a pair of fine white leather calfskin gloves, richly embroidered on the back with holy crosses and other symbols in gold braid; a thick square of parchment, folded, bound with a blue cord, and sealed with wax; and, in its own calfskin bag, a massive gold ring.
“A fine bauble, that,” said Siarles, holding up the ring. He handed it to Bran, who bounced it on his palm to judge the weight of gold before passing it on to Angharad.
“Very fine work,” she observed, holding the ring to her squint. She passed it along, saying, “Much too grand for a mere count.”
Indeed, the ring looked like something I imagined an emperor might wear. The flat central stone was engraved with a coat of arms such as might be used by kings or other notables for imprinting their seal on important documents. Around the carved stone was a double row of glittering rubies—tiny, but bright as bird’s eyes, and each glowing like a small crimson sun.
“A most expensive trinket,” replied Bran. Leaning close, he examined the engraving. “Whose arms, I wonder? Have you ever seen them, Iwan?”
The big man bent his head close and then shook it slowly. “Not English, I think. Probably belong to a Ffreinc nobleman—a baron, I’d say. Or a king.”
“I doubt if anyone in all Britain has ever worn the like,” said Siarles. “Where do you think de Braose got it?”
“And why send it here?” asked Iwan.
“These are questions that will require some thought,” replied Angharad as Bran slipped the ring onto his finger. It was far too big, so he put it on his thumb, and even then it did not fit; so he took a bowstring, looped it through the ring, and tied it around his neck. “It will be safe enough there,” he said, “until we find out more.”
We counted up the silver, and it came to fifty marks—a splendid haul.
“The gloves might be worth twenty or thirty marks all by themselves,” Mérian pointed out. She had come in during the counting and stayed to see the result. Stroking the gauntlets against her cheek, she remarked that they were the sort of thing a high-placed cleric might wear on festal days.
“What about the ring?” wondered Iwan aloud. “What would that be worth?”
No one knew. Various sums were suggested—all of them fancies. We had no more idea how much that lump of gold and rubies might be worth than the king of Denmark’s hunting hound. Some said it must be worth a castle, a cantref, maybe even a kingdom. Our ignorant speculation ran amok until Angharad silenced us, saying, “You would do better to ask why it is here.”
“Why indeed,” said Bran, his fingers caressing the bauble.
We fell silent gazing at the thing, as at a piece of the moon dropped from the sky. Why had it been sent to Elfael in the bottom of a supply wagon?
“Oh, aye,” said Angharad, her voice cracking like dry twigs, “a treasure like this will bring swarms of searchers on its trail.” She tapped it with a bony finger. “It might be as well to give it back.”
This dropped us in the pickle pot, I can tell you. With these words, the realisation of what we’d done began to break over us, and our triumph turned to ashes in our mouths. We each crept away to our beds that night full of foreboding. I hardly closed my eyes at all, I was that restless with it. God knows, it may be deepest sin to steal, and in ordinary times I would never take so much as a bean from a bag that was not mine. But this was different.
This was a fight for survival.
Rule of law . . . king’s justice . . . these words are worth less to the Ffreinc than the air it takes to breathe them out. If we steal from those who seek ever to destroy us, may the Good Lord forgive us, but we en’t about to stop and we en’t about to start giving things back. It does irritate the baron and his nephew no end, I can say. And the sheriff, it upsets him most of all on account of the fact that he’s the one who is meant to prevent our raiding and thieving.
Shed no tears for Richard de Glanville. He is a twisted piece of rope if ever there was one. It is said he killed his wife for burning his Sunday pork chop in the pan—strangled her with