It seemed hours before the outer door, at the far end of the corridor, opened and let a draught of cold air blow beneath the door of the cell in which the prisoners lay.
Alys stirred, then woke. ‘Where am I?’ she said, her voice sounding stronger now.
‘Be quiet, sister,’ answered Geoffrey. ‘Be still and stay where you are, out of danger. It may be that we shall see Beauregard once more—if only the luck stays with us!’
He heard her gasp with amazement in the darkness, then he had no time to think any more of his sister, for footsteps sounded along the corridor and a thin line of light showed beneath the door.
As the key turned in the lock and the hinges began to creak, Geoffrey pressed himself against the wall at one side, while Brother Gerard waited at the other.
‘Strike hard and may God guide your fist!’ whispered the priest.
Geoffrey grinned back, his legs beginning to tremble with excitement. Then the door was flung open and the dim light of the taper streamed into the cell.
Even as the man in the yellow gown passed him, Geoffrey stepped forward and smote the gaoler upon the nape of his bowed neck with all his force. The man sank to his knees and then to his face, like a felled ox. His rushlight lay burning on the ground. Inside the cell there were sounds of heavy blows being struck, and of bodies rolling this way and that.
Geoffrey was puzzled by two things; first that the old man in the yellow gown should be so strong, and secondly that he did not shout out for help.
But there was no time for idle speculations of this sort. The boy ran into the cell just as the man in the yellow gown had caught Brother Gerard round the waist and was about to fling him down. The boy struck once again. The shock of the blow jarred back up his arm and almost caused him to cry out in pain.
Then the man in the yellow gown gave a grunt like an enraged bear, but did not fall.
Instead, he swore a frightful oath and swung round to meet his new attacker. Even in the heat of the moment, Geoffrey realised that the language this man had spoken was French, not Arabic.
Moreover, as the man’s hood fell back and his features were illumined briefly by the fitful glare of the rushlight, Geoffrey saw, with a start of mingled apprehension and joy, that he was face to face with his father’s oldest friend, the warrior, Bertrand de Gisors!