FireSong

by Roberta Gellis

  “Not Aubery’s,” Fenice said softly and mendaciously, for she had no intention of paying any ransom at all. “I will manage that.”

  She had had hours to plan and had examined carefully every idea that occurred to her, from having the eight English men-at-arms try to force their way into the prison, to herself acting the bawd so that she could steal the keys from the chief gaoler. Although she still held in reserve the simplest plan—that of somehow tricking the guard at the gate and having her men plus Rafe and his two overpower the other gaolers—she did not really think that would be possible. If one guard managed to sound an alarm, the gates would be sealed to all, the militia would be called out again, and all prisoners would be recaptured in no time.

  Still, if the commune were overconfident and too niggardly to pay enough men to guard the prisoners, the most direct approach might work. So Fenice now proposed to Rafe that he try to discover where the men were imprisoned, how carefully they were guarded, and whether it would be possible to free some or all of them with the force they had. In addition, she suggested that he try to find out who entered the prison on a regular basis, at what times, and for what purposes. Furthermore, she said that if she could be of use as a decoy or a distraction, Rafe could count on her to play the role and should consider the benefit of such a deception in evaluating any plan he made.

  Rafe looked at her with both surprise and respect. She had seemed so unmoved by the confirmation of their worst expectations that he had begun to wonder whether she cared that her husband was a prisoner. Some wives would be delighted to learn that their mates were in confinement, but it seemed that Lady Fenice was not one of those and was really interested in freeing her man.

  Had he known what Fenice had been revolving in her mind, plans she would not think of mentioning to a man but was working out ever more carefully, he would have been stunned and horrified rather than surprised and respectful. Not that Fenice had settled on playing the bawd. That idea had been dismissed for three reasons. First, she might be used by every filthy creature in the place without ever being able to get the keys. Second, even if she got them, they would do her no good unless she knew where Aubery was, and unlocking the cell would be impossible and useless if there were guards about. Third, no matter how glad Aubery was to be free, he would probably never be able to forget that the scum of Pons had used her body.

  Fenice had built the fire higher and hotter until it hissed and crackled with a fury akin to that burning in her. As each idea occurred to her and she had to dismiss it, she grew more furious and determined to accomplish her purpose. Over and over she began, If force is not practical, then guile must replace it. And at last, when she needed to use the chamber pot, she suddenly found the way.

  No one ever “saw” the disgusting creatures who collected excrement while they were at their work. Their clothes and persons were clotted and spattered with filth, and their odor was an offense even to the hardened noses of town dwellers. Just as she had done that morning when the—man? woman? she did not even know which—had come in to empty her pot, one moved out of their way and looked aside. Disguised as a gatherer of night soil, someone could enter the prison and discover exactly where Aubery was being kept and how he was guarded…

  At that point Fenice had gone back and examined the notion that no one looked at or spoke to collectors of excrement. Gentlefolk did not, most castle servants did not, but were the gaolers much above the gatherers of filth? What if they jested with those creatures or had some other reason to speak to them? It was possible, possible enough so that only Rafe or herself could play the part since none of the other men-at-arms spoke sufficient French. Fenice thought a little longer and then had to suppress an impulse to vomit. Not Rafe, his first loyalty must be to his own master. Of course, if Aubery and Philip Marmim were in the same part of the prison… But how could she count on that? No, she herself must don those filth-spattered rags and handle the contents of those buckets. Fenice gagged at the thought.

  It was an unpleasant prospect, but by the time Rafe returned from his second errand, her mind was resigned to the purgatory she would have to endure, and a fierce gladness was beginning to fill her with a kind of enthusiasm for her trial. She would see Aubery, even if she could not speak to him. She could ascertain for herself his condition and decide what would be best to do. Thus, Fenice showed no discouragement when Rafe told her that no attempt of eight men to force their way in or out would be possible.

  The prisoners had been divided into two groups, the noblemen had been placed in the chambers of one of the towers of the old keep, the lesser knights in the donjon itself. Rafe had not been able to discover how either group was guarded or whether they were guarded at all, but he believed the number of men on the walls and around the bailey would make it impossible to reach either the tower or the donjon by force. He had seen the guards on the walls himself and learned about the division of the prisoners and that the bailey was patrolled from one of the militiamen whom he had induced into conversation by false praise of the previous day’s action and several cups of wine.

  Moreover, an extremely strict watch was kept on all who entered and left—he had hardly escaped being taken himself only for walking more slowly than the gate guard liked past the gate. But, Rafe added, the vigilance probably would not be long-lasting. After a few days or a week, when the commune was sure they had rid the town of any adherents of the prisoners who might try to rescue them, they would relax their guard. They would not want to pay any mercenaries, and the militiamen had their own lives to lead. If he and Lady Fenice could remain inconspicuous for a time, perhaps they would have a chance to do something.

  “Did you discover who is allowed in?” Fenice asked.

  “As far as I could tell, no one except members of the commune and of the militia,” Rafe replied. “They may have food stored in the place, or they may feel that a day or two of starvation will soften up their captives. The last man I spoke to heard everyone had refused to pay anything, much less what was asked, and the mayor was nearly killed because he came too close to Gilbert Seagrave, and Seagrave grabbed him by the throat and nearly choked him before the guards could pry him loose.”

  “Are they not even taking out the night soil?” Fenice persisted anxiously. Rafe looked at her oddly, and she continued, “Those people are easy to bribe. One came to my room this morning to clear my pot. If we could get that one into the keep instead of the one who usually does the work there, we could learn whether there are guards at each cell and perhaps other things, too.”

  “I see.” Rafe nodded then suddenly smiled. “It does not matter who usually clears out the keep,” he went on. “If you can get the one who works here to agree, we can set our men in hiding to stop any other from going to the gate. And the gate guard will not stop a soil collector, even if no special order was given to let one in. Yes, that is a good thought. A good time would be just before dawn. The guard changes at sunrise, and the men on duty will be tired and bored.”

  “Good,” Fenice replied quietly, although her heart was leaping in her breast. “You explain to the men. It is easier for you, who speak English well. Then, at the proper time, wake the slave who cleans the inn and send him to my chamber, telling him that I have been sick and it is necessary to empty my pot and clean the floor. I will explain what is desired.”

  When Rafe had agreed and left, there was nothing more for Fenice to do until the following dawn. She could not settle to any ordinary task and spent the next few hours on her knees praying for mercy and help to Holy Mary and Saint Jude and to every other saint who supported wild and hopeless causes.

  When she was too weary to kneel a moment longer, Fenice went to bed, and owing to the poor rest she had had the preceding night and the tension and anxiety of the day, she slept at once and stayed asleep quite soundly until the man on guard at the door opened it and whispered, “My lady, the pot cleaner is here.”

  Fenice woke instantly with her whole plan clear in her mind, but it was
not to be as easy as simply offering a coin. The old slave was at first so frightened by the fact that Fenice spoke to him that he made no attempt to listen, only tried to escape from the room. Having seen no sign of the sickness he had been sent to clean up, he was afraid he had come to the wrong place and would be punished for intruding on a guest. Terrified that he would scream and wake others in the inn if she tried to delay him to explain what she wanted and that her men would discover what she was about, Fenice leapt after him, seizing the candlestick from the table as she ran and bringing it down hard on his head.

  For a moment she was shocked at her violence, but then she thought with satisfaction that it was much better this way. Nothing would have to be explained, and possibly the old man would never even know his clothes had been taken. If he woke in whatever filthy cranny he slept in, he would thank God that no worse had befallen him. Feeling much uplifted, for she took the circumstance to be a sign that her prayers had been heard and her cause acceptable to the holy ones to whom she had prayed, Fenice removed the old man’s outer garments with shrinking fingers, bound and gagged him with a pair of stockings, rolled him in a blanket so he would not freeze, and pushed him beneath the bed.

  That was not too bad, but the worst was yet to come. Fenice began to put on the horrible garments, muttering prayers of thanksgiving that the loose breeches would permit her to retain her own shift. She could pull the skirt of that between her thighs and cram it into the breeches so that neither those nor the equally filth-clotted tunic would come in contact with her skin. There was also room to fasten Aubery’s long hunting knife around her waist, and although it would be difficult to reach, it still gave her a sense of security to have the weapon. Even so, Fenice made good her excuse for having the slave sent up by being sick twice while she donned the garments.

  Then she realized that the old slave had no shoes or stockings. Fenice herself dared not go barefoot, not only because her tender and unaccustomed feet would soon be cut and bruised but because their slender, delicate appearance would give her away in a minute. She pulled on a pair of dark wool stockings and ruthlessly sacrificed another blanket, cutting it into strips so that she could bind those around her feet. As she finished, she realized that she had solved another problem at the same time. The clumsy, tottering way the bindings would make her walk would prevent her from forgetting she was supposed to be an old man and stepping out in her usual way.

  Finally, having bound her hair around her head and wrapped a dark cloth around it to protect it as much as possible, she smeared her face with ashes, pulled on the old man’s hood, and drew it up. She gagged again at the odor, and then, without allowing herself time to think, plunged her hands into the bucket of excrement. Shuddering and sobbing with disgust, she smeared the filth over her arms and then even speckled her face with it. When she could control her heaving body, she crept to the door, bucket in hand.

  Outside, Rafe was waiting for her. She knew he would not be able to make out her face in the dark and suspected that even if he could, he simply would not believe what he saw, so she was not nervous about being detected at this point. But then she realized that the bucket she carried could not be what she used to remove large quantities of night soil. She did not even know if the inn servant had anything that would serve the purpose. Possibly others were employed to cart the valuable if disgusting substances away.

  “A cart—” she mumbled, bending her lips over her teeth so that the words would be slurred.

  “I have it outside,” Rafe answered distastefully. “I did not want you waking the whole place clattering it over the cobbles of the yard.”

  Again, despite the waves of sickness that still swept over her, Fenice felt uplifted. She hoped it was not blasphemy to think of Holy Mary and the blessed saints in conjunction with a dung cart, but as she found the hook where the bucket she was carrying must be hung, and grasped the pulling bar of the oozing barrel set between two wheels, she gave thanks to Mary and the saints for smoothing the way. And the luck held at the gate of the prison, where the guard opened the small door at once, even though he commented that the collector was early.

  Since Fenice really did not want to clean the filth of the whole prison and had no idea of the usual routine, if there was one, she determined to take a chance and mumbled “For the lords.” Aubery had been wearing a very grand gown, so he might have been placed with the noblemen. In any case, it would be easier to eliminate the tower if he were not there than search through the much larger number of men imprisoned in the donjon.

  The gate guard laughed coarsely and asked if the mayor thought their droppings were more delicate and needed to be separated from the others.

  “Thinks they get sick maybe,” Fenice grunted, trying to produce a hacking cough that would make the guard shy away.

  She succeeded better than she expected, the deep breaths made necessary by the coughing stimulating her feeling of nausea so that her bile rose in her throat, and she choked and gargled and spat. This was too much even for the guard, and he pointed to the tower where the noble prisoners were confined. Fenice stumbled across the bailey, dragging the heavy cart behind, and repeated to the guard outside that the soil buckets of the lords were to be emptied.

  Here Fenice met the first check, for the guard on duty snarled that no one had given him any special order regarding the clearing of soil from the prisoners’ cells. Fenice’s first impulse was to run, but she realized that that would only betray her, and she stopped herself before she did more than shy away. She put out her hand toward her cart and then it came to her that if she missed this opportunity to get inside the tower, she might never have another.

  “I wait then,” she whimpered, shivering with fear but squatting down beside the cart.

  The guard made a disgusted sound and raised a hand to strike, but even as he was about to drive the stinking nuisance away he realized that the gate guard had passed the creature. It was near the end of the watch and he was tired, but he knew that his replacement would be annoyed and complain if he had to accompany the dung collector. It was not worth the trouble to save a few steps, he thought, and growled, “Oh, curse you, come on then,” and unlocked the door of the tower.

  Fenice almost made the mistake of jumping to her feet in her eagerness. Fortunately, the hem of the tunic she wore had caught under the clumsy rag wrappings on her feet, and she fell forward sprawling. She had an instant to be again grateful to the kindly powers that were helping and guiding her before the guard cursed again and poked at her with the long-shafted billhook he carried. In her desire to get inside, she was already rolling away, so she was barely pricked, but rage boiled up in her. Fenice had often bowed meekly under insult and oppression from her equals and superiors, but she was not accustomed to physical gestures of cruelty and contempt from those she knew to be beneath her.

  Still, she contained herself, grabbed her pail, and shuffled into the tower. A torch was flaring on the wall, and Fenice saw with a surge of satisfaction that the door of the cell was not locked with a key but with a large bar. She hesitated, instinctively waiting for the guard to open the door for her, but he poked her again with the billhook, and she realized she would have to lift the bar and open the door herself while he presented his weapon as a threat to the prisoners within.

  She set her bucket down by the wall and began to struggle with the bar. It was almost impossible for her to get it off its hooks, and she was terrified that the guard would realize she was a woman, but he said nothing as she strained, and at last she was able to push it out of its rests, set it on the floor, and pull the door open. As she entered the cell, a new fear seized her—that it would be so dark in the unlit interior that she would not be able to recognize Aubery. However, the cell was very small, and she saw the faces of both men as they sat up, startled by the grating of the hinges and the sudden light. One was William Mauduit. She did not know the other.

  The slop bucket was in the corner. Fenice shuffled two steps, seized it, and backed out,
closed the door behind her, emptied the bucket into hers, barely opened the door wide enough to toss the bucket back inside, and closed it again, levering the bar up and into its braces as quickly as she could. She had no intentions of permitting the prisoners to cause trouble or giving the guard any reason for suspicion before she discovered in which cell Aubery was being kept—if he were imprisoned here rather than in the donjon.

  As the bar dropped home, the guard lowered his billhook with a slightly relieved expression. Fenice went out to empty the bucket into the barrel on the cart, came in again, and preceded the guard up the winding stair to the second level of the tower. Here she repeated the procedure, noting that the Earl of Warwick and Gilbert Seagrave were the occupants of the cell. Wearily she trudged down the stairs to empty the bucket, came up climbing more and more slowly as her hope dimmed.

  On the third level, she again set down her bucket and began the struggle with the bar. She was shaking with effort and sickness, nearly blinded by tears. As she heaved desperately at the heavy piece of wood, she prayed for help, for the strength to endure until she found Aubery.

  This time it seemed as if her prayer was not to be answered. The bar stuck, and the guard prodded her angrily with the billhook, however, the prick as the weapon went through her threadbare tunic and thin shift, and the rage and fear generated in her lent strength to her arms. She shoved frantically, the bar flew up out of its hooks and fell to the floor with a loud thud, and the guard growled threateningly. Hastily, Fenice opened the door, and found her prayer had been answered after all. Aubery was just getting to his feet as the light of the torch on the landing illuminated the cell.

  Overwhelmed with joy and relief, Fenice hesitated. Uttering a louder curse, the guard shoved her with the billhook. Her eyes on Aubery, she tripped over the rag foot wrappings and fell to her knees, crawling forward toward the slop bucket out of the line of the guard’s weapon. But the brief hesitation had shown her that her husband had been hurt. His face was bruised all over with one eye blackened and swollen shut, and his gown was torn and stained with blood. The rage Fenice had so long contained exploded.