‘My lord—’
‘I can’t help you, Straccan. You know conspiracy’s a capital offence.’ Cigony turned away and looked out of the window.
The iron-bound door slammed behind Straccan with an echoing crash. In the foul-smelling darkness he fell down a short flight of narrow stone steps onto something soft.
‘Ow!’
‘Sorry…’
‘Geroff!’
The body beneath him heaved and threw him sideways. Before he could scramble up there was a rattle of chain and the other prisoner was on him, bony knees on his chest to pin him down and hands gripping a length of chain pressed across his throat, all in impenetrable blackness.
‘Who are you?’ his assailant growled, and just in time, about to burst the other’s eardrums, Straccan stayed his hands.
‘Bane!’
They sat on the bottom step, companionably side by side in the stinking darkness.
‘Where the hell have you been? Did you see Janiva?’
When Bane didn’t answer Straccan felt his heart turn into a lump of lead behind his ribs. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Bane sighed. ‘There’s a new priest at Shawl; he’s accused her of sorcery and she’s locked up in the undercroft. There’s talk of putting her to the Ordeal.’
‘Oh Christ!’ Straccan scrambled up the steps and hammered on the door. ‘Von Koln! Let me out!’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Bane. ‘The guardroom’s a long way up; no one’ll hear. Listen, that woman Sybilla had something in mind and I had a word with Tostig. He promised to help.’
But Straccan slumped, defeated, on the top step, his head bowed on his knees. The dense blackness enfolded him, suffocated him, crushed him. He felt helpless and dreadfully afraid. The horror threatening Janiva was more than he could bear and there was nothing he could do to help her. He longed for a sword in his hand and an enemy at the business end of it. Tears of impotent frustration seeped out under his eyelids.
Bane thrust something into Straccan’s clenched fist, a soft sticky pellet. ‘What’s that?’
‘Raisins,’ said Bane. ‘I had some in my pocket. I been rationing em. Suck em, they’ll last longer.’
‘Thanks.’ He pulled himself together, ashamed. ‘Why did they put you down here?’
‘Buggered if I know. I came looking for you, thought you’d be back, and before I could turn round that bloody German stuffed me down here. I never liked him.’
‘How long have you been here?’
Bane thought a bit. ‘It was Saint Ethelwold’s day.’
‘This is the eve of Saint Sixtus.’ Straccan reckoned back on his fingers. ‘Five days. Did they hurt you?’
‘Not much. What’s going on?’
‘Von Koln thinks I killed the king’s clerk.’
‘Wace? What happened to him?’
‘Breos.’
They sat silent for a while, and presently soft whuffling sounds told Straccan that Bane had fallen asleep. He wished he could sleep; at least there’d be some brief oblivion. He wished there was a window but this cell must be deep underground. How long would von Koln leave them here?
He’d been a prisoner before, a galley slave of the Moors. Things had seemed pretty hopeless, chained at the rowers’ bench under the overseer’s lash, but he hadn’t lost hope then. Under the killing sun, as his comrades died in their chains at his side, he had believed passionately that somehow, some day, he would see his home again and hold his daughter in his arms.
Gilla… He took a deep breath and raised his head. He’d get out of here, of course he would. They had to open the door some time and he wasn’t chained. But then what? If he escaped and went to Janiva, Gilla would be taken hostage. She was only twelve years old but youth and innocence would not save her if the king believed him a traitor in league with rebels. A capital offence meant a traitor’s death. Traitors’ property was seized by the Crown. His daughter would be penniless, ostracised, welcomed nowhere, a traitor’s brat.
He groaned. As a slave, the shackles had been only on his wrists and ankles — he still had the scars — but the invisible chain that held him fast now was stronger than any iron links: his love and fear for Gilla.
Chapter Forty-Three
In Carrickfergus castle upon the morning of Saint Samson’s day, the king sat at chess with the bishop of Winchester, while a blind harper played for their pleasure.
John was in high good humour. The campaign had achieved all he wished, and more. He had marched on Ulster and frightened the life out of it, taken the county of Meath from its rebel lord and stormed triumphantly across the country accepting surrenders and homage everywhere. He had seized the castle at Carlingford, bridging Carlingford Lough — which everyone said would be sure to stop him — with boats to get his army across.
Anglo-Irish lords with wavering loyalties, finding the king’s host beneath their castle walls, capitulated and grovelled with gratifying speed, paying fines and handing over hostages with jittery alacrity. John was now ready to go home, leaving this bothersome country subdued and in better order than anyone, even his mighty father, had ever been able to achieve.
The bishop’s hand hovered over a piece, hesitated and moved another instead. The king chuckled.
‘Not your day, Peter. Checkmate in two moves. There, look, and there. Didn’t you see it? You need more practice.’ He picked up one of the pieces and turned it over in his hand, admiring the small ivory face.
Below, in the bailey, guards challenged a rider and the man answered, reining in his foam-streaked horse and sliding stiffly from the saddle. He came clattering up the steps two at a time and burst into the hall, smelling powerfully of sweat, horse and garlic, and so caked in dust that he looked as if he’d been dipped in flour.
‘My lord,’ he panted, ‘Mahaut de Breos is taken!’
The king crashed his fist onto the chessboard, sending pieces flying and rolling about the floor.
‘She alone? What of Hugh de Lacy?’
‘The earl got away, sire. So did Breos’s son, Bishop Reginald, but the other one, the eldest, William, was taken prisoner along with his mother.’
John let out a long hissing breath of satisfaction. ‘Where are they?’
‘On their way here, sire. They fled to Scotland but King William has sent them back to you. They’ll be here by nightfall.’
John smiled. Bishop Peter, glancing sideways at him, looked hastily away again. It was a nasty smile. The king crooked a finger, beckoning the seneschal from the group in attendance. ‘Prepare a welcome.’
The seneschal looked worried. ‘Where do you wish them housed, my lord?’
‘William may reflect on the consequences of rebellion in one of the dungeons; do be sure to make him uncomfortable. As for Mahaut’ — he grated the name through his teeth like an obscenity — ‘chain her and keep her under close guard in a very small chamber. Have her watched closely. I don’t want her left alone for a moment, day or night, until I’ve heard what she has to say.’
At the thought of what Mahaut de Breos had already said, fury began to heat his blood; John could feel' it pulsing in his head, swelling until it seemed he must burst with the effort to suppress it.
‘Leave us!’ And as they all began moving hastily to the door, ‘The harper may stay.’
Music alone, he had learned, could help him when this mindless rage overwhelmed him. It was as well the harper was blind, for when everyone else had gone the king stood staring in his direction, teeth bared like an animal, face dark, swollen and distorted by the ungovernable Angevin fury that had been his father’s legacy to all his sons. Silently, to the accompaniment of the harp’s liquid notes, John fought and throttled it. He was used to these battles.
Never, never would he let that insane rage get the better of him again, as it had done that time at Rouen.
Rouen… Strange that he could remember everything that happened before, and every selfsick guilt-ridden moment that bludgeoned him afterwards, but still h
ad no memory of killing Arthur.
He’d never meant to do it.
Traitor, oath-breaker, taken in armed rebellion against his liege lord, the young duke of Brittany had been John’s prisoner. No one would have batted an eyelid if he had been executed, or at the very least blinded and castrated, as was customary to remove any focus around which the infection of treason could gather. The Pope himself had urged that Arthur be executed for the good of the realm and the peace of Christendom. But John had imprisoned his nephew in the castle of Rouen, a valuable hostage for the troublesome Bretons’ good behaviour.
When Arthur learned that the king his uncle had come to Rouen and was in the castle, he threw a classic Angevin fit of fury, smashing the furniture in his cell, ripping up his bedding, tearing his own clothes until they hung in rags, flinging the contents of his chamber pot at the unfortunate guard and attacking the poor man with a bed leg; biting Hubert de Burgh, punching William de Breos and screaming abuse when they tried to restrain him until his raw throat could only croak.
‘You’d better not see him, sire,’ said Hubert de Burgh, who held the office of keeper of the castle. Behind John’s back he gave William de Breos a warning look. ‘He’s a bit upset.’
But John had supped well. The food was excellent and there had been expensive burnt wine, a novelty. He’d drunk a lot of it; it made him feel magnanimous, even sentimental, and he decided to see his nephew.
‘I’ve been thinking. I might let him join his sister if he promises to behave.’
The princess Eleanor, known as the Pearl of Brittany, was in England in the gentlest of captivity. John was generous. She had clothes to suit her rank, waiting-women, hawks, horses with gilded saddles, lute and cittern to play the mournful songs of Brittany. John sent occasional gifts: jewellery for her birthday and at Christmas, game when he was hunting nearby. Bored, lonely and well fed, the Pearl of Brittany was growing fat.
‘Behave?’ said Breos before Hubert could speak. ‘Arthur? God’s teeth, you should have seen him earlier!’
‘Quietened down now, has he?’
‘Not really,’ said Hubert, glaring and kicking Breos’s leg under the table. ‘Actually we’ve had to put him in chains to move him while they clean up his room.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In the Pocket,’ said Breos, glaring back at the keeper.
John grimaced. It was one of the less salubrious apartments for prisoners, a filthy little cell that overhung the river.
‘I’ll have a word with him. He’s probery… proll… probli sorry by now.’
‘Leave him be, my lord,’ said Hubert de Burgh unwisely. ‘It’s late and we’re all tired.’
‘I’m not,’ said the king.
He had come round by himself in a cold damp little room he’d never seen before. He remembered lying on his own cloak on the bare stone floor, being sick, lying down again.
And William de Breos came in.
Last night’s unaccustomed brandy had given John the worst headache he’d ever had. ‘Wha matter?’ he asked feebly, wishing the walls would stop revolving around him.
Breos helped the king to his feet, steadying him. They were both trembling, John with weakness, Breos with the tension of excitement.
‘In God’s name, my lord, don’t you remember?’
‘Remember what? Get me some wine. Jesus, my mouth’s like a gong!’
‘My lord, get hold of yourself now… You’re not going to like this.’
‘What?’ John coughed, wished he hadn’t, clasped his riven head with both hands and groaned. ‘Oh, Christ! God’s feet!’ Was sick again. Felt better. ‘Get me a drink, I said!’
‘In a minute, my lord.’
‘Now, damn you!’ He could handle the headache. What he needed was something to wash the dreadful taste out of his mouth, then a bath and a change of clothes; these were fouled. His sleeve was damp and sticky. He touched it. Was that blood?
While the king stared, puzzled, at his reddened tacky fingers, Breos said urgently, ‘My lord, listen. The duke is dead, God assoil him.’
‘Dead?’
He didn’t believe it until he saw the body: a dirty bundle of rags in a dark corner of the stinking cell, one outflung stiffened hand wearing the ruby ring of Brittany, a boy’s hand, nicked and scarred, with bitten dirty nails. The head hung forward on the breast. Steeling himself, John grasped the greasy fair hair to lift it, but rigor held the body fast; he couldn’t budge it to see the face. Crouching, all he could see was a livid swollen cheek and blood caked on the fluffy chin.
He stood up, cold, shaking, sober. ‘He looks smaller.’ What an idiotic thing to say. ‘What happened?’
‘God’s teeth, my lord, don’t you remember? You throttled him! You tried to talk to him but he wouldn’t listen. He swung his chains at you, leapt on you. You knocked him down. He cursed you, insulted the queen your mother, called her a whore and you a bastard. My lord, I couldn’t stop you! Four men couldn’t have stopped you! You went mad, just like your father. You strangled him with his chains. I couldn’t get you off him. You pulled your dagger and kept stabbing him. He was already dead before the knife went in.’
John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and moaned. It was no nightmare. Arthur was really dead. He’d killed him, murdered the arrogant, vicious, treacherous, oathbreaking little bastard. Only Arthur wasn’t a bastard; no problem if he had been.
He was the duke of Brittany, the legitimate and only son of John’s deceased older brother Geoffrey, and if it hadn’t been for William the Marshal’s support when the Lionheart died, Arthur would have been crowned king of England, not John.
Just for a moment reason shoved horror aside. £I didn’t need him dead; he was worth much more alive, a hostage to keep the Bretons off my back. Why should I kill him? You’re lying!’ His hand went to his dagger but it wasn’t there.
Breos groped at the slumped body and with a grunt of distaste tugged a knife out. Wordlessly he held it out to the king. It was his. John was trembling violently. ‘Christ, William, what shall I do?’ Breos took the king’s arm. ‘Come away, my lord, back to your chamber. I’ll get you cleaned up.’ He hesitated, then went on, ‘If we’re careful, if we tell the same story, no one need ever know what happened here.’
‘But…’ John gestured at the corpse.
‘I’ll see to it, my lord king. Don’t worry. I’ll tell no one, I swear! In God’s name, trust me.’
John came back to the present sweet late July day chilled and sick. Outside, men were shouting and horses stamping and snorting. A hesitant voice at the door said, ‘My lord, if it please you, the prisoners are here.’
‘Good. I’ve always wanted to see Mahaut de Breos in chains.’ He opened his hands. One was bloody where the sharp edge of the little queen’s broken neck had cut his palm.
Chapter Forty-Four
Straccan had never enjoyed a bath so much in his life. The sybaritic pleasure was so intense it was no wonder, he thought, the Church thundered against bathing. He revelled in the comfort and the soaped cleanliness of his body. His bruises were fading and the flayed skin of his back healing quickly, surprisingly without any suppuration. Even the wounds to his nose and cheek had closed cleanly, though he would carry those scars to his grave.
In another steaming barrel alongside, only Bane’s head and the island tops of his bony knees showed above water. His eyes were closed and he looked asleep, though Straccan wouldn’t have bet on it. Two guards lunged at the bath-house door, leaning against the wall, looking thick-witted and careless; he wouldn’t have bet on that, either.
Captain von Koln had made him a proposition. He had agreed and given his parole. He had no choice. Offered the alternative of that black hole under the guardroom with no way out except the gallows, what choice was there?
‘Let’s get this straight,’ he’d said to the German when that young man eventually appeared at the door of their cell holding a flaming torch and prudently backed by four men-a
t-arms. ‘I am to go after Breos and get the Banner back?’
‘Chust so.’
That suited him; it was what he’d intended anyway. ‘And there’ll be no more talk of treason?’
Von Koln nodded. ‘I must ride vith you, of course.’
‘Oh, of course!’
‘I am taking a risk, you understand. Ven you get the Banner ve vill take it to the king. He is on his vay back now from Ireland.’
‘Then what?’
‘As long as his grace gets the Banner that vill be the end of the matter, Sir Richard.’
‘All right, I’ll do it. But first I want a bath.’ In the darkness behind him, where the captain’s torchlight did not penetrate, Bane coughed. ‘Bane wants a bath, and clean clothes for us both.’ Bane coughed again. And a bloody good dinner,’ Straccan added.
He’d also demanded their weapons, and been refused. His sword, which he’d recovered from the mud on the saint’s island, had been taken along with the horses, the Banner, and everything else. But on the morrow he and Bane, escorted by Bruno von Koln and twelve men-at-arms, would set out for the Hidden Valley, and he would have his chance to get the Banner back, and perhaps his horse and sword as well.
As Devilstone lay on their road, Havloc and Alis were to ride part of the way with them, glad of the protection on their way home. Murderers’ Country, the Marches were called, and one murderer Straccan hoped to run into again. Once on the way, he would contrive to get a sword, although a dagger would do just as well, or even his bare hands, providing he could lock them round the throat of William de Breos.
The leper-master let the hide door of the Silent Man’s dark hut fall shut behind him and stood in the soft Welsh rain, shocked and shaken to his very soul. Could it be true? It was wicked, infamous; could any man’s mind, however corrupt, devise so devilish a scheme? No, it couldn't be true. And yet…
The Silent Man had spoken at last, and the halting, bitter story he told was unimaginable. Or would be, but for the ring.
[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner Page 22
