by Grace Ingram
‘I begot you for my own ruin.’
Guy managed to lift his head, his neck-muscles straining. ‘That’s God’s justice, seeing how—’
‘You Hell-sent bastard, you’ve robbed me of the vengeance I’ve planned and waited for—my own son!’
‘I’ve disowned you.’
‘My son. All I’ve done for you, all I’ve given you, thrown in my teeth! ’ His voice cracked on something like a sob. He lifted both hands to his face, and his voice came muffled and shaking from behind them. ‘Gone over to my enemies, my first-born son!’
‘I am not your son.’
‘Mine, mine, no other’s!’ he cried lamentably, and then his voice hardened. ‘Fetch the renegade along!’
Someone produced thongs, and they tied Guy’s wrists, fingers fumbling in the dark. He was past resisting; the strength that had been granted him through battle and peril was all used. They had to haul him bodily to his feet, and boost him into a saddle with heaves and oaths. They secured his wrists to the pommel, someone took the reins, wounded and dead were slung over horses and they trampled out of the woods, skirted the village cowering silent behind unlighted windows and headed for the waste. As they went, Elswyth’s cock crowed behind them, and bird after bird answered along the valley, crying hope and a kind of triumph.
The troop was descending from the waste before Guy roused from his stupor of exhaustion. He lifted his head, straightened his bowed shoulders and looked about him. The sergeant in charge of his reins likewise assumed an alert bearing, turning a blistered and scowling face on him. There was little regard wasted between Guy and Lord Reynald’s men-at-arms; better men found better service. He observed with some satisfaction five dead men tied over saddles and as many wounded. His own capture was small profit to set against the losses, however Lord Reynald balanced his tallies. His garrison was depleted near inadequacy.
Guy had noted from the first that neither Conan nor any of his mercenaries was present, and wondered whether his service had now expired, or whether he had been left in Warby as untrustworthy for this venture. Through his fear ran a small thread of hope that the routier might be his friend still. It failed and sank as the castle loomed before them, its black shape pierced here and there by windowfuls of dull light. The drawbridge descended as they approached, and creaked up as the last horse clopped off its planks. The gate thudded, and the blow’s finality slammed through Guy’s brain and body. There was no escape now, nothing left but endurance of whatever punishment Lord Reynald ordained. He gripped fast the consolation that he had saved Helvie.
Torches flared about him. Guy braced himself to betray none of his dread and horror, holding his face impassive. He was shivering in any case; passing the ford had soaked his hose and tunic-hem, and the chilly wind froze the sodden cloth on his limbs. He took one quick glance at the crowding faces as the troop dismounted. The light fell on Conan, who turned indifferent eyes to his. Not by an eyelid’s flicker did he reveal any sympathy, and Guy realized that he must not expect it of him. The mercenary might well reckon it expedient to side with his paymaster. He felt the colour drain out of his face, and sick fear gripped him. Then one certainty returned to hold by; Kenric’s sword was here in Warby, and it was his fate to take it into his hands again.
The thongs were loosed from the saddlehorn, and rough hands dragged him down. He staggered, his legs pithless, and braced his feet apart to stand fast on them. A torchlit ring of faces surrounded him, no trace of kindliness among them. Lord Reynald contemplated him, more sombre than furious. He had been drunk, with hate and lust for vengeance as much as wine, and now was sobering, near maudlin.
‘My son,’ he said heavily. ‘My tall fair first-born. I’d have given you whatever your heart desired if you’d been a true son to me.’
All hushed, holding their breath, remembering as Guy did their last confrontation in this bailey. This mood of grief rather than fury frightened them with its strangeness. Guy’s whole being shuddered from the creature who had begotten him.
‘What’s to be done with a son who betrays his father? Who robs him of his lawful heir and leaves him desolate?’ Lord Reynald mourned.
‘Flay him!’ squalled Rohese, thrusting through the crowd that flinched away from her skirts. ‘Tear his eyes out-cut him in pieces living!’
Someone gasped, several crossed themselves, one muttered, ‘Mary Mother protect us!’ and a woman exclaimed, ‘He’s her brother!’
‘Here’s sisterly affection!’ Guy mocked, his skin rough with gooseflesh.
‘Make him an example to terrify your enemies!’
As usual, whatever she advocated to Guy’s harm Lord Reynald instantly rejected. ‘That’s for me to order!’
Conan’s voice came calm and faintly amused. ‘I thought you wanted a son?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Her way you’d have only a dead carcase.’
‘He is my son. The only son I have left, since he incited my treacherous wife to rob me of my heir.’
‘I’ve disowned you,’ Guy reminded him.
‘Did he not say you’d have to chain him to your wall to keep him against his will?’
‘Ha! Out of his own mouth! You remember well. Take him down to the cell.’
‘Better yet, my lord, humble him until he is ready to give you a son’s duty. Chain him in your kitchen to turn the spit.’
‘Humility—that’s a lesson he needs teaching.’
‘Don’t heed him! He’s trying to save the traitor from your justice!’ Rohese shrilled. ‘Remember he helped him to escape before!’
Lord Reynald turned with ready suspicion. Conan shrugged. ‘I’ve discharged what I owed, life for life. Who pays a debt twice?’
He stepped back, out of the torchlight. Again silence gripped them while Lord Reynald pondered life and death. At last he nodded. ‘Bring him to the kitchen. Rouse up the smith, and the cook.’
It was reprieve, of a sort; the worst of shames to a knight, but life. Guy had not guessed how paralysing a hold fear had on him until it was loosed, and his body would scarcely obey him as they hustled him across the bailey to the kitchen close under the keep.
Heat gushed out as they opened the hurdle door, and a stink chiefly compounded of burnt tallow, rancid fat, decomposing offal and unwashed humanity hit Guy like a blow. The fire was banked with ash to keep it safe for the night. Someone kicked it to life, and a scullion who knew his way about the darkness found a couple of candles and lighted them. They flared wildly to illumine avid faces, and he set them on wall-prickets.
The smith appeared, jangling with iron, and then Egbert the cook, most likely roused from some slut’s straw and doing up his garments as he came. All watched while the smith produced six feet of heavy chain with an ankle-ring attached, selected one of the main timbers that upheld the kitchen wall and whacked a stout staple deep into it to secure its free end. The guards pushed Guy within reach and held him while the smith closed the ring about his left ankle and made it fast with a padlock that would have secured a bull. The key clicked. He handed it to Lord Reynald with a clumsy bow. A knife released Guy’s wrists.
‘Egbert, here’s your new turnspit. Teach him his duties. He is yours to discipline as you choose.’ Lord Reynald tossed the key, red-gleaming in the fireglow, from hand to hand.
‘Mine, m’lord?’
‘He is to learn humility, obedience, submission—virtues you’re well qualified to teach.’
Egbert scratched his mat-head in some perplexity. ‘Oh, aye, m’lord. Kitchen work. That tunic’s a sight too good to get mucked up turning spit, m’lord.’
‘It would fit you, I believe.’
The cook’s heavy face lighted. Guy stared from one to the other, choking on fury and dismay as he recognized the depths of his abasement, and at Lord Reynald’s signal someone jerked the chain and brought him to his knees in the filthy rushes. They pinned him down and dragged his tunic over his head and arms. In shirt and chausses he lurched to his feet, stan
ding like a baited bear, to be brought to his knees again by the chain. This time he remained there.
‘Yours to discipline, as you do your other scullions,’ Lord Reynald said gently.
Grinning comprehension, Egbert unbuckled his belt. Guy threw up his arms to guard his head and clenched his teeth.
Chapter 18
Humility was a lesson in many parts, all bitter. Guy learned to submit to blows, kicks and abuse, keep his mouth shut and go on working. He learned that impotent rage is the most destructive of all emotions. He learned to retreat within the fastnesses of patience and endurance, to suffer oppression with the dumb stubbornness of a misused ox. A true knight would have died, he knew, rather than accept such abasement; Guy set himself to live through it, holding to the one dignity left him, silence.
Lord Reynald came to the kitchen doorway the morning after his capture. ‘Any tamer for a night’s reflection? Ah, but I value you! I’ve just dismissed a messenger from Henry de Trevaine, offering to ransom you. There’s a jest! Can he not depend on me to deal with you as a father should? . . . Smitten dumb? . . . You ruined one plan, but you’ll see me triumph yet!’
He came daily to cajole, promise and threaten until, maddened by Guy’s refusing to answer, he would turn maudlin or fall into screeching rage. He was nearly always drunk, doubled up with belly-ache every evening, his sanity visibly disintegrating. Rohese and Wulfrune would come to taunt Guy, but the entertainment palled for lack of response. Conan never showed his face at all.
In the few days without a mistress’s relentless supervision, the kitchen conditions had degenerated into squalor. Egbert was drunk as often as he could achieve it. His notion of discipline was to lay about him indiscriminately with the huge wooden spoon that was his symbol of office, but no one scoured the utensils, swept the floor, cleared away decaying remnants or emptied the reeking bucket that served the prisoner’s bodily needs.
Guy turned the spits, filthier than ever the forge had made him. Yet his strength came slowly back to him. The labour had never been beyond his physical capacity; spit-turning was boy’s work. He was never fed, but it was difficult to starve a kitchen-worker who could snatch and gulp, particularly when the scullions conspired to toss him food behind Egbert’s back. He had never abused them when the power was his, and was repaid with surreptitious kindness.
News filtered to the kitchen. Henry FitzEmpress was leading his army north and east through the Midlands, castles and towns falling to him like ripe fruit from a shaken bough. For two days of alarm Warby prepared for assault, but he passed over twenty miles away. Stephen was falling. Lord Reynald railed wildly at his Master who cheated his faithful servants, more wildly yet at news from Hernforth. Lady Mabel had reached her brothers, and as first-fruits of vengeance all Lord Reynald’s lands in Hampshire had fallen to them. Guy thanked God; she and the children were safe. Lord Reynald’s time was running out; at any time it might please the Devil to summon him to Hell. Yet all his friends were powerless, and he had no help in Warby. Then, on the fifth day, he laid hand on hope.
He knelt on it, dodging a blow from Egbert’s spoon; some sharply-angled object embedded in the floor’s dirt. Later he found and worked it out, a finger’s length of broken whetstone that he clutched to him in unbelief.
He had examined the chain and fetter over and over, with a trained iron-worker’s knowledge. Staple and chain would have held a baited bear, but the fetter was a clumsy job probably turned out by the castle smith. It closed with a hasp and staple secured by the padlock, and was hinged at the back on a rivet passing through three loops turned over in the iron. He fingered the rivet, the weakest part. It would take days, but with persistence he might wear away the rivet-head and pluck it from the hinge like a pin.
He chose the lower head, more difficult of access but out of sight, and ground away at it whenever he was alone. With all sweet April out of doors the kitchen was deserted after meals had been served, and he was alone for several hours each day. He desisted at night lest the persistent scratching carry too far in the quiet. He fretted at the iron until his finger-tips rubbed raw, the stone ground down, and the rivet-head wore away, disguising the bright metal with spittle and dirt between stints.
During the last week in April, word flew; Lady Alice of Trevaine had borne a sturdy son. The curse was broken, but Lord Reynald’s reaction set men muttering; he had received the news with glee. Next day Guy learned that she had died a few hours after the birth. He remembered the silly girl, spiteful with jealousy, and said a prayer for her soul’s salvation. The rivet-head was worn to less than a finger-nail’s thickness; tomorrow he would be loose.
That day was harder to get through than all its predecessors. Egbert, suffering from last night’s ale, made sure his underlings suffered more. Guy, harried and abused, was aware of unusual activity; men drilling, horses moving in and out of the stables, the smithy clanging. Supper was eaten an hour earlier than usual, and while the servants were clearing away, a large force, most of the garrison by the sound, marched out. Lord Reynald’s new scheme was moving to fulfilment, and the unknown threat to Helvie and her father had Guy in a fret of impatience to be free. He had lost track of the date; it was an overheard grumble that no one was permitted to leave the castle, on this one night of the year when all went abroad to fetch home the May, that informed him this was May Eve, the fairies’ night, the greatest celebration of the witches’ year. He remembered the Eve of All Hallows, the lights of Candlemas, and rasped savagely at the rivet. A wafer of iron still held fast when the horn blew.
Guy heard the drawbridge rattle, hooves clatter over the planks, a scurrying of grooms to take charge of returning mounts. Lord Reynald’s exultant laughter was followed by a silence that brought a prickle of gooseflesh over his skin. Many feet were tramping towards the kitchen where he sat alone, and he stood up and moved to the chain’s limit to see the crowd advancing. A very young baby wailed thinly. A blonde girl he did not know, her dress marked over her breasts with two patches of leaked milk, carried it at Lord Reynald’s heels, holding the tiny swaddled body aloft like a trophy won in battle. He knew at once that the infant was Trevaine’s heir, and froze. Behind her two troopers held another woman by the arms, forcing her along. The company halted, the girl moved aside. Guy stared into Helvie’s face.
In anguished silence they looked at each other. One of Helvie’s plaits streamed loose, her gown was ripped open at the neck. Her eyes, dark in the terrified pallor of her face, dilated with deeper distress at sight of him, bearded and filthy in ragged shirt and chausses.
Lord Reynald crowed with glee. ‘Ah, you’re well met, well met! Yes, and you’ll see a change in each other! ’
The wet-nurse giggled, glancing from one to the other in bright malice. No one else seemed amused. Helvie straightened against the grip on her arms, and Guy knew a savage pride in her. She did not weep or whine for mercy.
‘My son, my traitor son who fancied my enemy’s bastard and denied me. Here she is! But I don’t forget I am your father. You can have her. Do you hear me, my son? You can still have her!’
He laughed again, and a man behind him crossed himself, his lips moving. The baby wailed afresh. Guy stood dumb and paralysed, his gaze never shifting from Helvie’s face.
‘Will that tame you, my fine tall first-born? Acknowledge me, obey me, accept my faith and my power, and learn how loving a father I’ll prove. I’ll give her to you as virgin as we took her, for your own.’ Guy made neither move nor answer, and he stamped a foot. ‘Do you hear me, or are you smitten witless? Refuse, and I’ll strip her in this bailey and let every man in the garrison enjoy her—yes, and the grooms and scullions also, while you look on!’
Locked fast in nightmare, Guy still made no response. Helvie could go no paler, but for a moment it seemed horror melted the bones in her body, for the men shifted their grip to prop her on her feet. The blonde girl giggled again and bounced the baby casually. He howled. For some reason that steadied Helvie; she stiffened
and glanced quickly at him with anger and yearning.
‘Suckle that brat and quiet him!’ Lord Reynald commanded. He turned to Guy. ‘Consider it until morning, and choose aright! By morning Trevaine will be dead, his lands mine, my vengeance accomplished! Choose aright!’ He jerked his head at Helvie’s guards. ‘Bestow her safely, and if any man lays a hand on her before I give leave I’ll geld him. She’s my son’s bride. Now hasten! We’ve no time to waste this night.’
Helvie looked back once with desperate eyes, and Guy watched her hustled up the keep steps and through the door. He watched Lord Reynald stride towards the gate, followed by the wet-nurse bearing the heir of Trevaine. The troopers came scurrying down the stair, as if thankful to be rid of that duty. He stood like stone until they had all ridden out once more, and then turned back into the dark kitchen, dropped heavily upon the rushes, and laid his head upon his updrawn knees. He drew a shuddering breath.
‘Lord God, now I know why you brought me to this trial,’ he murmured aloud. ‘Now grant me Your aid this night to thwart the Devil.’
Reckless of noise now he rubbed the stone to and fro, while the sun slid down the sky and sank beyond the wall. As the first stars pricked the blue the rivet rattled loose. He tested it with his thumbnail, easing it up a quarter-inch and letting it drop back. He could slip his fetter when he chose. The bailey was still filled with light like a cup held up to the sky, and people lingered in the open air. Children dodged and squealed in and out of the buildings. Slowly the twilight deepened, voices ceased, silence came down with night.
Full dark had come, and the bailey was quiet, when Guy released himself. He stood erect and stretched, his hair brushing the rafters, looking across the kitchen to the chopping-block where careless hands had left a cleaver lying. He had had his mind on it since supper; he would not go out weaponless.