Conwy, Wales
Roger and Oliver spent the day watching the castle from a nearby hill. They had a good view of the barbican and road into the town, but only had a limited view of one corner of the bailey with little chance of getting a glimpse of Electra there. If she was still at Conwy, sooner or later she’d go into the town or so Roger hoped. That’s if the prince trusted her outside the castle walls.
Typical castle sounds traveled to where they were. The voices of knights laughing or calling out to squires. The constant hammering of the blacksmith was accompanied by the barking of the hounds freed from the confines of the kennels. The occasional woman’s voice had Roger scrambling to the top of a tree stump. The stump gave him a slightly better visual of the courtyard, but he was desperate for any bit of help. The women’s voices were those of strangers, but he thought they might be kitchen staff and might bring Electra out. By nightfall they hadn’t spotted her. All the traffic in and out was tradesmen coming and going.
“I’ve an idea,” Roger said, seeing the last delivery cart, a beer wagon, leaving. “If we don’t see her by tomorrow evening, we will approach one of these merchants and offer to help. I can’t see any other way to let her know we’re here. The prince’s men have the castle buttoned up tight. I’ve looked and looked but can’t see any weak spots to even attempt to sneak inside.”
“I told you this was one of the strongest fortresses built.” Oliver stretched his arms up high and then bent, touching his toes with his fingertips. “My back is killing me. Between the dirt floor of the dungeon and sleeping on the ground now, it’s a pisser. Aren’t you in agony?”
“Some. But remember I have spent months at a time sleeping on the ground. Every time your army invaded France, I left the comfort of my home to campaign with the King. He and the higher-ranking nobles advising John slept in tents, but most of us slept outside. It never grew easier.”
Oliver grunted and sat with his back against the stump for support. “As for your idea, how do we convince a tradesman to let us help? Most don’t have money to pay for workers.”
“We offer to work for meals, which is handy considering we’ve little money for food. They have homes and wives. We ask them to spare us a bowl of whatever they have, and if possible, a spot in their barn loft to sleep at night. That should relieve your back of some pain. At least you’ll have a bed of hay.”
“Who do you wish to approach first?”
“The brewer. The one who delivered the barrels today had a rough time. From what I could see and the way he moved, he’s not young. It looks like his strength isn’t what it used to be. I’ll bet I’ve ten, maybe fifteen years on him, not to mention I’m sure I’m inches taller and know I weigh more.” Roger gestured palm out and laughed. “You, on the other hand, will be a tougher sell.”
“I can’t help the hair. I went grey in my twenties.”
“Your beard and brows as well?” Roger dodged the stone Oliver threw.
Oliver rose and sat on a boulder a short distance away, his gaze fixed on the water. Roger learned early on his friend would find a place to be alone when he needed to quietly think things through. After a long minute he said, “I’ll be fine not speaking Welsh. Because of the King’s garrison here, most of the townsfolk speak English, but what if the brewer speaks to you? I’ve heard you try to fake an English accent. Dreadful.”
“I have no illusions,” Roger said, going to Oliver. “I wouldn’t try to converse with anyone. We’ll tell people I’m a deaf mute. It has a two-fold benefit. I won’t have to talk and they’ll speak freely around me. I won’t understand the locals, but I’ll know what the English speakers are saying. I might hear something useful about Electra.”
“Why not? We’ve no other options at the moment.”
Roger didn’t try to discuss what he’d do if he saw Electra and she saw him. It’s not like he could talk to her if everyone thought him a mute. Unless something came to him, he’d rely on her cleverness to let him know where they could meet.
“I’m starved. Let’s find a tavern and eat.” Roger gave Oliver a hand up. “What was that stew Annie gave us? She had a name for it.”
“Cawl.”
“Spell it.”
“C-A-W-L. My mum used to call stew like that kitchen sink stew. She said you put anything you have on hand in it. All but the kitchen sink.”
“Tasty dish. Filling. I could go for more.”
“Every tavern here will serve it. Is there enough coin to stay at a tavern or inn tonight?”
Such cheer in Oliver’s voice, like he believed if he said it in a lighthearted way, the answer would be what he wanted to hear. Roger hated raining on the man’s parade. “Until we find work, you have to choose between your back or your belly.”
“Bloody hell. When...if we get home, I’m going to buy the most expensive memory foam mattress around, a king-sized one. I’m going roll, and roll, and to roll on it like a pig in poop. I’m not leaving it for a week. There’s a lovely divorced secretary who works in the university’s administrative office. I’ll do my best to charm her into bringing me meals and drink. If she’s amenable, perhaps a massage every day I’m abed.”
“What kind of massage? An—oh-my-aching-muscles one or the happy ending kind?”
“I’ll play it by ear.”
****
As they approached the brewer, Roger’s physical assessment of the man from a distance turned out dead accurate. Probably in his mid-fifties, old for the time, his weathered face showed his age. Deep creases scored his forehead and the corners of his mouth, lines fanned out from his eyes to his temple. Thin with a pot belly and stoop-shouldered from hard labor, in his youth the short, man might’ve been broad-chested with powerful arms.
Oliver and Roger had waited for the man outside a tavern within the walled town. They’d walked the protected area before they did and noted the tavern and inn locations where he might make deliveries after he finished at the castle. They saw no other beer wagons, which, if they guessed right, meant the brewer was the only one who served the local people. Roger thought that worked in their favor. If true, based on his observation of the man’s struggle with his heavy barrels, he’d welcome two able-bodied men.
“Hello. I’m Oliver Gordon and my friend here is, Roger Marchand,” Oliver said, introducing themselves to the brewer.
Wet coughing interrupted the man’s response to Oliver. The hacking slowed enough to give the man a chance to loudly clear his throat and spit in Roger’s direction. Roger managed to sidestep out of the green slime’s line of fire. If he wasn’t on a desperate quest and didn’t need the man’s help, he’d knock the disgusting brewer on his butt. It didn’t matter whether the man had intended to strike him with the wet wad or not.
After a couple more wet coughs, the brewer said, “Why do I care who you are?”
“My friend and I thought you could use another strong set of arms. As you can see, Roger is powerfully built and younger than you.”
The man eyed Roger’s upper body then turned his attention back to Oliver and eyed him up and down. “That one is as you say.” He tipped his head toward Roger. “But you’re not one I’d call strapping. What am I supposed to do with you?”
“I’m not as strong as Roger here, but you and I working together are.”
The brewer’s gaze bounced between the two of them and he snorted a revolting snot bubble that drew Roger’s reluctant focus for the fraction of a second before it popped.
“Best move along. I’ve no coin for paid labor.” He turned his back to Roger and Oliver and checked the tightness of the rope across the wagon’s gate.
“We don’t ask for coin. We will work to share whatever meal you’re having and a spot in your barn to sleep at night.”
The brewer stopped his safety check and faced Roger and Oliver again. “You think you can handle one of these barrels by yourself?”
Roger said nothing. He couldn’t lift a full barrel off the wagon. He didn’t know anyone capable of doing that. He could leverage it off the bed of the dray and onto the ground. From there, he’d roll it to wherever it had to go. Both jobs the brewer struggled to do.
He remained silent, maintaining his deaf and dumb act. Oliver stepped in front of Roger and made different symbols with his fingers in an adlibbed faked sign language. Far as Roger could tell, it bore no resemblance to actual sign language. It looked like a weird marrying of rapper gang signs and the slapstick language used by the Three Stooges. Roger bit his lower lip to keep a straight face.
“What are you doing?” the brewer asked.
“It’s a system of communication my friend and I developed.”
“Why doesn’t he speak for himself? He has a tongue, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he has a tongue, but he’s deaf and cannot speak.”
The man folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wagon’s sideboard, watching Oliver finger-wiggle nonsense. He stopped after a respectable amount of time. Whether it was close to how long signing took for real, Roger didn’t know. They only had to fool the brewer. Oliver gestured open-handed and Roger took that for his cue to respond.
He nodded.
“What did you say?” the brewer asked.
“I asked if he was sure he could move the barrels wherever you wished. He is.”
The information was met with silence. Oliver shot Roger a worried look. Roger just shrugged. He had no idea what to make of the silence. He thought it had to mean the man wasn’t interested. He started to walk away but Oliver stopped him and Roger turned around.
The brewer removed three tankards from under the cart’s bench seat. He set them on the edge of the step-up at the side of the bench and then went to the rear of the wagon. It took three failed attempts before he climbed slowly and awkwardly onto the bed.
“Hand me those tankards,” he told Oliver.
Oliver lifted them up and the man filled all three with beer from the back barrel then handed them to Oliver.
“My name is John,” the brewer said and lowered himself to the ground. “I can use the help. You’ll have ample space to sleep in my barn loft and food in your belly while you work.” He took a long pull of beer, looked Roger over and said, “My nephew is strong as an ox like your friend looks to be and as big an oaf, too. He’s hears but doesn’t listen. Sadly, he does speak.”
****
Oliver shared the bench with John, while Roger was relegated to sitting with the barrels. They spent two days delivering to surrounding villages. Finally, at the end of the second day, Oliver learned deliveries to the castle were twice weekly. One was due the next day.
That morning the wagon rumbled across the stone road that led directly from the walled town into the castle bailey. The short ride gave Roger a close-up view of the fortifications. It reconfirmed what he already concluded: no weak spots existed, not on this side of the castle. He’d wondered if the foundations and supports for the suspension bridge that served as a crossing over the estuary might be a better choice. They might offer footholds in the stone as well as blind spots. His discouraging, limited view of the bridge revealed an attempt to enter was futile. Edward’s architect had insured that multiple checkpoints at each end of the bridge provided the guards a clear line of sight.
He had to give credit where credit was due. The Prince’s great grandfather certainly knew how to build an impregnable structure. Momentary peevishness shot through him at how this castle showed his chateau as sorely lacking.
As they crossed into the bailey, Roger stood and scanned every corner of the courtyard, searching every female face for Electra. He jumped to the ground before the dray stopped completely. Several people came from the keep to greet John. After a brief conversation with a high ranking staff member, based on the man’s better clothing, John joined Roger and Oliver who waited for his orders.
“The castle wants all we have,” John said. “Tell Roger to take them to the storage room at the rear of the kitchen. There will be a servant to show him where it is.”
Roger unloaded quickly. If Electra was on the grounds, she’d likely be in the kitchen. If he saw her, he only needed to get her attention.
He rounded the corner tower on the southwest side of the castle when a servant intercepted him and waved him to the storage room. The close proximity to the kitchen didn’t help. He couldn’t see inside. The servant girl left him alone in the storage area. Roger hung back, hiding in the shadow of the tower straining to hear Electra’s voice. He stayed hidden as long as he could without drawing attention when she came outside. A cluster of servant girls surrounded her and the group went in the opposite direction, into a vegetable garden.
He had to take a chance, had to at least let her see him. He started toward the garden just as Oliver and John came round the tower pushing and rolling a barrel. “Tell him to get back to work,” John told Oliver.
Oliver gave Roger a shove on the shoulder and jerked his thumb in the direction of the wagon. He had no choice but to return to the bailey and keep unloading.
He didn’t see Electra again.
****
“What a relief to know she’s still here,” Roger said. Worry the Prince sent her somewhere else had hung in the back of his mind. One trouble gone but the remaining problems of rescuing her loomed like the heads of a hydra. First hydra head had been getting back to where she was in time. Done. Second head: finding where she and Emily were, praying it was close. Done. Third head: release from custody at Elysian Fields. Fourth head: working his way to Wales. Fifth head: confirming she was still at Conwy. He’d come to the sixth head: figuring a way to escape with her when she was being kept in an impossible to penetrate castle. He’d deal with hydra head seven, eight, and nine once he got her away from Conwy. And there’d no doubt be a seven, eight, and nine.
“We’re bound to see her in the town. Sooner or later, she’ll come to the market to shop.”
One of the imminent hydra heads. “They’ll never let her come alone. Too dangerous.”
“Since you’ve not discussed a plan with me for when that happens, I guess it’s safe to say, you haven’t one.”
The truth in the observation shamed Roger. What sort of man fails to find any path to save the one he loves? He tossed back the rest of the beer from their evening meal and got to his feet. He grabbed the curry comb and brush from a hook on the wall and went into Chuff’s stall.
John had spared no expense and owned a fine shire horse in Chuff. The animal stood seventeen hands high and weighed close to twenty-four hundred pounds by Roger’s estimate. The stallion’s hooves were healthy. Roger lifted his lip. Chuff still had some milk teeth but incisors had grown in, which put him about two-and-a-half, or three years of age. His Conquerant was six. He missed the destrier. Alex promised to exercise the fiery horse. Dickie, the stable manager’s son offered, but Roger didn’t trust his ability to handle him. Alex had expert experience and the strength needed for a large, high-spirited horse.
“I know how heavily everything is weighing on you,” Oliver said. “I can sense how you’re beating yourself up inside. Keeping the worry and blame bottled up is unhealthy. I’ve a willing ear for all that troubles you.”
Roger brushed the day’s dust off Chuff, then curried away shed hair from his coat. He vigorously brushed the stallion again, paying special attention to the feathery feet, mane and tail.
Oliver came over. “Roger—”
Roger tugged on Oliver’s arm and pulled him away. “Don’t stand behind the horse. It’s dangerous.”
“You’re not going to talk, are you?”
“Nothing to say.”
“All right, then. I’ll leave off the subject,” Oliver said, stroking Chuff’s neck. “Chuff is a funny name for a horse, isn’t it?”
Roger had no clue what the name meant to John but what did it matter? “Yes.” He stepped from the stall. “You coming out?”
Oliver went straight to the loft’s ladder from the stall. “Tomorrow’s another day, Roger. Try to get some sleep.”