by JR Tomlin
He lost track of how many times they had come--of how many days he had been here. He had no sun and no moon. He had nothing to make marks on the wall. His stomach ached with hunger, the bowls of beans never quite filling his belly, but his fever and chills passed. He sat up and realized that the pounding in his head was gone. His muscles were stiff and every move hurt, but no worse than from a fall in a joust.
It had to be faced. It would go on. It was no good sitting in a miserable huddle. He might as well explore what world he had left to him. If they were feeding him, they meant him to live. Perhaps execution was in their plans for later, but Cressingham had said not. So one day, somehow, he would get out.
With a steadying breath, sliding his back up the gritty stones of the wall, he got to his feet. He inched his way around the dungeon again. The walls were built of stones about four hands wide and a hand high. The front was broken by the shape of the door. He touched every inch of the greasy wood and the iron bands that crossed it. There was no handle on the inside. He smiled at himself as he felt for one.
He came to the slops jar. It was brimming by now. Would they empty it? He shuddered at what it would be like if they didn't.
After that, he sat down again. He was still cold, but not with the bone-shaking chills of injury and fever, even if every move still brought a twinge to remind him of the blows he had taken and the sores that were crusted over.
One day Scarecrow held open the door after he sat down the bowl and cup, motioning his chin toward the reeking jar in the corner, and said, "Shove that into the hall." He lifted his truncheon and he stepped back.
Andrew half-smiled as he moved the slops jar into the hall. Did Scarecrow fear him? When the man motioned him back, he went. The few seconds' view of the hall had been worth it though. He sat shoveling up the beans and examined the pictures still in his eyes. Even in the dim light, with his eyes adjusted to the greater darkness he'd been able to see that his was the only door in the narrow hall. The other prisoners must be somewhere else. And there was no other guard, only one. There might be one outwith the shining light of the doorway up the steps. He hadn't been able to see.
He listened for sounds, quieting his breathing. No matter how quiet he was, all he could hear was that dripping. No horses. No talking. No pace of a guard. Nothing.
The first guard returned and Andrew decided that one must come in the morning and one at night. But which?
"Just tell me if it's day or night," he said.
The gaoler slammed the door, shutting him back into the dark. He knelt holding the cup of water, fighting down a hot tide of fury. How dare they treat him like this? Imprison him like a traitor. Starve him. Leave him in the squalor of unwashed, stinking sackcloth like a murderer. He would go mad and smash his head into the wall until he died... or get hold of himself and eat and drink and find a way out.
Damn them. Damn and curse them to hell. Bugger them all. They'd not drive him mad. He'd not let it happen.
He shook so hard a little water slopped onto his fingers. He forced himself to lick the water off and drink what was in the cup. He ate most of the beans.
When he came to the last few, he stopped--shoved them around the bottom of the bowl with his finger. At Dunbar, how had the Comyn moved the lines of chivalry? Had he planned the battle at all? He stared at the far wall he couldn't see and set the bowl aside. Could they have won? When the beans had dried out, he arranged them on the floor by feel, strung out in lines and moved them about. How could the Comyn have given such orders? What would he have done if the command had been his? He rearranged the line of withered-feeling beans on the floor.
He moved the beans about again, trying to remember everything Sir Waltir had told him. It helped keep his mind off the drip of water, the itch of lice in his hair, and the reek of piss and crap and sweat and his own filth.
The next time Scarecrow opened the door, Andrew looked up. "Is it morning?"
Scarecrow looked surprised. "Yes." He sat down the food and stepped back.
After that excitement, he sat down with his morning rations and remembered Sir Waltir's lessons about war. Sir Waltir had talked while training him, time out of mind. Told him things the Comyn either hadn't known or had ignored. Never believe war is based on courtesy. It is based upon trickery and deception. Hold out your bait, so your enemy grabs it. Then crush him.
Just as the English had crushed the Scots. Sir Waltir had said other things he hadn't thought much about at the time, but now he heard them over and over, his only company in the dark chill. If your opponent is stronger than you are, flee him. If he has more men, divide them. Never play his game. You must play your own.
That night after the second gaoler closed him back into blindness, he sat with his arms around his legs and his forehead pressed into his knees. It was all very well to tell himself to be brave and strong and prepare for the next battle, but brave and strong was not how he felt. A scream was trapped in his throat that he daren't let out. If he did, he would never stop.
At last, he forced himself to his hands and knees and once more began to feel his way around his dungeon, stone by oblong stone. He tried to move each one, trying to shove it, knowing he'd find no way out. But he had to try. One stone moved a hair's breadth under his hand. The mortar must be brittle there. Perhaps they'd used too little or the leaking water had weakened it. It wiggled so little. It was stupid to think he could work it loose. If he did, what good would it do? On the other hand, he had nothing better to do except move the beans in their lines and despair over the charge that had led to their defeat. Nothing better to think of but that he might go mad.
CHAPTER TEN
There was no way out, but he couldn't stop trying.
In the dark... Belly aching from hunger... Lips cracked from thirst... No idea if they would ever let him out... Weaker by the day and less able to fight the screams that curled and squirmed in his belly. Starting another week's torments.
The stone jiggled in place. He barely felt it. He couldn't stop thinking about it. Of a certainty, there was another stone behind it. He wouldn't be able to get others loose. But it might come out. If he worked at it long enough.
Kneeling, he grasped the edge and moved it a hair's breadth up and down. He did it on and off for weeks, he lost count of how long. Crumbs of mortar came loose. He brushed and nudged them out with bleeding fingertips. He wiggled the stone some more.
A tool. He would give anything for a tool. He lusted for a tool as a glutton lusted for food. Even a stick. He felt through the straw--tried using the thickest piece but it broke. Lacking a tool, what? He took off the rough sackcloth tunic. It saved scraping the skin off his fingertips, but he couldn't reach between the stones. It gave no extra purchase.
The stone moved a little more, the width of his small finger. The thin mortar crumbled. He could manage to get the length of his finger between the stones to scrape it out. Sucking the blood off a raw knuckle, he wondered why he was struggling so. If it did make a hole, he couldn't even get a shoulder through a space so small.
But he couldn't stop. He thirsted for home as much as he did for light--for its mountains and waterfalls, its bogs and dark forests, its high meadows and shadowed vales, and the blue-gray vault of the sky. He slept and dreamt he rode through it. He awoke to darkness. The days ground on.
He knelt vainly trying to pry loose a stone that would not come out. The slops jar was full and the smell choked and gagged him. Tomorrow was the day the gaoler would have him push it out the door, he thought. He did once every seven days. Another seven days. How many seven days had he been here? He had tried to keep count. Had put beans in a corner but they disappeared. The rats never came near him, but sometimes he heard them rustle.
How could they keep him imprisoned for serving his king? He'd begged for news of his father. Scarecrow had looked sorry when he'd shaken his head. What had happened in the world whilst he was here?
He shoved his fingers into the slit above the stone. Rising up, he
put his whole weight on it. Perhaps if he pulled. It scraped outward a finger's width and then stopped. He pulled until he had to stop to rest his trembling muscles.
Nothing happened.
He stood up and stretched. He shuffled his way around the edge of the dungeon and tried again to remember everything Sir Waltir had told him about the Swiss mercenaries the French king hired for the war with King Edward. He'd talked much of how they could gut a knight's horse with their pikes. Unhorsed, trapped in heavy armor, knights were easy kills. Would it work for the Scots?
Yet no matter how he tried, war was far away. Reality was never-ending darkness. Reality was the distant drip of water while he thirsted. Reality was an empty belly and not knowing if they would ever let him out.
When the gaoler brought the night's food, he left the door open for a few seconds. Andrew said thank you, cursing himself for feeling grateful for a moment of light.
It was a hand's breadth out of the wall, but stuck. Still if he worked at it... It gave a bit. Mortar sprinkled down. Andrew pulled on it. Nothing. He squatted lower and with his hands underneath, he gave a shove upward with all his power.
It came loose so fast he scraped the heels of his hands and skinned his arms. He sat holding the freed stone, his mouth hanging open. Excitement fluttered in his chest like laughter. What was behind it? He stuck his hand in and felt. Another stone.
He sagged onto the floor. The excitement fled. God in heaven, what had he expected? To crawl out and run to freedom? It wouldn't be that easy. Damn them. But he had worked it loose. He had done that much.
He sat back on his heels and ran his hands over the stone, the length of his forearm one way and half the other, pebbled with clots of crumbly mortar. He lifted it. Weighed it in both hands. It was heavy. Heavy enough to bash a man's head in. Standing, he hefted it. His breath caught in his chest. He gulped in air, heart racing like a frightened deer and hands shaking.
The gaolers didn't come all the way into the dungeon when they brought his food, just opened the door and shoved it in. Thinking he could use the stone as a weapon was stupid. Neither would stand still while he hit them on the head.
There must be a way. He hadn't worked this long for there not to be a way. He chewed his lip.
If he tried to escape and failed, Lacey would kill him. He had no doubt of it. But he'd not survive much longer like this. He'd die or go mad.
He got up and listened at the door. Of course, they weren't out there. No one came near him except to bring his bit of food and water. Where were they between times? Watching the outer door? If they watched inside, surely he would hear them sometimes.
No one could know he had gotten the stone loose. Neither gaoler even looked in when they came to the door, except when they opened it for the slops jar. No one would look. Even if they did it was so dark, the gaping hole couldn't be seen. What if they did? Breathing fast as if he'd been running, he shoved it back into place. He couldn't be still. He paced back and forth, a hand on the wall. He would try. Damn them all. He would try! The morning would be too risky. If he got past the gaolers, there was no way he could get out of the castle. But when they brought his afternoon food. Would the gates even be open? How dark would it be?
He was always waiting for them where they could see him. They knew so--eager for food and water, to see a bit of light or to empty the slops jar.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In the corner behind the doorway, he waited. Nervous sweat gathered under his arms and trickled down his ribs. With the stone gripped to his chest, he squeezed against the wall as hard as he could.
There was a noise, a thud like a door thrown open. Footsteps. His heart beat so loudly, it was deafening. Shut up! Shut up!
The door opened part way. "Shove out the jar."
Andrew held his breath and raised the stone over his head.
"God damn it." Scarecrow's voice was sharp with annoyance. "Hurry up."
The door slammed open and bounced when it hit the wall. Scarecrow stepped inside, truncheon half-raised. Andrew lunged. The stone hit. Blood spattered. Scarecrow fell sideways, limp.
Blood ran onto the floor in a spreading puddle. Scarecrow's hand twitched back and forth, his truncheon a few inches from his fingers. Andrew kicked it into the corner, knelt, raised the stone, and slammed it down as hard as he could. The hand was still.
He looked frantically into the hall lit by the glow of a torch. The door to the outside was closed. Throwing the bloody stone aside, he jerked off his sackcloth tunic and breeches. The gaoler's head flopped to the side, blood dripping from the long dent in the back of his head. Andrew wrapped the head in the sackcloth. It took several panic-stricken minutes to wrestle Scarecrow out of the boiled leather jack patterned with gleaming metal studs. He checked to be that sure no blood was on it as he pulled it on. Buckling on the sword belt made him feel like he might still be a man. A quick search with shaking hands... Scarecrow had a couple of groats in his purse. Andrew dropped in the coins from the Bruce's purse he'd kept hidden under his breeches. His hands shook as he pinned the cloak. He loosened the sword.
Hurry!
In the hall, he closed the door behind him and dropped the bar into place. His whole body shivered, his knees wobbled. He leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. He blinked towards the doorway at the top of ten stone steps. Let his eyes adjust to some light... His heart thumped, pounding at a terrible rate. He stepped towards the doorway. His skin seemed to try to skulk to the back of his body to keep from going through to--God knew what. Who was out there? Waiting for him?
He wiped the sweat off his face and swallowed. With his filthy, uncut hair and ragged beard down onto his chest, he would hardly pass a close look. Taking the first step up those stairs was the hardest thing he had ever done. He took another, and another.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Andrew's eyes watered and he wiped them to stare around the wide bailey. After a moment, his eyes adjusted--late afternoon. A toothed shadow had crept halfway across the yard. The smell of horses and the damp off the river came to him, the scent of freedom. On the opposite side of the yard, two guards stood watch on a parapet. Chickens scratched in the dirt, clucking. A cart stood in the tunnel-like gate, a guard talking to a driver. Andrew squared his shoulders and ambled towards it. Casual. A man-at-arms off duty...
"Drive around to the kitchens," the guard said as, eyes straight ahead, Andrew walked on the other side of the wagon. Weakness plucked at his knees. He kept going.
His footfalls rang hollow on the drawbridge as he crossed the wide moat. Twitching muscles between his shoulder blades expected a blow, but he kept walking. At least he had a chance of dying on his feet with a blade in his hand. What more could he ask? It was a better fate than any he had faced these past months.
He was on the cobblestone street of the town. Two women, baskets under their arms, walked ahead of him, hips swaying. Small shops lined both sides of the street, and a faint wind creaked their wooden signs. Sunlight through passing clouds making long dancing shadows. He wondered how long it would be before they discovered his escape. Elation at his freedom warred with creeping fear.
Damn them. They have to catch me first. I'll die a sword in my hand before I go back.
He had to find a stable, fast, before the city gates closed for the night. He chewed his lip. Near the gates themselves was the best bet. He forced himself to keep an even pace as he strolled in that direction. He gripped the hilt of the sword at his hip. A church bell tolled.
A burst of pipe music made him jump. A group of soldiers spilled out of a doorway along with the smell of ale. A tavern. He slowed his steps as they staggered past him, voices slurred and one laughing. He licked his dry lips at the thirsty scent of ale but kept going.
A man limped past pushing a cart with a couple of pies still upon it, singing of onions and meat. Andrew's stomach made a hollow rumble. He glanced warily around. On the corner, a man-at-arms in a long red cloak stood, a sword at his hip. The man didn't
pay Andrew any special attention, but the sight of him knotted the muscles in Andrew's shoulders. Food and drink would have to wait even though his legs wavered like bent reeds.
He had to get out. He followed the street through a maze of twisting alleys and cross streets. He kept to the middle of the way. There was less chance to be jumped and he couldn't let anyone think he was hiding. He dodged an empty wagon and a cloaked horseman. The red sandstone city walls came into sight between close-set buildings. Gulls wheeled overhead, squalling.
Then he caught the sweet smell of dung, sweeter than a woman's perfume. A broad-shouldered man was pulling a door closed on a stable, next to a fenced pen.
"Hoi!" Andrew hurried toward him, glowering. Being friendly would be suspicious. If he looked like he might rip the man's arms off, it might get him a better deal, though the wobble in his legs from weakness was hardly convincing. Best not to talk too much. Of a certainty, he didn't sound local. Andrew thrust his chin toward the pen and rattled his purse. It obviously wasn't market day, but a couple of horses were out. The hostler said ten pounds for the chestnut gelding Andrew pointed to, the best of the lot, fit with decent bone and an intelligent face. He pressed his lips together. That would empty his purse except for a few farthings. "Saddle and bridle, too," Andrew said. The man gave him a stare but nodded.
Andrew threw the saddle on, all the while feeling the man's eyes in the middle of his back. Struggling with leaden legs, he climbed into the saddle. He turned the horse's head towards the city gate, and the hostler hurried away.
His imagination heard the man shouting to halt. When he steeled himself to look over his shoulder, the hostler had stopped to talk to a soldier, pointing. The gate was straight ahead, a couple of guards lounging next to it with the day's end in sight. On the wall, an archer looked bored, staring at nothing. Andrew didn't dare gallop, but he urged the horse to a quick walk. It tossed its head, full of energy.