I shuddered at the cold kiss of a dagger. It ripped down the length of my spine and cut my jerkin in two. The shreds were torn away, leaving my back exposed to the dawn chill.
A tall, broad-shouldered man emerged from one of the outbuildings. He was ugly as a mastiff, bald and bearded, and stripped to the waist. His belly hung down over his crotch like pale suet, and his long arms were thick with ropes of muscle.
My companions started to mumble prayers. I might have done too, but the words stuck in my throat when I saw the instrument of torture in the man’s right hand.
It was a whip or scourge, of a kind devised by fiendish minds to cause the utmost fear and pain in its victims. Three lashes made of twisted and plaited leather, each some ten feet long, were attached to a long handle. The thongs ended in a trio of perfectly round lead balls.
I gasped at the sight of the evil thing, and for a moment lost my composure. The guards laughed and jeered as I strove desperately to wrench my wrists free of the manacles.
“Heave, goddam!” they yelled, “heave, and call on Saint Crispin! Perhaps he will descend from the heavens to release you!”
Agincourt, of course, was fought on Saint Crispin’s Day. These French devils knew that, and mocked me with the saint’s holy name.
The scaffold trembled slightly with my efforts, but the manacles only became tighter as I struggled.
“Be still, you fool,” murmured Herr Hartmann, “do you think you are the first man to try his strength against these bonds? You will achieve nothing save broken wrists.”
After a few seconds the madness passed, and I tried to compose myself for the ordeal to come.
The brute with the whip paced slowly before us, and laughed softly as he trailed the lashes on the ground. I can still hear the noise of the lead balls rolling across the cobbles, and the little moan of the man to my right - Edmund Grey, I think his name was - as his body went limp. He had fainted.
He was revived by a pail of water upended over his head. The poor wretch had clearly been flogged before. I saw a series of purple marks and ridges on his back, like the claw-marks of a wild beast, and the memory was enough to rob him of his senses.
“Enough of this delay,” cried the Baron, his voice choked with phlegm, “begin!”
I closed my eyes and bit down hard on the silk of my father’s old pennon, the rag-end of which I still wore about my neck. It would, I hoped, muffle my screams.
“Five strokes each,” I heard Sir Ronald say in a quiet voice.
Those five strokes are seared forever into my mind and body. The bald torturer cracked his whip with expert skill, and was able to ply the lashes across the backs of all three of his victims at the same time.
Screams burst from the throats of the men either side of me. Mine was stifled by a mouthful of silk, but I was unable to stop the flow of tears.
My left side was still tender from the battle in the mines outside Rouen. The torturer must have noticed the bruise, and aimed for it. Three times I howled in silence as the lead ball whipped across my ribs.
Somehow they withstood the impact. On the fourth stroke, I felt and heard something snap. Pain, pain like I had never known, flowered inside me like a white-hot rose. Half my body was set on fire.
No man can endure such agony for long. My vision went red, and then black, and I knew nothing more.
When I regained my senses, I was still in darkness. Panic swept through me, and I stretched out my hands. Feeble whines escaped from my throat.
Blindness is another of my great fears. I sobbed like a child, fearing the leper had torn out my eyes.
“Peace,” said the blessedly familiar voice of Sir Thomas Braham, “lie him down. Careful, now.”
I allowed myself to be gently lowered onto a heap of straw. They set me down on my right side, which was undamaged. Pain flared as cold fingers probed delicately at my bruised flank.
“No,” I whined, “please, no more...leave me be, I beg you...”
A voice cursed in Welsh. “Damn the Baron. May be burn forever in the deepest circle of Hell.”
“Let God take care of the leper’s soul, if he has one,” said sir Thomas, “what are Sir John’s hurts? Are the ribs broken?”
“Yes,” answered Grono, “one, certainly. Maybe two. He was already carrying a wound before the flogging started. It will take weeks to heal.”
Sir Thomas sighed. “At least he will be spared further torment. Even the leper can see Sir John would not survive another dose of the whip.”
Grono snorted. “As if the whoreson cares if any of us live or die! Do you believe his talk of ransoms? I wager he has not even sent the demands to King Harry. He only mentions them to give us false hope. Another of his games.”
I could not see either man, only listen. Gradually, my eyes grew used to the darkness of the dungeon again.
“What...what happened?” I whispered, gasping as the mere effort of speech caused an invisible needle to pass through my flesh.
“You fell unconscious when the whip broke your rib,” replied Sir Thomas, “the guards wanted to revive you for the fourth and fifth strokes, but Sir Roland persuaded the leper to spare you further punishment.”
“Aye,” Grono added caustically, “according to Hartmann, he said there was poor sport in killing wounded birds.”
“It pains me to say anything of good of Sir Roland,” said Sir Thomas, “but you should be grateful to the leper’s kinsman, Sir John. If not for him, the final two strokes could have broken your spine.”
It was hard to feel much gratitude “What of Hartmann?” I gasped, “and Edmund Grey?”
At first neither man spoke. “The German lives,” Grono replied shortly, “he’s made of tough metal, that one, and not easily broken. Edmund Grey is dead, alas. He was already weak from a previous flogging. His heart gave out on the fourth stroke.”
“One less ransom,” remarked Sir Thomas.
“Aye, one less ransom,” spat Grono, “for the leper to fund his mighty army. Every one of us will die under the whip before the sickness kills him.”
22.
I lingered for weeks on end in that nightmare dungeon, hovering between life and death. A fever took hold of me, and for a long time I knew little of who or where I was.
It was near Christmas before I was fully myself again. I owed my life to Grono, who had some skill in medicine, and the tender care of the other prisoners. The strongest gave their food to me when I needed it most, and took pains to ensure I was always warm and comfortable, or as comfortable as any man could be in such a place.
Outside the war continued to rage. The Duke of Burgundy chased the Dauphin out of Paris, seized the person of the mad King Charles and declared himself protector of the realm. Meanwhile the Dauphin scrambled from one place to the next, trying and largely failing to whip up support, before setting up a new court at Bourges. His enemies mocked him as the King of Bourges, since it was the only part of France he truly controlled.
King Henry, who still hoped to recruit Burgundy for an ally, remained camped outside Rouen. The citizens had managed to sneak out a couple of envoys to beg for aid. They failed: neither Duke John the Fearless, nor his rival the Dauphin, were able or willing to set aside their quarrel and march against the English.
No city, however bravely defended or well-supplied, can hold out forever. Trapped in our dungeon, cut off from the outside world, we prisoners could only speculate as to when Rouen might fall, and King Henry’s next move.
“He won’t march to our aid, of that you may be certain,” said Grono, ever the pessimist, “this castle is just a fly-speck on the maps of France. I doubt Harry even knows it exists.”
Salvation arrived in the unlikely person of Sir Roland. Late one night, my uneasy sleep was disturbed by the scrape of a key in the lock of the prison door.
It also woke my companions, such as remained. By this stage our number was reduced to twelve. Two more of us had given up the ghost, one to injuries caused by the leper’s whip,
the other to sheer misery and exhaustion.
The heavy door creaked open to reveal the figure of Sir Roland, framed in the archway by the night lantern that burned at all hours.
I shifted in the corner where I spent my nights, barely noticing the familiar ache of cramp and the dull pains in my injured side. The ribs had knitted together, eventually, but I was still weak. Like the others, I also suffered from the lack of fresh air, exercise and decent food.
“How now, Sir Roland,” croaked Sir Thomas Braham, “hast thou come to pour scorn on us? I wote well thy mother and father would weep for shame at thy conduct. False knight I call thee, a base craven, unworthy of the honour of knighthood.”
He spoke the ancient High Language of chivalry. It lends a man a superior kind of dignity, no matter how pitiable his condition, and there is nothing quite like it for insulting fellow knights.
Sir Roland stepped inside the dungeon. I saw no guards in the stairwell beyond.
“Your words sting, Sir Thomas,” he said gravely, in his fluent English with the lilting French accent I had come to know and despise, “though I understand your bitterness. None of you have any cause to love me.”
Grono stumbled forward. His wrists were loaded down with chains, attached to stout iron brackets in the walls, else he might have sprang at our visitor. “Love you?” he hissed, “come closer, my hero, and let me fold you in a warm embrace.”
The Frenchman kept his distance. “Listen to me,” he whispered urgently, “I came here alone, of my own free will. My kinsman has treated you shamefully, and I have aided him in his work. Now I wish to make amends.”
There were some angry murmurs among the prisoners. Sir Thomas raised his hand to still them. “Amends?” he said, “three of our number have died in this place. How can you amend what was done to them?”
Sir Roland hung his head. “I know,” he admitted, “their deaths lie on my conscience. I might have acted sooner, but I needed time. It wasn’t easy to turn my cousin’s soldiers against him.”
This was met with silence, and Sir Roland hastened to explain. “Rouen is on the brink of surrender,” he went on, “no French army will march to its relief, and the people of the city will soon be reduced to eating each other. Rumour has it that the burghers are discussing terms with your king.”
“Once Rouen falls, all of Normandy will be in English hands. The Duke of Burgundy, that treacherous dog, will throw in his lot with King Henry.”
Grono broke in. “And this castle will suddenly be in English territory,” he sneered, “which means that everyone inside it will become a subject of the English crown.”
The Welshman bared his broken teeth. “I see your thoughts, coward. Sooner or later King Harry will learn of the torments inflicted upon his soldiers in this God-cursed castle. You hope to save yourself from his justice by turning traitor, and helping us to escape.”
“Not just to escape,” the Frenchman answered, “I offer a bargain. Help me to slay my cousin and those who remain loyal to him. Once we have taken control of the castle, I shall escort you safely to your king.”
Grono looked away in disgust. He was a man of honour to his finger-bones, that one, and clearly wished to have nothing to do with such treachery.
The same could not be said for the rest of us. Not every man is born to play the hero, and embrace a martyr’s doom. I for one was happy to clutch at any straw, if it meant I would see the sun again, and feel the wind on my face. Sir Roland’s conscience, or lack of it, was his affair.
Sir Thomas was of like mind. “Go on,” he said, “how might this be achieved?”
“Eighteen of the men in the garrison have agreed to join me,” replied Sir Roland, “and betray their lord when I give the signal. I can also count on my esquire and servants. Along with yourselves, that makes thirty-three of us, against fourteen soldiers and my cousin. We need not worry about him. He has not lifted a sword for years. I doubt he could now.”
“Nor can we,” I said, “look at us, Frenchman. Look at the fruits of your tender care.”
This gave him pause. Weeks of torture, confinement and poor diet had made us the pale husks of men, dirty and emaciated and feeble as mice. I could barely stand without aid, let alone wield a sword, and there were others in even worse state.
“I can help you recover your strength,” he said, “from now on, you will be fed by men loyal to me. No more slops or tainted water. Instead, ale and wine from my cousin’s own cellars. Meat, bread and ale from his larder. Fresh clothes shall be provided, and medicine for your hurts. In a month’s time, you will be like new men.”
“Why not toss us a few whores, while you’re about it?” sneered Grono, “I like mine fat and ginger, if you please.”
His cynicism was understandable. Sir Roland’s offer could well have been a sham, another cruel trick devised by his unspeakable cousin.
Sir Roland sensed our doubts. “Let my prove I am as good as my word,” he said, “tomorrow night, after my cousin is safely asleep, you shall receive gifts. Wine and food and clothes. Later, when the time is right, I’ll supply you with weapons. Are we agreed?”
“The word of a traitor,” replied Grono, “is worth less than the contents of his privy.”
His was a lone voice of dissent. Sir Thomas glanced at me, and then at the rest of the prisoners. Every one of us gave a nod of approval. This was our last hope.
“Agreed,” he replied.
23.
Sir Roland kept to his promise. The next night, after three of our number had been dragged upstairs for the leper’s entertainment, and returned bloody and insensible, the first of his gifts arrived.
The floggings were less frequent, whether due to Sir Roland’s influence on his kinsman, or the Baron’s worsening condition, I cannot say. There was no longer any talk of ransoms. The demands had almost certainly not been sent, and if they had King Henry chose to disregard them. He was ever careful of money, and unlikely to part with considerable sums in order to ransom a few lesser knights.
We drank down the ale - it was the first drop I had tasted in weeks, and slipped like honeyed nectar down my throat - and mixed the wine with water to pour over the bloodied backs of our comrades. Their flesh was already criss-crossed with scars, and the leper’s whip had opened up some old wounds on top of the new ones.
The victuals were brought by two guards, a couple of leathery, bearded oafs who had given us a fair number of kicks and blows in the past. It was difficult to believe they were now on our side, and I watched carefully from the shadows as they hastily dumped the baskets on the floor and fled. The door swung shut behind them with a crash that echoed through the stairwell.
“Not as stupid as they look, maybe,” remarked Herr Hartmann, “they will soon be English subjects, and know it. Sir Roland must have explained that King Henry would hang them all unless they agreed to turn traitor.”
Privately, I thought Sir Roland gravely mistaken if he hoped for a pardon. Henry’s attitude towards traitors of any stamp, even those who did him good service, was the same as towards deserters and looters. Nor was he fool enough to take a turncoat into his service.
Nevertheless, the victuals continued to arrive. Sir Roland must have placed his men in charge of the cellars and the kitchens, else his cousin’s loyal guards would have noticed the steady flow of rations vanishing down the stairs.
On the third night Sir Roland’s esquire brought us a basket of bread and cheese. He was more talkative than the soldiers, and happy to answer our questions.
“The leper keeps his men close about him,” the lad explained, “he lives in terror of assassination, and wishes to die at an appointed time, with a priest to hear his confession and absolve his sins. If he goes before he has time to prepare, he believes his soul is too tarnished for purgatory, and will be cast straight into the fire.”
“He will burn, whether or not a priest agrees to mutter a few words over his carcase,” snarled Grono, “I never met a likelier candidate for damnation.”<
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Two weeks passed. We ate like pigs, drank like lords, and grew stronger by the day. Our spirits, cast down for so long, rose by the hour.
As well as the much-needed victuals, I was given a pot of unguent to rub on my bruised and battered ribs. At the end of the fortnight, I was well enough to stand without aid, and my fingers itched to feel the grip of a sword again.
We had seen nothing of Sir Roland since he came to reveal his treachery. One day, perhaps midway through January, he paid us one final visit.
“Tomorrow at dawn,” he said, “is our best opportunity. My cousin has rallied, and declared himself fit enough to watch a little sport. He sent me to choose the victims.”
He nodded at me. “Sir John Page. You have not taken part in the entertainment for a while. Nor you, Grono. Sir Thomas Braham, you shall be the third.”
We three, along with Herr Hartmann, were the strongest of the surviving prisoners.
“My men will pretend to fix you to the manacles,” said Sir Roland, “when I give the word, they will turn on my cousin’s guards. I have ordered them to show no quarter.”
“Here,” he added, producing three daggers from his belt and passing one to each of us, “hide these about your persons. You will have need of them when the slaughter begins.”
“What of the Baron?” asked Sir Thomas.
“No quarter,” the other man repeated solemnly, “he is my blood, and it falls to me to put an end to him.”
The next morning Sir Roland’s men came for us, as he had promised. We were all awake when they arrived, and breakfasted on the last of the previous night’s victuals. To calm my nerves I drank too much ale than was good for me, especially at such an early hour, and my head spun as the keys turned in the lock and light streamed into the dungeon.
“Come,” said one of the guards. This one was somewhat older than the rest, most of the hair rubbed from his scalp by decades of wearing a mail coif. He and his mate carried lanterns, and went first up the steps.
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