Gloucester
Date: 1357
Once inside the bailey, the knight called Harold ordered them untied from the saddles. “Get Simon and Richard,” he told one of the others, handing him Roger’s sword. “Let them know what we have in our custody.”
The arrival of two strangers caused a stir and a small crowd gathered around them. A few short minutes later the knight Harold had sent to the Keep came out with a fory-ish, distinguished looking man. Behind him came a barrel-chested, one-legged man with Emily by his side.
Her eyes widened and her face brightened seeing Roger. She quickened her pace, raised her hand, and opened her mouth to greet him, no doubt. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and said another silent prayer to St. Jude or any saint listening that Emily understood. They can’t find out she knew him, not before he knew his fate. Female spies were executed and that’s what they’d assume she was, if they associated the two of them. Thankfully, she saw and ran her hand over her hair as though that had been her intention. She dropped back and approached with the one-legged man. Roger breathed a sigh of temporary relief. The cloud of despair that clung to him on the way to Elysian Fields eased its hold on him. If Emily was here, surely Electra was too.
Upon reaching where Harold held onto Oliver and him, the one-legged man told Emily, “Don’t get too close to these two.” She nodded and stopped just out of arm’s reach from Roger. Her eyes never left his. Both the distinguished man and the one-legged one circled them and then stopped in front of Roger.
“Harold tells me you speak English,” the distinguished one said.
“I do.”
“Good. I am Richard Armstrong, steward of Elysian Fields. This is Sir Simon, Captain of the Guard. You’ve an interesting sword and I’m intrigued to hear what your purpose here is. I’ll have him brought to the hall later,” he said to Harold and turned toward the keep.
“And the other?” the bald knight holding onto Oliver’s ropes asked.
“Take him to the dungeon.”
Roger expected Oliver’s protest and Oliver delivered.
“See here. I am not the betrayer you take me for. I demand an audience as well.”
The bald knight cuffed him across the cheek. “Pipe down you traitorous mongrel. You’ll be lucky to face the gallows here. In London, you’d be drawn and quartered for your treacherous ways. Now get moving.” With that the knight gave Oliver a hard shove.
Roger caught a glimpse of the terror in Oliver’s eyes at the threat of hanging. Who could blame him? Both executions were horrific, but if done right, hanging was a swift snap of the neck. Drawing and quartering was unimaginable pain and longing for death that was often slow to arrive. He’d tried to warn Oliver these were dangerous times, no place for a man of science.
Harold pulled Roger along by the rope tied around his wrists. In front of him, Richard, Simon, and Emily walked together. The men spoke low, too low for Roger to make out what they said. Emily glanced over her shoulder and when Harold was busy in conversation with the bald knight, she winked at Roger and mouthed: we’ll talk. Or, at least that’s what he thought she said. He was thrilled to see her, but where was Electra?
Emily and the two castle men continued into the great hall after entering the keep. Harold and the bald knight led Roger and Oliver to a barred door. A servant ran over with a lit torch. Harold raised the wooden arm from its bracket and opened the door. The smell nearly felled Roger, a rank cloud that reeked of damp soil, stagnant water, and rotted vermin carcasses. Roger had smelled dead human bodies and he’d dealt with dead animals. The stink of dead things here didn’t rise to the retching level of human decay.
Oliver had recoiled and jerked his guard’s arm hard enough to earn another cuff on the cheek.
Harold handed Roger’s rope to the bald knight while he moved a stone block to hold the door open. The servant lit two torches that sat on either side of the entry and went ahead lighting torches. The knights led Roger and Oliver down a long flight of stairs and into the bowels of the castle.
At what Roger estimated to be the midpoint of the keep was a large cell. A bolt of panic shot through him at the sight of manacles attached high on the back wall. Their purpose was to cuff a prisoner’s hands high above his head. Set to a specific height, in a matter of minutes the pain to a man’s arms was excruciating as the blood to them no longer flowed. But that wasn’t the worst. The height was just high enough to force a man of average height to stand on his tiptoes. The prisoner can neither truly stand, nor sit or rest in any way. Vulnerable and helpless, rats and other vermin take advantage, biting the soft flesh of toes, and ears, or face.
Oliver vomited.
“Damnation.” Oliver’s guard jumped back.
Harold avoided the mess and pushed Roger inside.
Oliver received the same, only rougher and landed face down on the earthen floor.
“Raise your arms,” Harold said. Roger did and Harold patted him down one more time, checking for other weapons. He stopped and felt the small lump that was Electra’s ring. Roger silently seethed as the knight removed the ring and eyed it in the torchlight. “You won’t be needing this,” he said and curled his fingers around it. Then he untied Roger.
Once freed of the rope, Roger pivoted toward Harold. Bad enough Electra’s ring would likely wind up on some stinking tavern whore’s finger tonight, if Harold intended to manacle him too, he’d have to beat Roger into submission. A barely alive, half-eaten rescuer would be no help to Electra and Emily. To his great relief, Harold paid no further attention to him.
“Get them their buckets,” he ordered the servant. “And bring something to cover that mess.” He pointed to where Oliver had spewed.
The servant scurried off toward the staircase and Harold turned to the bald knight. “Stand by until the buckets come and make certain the prisoners are secured. I don’t trust servant boys to lock up properly.”
The knight nodded.
“Don’t say anything yet. Wait until baldy leaves,” Roger said low to Oliver.
“I understand.”
The servant returned with two buckets and an armful of straw that he threw onto the mess Oliver made. The bald knight stood at the cell door while the servant set the two buckets down in a corner. One held water and a ladle. The other served as their waste bucket. The thought of using it disgusted Roger. It occurred to him how spoiled he’d become with modern plumbing. Overall, he knew he should appreciate they provided water and a cell that didn’t already house the rotting remains of a previous prisoner.
Oliver had plastered himself against the wall. Rigidly straight, he stared wild-eyed at nothing in particular. The knight left first. The servant stayed behind to stamp on the straw.
“Boy...”
The servant looked up but didn’t move, which was fine. Roger only needed information. “What is the date, lad...the year?”
“You’re daft asking a question like that.”
“I’m sure it sounds that way. But please, I need to know.”
The servant looked askance and said, “It’s May, 1357.”
“Thank you.”
The boy finished and left. When he was out of sight, Oliver collapsed. He sat with his head in his hands. “I’m afraid, Roger. Terribly afraid. I don’t want to hang. Do you know what happens to a man when the trapdoor drops?”
Roger had seen a few hangings in his life. Grim business. “I do.” He dropped down next to Oliver. “They will interrogate me. They’ll probably interrogate you as well. I would in their position. It’s important we tell the same story.”
The suggestion he might be interrogated perked Oliver up. “That’s good, isn’t it? The chance for questioning. I can try to find a convincing reason my association with you isn’t to help a traitor.”
“I don’t know what voluntary association with me will excuse treason. I’ve been thinking on this and I plan to tell them I forced you to aid me. I’ll say I came upon you sleeping in the woods and threatened to kill you if you didn’t help me in my travels here.”
“I don’t understand. Why would a Frenchman be travelling here?”
Curious about France’s history following Poitiers, Roger had read Esme’s history books. The English had captured King John and held him for ransom. The King was treated well by King Edward and Edward, the Prince, who took John prisoner. John wasn’t the only Frenchman ransomed. It was English habit to ransom all captured nobles. The monies demanded strained the already threadbare pockets of the French, who suffered grievous losses as the enemy ravaged the countryside. It made sense they might send someone like Roger to attempt a rescue of the King first. Since nothing of the sort actually happened, John remained in English custody until 1360.
“It’s why knowing the year was important. I’ll claim I arrived on the Welsh shore en route to London to rescue our King.”
“Why was I in Wales?”
“You weren’t. I’ll say I came upon you when I crossed the border into England. I’ll explain I needed you to talk to the local villagers on the way and get us supplies et cetera. I, obviously, couldn’t speak as my accent would arouse suspicion. To keep you from escaping while I slept, you can claim I tied you. Tell them you feared for your life and I promised to release you as soon as I reached London.”
“Finding me in the forest makes me sound like a vagabond.” Oliver looked himself over. “I am not dressed as a beggar. Why would they believe you or me?”
“They may not. But it’s all I can think of to save ourselves.” He didn’t have the heart to tell Oliver, it was mainly to save him. Roger’s nobility was easily proven. He’d be ransomed. Even this defense, if it found any credibility with Richard and Simon, might not be enough to save Oliver.
“Oliver, you must make it sound as though you truly thought I’d kill you. Don’t worry about me. Convince them. Use the fear you feel for the noose and apply it to me.”
Oliver had gone ghostly white at the sight of the dungeon. The color still hadn’t returned. The poor torchlight cast shadows across his face, darkening the fine age lines. When he turned a certain way, his face looked like wrinkled parchment.
Roger laid a firm hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “If you’re going to be sick again, don’t puke in our water bucket.”
Oliver sat still as stone and took a deep breath. Letting it out, he asked, “Tell me the truth. What are my odds of surviving?”
Never a good liar, Roger avoided the complications of being caught out in one. He spoke the truth whenever possible and expected the truth from people serving him or close to him. Oliver deserved no less. “Eighty-twenty against.”
Oliver scrambled to his feet and hurried to the waste bucket. He emptied what little was left on his stomach from their midday meal.
Roger turned his thoughts to Electra. She was somewhere above, so close and yet so far from him. Emily would tell her he was in the castle. She’d come. They’d figure some way out.
A short time later, Harold came alone and unlocked the cell door. “Get over here, Frenchman.” Roger did.
“Put your hands out.” He tied Roger’s hands together with a long length of rope, relocked the door, and pulled Roger down the corridor like a dog on a leash.
He brought Roger up one level above the great hall they came through on the way to the dungeon. Roger paid close attention to the layout of the keep, where stairs intersected and what rooms they passed. On the upper level, Harold walked him past what he surmised were private chambers. Electra and Emily had to be housed on this floor, judging from the freedom Emily appeared to have in the bailey. She didn’t act like a prisoner or someone they forced into service as a servant. He hoped the same for Electra, but he worried her candor might’ve gotten her into trouble. Women who voiced their frank opinions on matters weren’t really appreciated in this age. Electra didn’t shy from offering hers when the opportunity presented itself.
Midway from the staircase, Harold stopped and knocked on a chamber door. Down the corridor, the one called Simon stepped from a chamber and joined them.
“Come in,” a man inside called out.
Richard, the steward, sat behind a large oak desk with neatly stacked sheaves of parchment, a leather bound ledger, and a brass stand that held his writing materials: a quill, an inkpot, a covered vessel for sand, sealing wax, and a blotter. All the things Roger’s desk held at one time. At each end stood candle holders with thick candles burning. Throughout the room were stands filled with lit candles. From the smell, Richard burned quality beeswax and not the smoky, animal-fat-scented tallow.
The other furnishings were those of a personal chamber with a well-appointed bed, upholstered chairs, a washstand and wine table, a shuttered window with good wood doors, and a large, carved chest. The steward’s chamber Roger provided his man wasn’t nearly as nice. Roger thought the aberration had to be a peculiarity of the English. At the end of the day, a steward was just a servant.
Roger had discussed this topic with Electra. He explained the importance of understanding one’s place was lost in the modern society. The loss created a horde of problems—in his opinion. She said his uppity attitude was a thing of the past and to get with the times. They’d stayed in London for New Year’s weekend. They were waiting on the platform at Waterloo tube station for the train. When it arrived, the crowd rushed the doors as they opened. It was a chaotic melee with no thought to anyone else. He pointed this out to her. This is equality, he told her. A complete breakdown of manners. She scoffed and told him he was all wet with no room to talk. There wasn’t a Frenchman living who knew how to properly queue. How he adored her scrappy attitude.
The scraping of a chair Simon pulled up next to Richard snapped Roger out of the pleasant memory and back to dark reality.
“You may leave Harold,” Richard said.
Before Harold shut the door, Emily knocked softly and stuck her head in. “Can I listen?”
“Prisoner interrogation is no place for a lady,” Simon said.
“I’m interested. I’ll be quiet. I won’t interfere or get near the prisoner. Please.”
Simon and Richard briefly whispered and Simon waved her over. He gave her his seat and brought the other upholstered chair to the desk.
Roger watched the door. Why had Emily come alone? Where was Electra? Was she hurt or sick? He’d give anything to talk to Emily and find out how Electra fared. If she was physically able, she’d have come. If they’d hurt her, he’d find a way to kill the two men in front of him with his bare hands or die trying. He needed answers.
“Where is the Baron?” Roger asked. He saw no reason to waste time with explanations to a steward and the Captain of the Guard. This should be a conversation between nobles.
“We ask the questions, not you,” Simon told him.
“Explain your presence in England,” Richard said.
“I am the Comte Roger Jean-Pierre Marchand of Normandy.”
“You can say anything and with no evidence to support your claim, why should we believe you?” Richard asked.
“I am a friend of King John’s. He can confirm my claim. As a Comte, I deserve to be questioned by the Baron and not his underlings.”
“The Baron lives in Somerset. We are his representatives here at Elysian Fields. As for your alleged nobility, we will consider sending a message to London. But you still have not stated your purpose.”
“France is in disarray after your unjust campaign. Few can spare the funds needed to ransom our King. The people are taxed beyond their limit. After much debate, the nobles who escaped capture at Poitiers decided to send a small party into England and attempt to free John.”
Simon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, skepticism radiating off him. “How many were sent? I find it hard to believe even the biggest fool of a Frenchman would think a band of men could enter London unnoticed, let alone scheme their way into the palace.”
Roger hadn’t planned on that question. He did a fast mental calculation of the bare numbers they’d have needed were this story true. He grasped at a weak but only reason he could think of for what happened to the party. “We were three. My home is just outside of Honfleur. We gathered there and sailed out of Le Havre. We knew you’d have lookers along your southern and eastern coastline so we traveled La Manche but stayed close to our coast. Our plan was to sail around your western border and enter from the Bristol Channel. We were halfway into the channel when a storm blew us off course. Our boat crashed onto the rocks in Wales, not far from Cardiff. One of our party drowned trying to make it to shore. The other suffered a slash across his chest from boat debris. The deep cut bled in such a way I could not stop the flow. He died on the beach. Our supplies were lost, which is why I needed Oliver. I needed an Englishman to speak for me.”
“He is as we thought, a traitor,” Richard said.
Roger shook his head. “No. I forced him to aid me. I threatened him with death.”
He risked a quick glance at Emily in hopes of seeing some indication of how credible he sounded. Her expression hadn’t changed but she winked once, which gave him hope.
“You claim to be a count and to have fought at Poitiers. You say your holding is in Normandy. I saw many of France’s northern knights on the battlefield that day. What is on your banner? Perhaps, I will remember seeing it,” Simon asked.
“It is a black panther rampant over crossed swords on a field of orange.”
Simon shot up, knocking his chair and crutch over as he did. He grabbed his crutch from the floor and moved to stand in front of Roger.
Roger stiffened, preparing for a blow.
“You killed my friend. The finest man I’ve ever known. I am tempted to string you up and let you hang from our walls. I’d see you fodder for the crows.”
He had to be referring to Stephen. This was the Barony he was in service to and the only knight Roger had engaged that day. He’d struck down only one other and that was a foot soldier. His friend lived and the man would never know.
Emily left her seat and came to Simon. She slipped her arm through his and tried to turn his attention. “Simon, come sit down. If Edward wants him delivered to London, he needs to be unharmed.”
“You said you would not interfere and you will not. Sit.” Simon jerked his arm from her.
Afraid Simon might hit Emily, Roger redirected his anger. “If I am the one who challenged your friend, I did so out of loyalty to my country. You were on French soil, uninvited, and without good cause. I did what you would’ve were the situation reversed. Your friend was my enemy.”
Emily hadn’t moved in spite of Simon’s order. “Simon, losing a friend hurts. But it was war. Would you hate him for his loyalty to his king?”
Simon didn’t respond. He turned and with a hand to her lower back propelled her back to the door. “Go and find Harold. Tell him to report here. You’re not to return. Busy yourself elsewhere.”
“What are your going to do?” There was panic in her eyes and Roger feared she might run to him in an effort to protect him. Nothing good could come of her apparent willingness to defend the enemy.
“Emily. What transpires between men is not your concern. He is our prisoner and will remain such until his story is confirmed and we receive ransom for his freedom. Or, should his tale prove a lie, we will try him and execute him as a spy.”
“Simon is right, Emily,” Richard added. “We’ll have Harold arrange for two men to go to London. You needn’t worry about bloodletting. We’re not in the business of torture, even those who’ve killed one of our own. If an execution is necessary, it will be a clean one. Do not fret. Now, run along and find Harold.”
It crossed Roger’s mind they had no intentions of sending a message to London. If they didn’t, it meant a death sentence for him and Oliver and perhaps worse for Electra and Emily. There’d be no escape for them.
****
Simon led Roger back to the dungeon and gave him a hard shove into the cell. “Come here,” Simon ordered Oliver.
“I threatened to kill you,” Roger whispered as Oliver passed him.
Simon tied Oliver’s hands with the same rope used to tie Roger. Perspiration beaded the older man’s brow and Oliver lifted his arm to wipe the sweat away with his shirt sleeve. Simon raised his fist ready to backhand Oliver, probably suspecting the scientist was going to strike him. He dropped his hand seeing the tremble in Oliver’s arm as he bent his head and wiped his face.
Oliver’s questioning didn’t last long, which Roger took for a bad sign. The process should’ve followed a predictable path. Oliver would give his affirmative defense that he was in fear for his life. That threat compelled him to co-operate until he got to a safe place to escape. The defense lends itself to a lengthy effort where the interrogators pose questions worded differently, cloaked in hidden innuendo, and incriminating, if answered wrong.
Roger waited for the guard who brought Oliver back to free the pale-faced scientist of the rope they’d bound him with and leave.
“What happened up there?” Roger asked when the guard was out of earshot. “They couldn’t have asked you much.”
Oliver slid down the cell’s rear wall and sank like a wet sack on the ground. “I told them you came upon me while I slept. I said I was in the woods near Portishead. I told them what you said about threatening me and that I feared for my life. That was the only reason I helped you. They asked if you ever spoke of your plans or why you were in England, but I said you hadn’t.”
“Did they look like they believed you?”
“No,” Oliver said. He closed his eyes and leaned back so his head rested on the wall. “They just called for a guard to take me away.”
“Was Emily there by chance?”
“No.”
Roger didn’t think the Simon fellow would relent and let her sit in on the questioning, but it was worth asking.
“You didn’t by any chance see Electra when you went to and fro?”
Oliver shook his head.
“Something is wrong. I can tell.” Roger stood. “Something has happened to her. What if we came too late and she’s dead?”
Roger splashed water on his face, trying to collect his thoughts, trying to come up with some means of learning the truth. Nothing. He yanked the water bucket from the wall and hurled it against the cell door. Splintered wood flew in every direction. Spilled water soaked the dirt floor. “It’s my fault. I never should’ve left them out of my sight that day.”
He turned at movement in his peripheral vision. Emily came into view. She ran to the cell door. “I can’t believe you’re here. You must’ve found a way through the time portal. Can we get back?”
Roger rushed toward her. “Where’s Electra? Why hasn’t she shown herself? Is she hurt? Is she alright? Talk to me.”
“I will if you give me a chance. It’s quite the mess,” she said, noting the broken pail. “Electra is fine. At least she was a day ago. She left with Prince Edward. They’re en route to Wales, Conwy Castle to be exact.”
Relieved, Roger made the sign of the cross. She lived and remained uninjured so far. “Why would she go with him? Did he force her to...to do anything against her will?”
“Yes and no. He ordered her to come with him as his chief cook, but he didn’t violate her sexually, if that’s your concern. From what I saw of him, he was a gentleman the entire time here. You didn’t answer me. We can get back now, right?”
“No, not for certain. It’s a long story.” Roger turned to Oliver who had come over. “Do you know where this Conwy Castle is?”
Oliver nodded. “It’s in Northern Wales. It’s a massive fortress, not yet a century old and with elaborate defenses. Even if we manage to get out of here, the journey to Conwy will be no easy task. It’s over a hundred miles.”
Roger did a fast calculation. He was several inches taller than Oliver with longer legs. Plus, Oliver’s age factored in. Roger would make much better time alone but he couldn’t in good conscience leave him behind. That’s if their captors released them both, a slim prospect based on Oliver’s interrogation. If he was ransomed quickly and released this month, he’d have fifteen hours of daylight, sixteen if released in June. Alone, he’d push himself. Four miles an hour, he’d make sixty miles a day. With Oliver, he’d have to take the trip slower. He couldn’t risk giving Oliver a heart attack en route. They’d reach Northern Wales in three days, if all went without a hitch and they had flat terrain. Four or five days was more realistic.
“How did she act when the Prince ordered her to come with him?” Roger asked. “She’s an excellent cook, but he must already have one. Why her too?”
“She begged to stay here with me, of course. Apparently, he has a sensitive stomach and suffers pain off and on. She prepared meals that pleased him and didn’t aggravate his condition.”
How could she not foresee this might be the result? “What was she thinking? Common sense should tell her if you help a powerful man, he’s going to keep you around. Mon Dieu. The nightmare grows.”
“Come on, Roger. You know she didn’t think this would happen. She cooked like she normally does.”
“I know.” He wasn’t mad at Electra. He was mad at himself for not watching over her better, mad at the circumstance they were in, mad at himself for not forbidding Oliver to join him. She just happened to be collateral damage from his anger and frustration.
“Did Simon or Richard say whether they truly intend to ransom me?”
“They are. Harold’s arranging the party going to London now.”
A scrap of good news.
“And me? Did you hear what they thought of my story?” Oliver asked.
She took a deep breath, the kind you take when you’re about to deliver bad news. “They think it’s dodgy. But...they haven’t said anything to indicate they mean to do you harm. Do you want me to see if I can get more info from Simon?”
“What information do you seek from me?”
Emily spun toward the voice. “Simon...where did you come from?”
“Ugh, of all people, Simon had to catch her,” Roger said low for only Oliver to hear.
“What information? Step away from the cell door.” Simon tugged on her arm, forcing her back a few feet.
Emily mouth opened but no sound came out.
“I asked about my ransom,” Roger said. “I asked if she knew whether you meant, in truth, to follow up. I also asked if she heard your feelings on poor Oliver here. First, I put the fear of God in him and the interrogation has added to his terror.”
“We told you we’d send word to London. No ransom request will be made until we verify your story. You needn’t confirm with Emily. As for this man—” he tipped his head toward Oliver. “he was caught consorting with the enemy. Whether it was with cause is yet to be determine. When we decide, he’ll learn his fate.” He turned to Emily. “Do not think to play a sly game with me. If questions by anyone are put to you, you are to direct them to me or Richard. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Why are you here in the first place?” Simon asked.
Roger couldn’t help her with the answer. Not to this question. Think fast, Em. Make the reason logical.
She didn’t stumble for an answer but immediately replied, “The one called Oliver is an old man. I felt sorry for him. He looked so scared when he went into Richard’s chamber. I wanted to check on how he fared.”
Good girl, Roger thought. It was a suitable answer coming from a young woman.
“Ask me next time. This is no place for a lady. Let’s go.”
“They need another water bucket.” Emily pointed to the shattered remains.
Simon glanced at the mess and up at Roger. “Your doing, no doubt.” He grabbed another bucket from a hook and filled it. “Wait for me by the entry,” he told Emily. “I don’t want you near the prisoners.”
Catching Roger’s eye, she gave the slightest shrug and a sympathetic grimace.
After she left, Simon said, “Step to the rear of the cell.” He waited for Roger and Oliver to move and then took out a dagger and held it ready, while he opened the door and dropped the bucket down. “Destroy this one and you’ll get no more. You’ll drink your piss.”