Odo returns, and so quickly that I am surprised. He has not shown such clear and ready resolve before. There is something on his mind—a blind man could see it—and he has come back with all the bluster of a fella who has made up his mind to embark on a dangerous journey, or a long-neglected chore that will get him mucked up from heel to crown. I do greatly wonder at the wild glint in his soft brown eyes. This is not the Odo I have come to know.
So, here is Odo, standing outside the door of my cell, like a faithful hound returning to a harsh master he would rather forgive than leave. I see he has his parchment and goose feather in one hand and inkhorn in the other as always; but the sharpness in his aspect gives me to know this is not like all the other times.
“Are you coming in, Odo?” I say. He has made no move to join me.
“I have to know something,” he says, glancing down the corridor as if he fears we might be overheard. Gulbert, if he hears anything from the cells at all, is long past caring. “I have to know beyond all doubt that you will not betray me.”
“Odo,” I reply, “have we known each other so long that you ask me that?”
“Swear it,” he insists. I hear in his voice what I have not often heard—a little bone and muscle, a little bit of iron. “Swear it on your soul that you will not betray me.”
“As God is my witness, I swear on my everlasting soul that I will not betray you.”
This seems to satisfy him; he opens the door to my cell and takes his customary place. I see by the firm set of his soft mouth that he is chewing on something too big to swallow, so I let him take his time with it.
“It is the abbot,” he says at last.
“It usually is,” I reply. “What has he done now?”
“He has been lying to me,” remarks Odo. “Lying from the very beginning. I have caught him time and again, but said nothing.”
“I understand.”
“No, Will,” replies my scribe, “you do not. I have been lying to him, too.”
I stare at him. “Odo, you do amaze me.”
“That is why I rushed away. If I am to do as you ask, I had to make confession. If I am killed, I want to go to God with clean hands and a clean heart.”
“As do we all, Odo. But tell me more about this deception.”
He nods. “I knew you would not give up Bran—not even to save yourself.”
“Truly, I never would.”
“When I saw that you were a man of honour, I decided to spin the abbot a tale that would keep us talking, but would tell him little.”
Astonished at this turn, I do not know what to say. It seems best to just let him talk as he will. “Oh?”
“That is what I did. Some of what you said, I used, but most I made up.” He shrugs. “It is easy for me. The abbot knows nothing of Mérian, or Iwan, Siarles, or Tuck, and what he knows of Bran is mostly fancy.” He allows himself a sly smile. “The more you told me of the real Bran, the less I told the abbot.”
“Well, you have me, Odo. I don’t know what to say.”
But Odo is not listening.
“Abbot Hugo has been lying to me from the beginning. Nothing he says can be trusted. He thinks I am stupid, that I cannot see through his veil of lies, but I have from the start.” He pauses to draw breath. I can see that he is working himself up to do the thing he has come to do. “Like the letter Bran stole—abbot says it was nothing, a simple letter of introduction only. But if that was true then why was he so desperate to get it back?”
“And they were that desperate, I can tell you,” I said, recalling the Christmas raid. “A good many men died that night to recover it. I think you can fair be sure it was far more than a letter of introduction.”
“What you said about treachery against the crown . . .” His voice falls to a creaky whisper. “Knowing the abbot, I do not doubt it. Still, I cannot think what it might be.”
“Nor could I, Odo, nor could I—not for the longest time,” I tell him. “But the answer was starin’ me in the face all along. Blind dog that I am, I could not see it until you showed me where to look.”
“I showed you?” he says, and smiles.
“Oh, aye,” I tell him, and then explain how I tumbled to what the Bloody Baron and Black Abbot were up to at last. He listens, nodding in solemn agreement as I conclude, “Fortunately, we are not without some tricks of our own.”
“Yes?” He nods and licks his lips, eager now to hear what I propose.
“But as you made me swear on my solitary soul, so must I hear your pledge, my friend. We are in this together now, and you can tell no one—not even your confessor.” This I tell him in a tone as bleak as the tomb which will certainly claim us both if he fails to keep his vow.
Odo hesitates; he knows full well the consequence of what I am about to ask him. Then, squaring his round shoulders, he nods.
“Say it, Odo,” I say gently. “I must hear the words.”
“On my eternal soul, I will do exactly as you say and breathe a word to no one.”
“Good lad. You have done the right thing,” I tell him. “It is not easy to go against your superior, but it is the right thing.”
“What do you want me to do?” he says, as if anxious now to get the deed done.
“We must get a message to Bran,” I say. “We must let him know what is about to happen so he can move against it.”
Odo agrees. He unstops the inkhorn and pares his quill. I watch him as he spreads the curled edge of parchment beneath his pudgy hands—I have seen this countless times, yet this time I watch with my heart in my mouth. Do not let us down, monk.
He dips the pen and holds it poised above the parchment. “What shall I write?”
“Not so fast,” I say. “It is no use writing in Ffreinc, as no one in Cél Craidd can read it. Can you write in Saxon?”
“Latin,” he says. “French and Latin.” He shrugs. “That’s all.”
“Then Latin will have to do,” I say, and we begin.
In the end, it is a simple message we devise, and when we finish I have him read it back to me to see if we’ve left anything out. “See now, we must think what word to add to let Bran know that this has come from me, and no one else. It must be something Bran will trust.”
It takes me a moment to think of a word or two—something only Bran and I would know . . . about Tuck, or one of the others? . . . Then it comes to me. “Odo, my fine scribe, at the end of the message add this: ‘The straw man was shaved twice that day: once by error, and once by craft.Will’s the error, Bran’s the craft. Yet Will took the prize.’ This Bran knows to be true.”
Odo regards me with a curious look.
“Write it,” I tell him.
He dips his quill and leans low over the parchment scrap, now all but covered with his tight script. “What does it mean?”
“It is something known between Bran and myself, that is all.”
“Very well,” says Odo. He bends to the task and then raises his head. “It is done.”
“Good,” I say. “Now tuck that up your skirt, priest, and keep it well out of sight.”
“It is my head if I fail,” he says, and frowns. “But how am I to find Rhi Bran?”
I smile at his use of the name. “It is more likely that he will find you, I expect. All you have to do is start down the King’s Road, and, if you do what I tell you, he’ll find you soon enough.” I begin to tell him how to attract the attention of the Grellon, but he makes a face and I stop. “Now what?”
“I am watched day and night,” he points out. “I can’t go wander-ing around in the forest. The abbot would catch me before I was out of sight of the town.”
He has a point. “So, then . . .” I stare at him and it comes to me. “Then we will look for someone in town—a Welshman. Despite everything, they must come to the market still.”
“Sometimes,” Odo allows. “Would you trust a Welshman? Someone from Elfael?”
“Would and do,” I reply. “All the more if the fella knew it was to serve King Raven and Elfael.”
“Tomorrow is a market day,” Odo announces, “and with the snows gone now there will likely be traders from Hereford and beyond. That always seems to bring a few of the local folk into town. They don’t stay long, but if I was able to keep close watch, I might entrust the message to someone who could pass it along.”
Bless me, Mother Mary, there are more things wrong with this plan than right. But in the end, we are left face-to-face with the plain ugly fact that we can do no better. I reluctantly agree, and tell Odo he is a good fella for thinkin’ of it. This small praise seems to hearten him, and he hides the scrap of parchment in his robes and then stands to leave. “I should like to pray before I go, Will,” he says.
“Another fine idea,” I tell him. “Pray away.”
Odo bows his head and folds his hands and, standing in the middle of the cell, begins to pray. He prays in Latin, like all priests, and I can follow only a little of it. His soft voice fills the cell like a gentle rain and, if only for a moment, I sense a warming presence—and sweet peace comes over me. For the first time in a long time, I am content.