Through a Dark Mist (38 page)

“You can still try,” Gil said calmly. “Although I stopped your boastings once with ease.”

“A lucky shot,” De Chesnai growled.

The tip of the steel arrowhead swerved up and held unwaveringly to an imagined target dead centre of De Chesnai’s brow. “No luckier than the shot I could use now to send your eyeball out the back of your skull.”

“Christ on a cross,” Friar muttered. “This is hardly the time for petty vanities. Kill each other later if you have a mind to, but for the moment, could we all set our differences aside and find the answers to some questions? Sir Roger de Chesnai—aye, I have fixed a name to the face—you are one of Sir Hubert’s men?”

De Chesnai continued to glower at Gil while he nodded. “Sir Hubert’s man, and now the Lady Servanne’s.”

The feeling of dread that should have dissipated upon identifying Sir Roger had not alleviated in the least, and now Friar knew why.

“Lady Servanne … has something happened to her?”

“Alaric—” Gil’s voice interrupted before the knight could reply. “I tried to reach you before you took your seat on the dais, but you were so close to Prince John, and there were too many people about.”

“Has something happened to Lady Servanne?”

“Not here,” De Chesnai commanded coldly. “A dozen pairs of eyes could be on us, and an equal number of prickling ears. And for God’s sake, tell this red-haired bastard to lower his bow before we are all done for.”

“Gil—” Friar signaled her to put up the longbow, and grudgingly she obeyed. On a further thought, she set both bow and arrow aside long enough to shrug out of the monk’s robes, which were now a greater hindrance than a disguise.

“The old woman is hidden nearby,” said De Chesnai. “It is best you hear all from her. Come. She may be holding on to life by a thread as it is; we can waste no more time.”

Alaric hesitated, wary of a trap. There had been no love lost between the old harridan and the Black Wolf; there was certainly no reason to trust Sir Roger de Chesnai, who still walked with a slight limp thanks to Gil’s aim. It could be a ruse, designed to catch Friar and lure out of hiding any others who were taking refuge amongst the castle inhabitants.

“All right,” Friar said. “Lead the way. But be advised there are more than a few steady hands pulling back on bowstrings as we wend our way through the shadows.”

De Chesnai’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. He beckoned his three men to fall into step behind him and started walking swiftly toward the castle’s cramped streets of smoky workshops. He followed a twisted route into the heart of the noisy, crowded labyrinth until they arrived at the start of armourers’ alley.

As hectic a place as it had been the previous nights, it was all but deserted now. The forges were cold in the smithies, the men all off somewhere celebrating their craftsmanship and skill. De Chesnai headed for one particularly dismal-looking bothy and again Friar paused, acutely conscious of how conspicuous he appeared in his black and crimson robes.

On a command from De Chesnai, the three guards dispersed, strolling casually to take up positions overlooking the approaches to the bothy. Gil had melted into one of the snickleways long ago, but reappeared now to give Friar a reassuring nod.

“There are no eyes but our own watching us,” she announced, and smugly arched her brow in De Chesnai’s direction.

Bristling at the insult to his integrity, the knight thrust aside the ragged bit of canvas that served as a door. “Inside, the pair of you. And there had best be no tricks, or I will be the first to twist a knife in your gizzards.”

Friar ducked through the doorway, followed by Gil and Sir Roger. The bothy was windowless and airless, the stench of raw bog iron nearly as overpowering to their throat and eyes as the tang of animal urine in the filthy straw. What light there was came through gaps in the thatched roof and holes in the canvas door.

Biddy was lying on a pallet in the corner, and at first glance, she was so pale and still, Alaric thought she was dead.

“Biddy?” He dropped down onto a knee beside her and took up one of her ice cold hands in his. “Mistress Bidwell? Can you hear me?”

Biddy cracked open an eyelid. It took a moment for her to bring Friar’s face into focus, but when she did, she squeezed his hand with more strength than he would have supposed she possessed.

“What happened to you, Biddy?”

“Not important,” she said, straining to form each word. “My lamb is all that matters now. You must find her and take her away from this terrible place.”

“Find her? The lady is not in her chambers?”

“I was trying to tell you—” Gil blurted out, halted mid-sentence by the combined persuasion of De Chesnai’s grip on her arm and the glowering warning in his eyes.

“The baron’s men,” Biddy gasped. “They took her away. Dragged her from the tower. He … hurt her dreadfully. He … struck her … again and again!”

Biddy’s eyes rolled upward so that only the whites showed from between her shivering lashes. Her breathing was raspy and uneven, and Alaric, at a loss what to do to ease her pain, held her hand as tightly as he dared and suffered silently through the spasm with her.

“She managed somehow to crawl down from the tower and find me where I waited by a postern gate,” De Chesnai explained in a murmur. “The effort cost her dearly, but she was determined not to die until I brought her to La Seyne Sur Mer.”

“La Seyne?” Alaric looked up.

“Indeed. My men and I barely managed to bring her this far before the talebearers were blazing through the castle grounds with the news of De Gournay’s victory. Since her first choice was obviously out of reach, she insisted upon you.”

Friar glanced back down at Biddy. Her eyes were open and clear, save for the tears that flowed in a fat stream down her temples.

“He will kill her, Friar,” she cried. “He means to torment her first, then kill her; I know he does. The same for poor Eduard—oh, the brave, brave lad! He tried to help, but he was no match for the Dragon. And because he is the Wolf’s son, you can imagine how much pleasure it will give the baron to hurt him.” A great shuddering sob racked Biddy’s body before she added, “I dread to think how much more it will delight him to torture my poor lamb.”

Friar shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. “Did you say … the Wolf’s
son?”

“Eduard. Young Eduard … the Dragon’s squire. He has been taken away as well but wounded so mortally, I fear he cannot have lived out the hour.”

“Do you know where he was taken? Do you know where the Lady Servanne was taken?”

Biddy swallowed hard and ran a dry tongue across her lips. “The boy … no. But I heard him tell the guards to take my lady to … to the eagle’s eyrie. Yes, yes that was what he called it: the eagle’s eyrie.”

Alaric raised a questioning brow in Roger de Chesnai’s direction, but the knight was as much in ignorance of the castle’s thousands of chambers and passageways as was Friar. Nonetheless, he had a few questions of his own to ask.

“Is it true what she told me? Is La Seyne Sur Mer … your Black Wolf of Lincoln” he said with a faint snort, “the real Lucien Wardieu? And is it also true the man
posing
as Lucien Wardieu is come to the name and title through false means?”

“It is all true,” Friar said levelly.

“Have you any proof of this to offer?”

“The proof,” Gil seethed, “was there for all to see this afternoon in the lists. What kind of man strikes another in the back, especially when he has just been spared his own life?”

“Indeed,” De Chesnai mused. “Your wolf’s head fought well today. Better than any forest rogue or political schemer.”

“Yet you still harbour doubts to his identity—!”

Sir Roger held up a hand to counter Gil’s outburst. “In truth, lad, the only doubts I still harbour are those pertaining to our own abilities. My loyalty must first and foremost be to Lady Servanne de Briscourt, but even I, who would gladly trade my miserable life for hers, cannot see any hope of success in finding her, let alone freeing her, without the aid and knowledge of someone who knows this castle as if he were born to it.”

“Lucien Wardieu
was
born to it.” Alaric said quietly.

“Then it stands to reason,” Sir Roger replied mildly, “we should endeavour to free him first.”

“How?” Alaric demanded. “We are still likened to fish out of water here.”

“Ahh yes, but the Dragon believes he has captured the biggest fish of all. Will he not boast as much to his guests … and his bishop … and will it not, therefore, be an easy matter to inquire where and how the villain is being restrained so that one not need fear for the safety of one’s neck while asleep?”

“It could be done,” Alaric agreed slowly. “There is sure to be much drinking and celebrating in the great hall tonight.”

“I have six men at my command,” said Sir Roger. “Six who, like me, have no love for this yellow-maned dragon who sits so close to Lackland as to share the same stench of corruption. They will fight, to a man, if we can but provide the wherewithal to fight.” He paused and cast an arched brow over his shoulder at Gil. “Is this skinny bag of bones the best you have to contribute?”

“We have a dozen stout men inside the gates, as many more waiting out on the moor.” Alaric gave a wry smile before he added, “And I would take a care in how you refer to Gillian—she has a temper as finely honed as her bowstring.”

“She?
A
wench?”

“A wench who taught the Wolf a thing or two about the proper use of a longbow. But if you still doubt me, think back to the lesson learned by Bayard of Northumbria, who might have preferred we had a different teacher.”

De Chesnai frowned and scratched at the neatly trimmed beard that grew in a point from his chin. “Well, a score of men—and one wench—will have to do, I suppose, at least until we can sniff out a malcontent or two from among the castle guard. There are bound to be some who would be glad to see the Dragon’s fire quenched after today’s debacle.”

Friar shook his head. “There is no time to recruit men from the castle guard. What we do must be done tonight, while there is revelry and celebration to dilute the urgency of the Dragon’s purpose. By the morrow, he will be thinking clearly again and know his only safe course lies in the hasty and permanent removal of anyone who poses a threat to his future.”

“He will kill your lord, as well as my lady,” De Chesnai agreed grimly. “Along with any of us who stumble into his hands.”

“Then we shall have to take special care to do no stumbling.”

A groan from the direction of the cot sent the men’s eyes back to Biddy; a squawk and flurry of parti-coloured vestments and tinkling bells sent them all into a guarded crouch as Sparrow plunged into the bothy. He skidded to a dusty halt when he saw the trio of grim faces and even grimmer weapons aimed toward him.

“Sparrow, for Christ’s sake—” Alaric resheathed his dagger and shook off the surge of adrenaline.

“I heard Old Blister was here. Robert said she was hurt—”

“Woodcock?” Biddy’s voice scratched out of the shadows. “Woodcock, is that you?”

The round cherub eyes searched past Gil’s frame and saw the still figure on the pallet. “Aye, ’tis me. What nonsense is this then?”

“Woodcock?” Biddy stretched out a trembling arm and Sparrow was by her side in an instant to sandwich her hand between his. “Have you heard … about my lady?”

“She is not where she is supposed to be?” he surmised grimly. “Aye, Master Wolf had some notion she might not be, although he should have given a deal more concern for his own whereabouts. Know you where they have taken her?”

“Somewhere called the eagle’s eyrie,” Friar interjected. “Your nose is usually everywhere it should not be: Have you heard mention of this place?”

Sparrow looked offended. “My nose has saved your arse on more than one occasion, Bishop Bother, and will undoubtedly do so again without—”

“Woodcock!”
Biddy squeezed one of the small, fat hands with enough vehemence to send the little man up on his tiptoes. “I have not flaunted with Death to lie here and listen to children bickering! My lady is in the gravest peril. She must be rescued and
will
be rescued if I have to search every inch of masonry myself for this god-accursed eyrie!”

She started to get up, but thought better of it when the four cramped walls of the bothy once again did a sudden, wild dervish and sent her eyes spinning back into her head. Sparrow bent over her at once, his rancour and crushed hand both forgotten in rush of genuine concern.

“There now, you see what comes of always ordering everyone about? You have done more than enough for one day, you old harridan; leave the rest of the rescuing up to us.”

“Woodcock—” She snatched at a fistful of his tunic and dragged him a hand’s breadth away from her face. “You will find my lady, will you not? You will bring her back to me safe and sound?”

“I have already given my word to another to do just so,” he said. “And I consider his ire of greater consequence to my soul should I fail … although—” He tried to swallow through the increased pressure around his throat, and his eyes bulged at the sight of the wickedly sharp knife that had somehow found its way from Biddy’s apron to the juncture of his thighs, “I can see the merit of a double promise. Just so. Just so. You have it. I shall happily place her hand in yours myself!”

“See that you do, Woodcock,” Biddy hissed. “Or your days of flight are over.”

27

The Wolf opened his eyes slowly, careful not to move his lids more than the fraction needed to establish his surroundings. His body ached in a thousand places. He had not moved from where he had been thrown, hours ago, into the dank and musty corner of a stone cell, but he knew by the cautious flexing and testing of muscles in his legs, arms, and torso, that he was one massive bruise. He did not think any bones were broken, but there was evidence aplenty of fresh blood on the mouldy rushes beneath him. He could smell it, and he could taste it on a tongue that was as swollen and furry as the rats who crawled boldly from one fetid cell to the next, sniffing after putrefaction.

As near as he could remember, he was in the donjon beneath the main keep. Even though it had been many years since he had explored here as a child, he thought he recognized the steep, narrow flight of steps that curved around the forty-foot column of block and mortar that supported the floor above. A deep and cavernous chamber of unthinkable horrors, there were cells hewn out of the base of the stone walls, each one deep enough to hold a single man, tall enough to let him sit if he had the strength to do so. Ankles and wrists were chained to thick iron rings embedded in the mortar. Water dripped constantly into slimy black pools on the floor, the echo hollow and prolonged to give each drop a lifespan of several shivering seconds. Rats crouched in the shadows, tearing and chewing chunks of spongy matter that did not bear thinking about. Other dark, huddled creatures who might once have been men, groaned in their private hells, never loud enough to draw the attention of the guards, never quietly enough to tempt death.

The ceiling was lost in the gloom of arched beams, most of them coated in damp and decay. When the huge firepit below was blazing, the smoke floated up and hung there like a thick layer of yellow cream, an unshifting mass whose only escape was time and the odd, errant draft snaking in from the upper corridor.

The fire was a low, paltry thing today, barely hot enough to glow red at the heart. The only irons heated had been the ones applied to the young man strapped on a nearby table. His leg was bare from hip to ankle, and a wound on his thigh had been perfunctorily cauterized to staunch the flow of blood. The lad could not have been brought to the donjon much before the Wolf’s own ignominious arrival, for the stench of burned flesh had been pungent and fresh enough to act like strong vinegar in clearing his addled senses.

The Wolf shifted slightly for a better angle of view, grinding his teeth against the expected darts of pain. There had been no sign of movement from the lad and Lucien might have perceived him to be a corpse if not for the frequent inspections given by the sweating, bulbously grotesque bulk of D’Aeth, the castle’s chief subjugator. As broad as two men, with gleaming, oil-slicked boulders for an upper torso, D’Aeth had obviously been given instructions to keep the boy alive as long as possible. Now and then a flat, square-tipped hand grabbed a fistful of genitals and squeezed until the lad cried out in pain. Satisfied, the squinted, watery eyes peered speculatively into each occupied niche before he returned to where he was working at a low bench in the corner.

Eight other guards were present, six stationed at the bottom of the spiral staircase, two at the top. The six at the bottom were seated at a small wooden table playing at dice. Occasionally one would glance at D’Aeth and wince over a particularly gruesome tool the subjugator was cleaning and sharpening with such dedicated reverence.

The Wolf leaned back and choked back an involuntary groan as the wound at the base of his skull scraped against the stone. The Dragon had caught him with the flat of his sword, saving his neck from a swift detachment from his shoulders, but leaving him with a lump the size of a man’s fist. His armour, surcoat, and mail hauberk had been removed, and if not for other, more pressing concerns to occupy his thoughts, he would have noticed how cold he was, dressed only in an open-throated shirt and torn hose.

One of his main concerns was to hold on to his sanity. Pain was his biggest enemy at the moment, and he knew he had to conquer and master each individual wave of agony before he could block it from his mind. To help his concentration, he isolated and identified the incessant dripping sounds, the muffled groans, the scraping whinny of tools and whetstone, the furtive scuffling of rats in the rushes. He chose one sound and closed his eyes, forcing himself to see past the pain, to envision each drop of water as it formed, swelled, stretched, and finally fell into an inky puddle below. Another drip, another source of pain was numbed. He worked his way through his body like a navigator charting and marking known landfalls, using methods taught to him years ago when he had wept for madness or death to claim him. Now he prayed only for a chance to survive and lay his hands on a sword or a dagger … a bow … anything! Just once more. And just long enough to get within reach of Etienne Wardieu.

A sound that did not fit into the malevolent breathing pattern of the donjon caused the Wolf to open his eyes again. It had only been a fleeting thing, a scrape of cloth where there should have been only air and wafting smoke, but weeks of training his senses to become alerted to misplaced footfalls and snapped twigs in the forest, made him angle himself forward against to see out of his niche.

The weak orangy glow from the torches barely lit the cressets they were propped in, much less the vaulted gloom above, but the Wolf stared up into the darkness, waiting for the sound to recur and be identified.

His gray eyes flicked once to the recessed enclave where D’Aeth worked. They scanned briefly past the sentries dicing at the bottom of the stairs, then followed the spiral upward to where a faint smear of light provided the vague outline of the door to the upper corridor. The guards posted there were mere shadows, occasionally clinking a bit of armour to prove they had not turned to stone. There would be more guards stationed farther along the corridor, and at every junction of the honeycomb of storerooms and ale cellars that comprised the vast underbelly of the castle keep. A second flight of stairs led up through more guards and emptied into the square, ivy-drenched courtyard where Servanne had first been struck with the enormity of Bloodmoor Keep. From there, one climbed an enclosed pentice to gain entry to the great hall, or passed through low, well-patrolled laneways which led to the kitchens, pantries, and gardens.

The Wolf could see it all with remarkable clarity. Indeed, his knees and shins could recall better than his mind’s eye every stair and endless mile of winding black corridors he had been hauled along during his descent into the lowest level of the labyrinth.

What he could not envision, as he gave up on his unidentified sound and lay back in his cell, was the solemn group of figures dressed in gray robes who were making their way through the upper alleyways into the courtyard.

   The sentries were in the process of explaining to the lost monks where they had erred in making a turn, when the clanking footsteps of a small patrol approached the court from the direction of the barracks. The captain of the patrol was ill-tempered, declaring he had been interrupted in his evening meal to comply with new orders to double the sentries posted around the main keep. He then demanded to know, in his best Draconian mien, why the guards had left their post and why the court was swarming with a nest of scurvy, lice-ridden acolytes.

The first two sentries should have looked more closely at the face behind the steel nasal, for by the time it occurred to them to question why the captain’s voice sounded odd, there were blades slashing through the darkness, ending their curiosity for all time.

Sir Roger de Chesnai quickly ordered his handful of men to hide the bodies and assume the posts of the dead guards. The “monks” hastened forward, spilling across the courtyard and shedding the cowls that would hamper them in the close confines below. All but one were dressed in leather armour and blue surcoats borrowed from the guards’ barracks on an enterprising raid conducted earlier in the evening.

“That was too easy,” Alaric worried, his neck craned back, his head swiveling to scan the sheer stone walls rising above them. The only windows were high up on the third storey, and on the twin towers that rose above the turreted roofline. Most of the guests would be in the great hall, where the Dragon was undoubtedly reveling in his triumph, but there were guards everywhere and every shadow was suspect.

“Come,” De Chesnai said urgently. “Give me your hands so I can bind them.”

“Loosely, damn you,” Friar muttered, thrusting out his wrists and watching as a length of twine tied them together.

“There must be hundreds of chambers below the keep,” Gil protested in an angry whisper. “How can we possibly search them all?”

“One at a time, if we have to,” De Chesnai grunted. “And a fat lot of good
that
will do”—he glanced wryly at the longbow she carried slung over her shoulder—“in a place where the longest corridor is half a turn more than the shortest.”

Gil opened her mouth to offer a retort, but staunched it on a warning glare from Alaric. She did not completely trust the knight, nor did she like the idea of using Alaric as bait. It was the only logical way they could hope to gain entry to the cells below, yet it caused a quickening in the blood and a pounding in her heart to see Alaric without sword or armour.

“Christ’s ribs,” spat a disgruntled Robert the Welshman. He had squeezed his broad frame into one of the confiscated surcoats and looked like an overstuffed pasty about to burst its seams.

“Your own fault for swelling to the size of a bullock,” Sparrow hissed from the seat of the makeshift sling suspended from the Welshman’s broad shoulders. A dwarf would have been difficult to explain to an alert sentry regardless of his disguise. Dressed in his own forest clothes and riding Robert’s back, Sparrow could pass for just another bulge of muscle … providing he stopped squirming for better balance in the sling.

Mutter and Stutter snickered in unison and adjusted the angle of each other’s helm.

“Ready then?” De Chesnai asked. “We’ll not have a second chance. You, lass, if you are as good a shot as the bishop says, get by my elbow and stay there. Aim for the throat to cut off any sound of alarm.”

“I know full well how to kill Normans,” Gil replied tautly. “See to your own skills, Captain.”

De Chesnai prodded Alaric toward the door. Both men had to duck to clear the archway, then climb down the short flight of steps single file in order to reach the guard’s station below. There, three of De Gournay’s men stood instantly alert, their hands clasped around the hilts of their swords.

“Rest easy lads,” De Chesnai barked gruffly. “Just another bit of amusement for my lord D’Aeth. Caught him trying to empty the kitchens of venison, and right under the prince’s nose.”

The guards chuckled and eased their hands from the swords. A bat of an eye later, one of them was crumpled on the floor, unconscious, and the other two were pressed flat against the wall, their eyes bulging with the pressure of the cold steel blades thrusting into their necks.

“The Black Knight,” De Chesnai asked the closest. “Where is he?”

“Where you will never get to him,” the guard spat.

Sir Roger sighed and shook his head. He gave his hand a jerk and the blade of his knife plunged forward, slicing through cartilage and bone like a cleaver splitting through a joint of mutton. Blood and air bubbled through the gaping wound and, before the guard had finished choking and twitching himself into a tangle on the floor, De Chesnai was approaching the second man and waving Gil aside.

“Now then. I shall ask again. Where is the Black Knight being held?”

“B-b-below,” the guard stammered. “In the main donjon.”

“Lead the way, there’s a good lad. Oh”—he raised the dagger and rested the point on the guard’s cheek, letting him feel the warm wetness of his comrade’s blood—“and if you attempt to cry out a warning, or sound an alarm of any kind, you will feel the bite of this up your buttocks, my friend, and I promise you, the sensation will not be a pleasurable one.”

The guard blinked, swallowed, and nodded jerkily.

“Move,” De Chesnai ordered.

The guard reeled away from the wall and stumbled ahead of them along the dimly lit corridor. De Chesnai, Alaric, and the others were close behind, leaving three of their own men to replace the guards on watch.

Two more posts were broached and cleared, with De Gournay’s men bound and gagged—if they took the suggestion peaceably—or the bodies hidden and the vacancies filled with erstwhile foresters. At the third guardpost, there were four men playing a game with dice and pebbles. Boredom caused one of them to inspect the new prisoner with more care than usual, and to wonder why the sentry from the main post was sweating rivers in the chilly air. He was on the verge of shrugging aside his suspicions when the sling around Robert’s waist snapped, bringing Sparrow down with a yelp of pain.

Gil wasted neither thought nor action, but raised her bow and fired an arrow into the guard’s throat before he could cry out a warning. De Chesnai’s dagger tasted blood again, buried to the hilt in a man’s belly, while Robert accounted for the third and fourth guard by grasping them around the necks and cracking their heads together with enough force to send their eyeballs squirting out of the sockets.