“That’s them. Him, the fair-haired one, is the Frenchy I told you about.” The fisherman from the river stepped forward, the one who Roger feared might overhear their conversation.
Merde!
His meager meal turned to stone in his belly. The same sense of dread he felt seeing his knight carrying Yves’ limp body engulfed him. Dread. Not for what they might do to him, but that whatever they chose would keep him from finding Electra. He didn’t fear death. He faced death at Crecy and Poitiers. Without him, what would become of her? He’d failed those he loved in the past and sent a silent plea to St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes, that he not fail Electra too.
“Are you sure you want to challenge us...monsieur?” the knight who was their apparent leader said. “We are four...” He glanced at Oliver and smirked. “And, you are one.”
“See here, I am neither a coward nor without skill,” Oliver insisted. “You want to have a go? Let’s do it.”
Roger applauded his sincerity, although the claim was a big stretch of the imagination.
A bald knight nudged his horse forward to where Oliver stood. “Quiet old man or you’ll feel a cuff from the back of my hand.”
“Bloody bugger,” Oliver muttered.
His sword drawn, the lead knight jumped to the ground. “Lay your sword on the ground,” he ordered, keeping his sword pointed at Roger’s chest.
Roger recalculated his odds. With one on the ground, they were better. Oliver might keep one of the others occupied long enough for Roger to defeat a second but not three. That was to invite his death and all hope to save Electra and Emily. It shamed him to do it. If it wasn’t for the safety of the sisters he’d refuse. Out of options, he laid his sword down.
“If either moves, run him through,” the leader told the other knights as he sheathed his sword and picked Roger’s up. “Fine craftsmanship,” he said, inspecting the hilt’s decorative scrollwork and lapis inset pommel. He turned the blade over and read the inscription. “Courage et Honneur.” He raised his eyes to Roger. “You handled this sword like a man used to swordplay and this is no ordinary sword. You’re no French peasant. It begs the question: what are you doing in England?”
He turned to Oliver. “You are an Englishman or at least you sound like one. Now, what would a loyal Englishman be doing with the enemy?”
“I’m not a traitor, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Oliver answered.
“As it’s a hanging offense, only a fool would admit to helping an enemy spy. Tie them up.” He waved the bald knight down. “Search him.”
The knight took Oliver’s knife from his hand and his eating dagger from his boot. He handed them up to one of the mounted knights and then swept a finger along the inside of Oliver’s other boot. He found the ballpoint pen Oliver had clipped there and pulled it out. Looking wary, he rolled it between his fingers and shrugged, clearly not having a clue to its purpose. He handed it to the lead knight.
“What’s this then?” The leader also turned it around, this way and that, looking more puzzled than wary. He tapped the plastic exterior. “What sort of material is this?”
“It’s called plastic. Let me show you how it works.”
“Hold right where you are traitor,” the leader ordered.
“Careful Harold, I fear it might be a sorcerer’s wand,” another knight warned.
“It is my version of a quill. Go ahead, press the silver toggle on the top. You’ll see a point pop out and you can write with the point,” Oliver said.
“What a load of twaddle. How can this be a writing instrument with no feather?” The knight pressed the top, flinching slightly when the tip came out. He sniffed the tip and ran it across his palm, streaking his hand with ink. He threw it hard into the bushes. “What manner of deviltry is this?” He held his hand up for the others to see. “We’re taking you to Elysian Fields where you’ll be interrogated Frenchy and then meet your fate, as will the English traitor.”
The knights tied Roger and Oliver’s hands and then roped them to the backs of their saddles, forcing them to trot behind on the way to the castle. Both men had to jog every few minutes to keep up.
Maybe St. Jude had taken pity on him.
Or,
Maybe the worst was yet to come.
Chapter Thirteen
Gloucester
Date: 1357
Once inside the bailey, the knight called Harold ordered them untied from the saddles. “Get Simon and Richard,” he told one of the others, handing him Roger’s sword. “Let them know what we have in our custody.”
The arrival of two strangers caused a stir and a small crowd gathered around them. A few short minutes later the knight Harold had sent to the Keep came out with a fory-ish, distinguished looking man. Behind him came a barrel-chested, one-legged man with Emily by his side.
Her eyes widened and her face brightened seeing Roger. She quickened her pace, raised her hand, and opened her mouth to greet him, no doubt. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and said another silent prayer to St. Jude or any saint listening that Emily understood. They can’t find out she knew him, not before he knew his fate. Female spies were executed and that’s what they’d assume she was, if they associated the two of them. Thankfully, she saw and ran her hand over her hair as though that had been her intention. She dropped back and approached with the one-legged man. Roger breathed a sigh of temporary relief. The cloud of despair that clung to him on the way to Elysian Fields eased its hold on him. If Emily was here, surely Electra was too.
Upon reaching where Harold held onto Oliver and him, the one-legged man told Emily, “Don’t get too close to these two.” She nodded and stopped just out of arm’s reach from Roger. Her eyes never left his. Both the distinguished man and the one-legged one circled them and then stopped in front of Roger.
“Harold tells me you speak English,” the distinguished one said.
“I do.”
“Good. I am Richard Armstrong, steward of Elysian Fields. This is Sir Simon, Captain of the Guard. You’ve an interesting sword and I’m intrigued to hear what your purpose here is. I’ll have him brought to the hall later,” he said to Harold and turned toward the keep.
“And the other?” the bald knight holding onto Oliver’s ropes asked.
“Take him to the dungeon.”
Roger expected Oliver’s protest and Oliver delivered.
“See here. I am not the betrayer you take me for. I demand an audience as well.”
The bald knight cuffed him across the cheek. “Pipe down you traitorous mongrel. You’ll be lucky to face the gallows here. In London, you’d be drawn and quartered for your treacherous ways. Now get moving.” With that the knight gave Oliver a hard shove.
Roger caught a glimpse of the terror in Oliver’s eyes at the threat of hanging. Who could blame him? Both executions were horrific, but if done right, hanging was a swift snap of the neck. Drawing and quartering was unimaginable pain and longing for death that was often slow to arrive. He’d tried to warn Oliver these were dangerous times, no place for a man of science.
Harold pulled Roger along by the rope tied around his wrists. In front of him, Richard, Simon, and Emily walked together. The men spoke low, too low for Roger to make out what they said. Emily glanced over her shoulder and when Harold was busy in conversation with the bald knight, she winked at Roger and mouthed: we’ll talk. Or, at least that’s what he thought she said. He was thrilled to see her, but where was Electra?
Emily and the two castle men continued into the great hall after entering the keep. Harold and the bald knight led Roger and Oliver to a barred door. A servant ran over with a lit torch. Harold raised the wooden arm from its bracket and opened the door. The smell nearly felled Roger, a rank cloud that reeked of damp soil, stagnant water, and rotted vermin carcasses. Roger had smelled dead human bodies and he’d dealt with dead animals. The stink of dead things here didn’t rise to the retching level of human decay.
Oliver had recoiled and je
rked his guard’s arm hard enough to earn another cuff on the cheek.
Harold handed Roger’s rope to the bald knight while he moved a stone block to hold the door open. The servant lit two torches that sat on either side of the entry and went ahead lighting torches. The knights led Roger and Oliver down a long flight of stairs and into the bowels of the castle.
At what Roger estimated to be the midpoint of the keep was a large cell. A bolt of panic shot through him at the sight of manacles attached high on the back wall. Their purpose was to cuff a prisoner’s hands high above his head. Set to a specific height, in a matter of minutes the pain to a man’s arms was excruciating as the blood to them no longer flowed. But that wasn’t the worst. The height was just high enough to force a man of average height to stand on his tiptoes. The prisoner can neither truly stand, nor sit or rest in any way. Vulnerable and helpless, rats and other vermin take advantage, biting the soft flesh of toes, and ears, or face.
Oliver vomited.
“Damnation.” Oliver’s guard jumped back.
Harold avoided the mess and pushed Roger inside.
Oliver received the same, only rougher and landed face down on the earthen floor.
“Raise your arms,” Harold said. Roger did and Harold patted him down one more time, checking for other weapons. He stopped and felt the small lump that was Electra’s ring. Roger silently seethed as the knight removed the ring and eyed it in the torchlight. “You won’t be needing this,” he said and curled his fingers around it. Then he untied Roger.
Once freed of the rope, Roger pivoted toward Harold. Bad enough Electra’s ring would likely wind up on some stinking tavern whore’s finger tonight, if Harold intended to manacle him too, he’d have to beat Roger into submission. A barely alive, half-eaten rescuer would be no help to Electra and Emily. To his great relief, Harold paid no further attention to him.
“Get them their buckets,” he ordered the servant. “And bring something to cover that mess.” He pointed to where Oliver had spewed.
The servant scurried off toward the staircase and Harold turned to the bald knight. “Stand by until the buckets come and make certain the prisoners are secured. I don’t trust servant boys to lock up properly.”
The knight nodded.
“Don’t say anything yet. Wait until baldy leaves,” Roger said low to Oliver.
“I understand.”
The servant returned with two buckets and an armful of straw that he threw onto the mess Oliver made. The bald knight stood at the cell door while the servant set the two buckets down in a corner. One held water and a ladle. The other served as their waste bucket. The thought of using it disgusted Roger. It occurred to him how spoiled he’d become with modern plumbing. Overall, he knew he should appreciate they provided water and a cell that didn’t already house the rotting remains of a previous prisoner.
Oliver had plastered himself against the wall. Rigidly straight, he stared wild-eyed at nothing in particular. The knight left first. The servant stayed behind to stamp on the straw.
“Boy...”
The servant looked up but didn’t move, which was fine. Roger only needed information. “What is the date, lad...the year?”
“You’re daft asking a question like that.”
“I’m sure it sounds that way. But please, I need to know.”
The servant looked askance and said, “It’s May, 1357.”
“Thank you.”
The boy finished and left. When he was out of sight, Oliver collapsed. He sat with his head in his hands. “I’m afraid, Roger. Terribly afraid. I don’t want to hang. Do you know what happens to a man when the trapdoor drops?”
Roger had seen a few hangings in his life. Grim business. “I do.” He dropped down next to Oliver. “They will interrogate me. They’ll probably interrogate you as well. I would in their position. It’s important we tell the same story.”
The suggestion he might be interrogated perked Oliver up. “That’s good, isn’t it? The chance for questioning. I can try to find a convincing reason my association with you isn’t to help a traitor.”
“I don’t know what voluntary association with me will excuse treason. I’ve been thinking on this and I plan to tell them I forced you to aid me. I’ll say I came upon you sleeping in the woods and threatened to kill you if you didn’t help me in my travels here.”
“I don’t understand. Why would a Frenchman be travelling here?”
Curious about France’s history following Poitiers, Roger had read Esme’s history books. The English had captured King John and held him for ransom. The King was treated well by King Edward and Edward, the Prince, who took John prisoner. John wasn’t the only Frenchman ransomed. It was English habit to ransom all captured nobles. The monies demanded strained the already threadbare pockets of the French, who suffered grievous losses as the enemy ravaged the countryside. It made sense they might send someone like Roger to attempt a rescue of the King first. Since nothing of the sort actually happened, John remained in English custody until 1360.
“It’s why knowing the year was important. I’ll claim I arrived on the Welsh shore en route to London to rescue our King.”
“Why was I in Wales?”
“You weren’t. I’ll say I came upon you when I crossed the border into England. I’ll explain I needed you to talk to the local villagers on the way and get us supplies et cetera. I, obviously, couldn’t speak as my accent would arouse suspicion. To keep you from escaping while I slept, you can claim I tied you. Tell them you feared for your life and I promised to release you as soon as I reached London.”
“Finding me in the forest makes me sound like a vagabond.” Oliver looked himself over. “I am not dressed as a beggar. Why would they believe you or me?”
“They may not. But it’s all I can think of to save ourselves.” He didn’t have the heart to tell Oliver, it was mainly to save him. Roger’s nobility was easily proven. He’d be ransomed. Even this defense, if it found any credibility with Richard and Simon, might not be enough to save Oliver.
“Oliver, you must make it sound as though you truly thought I’d kill you. Don’t worry about me. Convince them. Use the fear you feel for the noose and apply it to me.”
Oliver had gone ghostly white at the sight of the dungeon. The color still hadn’t returned. The poor torchlight cast shadows across his face, darkening the fine age lines. When he turned a certain way, his face looked like wrinkled parchment.
Roger laid a firm hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “If you’re going to be sick again, don’t puke in our water bucket.”
Oliver sat still as stone and took a deep breath. Letting it out, he asked, “Tell me the truth. What are my odds of surviving?”
Never a good liar, Roger avoided the complications of being caught out in one. He spoke the truth whenever possible and expected the truth from people serving him or close to him. Oliver deserved no less. “Eighty-twenty against.”
Oliver scrambled to his feet and hurried to the waste bucket. He emptied what little was left on his stomach from their midday meal.
Roger turned his thoughts to Electra. She was somewhere above, so close and yet so far from him. Emily would tell her he was in the castle. She’d come. They’d figure some way out.
A short time later, Harold came alone and unlocked the cell door. “Get over here, Frenchman.” Roger did.
“Put your hands out.” He tied Roger’s hands together with a long length of rope, relocked the door, and pulled Roger down the corridor like a dog on a leash.
He brought Roger up one level above the great hall they came through on the way to the dungeon. Roger paid close attention to the layout of the keep, where stairs intersected and what rooms they passed. On the upper level, Harold walked him past what he surmised were private chambers. Electra and Emily had to be housed on this floor, judging from the freedom Emily appeared to have in the bailey. She didn’t act like a prisoner or someone they forced into service as a servant. He hoped the same for Electra, but
he worried her candor might’ve gotten her into trouble. Women who voiced their frank opinions on matters weren’t really appreciated in this age. Electra didn’t shy from offering hers when the opportunity presented itself.
Midway from the staircase, Harold stopped and knocked on a chamber door. Down the corridor, the one called Simon stepped from a chamber and joined them.
“Come in,” a man inside called out.
Richard, the steward, sat behind a large oak desk with neatly stacked sheaves of parchment, a leather bound ledger, and a brass stand that held his writing materials: a quill, an inkpot, a covered vessel for sand, sealing wax, and a blotter. All the things Roger’s desk held at one time. At each end stood candle holders with thick candles burning. Throughout the room were stands filled with lit candles. From the smell, Richard burned quality beeswax and not the smoky, animal-fat-scented tallow.
The other furnishings were those of a personal chamber with a well-appointed bed, upholstered chairs, a washstand and wine table, a shuttered window with good wood doors, and a large, carved chest. The steward’s chamber Roger provided his man wasn’t nearly as nice. Roger thought the aberration had to be a peculiarity of the English. At the end of the day, a steward was just a servant.
Roger had discussed this topic with Electra. He explained the importance of understanding one’s place was lost in the modern society. The loss created a horde of problems—in his opinion. She said his uppity attitude was a thing of the past and to get with the times. They’d stayed in London for New Year’s weekend. They were waiting on the platform at Waterloo tube station for the train. When it arrived, the crowd rushed the doors as they opened. It was a chaotic melee with no thought to anyone else. He pointed this out to her. This is equality, he told her. A complete breakdown of manners. She scoffed and told him he was all wet with no room to talk. There wasn’t a Frenchman living who knew how to properly queue. How he adored her scrappy attitude.
The scraping of a chair Simon pulled up next to Richard snapped Roger out of the pleasant memory and back to dark reality.
In Time for You Page 14
