“You know what they say,” Siarles told him. “King Raven only takes back what was stolen in the first place. No doubt it is the same with whatever was taken this time . . .”
What is that, Odo? Did the old bishop know that King Raven was his mysterious benefactor?” I give him a fishy smile. “Do I look such a fool that you think you can trap me so easily? Think again, my scribbling friend. Will cannot be drawn.” I regard him with his smooth-shaved pate and his ink-stained fingers. “What do you think?”
“I think he must have known,” Odo says. “A man knows whose largess keeps him.”
“Does he now?” I crow. “Do you know who keeps you, monk?”
“God keeps me,” replies the monk, his sanctimony nigh insufferable.
“Ha! It’s Abbot Hugo keeps you, priest—and you’re as much a captive as Will Scarlet ever was. Hugo owns you as much as he owns the food you put in your mouth and the bed you sleep in at night—don’t think he doesn’t. See here, our Bishop Asaph is not a stupid man. Only a right fool would pry into things that could bring ruin if all was known.”
“Then he is a sinner,” concludes Odo loftily.
“A sinner,” I repeat. “How so?”
“Receiving the benefit of money acquired by theft makes a thief of any who accept it.”
“Is that right?” I say. “Is that what they teach in the monkery?”
“It is.” Oh, he is so smug in his righteousness, sometimes I want to throttle him with the belt around his sagging middle.
“Well,” I allow, “you may be right. But tell me which is the greater theft—stealing a man’s purse, or his homeland?”
“Stealing is stealing,” he replies smoothly. “It is all the same in God’s eyes.”
“God’s eyes! I will give you God’s eyes, Odo! Get out! We are finished. I will speak no more today.” He looks at me with a hurt expression. “Out with you,” I roar. “Leave me.”
He rises slowly and blows on the parchment and rolls it. “You take offence where none was offered,” he sniffs. “I merely point out the church’s position in the matter of theft, which—as we all know, is a mortal sin.”
“Well and good, but this is war, you scurvy toad. And war makes thieves of all good men who would oppose the cruel invader.”
“There is no war,” declares my weak-eyed scribe. His sanctimony is boundless. “There is only rebellion to the established rule.”
“Out!” I cry, and pick up a handful of mouldy straw from the damp floor of my cell. I fling the clump at him. “Out! And do not come back.”
He turns to go, showing as much haste as I have ever seen in him. But at the door he hesitates. “If I do not return, the hangman comes the sooner.”
“Let him come!” I shout. “I welcome him. I would rather listen to him raising his gibbet than you telling me about the established rule. For the love of the Holy Virgin, Odo! It is a rule established in blood on a stolen throne. So now! Who is the saint and who the sinner?”
He ducks his head as he steps through the ironclad door of my cell and slinks away into the darkness. I lie back and close my eyes. Sweet Lord Jesus, I pray, let my enemies kill me, or set me free!
CHAPTER 20
Odo has not come today, and I begin to think that he has taken me at my word. Perhaps he has gone to our false abbot with my rantings and Hugo has decided to be done with me at last. If Odo does not come tomorrow, I will send for him and make my shrift. A lame piece of priesthood he may be, but in truth I do not trust anyone else in this nest of vipers to hear my confession. Odo can do that, at least, and though he riles me no end, I know he will see me right.
I hear from my keeper, Gulbert—or is it Gibbert?—that the wet weather has passed and the sun has returned. This is good news. It may be that my damp pit will dry out a little—not that ol’Will plans to wear out the world much longer. Even without my bone-headed outburst, the abbot’s patience must be growing thin as his mercy. From all accounts, he was never a fella to suffer long to begin with.