Charlie was thrown into a tiny cell with such force that he ended up in an untidy heap on the flagstone floor, slumped against the opposite wall. The repulsively fat and dirty jailer who had thrown him in let out a gargling, phlegm filled laugh followed by a roaring belch that filled the air around him with the aroma of partially digested meat and onions. Then he hawked up a mouthful of something horrible from his throat and spat it out at Charlie. Charlie had recovered enough to dodge the incoming pellet of spit, phlegm, onion and meat fragments as it splattered into the wall next to his face.
“You’ll be in here a while, young pup,” snarled the jailer. “Make yourself comfortable. We change the straw every year and you’ll be fed whenever I remember. You will next speak to someone when the Sir Robert decides, but don’t hold your breath while you wait.”
He let out a belch filled rattling laugh and scratched vigorously at his huge dirty belly that spilled out over his leather leggings. Then he jangled the huge bunch of iron keys that he carried, as if to taunt Charlie; he ducked down through the doorway and left the cell, slamming the thick oak door shut behind him. Charlie heard a heavy bolt slide closed on the other side and then a key turn in the lock and he slumped down further, completely beaten, tired and feeling more alone than he had ever felt before in his short life. What would happen now? He expected to die in this hideous little stone room.
He was not sure how he had got to this place, wherever this “place” was. He was even less sure of what was going to become of him. The last thing he could remember was the conversation with the nobleman that he had overheard conspiring with Longhaired Nick and then-nothing. He assumed that the jailer had referred to Sir Robert of Gloucester, half
brother of Matilda, and that was the man who had abducted him. It all started to fit together now; Longhaired Nick was working as a spy for Sir Robert of Gloucester, Sir Robert was in league with Sir Richard Baldock and they both were supporting Matilda in her effort to overthrow King Stephen. Now they had a plan to kidnap the king, when he would be the least guarded. Charlie knew he had to take action and warn Sir Geoffrey-but how? His one and only chance had been thwarted when Longhaired Nick had caught him and there seemed to be no way of ever leaving this grim place. Once again a wave of helplessness and hopelessness crashed over him. He had a crushing headache.
This, he assumed, was because Longhaired Nick had hit him over the head with something very hard. He gingerly felt the back of his head and sure enough there was a lump the size of a small egg and he also felt a crustiness that he guessed was a clot of dried blood. He had regained consciousness as he was being manhandled down the set of stone steps that led to the cell. Initially, he had struggled but the jailer had held him firmly and then thrown him in here, into this cold, damp and stinking prison. Charlie ran his hand through his hair and felt how greasy it was. He had not washed it in weeks and although he had tried to maintain his personal hygiene it had been a losing battle. He realised with a start that he had not seen his own reflection in as long and had no idea how he looked. Rough as old boots, he imagined.
The edifice of Charlie’s heroic resolve cracked just a little; he felt the pressure of tears behind his eyes and he started to feel desperately sorry for himself. All this time he had displayed strength of character, bravery and resourcefulness but he was drained of these personal resources and was starting to remember that he was, after all, just a fourteen year old boy. He was alone in an alien time and place with nothing to comfort him except his own thoughts and memories. He really wanted to see his mother and hear her loving, patient voice. He wanted the comfort of his own bed, he wanted the things he knew and drew comfort from, and he wanted Sugar Puffs and a cup of tea. Most of all though, he wanted a really hot bath; the grime of medieval England was clinging to him like a second skin and the cleaner he tried to keep himself the more dirty he felt. But then, as suddenly as he had begun feeling sorry for himself, he snapped out of it. “Charlie Watts,” he said to himself, “shape up and think
this through. You need to find some way out of here and you need to reach Sir Geoffrey and tell him about the plot to kidnap the king.”
It felt good to hear a voice, even if it was his own, and he forced the salty tears back where they belonged. He started to assess the situation more like the Charlie Watts that had survived, so far, being thrown back nearly a thousand years in time.
Now that the door to the cell was closed it was almost pitch black but he was saved by a rusty grate in the ceiling that threw in some dim moon-like light which landed, like a misty grey puddle, on the floor of the dungeon. He could not see the source of the light but he was grateful for it. He looked around and saw that the cell was about four metres long, ten metres wide and about four metres high. It was completely bare save for a wooden pail in the corner and a narrow stone bench that ran along the rear wall. There was straw on the floor and he could tell it had been there a long time, it was damp and smelled musty and was probably crawling with any number of bugs.
He picked himself up off the floor and began to systematically investigate his surroundings. He moved around the cell running his hands over the walls-the close fitting stones felt cold and completely solid. He studied the heavy wooden door in minute detail. There appeared to be no way of opening it from the inside and it was gradually dawning on Charlie that for all his bravado he was in a situation from which there was simply no escape. His mind suddenly raced back to the brief interrogation by his abductor, Sir Robert, and the word “torture” clattered ominously around in his brain. Charlie knew that he would offer no resistance if they decided to do horrifying things to him; his mind filled with images of bodies pulled apart on racks, red hot pokers applied to bare flesh and the screams of men undergoing the most unimaginable pain. Rather than let these overwhelm and crush him, Charlie renewed his resolve. There had to be a way out. Again he checked his surroundings and yet again he found nothing upon which he could build a plan for escape.
He slumped down on the stone bench and the tears started to come again, not tears of fear or loneliness, but of utter frustration. He knew when he was beaten. He could hear his own crying and tried desperately to be quiet, to keep the sobbing to himself, he thought he sounded just like a girl. Then he realised that in actual fact he was not crying, but, curiously, he could hear a girl who was.