Fortress of Mist (17 page)

His cook, too, had gone blind and insane. Thomas guessed the cook had been poisoned to ensure Thomas could not find out who had instructed him to tamper with the food.

Yet, as convinced as Thomas was that he’d fallen under the spell of a potion on the night of the visit by Isabelle, and as much as he wanted
to believe in a simple explanation such as hallucination, he had to choose otherwise.

After all, Isabelle had been essentially a harbinger of the messenger who had just spoken to Thomas. It would be too much of a stretch to believe Thomas’s own mind had conjured up an image of Isabelle in anticipation that someday the Druids would send someone else.

No. Since Thomas was highly skeptical of the existence of ghosts, he could only conclude it had been Isabelle. That left him another difficult question—how had she been brought back to life? But he’d decided he would deal with that only if he could answer a secondary question. How had she entered and departed from his bedchamber?

The logical answer was a hidden entrance somewhere. And as daughter of the former lord, Isabelle, it was natural to assume, would have knowledge of any secret passageways in the castle. So now, Thomas was diligently doing what he had had no time to accomplish earlier—a thorough search of the walls.

He closed his eyes, deciding that he would force himself to rely on a sense of touch with his fingers. He was hoping to find a seam or any other indication of a break in the carefully mortared stone.

After an hour inspecting every surface, Thomas changed his tactics.

He had a small hammer, and methodically, he lightly tapped on every stone, listening for hollow points.

That took another hour.

He was unsuccessful with that too.

Thomas felt no sense of frustration or impatience. There must be another way in or another way out. Eventually, he would find it.

He sat on a chest at the foot of his bed to give it more thought.

The sunlight angled to the fireplace on the far wall, and something
caught the light as it waved slightly in the breeze that blew through the open shutters.

He stood and walked over to examine it.

It was a single white thread, caught in a rough piece of mortar.

White.

The same color as the dress Isabelle had worn the night she delivered her message.

He began to examine the stones around it more closely.

But he was interrupted by a knock on his door.

“M’lord!” It was Robert’s voice.

Thomas didn’t like the alarm he heard, and he hurried to open the door.

“What is it?” Thomas asked.

“The Earl of York,” Robert said. “I’ve received word he is marching in our direction. With an army.”

A
s he walked through the depths of the castle to the prison cells, Thomas made efforts to breathe through his mouth. Although he insisted that the prisoner get a clean bed of straw every day and that his waste bucket was promptly dumped, it was impossible to avoid the stench that came with imprisonment in tight, dark quarters.

He was in a difficult position. A guard had delivered the message that Geoffrey wanted to see him and had information important to him. On one hand, yes, Thomas was curious and yes, the information might be vital to Thomas. On the other hand, responding to Geoffrey showed a degree of desperation—something Thomas certainly felt—that put Thomas in a weak position.

He stopped in the shadows between two lit torches and realized that showing weakness was not worth whatever information Geoffrey might give him.

He made a decision—one that perhaps he could have made much sooner if his friend Sir William had remained with him at Magnus. Thomas felt he could certainly use the knight’s wisdom and guidance.

Thomas turned back and climbed the steps to take him to the throne room. As he passed a guard, he gave simple orders.

“Shackle and blindfold Geoffrey, and escort him to me.”

Much better, Thomas told himself. Geoffrey could feel a degree of helplessness as he became a supplicant to Thomas.

“You’ve heard the tale of the boy who cried wolf,” Thomas told Geoffrey.

The man in front of him tilted his head, tracking Thomas by sound, not sight. Geoffrey’s skin was gray, his face greasy. His appearance put him among the dregs of criminals, yet his posture reflected a man of royalty.

Thomas felt an instinctive hatred for the man, but continued calmly. “The boy, as you recall, was able to cry wolf twice and the villagers believed both times. It was the third time, when the wolf was really there, that the villagers ignored him. You, however, have only one chance. If you have no information of value to give, no matter how you plead with the guards, you will not get another audience with me.”

“Soon,” Geoffrey said, “you’ll bow to me.”

“That was your one chance,” Thomas said. “A threat is not information.”

To the guards, Thomas gave a curt order. “Take him away.”

Geoffrey cackled. “You refuse to bow to the Druids. Here is the prophecy.”

“Take him away,” Thomas said.

As two guards grabbed him by the elbows, one on each side, Geoffrey let himself go limp so they had to drag him. “Wasn’t it enough to see the power of the Druids when Isabelle visited you from the dead? That was the first sign. And the next is this. Before the hour is out, bats will fall from the sky.”

This was a disturbing message, especially because Thomas could see its effect on the guards, who looked up involuntarily as if expecting bats to fall from the stone ceiling.

Thomas doubted it would happen, so it wasn’t the prophecy that frightened him.

Instead, it was the fact that Geoffrey had spoken about Isabelle’s nighttime visit, whether she was a ghost or someone risen from the dead. It wasn’t something Thomas had told anyone.

So how had Geoffrey known?

Tiny John walked the streets of Magnus toward the church when the first howl sounded.

Those around him cocked their heads.

“Listen! What’s that?”

“Two dogs fighting, I’d say.”

“No, not quite.”

“What’s going on?”

Then the boy’s skin prickled.

Another unearthly howl.

Within moments, the shrieking chorus filled Magnus.

Dogs—in the streets, under carts, in sheds—all through Magnus moaned and howled and barked. People stopped and stared around in amazement. The howling grew louder and more frenzied.

An uneasy feeling filled him, one that had nothing to do with the almost supernatural noise of the dogs. He wanted to hold his head and shake away the grip of something he couldn’t explain.

Now cats. The high-pitched scream of yowling cats gradually became plain above the yipping and howling of dogs. All people stood where they were, frozen in awed dread. Rats scurried from dark hiding places, from the corners of market stalls, from the holes among stone
walls, and in dozens of places ran headlong and uncaring across the feet of shopkeepers and market people.

Then, unbelievably,
bats
!

Dozens fell from the sky. A great swarm circled frantically a hundred feet above Magnus, each bat dipping and swooping in a crazed dance to exhaustion.

Bats do not fly during the daytime
, Tiny John told himself as he struggled to accept what his eyes told him.
They do not drop like a hailstorm of dark stones
.

Still the bats fell. Onto thatched roofs. Onto the carts of shopkeepers. Onto the dried, packed dirt of the streets.

The thud of their landing bodies was lost among the howling and shrieking of cats and dogs. And into the racket came the screams of terrified peasants.

A final dozen bats dropped from the sky to quiver and shake in death throes. The dogs stopped howling. The cats stopped shrieking. And, stunned by the sudden end of the animals’ noise, the terrified peasants stopped screaming.

Whispers began.

“A judgment from God,” someone said.

“Yes,” another said, more clearly. “We allow a murderer of monks to remain lord of Magnus!”

“The Earl of York brings justice with his army!”

“God’s judgment!”

“Yes! God’s judgment upon us!”

The whispers around them in the marketplace became shouts of anger and fear. Bats lay strewn in all directions.

Tiny John’s mouth was dry. He forced himself to swallow. “Thomas must hear of this,” he whispered. “If he hasn’t been informed already.”

K
atherine reached the secluded grove long after the final bells of midnight had rung clearly across the valley from within Magnus. More than once, bent and covered in shawls, she had by necessity played the role of a disoriented servant seeking her tent in the darkness to get by the sentries posted by the Earl of York’s army, now camped at the edge of the valley surrounding Magnus. And each time she had faced a sentry, she had gripped her dagger tightly beneath her shawl. Nothing, she told herself, must keep her from Hawkwood.

The long walk along the valley bottom through the black of night had not been simple either. In her mind, each rustle of leaves, each sway of branches, each tiny movement was a falling bat or a scurrying rat. Before, the night had held nothing to frighten her. Now, after the horror of those brief moments in Magnus, it was difficult to imagine she had ever traversed the dark with ease.

Her nerves, however, had not prevented her from making steady progress. Step by step, tree by tree, clearing by clearing, she had moved toward the prearranged meeting place.

As always, Hawkwood was waiting as promised.

He wasted no time with greetings. Nor in seeking identification. Only Katherine would know of this place, or that he would be here each night at this time.

“What happens in Magnus?”

She felt a brief pride that he trusted her enough to assume she succeeded in her mission.

“As you foresaw,” Katherine said, “those of darkness sent a messenger.”

“And as you predicted,” the old man said after some thought, “he refused to be bullied or bribed.”

“Yes, but how do you know of—”

“Katherine, had you been forced to be his executioner, nothing could have hidden it in your voice. Thus, I know he is alive. And alive only because he wants no part of the Druids.”