Scarlet by Stephen R. Lawhead Page A

so yourself just now. When that happens, I expect we will all bid the forest a fond fare-thee-well.”
    “But that will never happen,” she insisted. “Does no one see? The baron is too strong, his wealth too great. He will never let Elfael go. Am I the only one who sees the truth?” She shook her head sadly. “What Bran wants is impossible.”
    “Well,” I said, “I wouldn’t be too sure. I have seen the lone canny fox outwit the hunter often enough to know that it matters little how many horses and men you have. All the wealth and weapons in the world will not catch the fox that refuses to be caught.”
    She smiled at that, which surprised me. “Do you really think so?”
    “God’s truth, my lady. That is exactly what I think.”
    “Thank you for that.” She smiled again and laid her hand on my arm. “I am glad you are here, Will.”
    Just then, the first fresh flakes of snow arrived. One brushed her forehead and caught on her dark eyelashes. She blinked and looked up as the snow began to fall gently all around. God help me, I did not look at the snow. I saw only Mérian.
    I s she?” Odo wants to know. His question brings me out of a reverie, and I realise I’ve drifted off for some moments.
    “Is she what, lad?” I ask.
    “Is she very beautiful—as beautiful as they say?”
    “Oh, lad, she is all that and more. It is not her face or hair or fine noble bearing—it is all these things and more. She is a right fair figure of a woman, and I will trounce the man who slanders her good name. She was born to be a queen—and if there is a God in heaven, that is what she will be.”
    “Pity,” sniffs Odo. “With men like you to protect her, I wouldn’t give a rat’s whisker for her chances. Most likely, she’ll share the noose with your Rhi Bran.”
    Oh, this makes me angry. “Listen, you little pus pot of a priest,” I say, my voice low and tight. “This en’t finished yet, not by a long walk. So, if you have any other clever ideas like this, keep ’em under your skirt.” Tired of him, of my confinement, sick of the pain that burns in my wounded leg, I lean back on my filthy pallet and turn my face away.
    Odo is silent a moment, as well he should be, then says, “Sorry, Will, I did not mean to offend you. I only meant—”
    “It makes no matter,” I tell him. “Read back where we left off.”
    He does, and we go on.
    T he snow fell through the night. We awoke to a thick layer of white fluff over the forest. Branches dragged down and saplings bent low beneath the weight of cold, wet snow. Our little village of low-roofed huts lay almost hidden beneath this shroud. Early yet, the sun was just rising as we gathered our gear and made our final preparations. After a quick meal of black bread, curds, and apples, we gathered to receive our marching orders.
    “Here,” said Siarles, handing me what appeared to be a bundle of rags covered with bark and twigs and leaf wrack, “put this on.”
    Taking the bundle, I shook it out and held it up before me. “A cloak?” I asked, none too certain of my guess. Long, ragged, dun-coloured things with all manner of forest ruck sewn on, they looked like the pelt of some fantastical woodland creature born of tree and fern.
    “We wear these when moving about the forest,” he said, pulling a similar garment around his shoulders. “Good protection.”
    Folk—whether two-legged or four—are difficult enough to see in dense wood. This, any forester will tell you for nothing. Wearing these cloaks, a fella would be well-nigh impossible to see even for eyes trained in tracking game along tangled pathways through dense brush in the dim or faulty light that is the forest. Nevertheless, bless me for a dunce, I saw a flaw in the plan. “It has snowed,” I said.
    “You noticed,” replied Siarles. “Oh, you’re a shrewd one, no mistake.” He indicated a basket into which the others were digging. “Get busy.”
    The basket was filled with scrags of sheep’s