by David Gilman
‘Stand aside!’ Meulon cried up the stairwell. ‘My lord is here!’ And forged through the throng of men as Blackstone followed on his heels. Blackstone’s men pulled the bodies of dead defenders out of his path. Men pressed themselves back against the wall of the twisting stairs. Blackstone spoke a word here and there, mentioning men by name, congratulating his fighters.
‘Next landing, my lord. Master Guillaume has them,’ one of the soldiers said as Blackstone pushed past him.
Blackstone stepped into the broad room where long-plank floors creaked under his weight. Murder holes sent slits of light into the chamber where the last of his men pillaged tapestries from the wall and grabbed pewter cups from cupboards. Candlesticks and table coverings were already stripped and one of the men had a woman’s fur-collared cloak over his shoulder. Blackstone pulled it from him and muted any protest of stealing the man’s booty. ‘I’ll pay you for this, Betyn. More than it’s worth.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ the soldier answered. Silver from Sir Thomas was better, easier than trading the cloak for a whore’s pleasures for a month or more.
Meulon ushered the last few men out of the room as Blackstone looked towards the huddled family. A woman, beyond her thirtieth year, he guessed, held a protective arm around a girl of about eight years. She would have been raped by now had it been anyone other than Blackstone leading the assault. A boy of similar age stood to the front of his mother holding a broken-shafted spear. As Blackstone stepped forward towards the shivering woman the boy made a stabbing motion. Guillaume half sat on the edge of an oak table, his sword point resting on the floor, waiting to see if the boy was going to lunge. He was unconcerned at the feeble threat. ‘A memory, my lord, of another boy in another castle in another time.’
‘Aye, but not as determined as you were,’ Blackstone said, and nodded for the boy to be taken care of.
His squire moved so quickly that the child had no chance to bring the spear point to bear. Guillaume snatched it, pulled the boy off balance and cuffed him behind the ear. The woman gasped; the girl cried out. Blackstone held the cloak for her.
‘Madam, the castle is taken. No one here will harm you. It’s cold and you will need this.’
She snatched the proffered cloak and wrapped it about her, pulling the trembling girl in beneath it. Guillaume hauled the boy to his feet and smiled at Blackstone. He picked up a fallen bench and sat the boy on it and then gestured for the woman and her daughter to sit with him. They did as they were told, but kept darting nervous looks at the black-bearded man who hovered behind them.
‘Meulon, you’re making the lady nervous. Step this side of her,’ said Blackstone.
‘It is said his mother died of fright when she gave birth,’ Guillaume said to the wide-eyed boy. ‘He was born with that beard.’
Meulon grinned and did as ordered.
‘That’s enough,’ Blackstone told Guillaume. ‘We’ve no time for humour here.’ He looked unsmiling at the woman. ‘Your husband was not prepared to save you, my lady,’ he said. ‘He lied to me. I know William de Fossat is here.’
She shook her head.
Blackstone pushed Wolf Sword, still wet from blood, through its holding ring on his belt. ‘I will give you safe passage to the nearest lord who supports King John, but I need to know where my friend is being held. I see no place for a dungeon.’
‘I don’t know anything of William de Fossat. I know he was brought here and I believe he was taken away after spending only one night chained in the outer ward.’
‘Who brought him?’
‘I do not know the man.’
He could see her confidence was returning. She was the Lady de Sagard again, disdainful of the barbarian soldiers in her home. Blackstone had given his word that she would not be harmed and that gave her security. He put his face closer to hers, watching as her eyes widened fearfully again. Blackstone lowered his voice and spoke to her in measured terms so that she would gather in his words. ‘You and your children are safe but your husband will die today unless you tell me what has happened in this place. You will be a widow without protection. Your children orphaned. I will burn this place to the ground. The King will take your lands. Save yourself and your lord.’
She faltered, but the thought of being widowed like so many others she knew, and the hardship that it could bring, broke her resolve.
‘There is a dungeon, beneath the north wall. A trapdoor … in the armoury.’
Gaillard dragged his boot across the straw-laden floor as Blackstone and Guillaume stood by with Meulon and half a dozen others who held burning torches.
‘It’s here,’ said Gaillard, grunting as he bent down and grasped the iron ring of the trapdoor and heaved the heavy wooden slats up, then let the weight of it crash down. ‘There are steps, my lord.’ But as he spoke he recoiled from the stench that wafted up from the darkened cellar. The smell reached the others and they pulled an arm across their nose and mouth. Blackstone took one of the torches and eased himself down the steep stairway.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered.
As he descended the smell became worse and he could hear the muted buzz of flies. He realized he must be at least fifteen feet below the floor, and could see the rough-hewn stone foundations. As his hand reached out to steady his step on the narrow staircase he felt water running down the wall. The place seeped with moisture from the ground above and the sticky smell of putrefaction mingled with the damp air. When the steps ended he was in a vast space where the flames from his torch did not reach. As he made his way forward he saw manacled chains hanging from wall rings and a brazier, cold, its grey ash half burying the irons used for torture that pierced its dead embers. He listened but there was no sound except that of the spluttering torch that he held away from him, sweeping through the darkness.
‘Guillaume! Meulon! Bring more light!’ he called. ‘William? Are you down here? William! It’s Thomas! Can you hear me?’ There was no echo to his call, the heavy walls deadening all sound. There was no response; perhaps the woman had told the truth that William de Fossat had been taken elsewhere. He heard Guillaume and Meulon clamber down the wooden steps, heard them gasp, and then spit the foul taste from their mouths. The light from the torches broadened across the dungeon, but still there was no sign of de Fossat. Blackstone turned his head and listened. The dull buzzing sound was somewhere over to the right. He stepped carefully forwards, the others with him, and then they saw the figure against the far wall.
Blackstone went quickly towards the man who hung from the ceiling chains, manacled at the wrists; his head was slumped on his chest, the long mane of black hair covering his features.
‘Merciful Jesus,’ Meulon whispered, and crossed himself.
Blackstone could not comprehend what they had done to his friend and it took a few moments for his eyes to search out the answer and then for his mind to understand. William de Fossat was naked, his arms fully extended bearing the weight of his body, or what was left of it. The broad slab of muscle across his back and chest was not covered in black hair as Blackstone remembered, but rather in a trembling mass of flies. He heard Guillaume choke and then retch as Blackstone’s torchlight exposed the lower half of the man’s body. What had taken Blackstone so long to comprehend was that the shredded clothing that hung from below de Fossat’s chest was not cloth from any shirt but rather what remained of the skin that had been flayed from his body.
Blackstone’s throat tightened and he was barely able to speak. ‘Guillaume, fetch a bucket of water and a cloth, and take that woman’s cloak from her and bring it here.’
Blackstone heard his squire scurry back and then seconds later the scuff of his footfall on the steps. Blackstone kept his eyes on his Norman friend, praying that there was no life left in that tortured body. He extended his arm to one side. ‘Meulon, take this and bring both the torches closer.’
Meulon did as Blackstone asked and stretched out his arms wide, giving his sworn lord as much light across the injured man as
he could. Blackstone waved the flies away; they swarmed momentarily but he kept his arm moving until they scattered. He gently eased the wounded man’s hair from his face. One of his eyes had been gouged and the inflamed flesh was as swollen as the bloodied mass of his cheekbone. Blackstone’s hands hovered, uncertain what to do next. He let his fingers gently ease across de Fossat’s arms and he could feel through the bulk of muscle that the bones were broken.
‘William, who in God’s name did this to you?’ he whispered to himself.
He laid his bare hand carefully on de Fossat’s neck but could feel no pulse of life. Guillaume returned with a bucket of water and rags and put it down a few steps away from the man’s ripped torso. Blackstone did not need to turn to see the horror on his squire’s face.
‘Bring it closer, Guillaume. I need it here,’ he said quietly.
The young squire took the bucket to his master’s side, but kept his face averted from the shredded skin and the heaving mass that returned to feed on the torn flesh. Blackstone held one side of de Fossat’s face, supporting his head. ‘Soak the rag and give it to me,’ he said, keeping his eyes on the tortured man’s face. Then he took the dripping cloth and soothed the battered skin, dabbing the broken and cracked lips. He felt a slight tremor and knew the Norman was still alive. He squeezed more water to his lips.
‘William, it’s Thomas Blackstone. Can you hear me?’
He listened and was sure he heard the rasp of breath at the back of the man’s throat.
‘Guillaume, find a manacle key. We must get him down.’ Blackstone placed his mouth close to de Fossat’s ear and repeated his name. This time there was a definite sound within the big man’s chest that found its way to his lips.
‘Thoma—’ he sighed.
‘Yes, yes, I’ve come for you,’ he said quickly.
De Fossat said something else, but Blackstone could not hear, and moved his ear closer to the man’s lips.
‘As you prom—’
‘Yes. As I promised,’ he said. ‘We’re going to get you down.’ Blackstone half turned his head to where Guillaume frantically searched for a key among the other chains and manacles. ‘Hurry,’ he urged.
De Fossat’s head was moving against Blackstone’s hand and he heard him whisper. ‘No … Thomas … no.’
Blackstone’s helplessness embraced him. ‘William, I’ll take you home. I swear it.’
Again the man’s head moved slightly, his uninjured eye opened, blinking in the torchlight.
‘Lower it,’ Blackstone quickly told Meulon, who brought his arms down, letting the shadow soften on de Fossat’s face.
Blackstone felt tears sting his eyes. ‘William,’ he whispered. ‘You’re broken. Everything has been broken.’
A breath escaped the tortured man. He tried to speak, but the words did not form. Blackstone turned in anguish to Meulon and saw that through gritted teeth the bear of a man wept.
Blackstone choked back his own tears, wiping those that cut across the grime on his face. He sniffed back the phlegm and steadied himself. De Fossat was trying to say something. Blackstone held his breath, heart pounding, wishing it would quieten.
‘Pain …’ de Fossat murmured. Then bravely forced more words from his lips. ‘Too … much pain …’
Blackstone’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Who did this, William? Tell me. Was it de Sagard?’
For a moment it seemed de Fossat’s life had deserted him, but then his lips moved again. ‘Priest … Thomas … priest …’
It was a hopeless moment. ‘There is no priest to comfort you or absolve you, William,’ said Blackstone, unable to help his friend further.
His gaze locked on Blackstone, who looked uncertainly at him. Then de Fossat nodded, and his lips moved.
Blackstone heard the words clearly, and stood blankly for a moment. Then he shook his head. ‘I cannot. I will take you home. I swear.’ But as he uttered the promise he knew it was false. There could be no means of taking the man down without the suffering squeezing the last drop of courage and breath from him.
Guillaume stood at his shoulder. ‘I have a key, Sir Thomas.’
Blackstone turned to the two men, his look of anguish plain to see. Meulon nodded. He knew.
‘Wait,’ he told Guillaume, his voice barely audible. He placed his face next to de Fossat and then kissed him on each cheek. De Fossat nodded again.
‘Better … my friend … than this hell,’ he murmured. ‘Even … though you’re an Englishman.’ The corner of his mouth rose attempting a smile.
Blackstone embraced the bloodied body that had been both enemy and friend and pressed his knife upwards into his heart.
The rain fell steadily. Not hard like arrow shafts driven by an angry wind, but an even, soaking veil that drenched and stung the eyes. A fine rain that disguised a man’s tears.
Meulon and Gaillard brought de Fossat’s body from the dungeon wrapped in the woman’s cloak. It took six strong men to carry him to the yard where the others gathered, silent and uneasy. Blackstone had tied off the loose folds with cord; the man was too tall and broad for the cloth to afford him any dignity, but it made no difference, torment such as that which had been inflicted on him had stripped dignity away when the first knife cut had encircled his body and the skin peeled off. Rain splattered his grey, lifeless face, absorbed by his thick hair and beard as the fur collar wilted. Sir Rolf and his family were made to stand in the mud, soaking and shivering, to watch as Blackstone had de Fossat laid out in front of them all. He cut the tie cords and threw back the cloak, exposing de Fossat’s naked torso and what had been inflicted upon it.
A murmur went among the men as the woman gasped and drew her children to her. Sir Rolf looked at the body and then turned his face away, tilting his chin as if disclaiming any interest or knowledge of the dead man.
‘Broken and then flayed,’ Blackstone told the onlooking men.
‘Peel the bastard, my lord. Let him feel the misery,’ one of them called.
‘Make them dig his grave!’ Perinne shouted. ‘And then skin him!’
A ripple of agreement went through them. Sir Rolf’s fate was in the balance.
‘Tell me if this was done by your hand,’ Blackstone said evenly. The chill of his voice was not lost on Sir Rolf.
‘You promised us safe passage,’ the knight answered. ‘For us to be taken to a French ally. Your word, Sir Thomas. As a knight!’
Blackstone nodded. ‘It was given and it remains so.’
De Sagard nodded, finally succumbing to Blackstone’s pledge, his voice tinged with relief. ‘Your friend was brought here under custody of a man I did not know. He bore the King’s warrant. I was told William de Fossat was to be kept here. That no one would know where he was held. I acted without malice. I was fearful for our own lives, Sir Thomas. All I did was allow him entry. I knew nothing of what he did to Sir William. Nothing. I swear it on my oath. We are vassals of the King and we obeyed his orders. On pain of death we obeyed.’
‘And the name of this man?’
‘Gilles de Marcy. I heard the routiers call him the Savage Priest.’
Blackstone realized that de Fossat had not whispered his need for a priest but was telling him the name of who had tortured him.
‘You heard no screams?’ Blackstone asked, looking at the knight and his wife. Both shook their heads vehemently. They were lying. William de Fossat was a great fighter and a man who could endure more pain than most, but Blackstone knew that had he been manacled in that dungeon and endured the same fate his own screams would still be echoing around the castle walls.
‘No sound came from below?’ he asked again. ‘No howl from a man being broken and flayed? Even through these walls?’
Again the man and wife shook their heads.
Blackstone looked down to the trembling child, held close to her mother’s skirts. She was probably close in years to his own daughter. Taking Guillaume aside he spoke to him quietly. ‘My face will scare the child; yours shows tende
rness. Question her,’ he said, and told his squire what information he needed.
Guillaume turned to the child, bending so he could look into her face. He lowered his voice. ‘Did you sleep these past nights, little one?’ he gently asked. He saw the mother’s arm flinch, pulling the girl another inch closer. Guillaume waited. After a moment when the child understood that the fair-haired young man with the soft eyes was making no obvious threat to her, she shook her head.
‘Was it something you heard in the darkness?’ Guillaume asked, his smile softening the question.
The child nodded.
‘What was it you heard?’ he asked, going down on one knee, but not moving closer to her.
‘The night demons,’ she said. ‘They were screaming.’
Sir Rolf was about to chastise his daughter but Gaillard stepped quickly between him and the girl, preventing her from seeing the look on her father’s face. His knife pricked the knight’s throat into silence.
‘Is that what your mother told you?’ Guillaume asked, teasing the truth from her.
The girl shook her head. ‘Father said they were demons sent by the devil to frighten naughty children.’
Guillaume smiled reassuringly at her and then stood. The mother’s face was drawn, gaunt from the child’s exposure. Blackstone turned to Sir Rolf.
The Frenchman’s fate was sealed and he knew it.
His wife suddenly ran to him, pushing aside her child, and clung to him as he embraced her. She wept into his shoulder and then faced Blackstone. ‘An honourable death, Sir Thomas. Grant him that. Do not butcher him—’
‘As he allowed my friend to be!’ Blackstone shouted. The woman flinched. Gaillard dragged the hapless knight away as Meulon grabbed and held her. The girl wailed for her mother and ran to her skirts, but Rolf’s son stood stoically watching the unfolding events.
Blackstone stepped to the middle of the yard where Gaillard kicked away the man’s legs, forcing him to kneel, ready for execution.
