry. Heedless of the arrow, he spurred his horse at me so as to run me down. I stepped lightly aside, and he made a wild, looping slash at me with his small blade as he passed.
He wheeled the horse at once. A beast well trained to war, it turned so fast the sheriff ’s long cloak flung out behind him. I saw it flying like a dull flag against the dark bulwark of an oak bole as he made to drive me down, and loosed the shaft.
The arrow whined through the air, catching the heavy cloak and pinning it to the oak as he passed. The cloak snapped taut, the horse charged on, and de Glanville was jerked clean from the saddle.
The sound of ripping fabric cut sharp in the little glade, but the cloth and arrow held fast. Sheriff de Glanville was strung up like a ham in a chimney to dangle with his feet a few inches from the snowy ground. Oh, he squirmed and wriggled and cursed me up one side and down t’other. But I was not ready to let him go so easy, so I sent two more arrows into the trunk to better nail my captive to the tree.
Red-faced and foamin’ with rage, if that fella coulda spit poison, he would have. No mistake. Instead, he swung there, ripening the air with his rage. I calmly trained an arrow