by Ken Follett
Walter grinned sadistically. "What are you going to do to him, lord?"
"You'll see."
Gilbert's leathery face was white with fear. William passed a rope under the man's armpits, tied it behind his back, and looped it over the branch.
"Lift him," he said to Walter.
Walter hoisted Gilbert. Gilbert wriggled and got free of Walter's grasp, falling on the ground. Walter picked up William's club and beat Gilbert about the head until he was groggy, then picked him up again. William threw the loose end of the rope over the branch several times and pulled it tight. Walter released Gilbert and he swung gently from the branch with his feet a yard off the ground.
"Collect some firewood," William said.
They built a fire under Gilbert, and William lit it with a spark from a flint. After a few moments the flames began to rise. The heat brought Gilbert out of his daze.
When he realized what was happening to him he began to moan in terror. "Please," he said. "Please let me down. I'm sorry I laughed at you, please have mercy."
William was silent. Gilbert's groveling was very satisfying, but it was not what William was after.
When the heat began to hurt Gilbert's bare toes, he bent his legs at the knee to take his feet out of the fire. His face was running with sweat, and there was a faint smell of scorching as his clothes got hot. William judged it was time to start the interrogation. He said: "Why did you go to the castle today?"
Gilbert stared wide-eyed at him. "To pay my respects," he said. "Does it matter?"
"Why did you go to pay your respects?"
"The earl has just returned from Normandy."
"You weren't summoned especially?"
"No."
It might be true, William reflected. Interrogating a prisoner was not as straightforward as he had imagined. He thought again. "What did the earl say to you when you went up to his chamber?"
"He greeted me, and thanked me for coming to welcome him home."
Was there a look of wary comprehension in Gilbert's eyes? William was not sure. He said: "What else?"
"He asked after my family and my village."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing. Why do you care what he said?"
"What did he say to you about King Stephen and the Empress Maud?"
"Nothing, I tell you!"
Gilbert could not keep his knees bent any longer, and his feet fell back into the growing flames. After a second, a yell of agony burst from him, and his body convulsed. The spasm took his feet out of the flames momentarily. He realized then that he could ease the pain by swinging to and fro. With each swing, however, he passed through the flames and cried out again.
Once more William wondered whether Gilbert might be telling the truth. There was no way of knowing. At some point, presumably, he would be in so much agony that he would say whatever he thought William wanted him to say, in a desperate attempt to get some relief; so it was important not to give him too clear an idea of what was wanted, William thought worriedly. Who would have thought that torturing people could be so difficult?
He made his voice calm and almost conversational. "Where are you going now?"
Gilbert screamed in pain and frustration: "What does it matter?"
"Where are you going?"
"Home!"
The man was losing his grip. William knew where he lived, and it was north of here. He had been heading in the wrong direction.
"Where are you going?" William said again.
"What do you want from me?"
"I know when you're lying," William said. "Just tell me the truth." He heard Walter give a low grunt of approval, and he thought: I'm getting better at this. "Where are you going?" he said for the fourth time.
Gilbert became too exhausted to swing himself anymore. Groaning in pain, he came to a stop over the fire, and once more bent his legs to take his feet out of the flames. But now the fire was burning high enough to singe his knees. William noticed a smell, vaguely familiar but also slightly sickening; and after a moment he realized it was the smell of burning flesh, and it was familiar because it was like the smell of dinner. The skin of Gilbert's legs and feet was turning brown and cracking, the hairs on his shins going black; and fat from his flesh dripped into the fire and sizzled. Watching his agony mesmerized William. Every time Gilbert cried out, William felt a profound thrill. He had the power of pain over a man, and it made him feel good. It was a bit like the way he felt when he got a girl alone, in a place where nobody could hear her protest, and pinned her to the ground, pulling her skirts up around her waist, and knew that nothing could now stop him from having her.
Almost reluctantly, he said again: "Where are you going?"
In a voice that was a suppressed scream, Gilbert said: "To Sherborne."
"Why?"
"Cut me down, for the love of Christ Jesus, and I'll tell you everything."
William sensed victory within his grasp. It was deeply satisfying. But he was not quite there yet. He said to Walter: "Just pull his feet out of the fire."
Walter grabbed Gilbert's tunic and pulled on it so that his legs were clear of the flames.
"Now," William said.
"Earl Bartholomew has fifty knights in and around Sherborne," Gilbert said in a strangled cry. "I am to muster them and bring them to Earlscastle."
William smiled. All his guesses were proving gratifyingly accurate. "And what is the earl planning to do with these knights?"
"He didn't say."
William said to Walter: "Let him burn a little more." "No!" Gilbert screamed. "I'll tell you!"
Walter hesitated.
"Quickly," William warned.
"They are to fight for the Empress Maud, against Stephen," Gilbert said at last.
That was it: that was the proof. William savored his success. "And when I ask you this in front of my father, will you answer the same?" he said.
"Yes, yes."
"And when my father asks you in front of the king, will you still tell the truth?"
"Yes!"
"Swear by the cross."
"I swear by the cross, I'll tell the truth!"
"Amen," William said contentedly, and he began to stamp out the fire.
They tied Gilbert to his saddle and put his horse on a leading rein, then rode on at a walk. The knight was barely able to stay upright, and William did not want him to die, for he was no use dead, so he tried not to treat him too roughly. Next time they passed a stream he threw cold water over the knight's burned feet. Gilbert screamed in pain, but it probably did him good.
William felt a wonderful sense of triumph mingled with an odd kind of frustration. He had never killed a man, and he wished he could kill Gilbert. Torturing a man without killing him was like stripping a girl naked without raping her. The more he thought about that, the more he felt the need of a woman.
Perhaps when he got home ... no, there would be no time. He would have to tell his parents what had happened, and they would want Gilbert to repeat his confession in front of a priest and perhaps some other witnesses; and then they would have to plan the capture of Earl Bartholomew, which would surely have to take place tomorrow, before Bartholomew mustered too many fighting men. And still William had not thought of a way to take that castle by stealth, without a prolonged siege....
He was thinking with frustration that it might be a long time before he even saw an attractive woman when one appeared on the road ahead.
There were five people in a group, walking toward William. One of them was a dark-haired woman of about twenty-five years, not exactly a girl, but young enough. As she came closer William became more interested: she was quite beautiful, with dark brown hair that came to a devil's peak on her brow, and deep-set eyes of an intense golden color. She had a trim, lithe figure and smooth tanned skin.
"Stay back," William said to Walter. "Keep the knight behind you while I talk to them."
The group stopped and looked warily at him. They were a family, obviously: there was a
tall man who was presumably the husband, a lad who was full-grown but not yet bearded, and a couple of sprats. The man looked familiar, William realized with a start. "Do I know you?" he said.
"I know you," the man said. "And I know your horse, for together you almost killed my daughter."
It began to come back to William. His horse had not touched the child, but it had been close. "You were building my house," he said. "And when I dismissed you, you demanded payment, and almost threatened me."
The man looked defiant, and did not deny it.
"You're not so cocky now," William said with a sneer. The whole family appeared to be starving. It was turning out to be a good day for settling accounts with people who had offended William Hamleigh. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes, we're hungry," said the builder in a tone of sullen anger.
William looked again at the woman. She stood with her feet a little apart and her chin up, staring at him fearlessly. He had been inflamed by Aliena and now he wanted to slake his lust with this one. She would be lively, he felt sure: she would wriggle and scratch. All the better.
"You're not married to this girl, are you, builder?" he said. "I remember your wife--an ugly cow."
The shadow of pain crossed the builder's face, and he said: "My wife died."
"And you haven't taken this one to church, have you? You haven't got a penny to pay the priest." Behind William, Walter coughed and the horses moved impatiently. "Suppose I give you money for food," William said to the builder, to tantalize him.
"I'll accept it gratefully," the man said, although William could tell it hurt him to be subservient.
"I'm not talking about a gift. I'll buy your woman."
The woman herself spoke. "I'm not for sale, boy."
Her scorn was well directed, and William was angered. I'll show you whether I'm a man or a boy, he thought, when I get you alone. He spoke to the builder. "I'll give you a pound of silver for her."
"She's not for sale."
William's anger grew. It was infuriating to offer a fortune to a starving man and be turned down. He said: "You fool, if you don't take the money I'll run you through with my sword and fuck her in front of the children!"
The builder's arm moved under his cloak. He must have some kind of weapon, William thought. He was also very big, and although he was as thin as a knife he might put up a mean fight to save his woman. The woman moved her cloak aside and rested her hand on the hilt of a surprisingly long dagger at her belt. The older boy was big enough to cause trouble, too.
Walter spoke in a low but carrying voice. "Lord, there's no time for this."
William nodded reluctantly. He had to get Gilbert back to the Hamleigh manor house. It was too important to delay with a brawl over a woman. He would just have to suffer.
He looked at the little family of five ragged, hungry people, ready to fight to the finish against two beefy men with horses and swords. He could not understand them. "All right, then, starve to death," he said. He kicked his horse and trotted on, and a few moments later they were out of sight.
II
When they were a mile or so from the place where they had encountered William Hamleigh, Ellen said: "Can we slow down now?"
Tom realized he had been setting a fierce pace. He had been frightened: for a moment, back there, it had looked as if he and Alfred would have to fight two armed men on horseback. Tom did not even have a weapon. He had reached under his cloak for his mason's hammer and then remembered, painfully, that he had sold it weeks ago for a sack of oats. He was not sure why William had backed off in the end, but he wanted to put as much distance as possible between them in case the young lord changed his evil little mind.
Tom had failed to find work at the palace of the bishop of Kingsbridge and at every other place he had tried. However, there was a quarry in the vicinity of Shiring, and a quarry--unlike a building site--employed as many men in winter as it did in summer. Of course, Tom's usual work was more skilled and better paid than quarrying, but he was a long way past caring about that. He just wanted to feed his family. The quarry at Shiring was owned by Earl Bartholomew, and Tom had been told that the earl could be found at his castle a few miles to the west of the town.
Now that he had Ellen he was even more desperate than before. He knew that she had thrown her lot in with him for love, and had not weighed the consequences carefully. In particular, she did not have a clear idea of how difficult it might be for Tom to get work. She had not really confronted the possibility that they might not survive the winter, and Tom had held back from disillusioning her, for he wanted her to stay with him. But a woman was liable to put her child before everything else, in the end, and Tom was afraid Ellen would leave him.
They had been together a week: seven days of despair and seven nights of joy. Every morning Tom woke up feeling happy and optimistic. As the day wore on he would get hungry, the children would tire and Ellen would become morose. Some days they got fed--like the time they met the monk with the cheese--and some days they chewed on strips of sun-dried venison from Ellen's reserve. It was like eating deer hide but it was better than nothing, just. But when it got dark they would lie down, cold and miserable, and hold one another close for warmth; then after a while they would start stroking and kissing. At first Tom had always wanted to enter her immediately, but she refused him gently: she wanted to play and kiss much longer. He did it her way and was enchanted. He explored her body boldly, caressing her in places where he had never touched Agnes, her armpits and her ears and the cleft of her buttocks. Some nights they giggled together with their heads beneath their cloaks. At other times they felt very tender. One night when they were alone in the guesthouse of a monastery, and the children were in an exhausted sleep, she was dominant and insistent, commanding him to do things to her, showing him how to excite her with his fingers, and he complied, feeling bemused and inflamed by her shamelessness. When it was all over they would fall into a deep, restful sleep, with the day's fear and anger washed away by love.
It was now midday. Tom judged that William Hamleigh was far away, so he decided to stop for a rest. They had no food other than the dried venison. However, this morning they had begged some bread at a lonely farmhouse, and the woman had given them some ale in a big wooden bottle with no stopper, and told them to keep the bottle. Ellen had saved half the ale for dinner.
Tom sat on the edge of a broad old tree stump and Ellen sat beside him. She took a long draft of the ale and passed it to him. "Do you want some meat as well?" she asked.
He shook his head and drank some ale. He could easily have swallowed it all, but he left some for the children. "Save the meat," he said to Ellen. "We may get supper at the castle."
Alfred put the bottle to his mouth and drained it.
Jack looked crestfallen and Martha burst into tears. Alfred gave an odd little grin.
Ellen looked at Tom. After a few moments she said: "You shouldn't let Alfred get away with that."
Tom shrugged. "He's bigger than they are--he needs it more."
"He always gets a large share anyway. The little ones must have something."
"It's a waste of time to interfere in children's quarrels," Tom said.
Ellen's voice became harsh. "You're saying that Alfred can bully the younger children as much as he likes and you will do nothing about it."
"He doesn't bully them," Tom said. "Children always fight."
She shook her head, seeming bewildered. "I don't understand you. In every other way you're a kind man. But where Alfred is concerned, you're just blind."
She was exaggerating, Tom felt, but he did not want to displease her, so he said: "Give the little ones some meat, then."
Ellen opened her bag. She still looked cross. She cut off a strip of dried venison for Martha and another for Jack. Alfred held out his hand for some, but Ellen ignored him. Tom thought she should have given him some. There was nothing wrong with Alfred. Ellen just did not understand him. He was a big boy, Tom thought proudly, and he
had a big appetite and a quick temper, and if that was a sin, then half the adolescent boys in the world were damned.
They rested for a while and then walked on. Jack and Martha went ahead, still chewing the leathery meat. The two young ones got on well, despite the difference in their ages--Martha was six and Jack was probably eleven or twelve. But Martha thought Jack was utterly fascinating, and Jack seemed to be enjoying the novel experience of having another child to play with. It was a pity that Alfred did not like Jack. This surprised Tom: he would have expected that Jack, who was not yet becoming a man, would be beneath Alfred's contempt; but it was not so. Alfred was the stronger, of course, but little Jack was clever.
Tom refused to worry about it. They were just boys. He had too much on his mind to waste time fretting over children's squabbles. Sometimes he wondered secretly whether he would ever get work again. He might go on tramping the roads day after day until one by one they died off: a child found cold and lifeless one frosty morning, another too weak to fight off a fever, Ellen ravished and killed by a passing thug like William Hamleigh, and Tom himself becoming thinner and thinner until one day he was too weak to stand up in the morning, and lay on the forest floor until he slipped into unconsciousness.
Ellen would leave him before that happened, of course. She would return to her cave, where there was still a barrel of apples and a sack of nuts, enough to keep two people alive until the spring, but not enough for five. Tom would be heartbroken if she did that.
He wondered how the baby was. The monks had called him Jonathan. Tom liked the name. It meant a gift from God, according to the monk with the cheese. Tom pictured little Jonathan, red and wrinkled and bald, the way he was born. He would be different now: a week was a long time for a newborn baby. He would be bigger already, and his eyes would open wider. Now he would no longer be oblivious to the world around him: a loud noise would make him jump and a lullaby would soothe him. When he needed to burp, his mouth would curl up at the corners. The monks probably would not know that it was wind, and would take it for a real smile.
Tom hoped they were caring for him well. The monk with the cheese had given the impression that they were kindly and capable men. Anyway, they were certainly better able to look after the baby than Tom, who was homeless and penniless. If I ever become master of a really big construction project, and earn forty-eight pence a week plus allowances, I'll give money to that monastery, he thought.
