The Wolf Cub

by David Pilling

  He struggled in vain to sit upright in his chair. I got the impression he had been a big, powerful man once, before the terrible affliction of leprosy struck him down. Now he was a shapeless mass of decay, reliant on servants to carry him about. They would also have to bathe and undress him, as well as clean up his mess. I could only hope that wages were high at La Tour Sombre.

  The Baron stabbed a bandaged hand at me. “You,” he grunted, “English dog. What was your mission to Vernon?”

  I remembered the body in the smithy, and decided to tell the truth. “King Henry despatched us to Paris, my lord,” I answered respectfully, “with a message for the Duke of Burgundy. I am ignorant of the contents of the message. My companion carried it on her person, and did not reveal the contents to me. I was merely there to act as her bodyguard.”

  The Baron mumbled something I failed to hear. Irritated, he beckoned me closer. Sir Roland gave me a shove, and I stumbled forwards, almost within touching distance of the monster in the chair.

  “I was right to call you a dog,” he hissed, “the woman was the messenger, and you her faithful hound. Tell me, hound, have you noticed my retainers wear no badge?”

  I replied nervously that I had. “Soon there shall be none to wear it,” he added, “none to carry my pennon into battle . The direct line of my family shall perish with me. Hence the lack of badges. Why display the arms of a dying house?”

  He placed his hand flat against his chest. “God saw fit to curse me with the leper’s mark before I could father any sons. My only living kin is Sir Roland there. His crow banner shall fly over this castle after I am gone.”

  “Not for a long time, cousin,” said Sir Roland, “you shall live many more years yet.”

  The Baron made an obscene noise, halfway between a laugh and a death-rattle. “Listen to him!” he gasped, “seeking to toady and flatter me, even as he prays for my death. Will you trouble to bury me with honour, cousin, in the ancestral vault, or simply throw my diseased body into the nearest waste-pit?”

  Sir Roland smiled away the bitter words. He was evidently used to such insults, and bore with them in the certain knowledge that his kinsman had only a short time to live.

  “Before my soul escapes this vile prison,” said the Baron, “I have vowed to die as I lived, and spend my last days in faithful service to His Majesty, King Charles.”

  He meant King Charles VI of France, once known as the Beloved for his enlightened rule, better-known by this time as Charles the Mad. The blood of the Valois, the ruling family of France, was tainted with madness. As a young man Charles suddenly fell victim to the family curse while out hunting, and murdered four of his knights with a sword before he was restrained.

  Since then he had resided in Paris, more a prisoner than a king, shuttled about like a trophy between various factions. Bouts of relative sanity alternated with long stretches of howling madness. It was said that during these episodes Charles thought he was made of glass, and insisted on being strapped down to a table in case he fell over and shattered.

  His son, the Dauphin, claimed to rule France in his father’s name, and so far had made a remarkably bad job it.

  “I have captured fourteen English knights and men-at-arms,” wheezed the Baron, “and hold them all for ransom in my dungeons. I will use the money paid for their release to raise an army of mercenaries. Sir Roland shall lead this new army for me against King Henry, and all the traitors that plague France, until the realm is swept clean of enemies.”

  His feeble voice quivered with passion. “That shall be my last act in this world, my last gift to my country. Men shall remember me, not as a foul and contemptible leper, but as the saviour of a kingdom.”

  Small ransom would he get from my family, I thought. My uncle, Sir Reginald Ulverton, was more likely to pay the Baron to have me killed.

  The Baron suddenly grew tired. “Take this dog to his kennel,” he whispered, sagging in his chair, “and put him with the others. I shall have a little sport with them in the morning, after I have rested. Rest, rest, rest...”

  Three of his retainers seized hold of my arms and dragged me away to prison.

  20.

  The dungeon was a cramped vault under the tower at the bottom of a winding stair. Ghostly snatches of song and muted conversation drifted up the stairwell as I was prodded down the steps.

  “Give me an excuse, goddam,” spat the guard who held the tip of his spear against my spine, “any excuse to stick this into your liver.”

  I was careful to give him none. We passed the occasional lantern, mounted on brackets, and the tawny light cast grotesque shadows against the wall.

  The singing gradually became louder. I could have wept as I recognised it as The Dream of the Rood, an age-old English hymn:

  “Then the young hero did disrobe - that was God Almighty,

  Strong and resolute, on the wretched gallows he did ascend.

  Bold and courageous as many observed,

  For mankind’s past he would amend.

  Tremble did I as the hero embraced me,

  But yet I dared not bend,

  And fall to the earth’s surface, therefore I stood firm.

  A cross I became; lifted up with the mighty King.

  The Heavenly Master; but yet I dared not bend.

  With dark nails they pierced me,

  On me the scars are visible,

  The open and malicious wounds.

  For him I dared not, so none did I injure...”

  The Dream of the Rood is a song of hope and consolation, meant to lift hearts even in the darkest of hours, and remind men of their faith in the Almighty. The voice that sang it was English, high and tuneful, though wavering. Every so often other voices chimed in.

  I reached the foot of the stair, which ended in an evil-looking black portal, nailed and timbered and cross-barred, with a small iron grille at head height. The hopeless singing echoed from the interior, mingled with the scrape and rustle of chains.

  “Stand still, goddam,” ordered the guard. One of his comrades moved to the door with a bunch of iron keys, while the third stayed behind on the stair. He levelled his crossbow at the doorway.

  The man with the keys hammered his fist against the timbers.“Be silent in there!” he roared, “and prepare to greet another of your Devil-sent countrymen!”

  The singing died away as he threw up the heavy bar and turned the keys, not without some effort, in the rusted lock. After a brief struggle he got the door open and thrust it inward with his boot.

  Determined to maintain some dignity, I stepped inside without waiting to be pushed. The heavy door crashed shut behind me, and I was immediately shrouded in darkness.

  I could hear and smell the other prisoners. My eyes watered at the reek. It got into my nose and throat, and made me gag.

  “Welcome to the palace of the damned, my friend,” said a soft voice with a slight West Country burr, somewhere to my left.

  I slowly turned around. The only light in the dungeon came from the lantern outside, pouring through the narrow grille on the door. I blinked, and waited for my eyes to adjust.

  “My name is Sir John Page,” I said, deciding to stick to my falsehoods, “baron of Kingshook in Sussex. The leper said he had taken fourteen prisoners, all Englishmen. Did he lie?”

  There was a rustle of chains, and some mirthless laughter. “There are fifteen of us now,” said a heavy Welsh accent, “but I am no Englishman, thank Christ.”

  “Nor I,” spoke up another voice. This one was more guttural, with an accent I didn’t recognise.

  “Take your place among us,” said the West Country voice, who was the nearest, “there is straw to sit on, if you don’t mind it infested with rat turds.”

  I looked to my left, and spied the outline of a man sat against the wall. He shifted aside as I trod carefully across the slimy flagstones to join him.

  “Sir Thomas Braham,” he said, offering me his clammy hand, “of Wimborne in Dorset. Honour to meet you, Si
r John.”

  He raised his voice a little. “Friends, introduce yourselves to our new comrade.”

  One by one, the other prisoners croaked out their names and places of origin. The Welshman was Grono ap Grufydd ap Hoel of Brecon, and a kinsman of Sir Dafydd Gam, who was famously knighted by King Henry as he lay dying on the field at Agincourt.

  The others were all English, save for the man whose accent was unfamiliar to me. To my surprise, he turned out to be German.

  “Herr Hartmann von Arnsberg,” he rumbled, “of Westphalia. If I only had the sense of a goat, I would have listened to my father and stayed there.”

  “Bitte,” he added wearily, “do not ask me how a German knight managed to get mixed up in a war between England and France. I have repeated the story many times. Suffice to say I was a younger brother, and required to sell my sword to earn a living. At first I served under the Duke of Burgundy, but the pay was a bad jest, so I broke my indenture with him and took arms under King Harry.”

  He paused for breath, and to hawk up some phlegm. “Fool that I am, I got myself captured by the leper’s villains after the fall of Louviers. Now I sit in the shadows and wait for him to tire of the game.”

  “So do we all,” said Sir Thomas, to a murmur of groans and sighs.

  “What game?” I asked. My eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and I strained to make out the faces of my fellow prisoners. The few I could see were grey as death, dirty and bearded, lank-haired and hollow-eyed.

  I recoiled in disgust as I saw lice crawl through one fellow’s hair. He made no effort to remove them, but sat listlessly staring at the floor, weighed down by the thick iron shackles on his ankles.

  “The lepers claims to have sent ransom demands to King Henry,” said Grono, “it is a cruel trick he likes to play, to make us hope we might one day be set free. I think he has done no such thing. He amuses himself by torturing us.”

  It was uncomfortably warm in the dungeon, thanks to the press of bodies, yet a chill stole over me. “What,” I croaked, struggling to force out the words, “what kind of...”

  I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence. “Flogging, mostly,” replied another prisoner, “the sight of men being flogged gives him great pleasure. Every morning his guards take a few of us up to the courtyard, strip us naked and beat us bloody. All the while that diseased monster sits in his chair, grunting and shivering.”

  “He won’t kill us,” said Sir Thomas, “unless we displease him.”

  A heavy silence fell over the dungeon. “I...I saw a man being tortured,” I said, “in the courtyard.”

  “Richard Goldesburgh,” replied Grono, “he was taken from us two days ago. The poor fool was being flogged, and dared to curse the leper to his face, or what remains of it under the mask.”

  “I was there,” the Welshman added, “the leper was so enraged he almost fell out of his chair, and vowed to make Richard beg for death.”

  I sensed them all looking at me expectantly. “Richard was still alive,” I said, “just. I will not describe what the guards were doing to him.”

  This met with a few muttered curses, and someone sobbed in the darkness. It struck me that the prisoners had given up. The monster upstairs had broken their spirit, and reduced proud fighting men to mere husks.

  I did my best to revive their dormant spirits. “There are fifteen of us,” I cried, “has the Baron cut off your limbs? Why don’t you fight?”

  “Because there are thirty-two men in the garrison,” Herr Hartmann said gloomily, “their master feeds like them fighting cocks, and they have armour and weapons. We have nothing save our bare hands. Some of us are loaded down with irons. Allmächtiger! It would be a slaughter.”

  I gazed at his lumpen silhouette in despair. “You are a knight,” I said forcefully, “and every man here is a soldier, or was. Where is your pride? Your sense of honour? Surely it is better to die with some honour than sit in this filthy hole and wait meekly for death?”

  I sought to insult them, to rouse a flicker of indignation. At first there was no response, and then Sir Thomas laid a frail hand on my shoulder.

  “Wait until dawn,” he said in a kind voice, “then you will understand.”

  21.

  I drowsed a little that might, caught between sleep and waking, my mind full of obscene images of the torments that awaited me.

  The conversation of my fellow prisoners didn’t help. Most slept the sleep of the damned, victims of sheer exhaustion, despair and a foul diet. Their gaolers, I was told, only fed the prisoners once a day, and that was vile swill - potato peelings, rotten cabbage, bacon rind and the like, the sort of rubbish you would think twice before feeding to pigs.

  “Just enough to keep us alive,” Sir Thomas said, “and for refreshment we have water from the castle ditch. Sometimes the gaolers piss in the bucket.”

  He leaned closer, until I could feel his warm breath on my ear. “I’ve seen men lap the tainted water off the floor,” he whispered, “it is incredible what we do to cling to life. I think it is part of the leper’s game. He wants to see how far he can degrade us. He means to take away our manhood, piece by piece, just as disease has taken his.”

  “The leprosy has driven him mad,” I said, “have you heard of his plans to raise an army of mercenaries with the money from our ransoms, and use them to destroy the enemies of France?”

  Sir Thomas chuckled. “That old dream. I was brought here three months ago, and he was raving about it then. He fails to realise that none of us are worth much in the way of ransom. The leper has failed to capture anyone above the rank of knight, and poor knights at that. Assuming our ransoms are ever paid, the money won’t be enough to hire more than a few score beggarly routiers. The scrapings of the gutter. No, King Harry and the Duke of Burgundy have little to fear from the Baron de Rougemont, even if we do.”

  He was keen to know how the war progressed, and if the King had advanced on Paris. I was encouraged by his questions, and those of Grono and one or two others. At least they retained some interest in the world beyond La Tour Sombre, which suggested they hadn’t given up all hope.

  “Our army is still sat outside Rouen,” I told them, “the Dauphin has sent no aid to the city, nor is he likely to. Sooner or later, Rouen must fall, and then the whole of Normandy will be in our grasp.”

  The news sparked some life into them. “I suspected as much,” hissed Grono, “though the leper pretends that the Duke of Burgundy broke the siege weeks ago, and drove our army all the way back to the coast. He tells all manner of lies.”

  The next day, shortly after daybreak, I was given a taste of the Baron’s other methods.

  Faint from hunger and weariness, I had drifted into a stupor. Nothing was quite real, and the coarse voices and clattering footsteps of the guards outside seemed like part of the same bad dream.

  Harsh reality intruded when the door swung open, grinding on its rusted hinges. Cries of pain and alarm broke out as light flooded into the musty pit of the dungeon. I shrank back against the wall and threw up my hands against the sudden glow of torches.

  A troop of guards swarmed in and began to strike at us with cudgels.

  “Where is the German pig?” I heard one shout, “show yourself, herr porker! Ah, there he is! Drag him out!”

  “That one, too,” snarled another, “and the fresh meat Sir Roland brought in yesterday. Where does he hide?”

  I did my utmost to meld into the wall, but two of the rogues spotted me. One seized my arm, while his comrade grasped a handful of my hair and gave it a savage twist.

  “Come with us, goddam,” he growled, “milord wishes to welcome you properly to La Tour Sombre!”

  Along with a few other luckless souls, I was shepherded outside with kicks and blows, and up the stair to the courtyard. The howls of my fellows echoed in the stairwell, though I gritted my teeth and refused to cry out. My pride ebbs and flows, often depending on the situation and how much money is involved, but I would not give th
ese monsters any satisfaction.

  I stumbled into the grey light of dawn, to find the Baron waiting for us. His shapeless bulk sprawled in its high chair before the entrance to the hall, twitching in barely suppressed excitement.

  “Good morning, Sir John,” he said in his hoarse whine, “I trust you slept well? That you are fully refreshed?”

  A scaffold had been erected in the middle of the courtyard. It stood taller than a man, and in place of a noose three double sets of manacles hung on hooks from the cross-bar.

  Sir Roland stood by the scaffold, along with five of his men. He looked pale and haggard, and had a feverish glint in his eye.

  I looked at the smithy. The vat of blood was still there, but the unfortunate Richard Goldesburgh had vanished. I bit back a moan of fear when I saw the lumps of offal floating in the vat. More pieces of his body, cut from him while he yet lived.

  “Hang them up!” rasped the Baron, and I was pushed towards the scaffold.

  My two companions from the dungeon were Herr Hartmann and another man I didn’t know. In the blue-grey light of dawn I saw them clearly for the first time, and was shocked by their condition. Both were emaciated from long imprisonment. Their filthy jerkins and hose hung loose off their fleshless bodies, and their faces were virtually hidden under long, greasy manes of matted hair and beard.

  “Courage,” Herr Hartmann said tome, “you will need it, kamerad.”

  What remained of my courage drained away as the guards forced me to stand under the middle of the cross-bar.

  “Raise your arms,” one ordered. I obediently raised them, and the manacles were snapped shut about my wrists.

  The same was done to my fellow prisoners, until we all three stood on tiptoe under the scaffold, our arms stretched painfully above us.

  So we were to be flogged. I thought I could stand that. Father Stephen never stinted with the birch when I was young, and a flogging was small beer compared to the agonies of Richard Goldesburgh.

  “Bare their backs!” yelped the Baron. His voice was shrill with excitement now, and I could hear the rocking of his chair on the cobbles. I offered up a silent prayer that he would overturn it and smash his rotten head on the cobbles.