CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

 

The Wolf opened his eyes slowly, careful not to move his lids more than the fraction needed to establish his surroundings. His body ached in a thousand places. He had not moved from where he had been thrown, hours ago, into the dank and musty corner of a stone cell, but he knew by the cautious flexing and testing of muscles in his legs, arms, and torso, that he was one massive bruise. He did not think any bones were broken, but there was evidence aplenty of fresh blood on the mouldy rushes beneath him. He could smell it, and he could taste it on a tongue that was as swollen and furry as the rats who crawled boldly from one fetid cell to the next, sniffing after putrefaction.

As near as he could remember, he was in the donjon beneath the main keep. Even though it had been many years since he had explored here as a child, he thought he recognized the steep, narrow flight of steps that curved around the forty-foot column of block and mortar that supported the floor above. A deep and cavernous chamber of unthinkable horrors, there were cells hewn out of the base of the stone walls, each one deep enough to hold a single man, tall enough to let him sit if he had the strength to do so. Ankles and wrists were chained to thick iron rings embedded in the mortar. Water dripped constantly into slimy black pools on the floor, the echo hollow and prolonged to give each drop a lifespan of several shivering seconds. Rats crouched in the shadows, tearing and chewing chunks of spongy matter that did not bear thinking about. Other dark, huddled creatures who might once have been men, groaned in their private hells, never loud enough to draw the attention of the guards, never quietly enough to tempt death.

The ceiling was lost in the gloom of arched beams, most of them coated in damp and decay. When the huge fire pit below was blazing, the smoke floated up and hung there like a thick layer of yellow cream, an unshifting mass whose only escape was time and the odd, errant draft snaking in from the upper corridor.

The fire was a low, paltry thing today, barely hot enough to glow red at the heart. The only irons heated had been the ones applied to the young man strapped on a nearby table. His leg was bare from hip to ankle, and a wound on his thigh had been perfunctorily cauterized to staunch the flow of blood. The lad could not have been brought to the donjon much before the Wolf’s own ignominious arrival, for the stench of burned flesh had been pungent and fresh enough to act like strong vinegar in clearing his addled senses.

The Wolf shifted slightly for a better angle of view, grinding his teeth against the expected darts of pain. There had been no sign of movement from the lad and Lucien might have perceived him to be a corpse if not for the frequent inspections given by the sweating, bulbously grotesque bulk of D’Aeth, the castle’s chief subjugator. As broad as two men, with gleaming, oil-slicked boulders for an upper torso, D’Aeth had obviously been given instructions to keep the boy alive as long as possible. Now and then a flat, square-tipped hand grabbed a fistful of genitals and squeezed until the lad cried out in pain. Satisfied, the squinted, watery eyes peered speculatively into each occupied niche before he returned to where he was working at a low bench in the corner.

Eight other guards were present, six stationed at the bottom of the spiral staircase, two at the top. The six at the bottom were seated at a small wooden table playing at dice. Occasionally one would glance at D’Aeth and wince over a particularly gruesome tool the subjugator was cleaning and sharpening with such dedicated reverence.

The Wolf leaned back and choked back an involuntary groan as the wound at the base of his skull scraped against the stone. The Dragon had caught him with the flat of his sword, saving his neck from a swift detachment from his shoulders, but leaving him with a lump the size of a man’s fist. His armour, surcoat, and mail hauberk had been removed, and if not for other, more pressing concerns to occupy his thoughts, he would have noticed how cold he was, dressed only in an open-throated shirt and torn hose.

One of his main concerns was to hold on to his sanity. Pain was his biggest enemy at the moment, and he knew he had to conquer and master each individual wave of agony before he could block it from his mind. To help his concentration, he isolated and identified the incessant dripping sounds, the muffled groans, the scraping whinny of tools and whetstone, the furtive scuffling of rats in the rushes. He chose one sound and closed his eyes, forcing himself to see past the pain, to envision each drop of water as it formed, swelled, stretched, and finally fell into an inky puddle below. Another drip, another source of pain was numbed. He worked his way through his body like a navigator charting and marking known landfalls, using methods taught to him years ago when he had wept for madness or death to claim him. Now he prayed only for a chance to survive and lay his hands on a sword or a dagger … a bow … anything! Just once more. And just long enough to get within reach of Etienne Wardieu.

A sound that did not fit into the malevolent breathing pattern of the donjon caused the Wolf to open his eyes again. It had only been a fleeting thing, a scrape of cloth where there should have been only air and wafting smoke, but weeks of training his senses to become alerted to misplaced footfalls and snapped twigs in the forest, made him angle himself forward against to see out of his niche.

The weak orange glow from the torches barely lit the cressets they were propped in, much less the vaulted gloom above, but the Wolf stared up into the darkness, waiting for the sound to recur and be identified.

His gray eyes flicked once to the recessed enclave where D’Aeth worked. They scanned briefly past the sentries dicing at the bottom of the stairs, then followed the spiral upward to where a faint smear of light provided the vague outline of the door to the upper corridor. The guards posted there were mere shadows, occasionally clinking a bit of armour to prove they had not turned to stone. There would be more guards stationed farther along the corridor, and at every junction of the honeycomb of storerooms and ale cellars that comprised the vast underbelly of the castle keep. A second flight of stairs led up through more guards and emptied into the square, ivy-drenched courtyard where Servanne had first been struck with the enormity of Bloodmoor Keep. From there, one climbed an enclosed pentice to gain entry to the great hall, or passed through low, well-patrolled laneways which led to the kitchens, pantries, and gardens.

The Wolf could see it all with remarkable clarity. Indeed, his knees and shins could recall better than his mind’s eye every stair and endless mile of winding black corridors he had been hauled along during his descent into the lowest level of the labyrinth.

What he could not envision, as he gave up on his unidentified sound and lay back in his cell, was the solemn group of figures dressed in gray robes who were making their way through the upper alleyways into the courtyard.

 

The sentries were in the process of explaining to the lost monks where they had erred in making a turn, when the clanking footsteps of a small patrol approached the court from the direction of the barracks. The captain of the patrol was ill-tempered, declaring he had been interrupted in his evening meal to comply with new orders to double the sentries posted around the main keep. He then demanded to know, in his best Draconian mien, why the guards had left their post and why the court was swarming with a nest of scurvy, lice-ridden acolytes.

The first two sentries should have looked more closely at the face behind the steel nasal, for by the time it occurred to them to question why the captain’s voice sounded odd, there were blades slashing through the darkness, ending their curiosity for all time.

Sir Roger de Chesnai quickly ordered his handful of men to hide the bodies and assume the posts of the dead guards. The “monks” hastened forward, spilling across the courtyard and shedding the cowls that would hamper them in the close confines below. All but one were dressed in leather armour and blue surcoats borrowed from the guards’ barracks on an enterprising raid conducted earlier in the evening.

“That was too easy,” Alaric worried, his neck craned back, his head swiveling to scan the sheer stone walls rising above them. The only windows were high up on the third storey, and on the twin towers that rose above the turreted roofline. Most of the guests would be in the great hall, where the Dragon was undoubtedly reveling in his triumph, but there were guards everywhere and every shadow was suspect.

“Come,” De Chesnai said urgently. “Give me your hands so I can bind them.”

“Loosely, damn you,” Friar muttered, thrusting out his wrists and watching as a length of twine tied them together.

“There must be hundreds of chambers below the keep,” Gil protested in an angry whisper. “How can we possibly search them all?”

“One at a time, if we have to,” De Chesnai grunted. “And a fat lot of good that will do”—he glanced wryly at the longbow she carried slung over her shoulder—“in a place where the longest corridor is half a turn more than the shortest.”

Gil opened her mouth to offer a retort, but staunched it on a warning glare from Alaric. She did not completely trust the knight, nor did she like the idea of using Alaric as bait. It was the only logical way they could hope to gain entry to the cells below, yet it caused a quickening in the blood and a pounding in her heart to see Alaric without sword or armour.

“Christ’s ribs,” spat a disgruntled Robert the Welshman. He had squeezed his broad frame into one of the confiscated surcoats and looked like an overstuffed pasty about to burst its seams.

“Your own fault for swelling to the size of a bullock,” Sparrow hissed from the seat of the makeshift sling suspended from the Welshman’s broad shoulders. A dwarf would have been difficult to explain to an alert sentry regardless of his disguise. Dressed in his own forest clothes and riding Robert’s back, Sparrow could pass for just another bulge of muscle … providing he stopped squirming for better balance in the sling.

Mutter and Stutter snickered in unison and adjusted the angle of each other’s helm.

“Ready then?” De Chesnai asked. “We’ll not have a second chance. You, lass, if you are as good a shot as the bishop says, get by my elbow and stay there. Aim for the throat to cut off any sound of alarm.”

“I know full well how to kill Normans,” Gil replied tautly. “See to your own skills, Captain.”

De Chesnai prodded Alaric toward the door. Both men had to duck to clear the archway, then climb down the short flight of steps single file in order to reach the guard’s station below. There, three of De Gournay’s men stood instantly alert, their hands clasped around the hilts of their swords.

“Rest easy lads,” De Chesnai barked gruffly. “Just another bit of amusement for my lord D’Aeth. Caught him trying to empty the kitchens of venison, and right under the prince’s nose.”

The guards chuckled and eased their hands from the swords. A bat of an eye later, one of them was crumpled on the floor, unconscious, and the other two were pressed flat against the wall, their eyes bulging with the pressure of the cold steel blades thrusting into their necks.

“The Black Knight,” De Chesnai asked the closest. “Where is he?”

“Where you will never get to him,” the guard spat.

Sir Roger sighed and shook his head. He gave his hand a jerk and the blade of his knife plunged forward, slicing through cartilage and bone like a cleaver splitting through a joint of mutton. Blood and air bubbled through the gaping wound and, before the guard had finished choking and twitching himself into a tangle on the floor, De Chesnai was approaching the second man and waving Gil aside.

“Now then. I shall ask again. Where is the Black Knight being held?”

“B-b-below,” the guard stammered. “In the main donjon.”

“Lead the way, there’s a good lad. Oh”—he raised the dagger and rested the point on the guard’s cheek, letting him feel the warm wetness of his comrade’s blood—“and if you attempt to cry out a warning, or sound an alarm of any kind, you will feel the bite of this up your buttocks, my friend, and I promise you, the sensation will not be a pleasurable one.”

The guard blinked, swallowed, and nodded jerkily.

“Move,” De Chesnai ordered.

The guard reeled away from the wall and stumbled ahead of them along the dimly lit corridor. De Chesnai, Alaric, and the others were close behind, leaving three of their own men to replace the guards on watch.

Two more posts were broached and cleared, with De Gournay’s men bound and gagged—if they took the suggestion peaceably—or the bodies hidden and the vacancies filled with erstwhile foresters. At the third guardpost, there were four men playing a game with dice and pebbles. Boredom caused one of them to inspect the new prisoner with more care than usual, and to wonder why the sentry from the main post was sweating rivers in the chilly air. He was on the verge of shrugging aside his suspicions when the sling around Robert’s waist snapped, bringing Sparrow down with a yelp of pain.

Gil wasted neither thought nor action, but raised her bow and fired an arrow into the guard’s throat before he could cry out a warning. De Chesnai’s dagger tasted blood again, buried to the hilt in a man’s belly, while Robert accounted for the third and fourth guard by grasping them around the necks and cracking their heads together with enough force to send their eyeballs squirting out of the sockets.

In the sudden eruption of violence, the sentry who had been their hostage darted ahead into the gloom of the corridor. He did not get very far before an iron bolt from Sparrow’s crossbow thumped his flesh like a hatchet striking into wood and sent him sprawling forward into the wall. He grabbed for a chain hanging nearby and tried to use it to hold himself upright, but it was no use, and he slid slowly down onto his knees, his mouth moving in soundless agony.

Alaric discarded the ropes from around his wrists and bent over to arm himself from one of the dead guards. They were standing at a junction where the corridor branched off in two directions, each hazy and poorly lit. The guard had been running toward the one on the left … because it was the closest? … because he knew there was help within reach? … or because he was hoping to lead them away from their true goal?

“In a week,” De Chesnai remarked dryly, “I’ve not yet met one of De Gournay’s paid louts who can claim a brain bigger than a pea. He would have been after saving his own neck, methinks, by giving M’sieur D’Aeth the pleasure of chewing upon ours.”

“To the left then?”

“Aye. The left.”

They did not waste the time to hide the bodies, but ran swiftly along the low-ceilinged corridor, pausing where lit torches marked the entrance to a storeroom. There were no doors and no guards blocking them, and thus were deemed by Friar to be of no importance. After several more sharp turns along a route that took them deeper and deeper beneath the belly of the keep, they were drawn by the smell, rather than the dull light, emanating from a doorway up ahead.

This one was guarded.

Two arrows released simultaneously from Gil’s bow and Sparrow’s harp-shaped arblaster, struck the men-at-arms posted on either side of the iron-grille door, killing them with only the faintest of thuds to mark their passing.

Gil was the first to sidle up to the entryway and edge an eye around the stone frame. When she saw the vast, sunken maw of a pit that yawned beneath her, she recoiled back against the wall again, needing a moment or two to brace herself for a second look.

“Christ’s mercy,” De Chesnai murmured, the bile thickening in his throat at the sight of the hooks and ropes and chains that dangled over tables, benches, and wooden racks stained dark with blood. Iron tongs, pokers, and pincers were suspended like cooking utensils over the fire pit—different sizes for different purposes. Cauldrons of oil and pitch sat cooling beside the grate, steam from the surfaces drifting lazily upward to blend with the sulphurous miasma above.

“I can only see two guards,” Friar said tautly. “But there must be more … listen.”

The sound of voices and the rattle of dice seemed to be coming from around and behind the base of the central column. As much as half of the huge room was effectively cut off from view.

“Alaric!” Gil’s voice, whispered in his ear, urged him to follow her pointed finger to a table almost directly below them. A young boy was stretched out, bound hand and foot in a spread-eagle position. His eyes were open and he was staring directly up at the door, but there was no change in his expression to indicate whether he had seen them or not.

“Eduard,” De Chesnai said unnecessarily. “You were right, Bishop. Tomorrow would have been too late.”

Alaric’s gaze flicked back to the two guards he could see at the bottom of the stairs. They would be easy enough to deal with, but he did not like going in without knowing how many more were inside, out of sight. Nor did he like the size or location of the huge bronze alarm bell. It looked big enough to bring down the walls of Jericho if struck with any force at all. Of equal concern, suddenly, was the chain attached to the bell pull. It climbed all the way up the wall and disappeared into a small, neat hole in the ceiling rafters— undoubtedly connected to another bell located in the soldiers guard station above, and possibly to a third and fourth on storeys higher up.

Alaric stiffened, remembering the guard they had shot back at the junction. He had died reaching for a chain, and the chain had slipped several links before drawing taut in his death grip.

“Christ! The alarm is already given! Gil, Sparrow: the guards!”

The two archers stepped into the doorway and without questioning the order or the unexpected savagery, fired down on the two visible sentries. The arrows both struck the same man an inch apart, and while Sparrow gaped up at Gil and fumbled another bolt from his quiver to rearm his crossbow, Gil swore and nocked another of her longer arrows, catching the second, startled guard squarely in his opened mouth. The cry of warning was strangled short, but given nonetheless and a scramble of heavy boots, chain mail, and the scrape of crossbows being armed reached the top of the stairs.

Alaric and Sir Roger were halfway down the flight of steps when the first guard stepped out from cover and fired his weapon. Sparrow was ready for him, releasing a bolt that pierced De Gournay’s mercenary neatly through the heart. Almost immediately two more guardsmen appeared, one kneeling to shoot, one discriminately diving behind a table the instant his bolt was loosed. Both shots were wild but Gil’s returned fire sent an arrow furrowing halfway up the length of one man’s arm, expending its force in an eruption of bloody tissue at the elbow. The guard screamed and spun sideways with the agony of his shattered arm, landing close enough to the man crouched behind the table to splatter him with gore. The latter wiped away a hot splash that had landed on his cheek and, with his weapon rearmed, fired triumphantly at a much larger, much broader target who leaped down the stairs two at a time, bellowing Welsh oaths on every step.

Sparrow aimed for the guard, but his bolt struck the wooden face of the overturned table. He slung his bow over his shoulder and with a hop and leap that appeared to take him flying out into empty space, he grabbed hold of a crossbeam and swung himself into the jungle of wooden arches. Several more swinging leaps carried him halfway across the ceiling rafters, and while Gil kept the guard pinned effectively behind the table, the little man unslung his bow, nocked a bolt, and settled the matter with a definitive whoop of satisfaction.

Unfortunately the whoop was followed instantly by a yelp of dismay as he lost his balance and felt his remaining bolts fall out of his quiver and clatter to the floor below.

The last pair of guards rushed Alaric and Sir Roger at the bottom of the stairs, their swords glinting in the murky half-light. Alaric disposed of his adversary with a vehement cut and slash, but De Chesnai wheeled his blade again and again, taking pleasure in driving his opponent into a far corner before delivering the death blow.

Mutter and Stutter ran down the steps and, obeying Alaric’s sharp commands, cut the ropes lashing Eduard to the table. They were helping the boy carefully to his feet even as Alaric was answering a summons from the chained occupant of a nearby cell.

“You took your bloody time getting here,” the Wolf said, grinning through the blood and grime on his face.

“There is gratitude for you,” Friar remarked, cursing fluently over the discovery of locks on each of the fetters chaining the Wolf to the wall. “Keys?”

“You want keys?” asked a coarse, gritty voice from the shadows. “Come. Take them from me.”

Alaric whirled around. The bald and glistening, half-naked monument of sinew and muscle—D’Aeth—stood a few paces away, his one fist closed in a crushing grip around Sir Roger’s throat, his other wrapped around the end of a length of heavy chain. De Chesnai’s sword was gone. His eyes bulged and his lips were turning blue, his face was florid and his fingers were scratching desperately at the five-pronged slab of iron D’Aeth called a hand.

“Throw down your sword or this codpiece dies,” D’Aeth snarled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alaric could see Gil creeping slowly down the stairs, but it would take her several seconds to reach the floor of the donjon—several seconds longer than De Chesnai’s neck would bear the strain. Mutter and Stutter had laid aside their weapons to help Eduard to his feet, and Sparrow was somewhere up in the vaulted gloom, but without his quiver of arrows his bow arm was useless.

“Let him go,” Alaric said, laying aside his sword with exaggerated care.

D’Aeth grinned, displaying two rows of teeth filed into wickedly sharp points. He gave Sir Roger’s neck an additional squeeze before flinging the knight aside, then with a sneer of malicious delight, he slashed out with the length of chain. The end snaked across the floor and found Alaric’s ankles; a jerk of the trunklike arm pulled the chain taut and swept Alaric’s feet forward, bringing him crashing to the stone floor.

The Wolf strained against his own chains, but they were anchored well and only caused the iron rings to gouge deeper into the flesh of his wrists. Friar’s head had snapped back in the fall, landing hard on the stone and he was momentarily too dazed to defend himself as the chain curled outward again and cut him across the tops of his thighs. His hose was torn as the links bit into his flesh; blood smeared across the floor as he rolled in agony and tried to avoid the third whiplash of iron.

Mutter and Stutter ran forward, but the direction of the chain was easily changed, slashing them both across the chest and hurling them against the rack that held an assortment of curved pikes, metal starbursts, and clawed pincers. Mutter landed harder than his brother, striking the side of his head against a protruding iron bolt.

Gil rounded the base of the pillar but was so shocked by the sight of Alaric crawling through his own blood, that she released the arrow without allowing for D’Aeth’s reflexes. She saw the shaft streak past his head, killing nothing but a block of wood, and with a cry, she turned the bow in her hands, intending to use it like a club. Once again the chain lashed out and gleefully tore it out of her grasp, the force spinning her brutally into the wall.

Screaming, Alaric dove for his sword the same instant a small shrieking form came sailing down out of nowhere, arms and legs splayed wide to break his fall as he swiped across the path of the charging D’Aeth. Sparrow landed hard, plastered flat against the bulwark of chest muscles, knocking more air out of himself than out of D’Aeth, but before he was swatted aside like an annoying insect, he managed to plant his stingers—two glittering knives—one in each side of D’Aeth’s massive neck.

Alaric was on his feet, the sword gripped in both hands as D’Aeth lunged forward. The first cut barely creased the rock-hard mountain of flesh, the second carved a deep welt of gore from shoulder to ribs, and still he came on. Alaric backed up, hacking and slashing at the grinning monster. He was pressed into the corner, his sword red the full length, and D’Aeth was there in front of him, the chain raised in one hand, a leather-shanked battle-axe in the other. The first swipe of the axe broke Alaric’s sword in half, the second would have sheared his head from his shoulders if both the axe and arm were not halted midstroke by the arcing fury of a steel morning star. The rounded, spiked club tore a swath through flesh and muscle, bone and sinew, opening a raw gash from the top of D’Aeth’s skull to the base of his spine.

D’Aeth’s ugly face registered surprise, then shock, then an incredulous horror as his legs folded beneath him and he pitched forward like a felled tree. He was dead before he struck the ground, a torrent of blood gushing out of the hideous wound, some of it spattering a wall ten feet away.

The morning star was clotted with shreds of flesh and bone right up to the handgrip as Gil sank onto her knees beside Alaric. They were both winded and badly shaken, but there was no time to do more than exchange wry grimaces of pain to assure each other they were not mortally injured. After a moment, Alaric groped at the fallen behemoth’s waist for the ring of iron keys, while Gil went to extricate Sparrow from the tangle of hooks and barbs he had been flung into.

The right key was found and fitted into the padlocks at the Wolf’s wrists and ankles. The two men helped one another to their feet and took toll of the wreckage surrounding them.

De Chesnai was alive, but breathing with difficulty through a partially crushed windpipe. Sparrow was complaining—a good sign that the blood leaking from his arm was not critical. Mutter was dead, the spike still jutting from a small, bloodless hole in his temple. Gil was unharmed but for a few bad bruises and scrapes. Robert the Welshman, forgotten in the general melee, was the second unexpected casualty, a man whose courage and fighting strength they could ill afford to lose. He had been struck in the chest by one of the guards’ bolts, and while not quite dead of his wound, would most certainly be if he tried to move.

Together, Gil and Sparrow propped him more comfortably against the stone cistern, then turned to their leader for guidance.

“We are almost certain an alarm has been sounded,” Alaric advised. He hurriedly explained about the guard and the chain, and added unnecessarily, “Our men will put up a good fight and delay them as long as possible, but they are sure to break through.”

Lucien clenched his fists, still numb from having watched his friends fight and die for him. “The price of vengeance … was too steep this time, I fear.”

“Tell that to your son … and to the Lady Servanne, if and when we find her.”

The burning gray eyes moved slowly to Friar. “What did you say?”

“Lengthy explanations and formal introductions will have to wait for a more prudent moment, but for now—” Alaric nodded toward the trembling but steadfastly upright young squire. “Here is your son: Eduard. Nicolaa de la Haye birthed him, but I trust you will not hold it against him. It seems he gave a good account of himself trying to step between the Dragon and Lady Servanne.”

The Wolf’s eyes flicked up from the wound on Eduard’s thigh and turned to Alaric. “Servanne … you know where she is?”

Friar glanced up at the arched doorway, his neck prickling with an unmistakable warning. “We were, ah, hoping you could tell us.”

“What?”

“According to Biddy, she was taken to something called the eagle’s eyrie. Do you know what it is, or where it is?”

The Wolf frowned. “The eagle’s eyrie? The eagle’s—” A gasp of shock cut the words short. “That bastard! How could he do such a thing to her? I will kill him, by God. I swear I will kill him if it is the last thing I do!”

“Yes, well, we would be more than willing to help you fulfill your vow … providing we solve one small problem.” He gazed pointedly at the stone walls, the crisscross of solid beams overhead, and the single door representing the only way out. “Unless of course, you think we have a good chance to fight our way past a blockade of guards?”

“Was that your plan?”

“My plan was to get us in. Since I did not think we had a hope in hell of succeeding, I must confess, we made no contingency for getting out again.”

The Wolf barely heard him. “The monk’s wall,” he murmured. “I wonder—”

He searched the row of cells until he came to the one he thought served memory best, then crouched in front of it. “The story goes … a monk was once imprisoned down here and used his crucifix to wear away at the mortar in his walls. His cell was next to the shaft of an old well that went dry, and when it rained, he could hear the water leaking down. Mind you, it was a long time ago that I found the loosened stones. They could have been discovered by others since then and resealed.”

The men exchanged a glance, then looked up at the doorway as the sound of fighting grew distinctly clearer.

“We will not know until we look,” Alaric said, plucking one of the torches out of a wall sconce and following the Wolf into the small, slimy cell behind them. At first there was no noticeable difference in the feel or texture of the mortar, but as the Wolf began scraping and scratching the seams around the middle block with one of D’Aeth’s iron pokers, it began to crumble and fall away. In no time at all they were able to shift the stone and drag it forward to the centre of the cell.

The Wolf took the torch and thrust it through the opening. Bits of broken mortar were pushed inward and fell a long way into utter blackness before rewarding the two worried faces with a distant splash of sound. Craning their necks upward, there was nothing to see beyond the glare of the torchlight except for more blackness.

“An enterprising monk,” Alaric muttered. “I presume his bones lie at the bottom somewhere?”

“No. No, he escaped. He escaped up the well and, by God, so shall we. Look there … and there, above!”

Alaric slid his hand up the wall over their heads and felt the step carved into the hard surface. In the flickering torchlight, he could see the shadow of another step above, and another above that until it climbed into darkness.

“The damned fool must have been mad! It would have taken months to cut such a ladder into the stone … years!”

“What else had he to do with his time?”

“True. But where does it lead?”

“Up,” the Wolf said succinctly. “Which is all I care about for the moment.”

They backed out of the cramped cell and hastily explained the escape route to the huddle of wounded men. Gil and Sparrow exchanged a dubious look, but Sparrow, being the smallest and nimblest, agreed to at least see where the ladder went. He was back in a trice, coughing and spitting up dust through an impish grin that stretched ear to ear.

“Never shall I call a monk a fool again for wearing out his skirts in holy pursuits. The ladder leads up to a grate, and the grate covers a hole in the garden overgrown with bushes and hawthorn. An easy climb too, if you think to keep your back braced against the wall as you are going. Easier” he said to Gil, “than clambering up a tree, even with one wing damaged!”

“I will take my chances here, Puck,” Gil said grimly. “I prefer to die with a bow in my hand, thank you, not wedged up some tunnel like a frightened rat.”

Alaric was about to join the argument when three of the Wolf’s men who had been left on guard in the corridors, came staggering through the door. All three were badly wounded and out of arrows. Helped down the stairs, they gasped a warning that De Gournay’s mercenaries were in the cellars and closing fast. There were only three, perhaps four men left between the donjon and the tide of murdering guardsmen, but how long those men could last before they too had to retreat, was anyone’s guess.

“That settles it then; we use the shaft,” Lucien said, and reached to arm himself. A crossbow was thrust into his hand and he found himself staring into eyes as gray and brooding as his own. The boy had gathered the guards’ weapons and quivers of bolts without being ordered to do so, despite the terrible pain of his wound.

“Do you think you can climb, lad?”

“I think so, milord. Yes milord, I can climb.”

“Good. Sparrow, off you go again. Take the boy with you and if you value your scrawny neck, you will not let him fall.”

“Aye, lord, and good luck to you too.”

“Gil—” The Wolf turned to the master archer and the look in his eye warned against any further arguments. “You and Sir Roger are in charge of the wounded men. Use ropes if you have to, but get them up that shaft and yourselves after them.”

“What about Robert?” she asked quietly. “He needs more than ropes, and he cannot make the climb.”

“Robert can bloody take care o’ himself,” the Welshman gnashed through his teeth. “I need no flame-topped wench keening after me. Now go! Do as the laird says, or by the saints, I’ll not only show ye how swift I can climb, but I’ll do it kicking yer backside up ahead of me!”

When Gil had moved away, the Wolf dropped onto his knee beside the burly Welshman. “Robert—”

“Do not trouble yerself, laird. I am almost dead now, and surely would be long afore ye could think of a way to winch me hand over heel up a wee tunnel. At least here, I can still be of some use to ye. Give me weapons—arm as many of the poxy crossbows as ye can set beside me, an’ I’ll keep the bastards honest as long as I can.”

Lucien grasped the Welshman’s big paw of a hand. “You have been a loyal friend, Robert. I have envied you your courage and your laughter, and have been honoured to have you fight by my side.”

“Bah! The honour was mine in knowing there are still men who fight for what is good an’ just. As for courage—ye have all that ye need and more … and still more waiting for ye in some godforsaken place called the eagle’s eyrie. Save her, laird. She’ll help ye laugh again, see if she does not.”

Alaric had come up beside them and his attention was split between listening to their exchange and listening to the sudden, ominous silence coming from the top of the stairs.

“I do not think there will be any others joining us,” he said tautly as the Wolf joined him in staring up at the dimly lit archway.

“Did you get the wounded away?”

“Aye. Sir Roger argued to remain behind, but I threatened to throttle him myself if he did not start climbing. Lucien … the other prisoners cannot be moved. Most of them … have no hands or feet.”

The Wolf’s gaze followed Alaric’s to the row of low, dark cells that lined the walls. For a long moment he stood in stony silence, his face expressionless, yet more ominous than a gathering storm.

“I put the worst of them out of their misery,” Alaric said softly. “That leaves only the three of us and—” He tilted his head meaningfully toward the workbench where Stutter sat cradling his brother’s head to his heart.

“Go,” the Wolf said tersely. “We will be right behind.”

“God be with you, Robert,” Alaric said quickly, touching the brave man’s shoulder before he too was gone.

“Stutter, you are next. Off you go.”

“I … cannot leave Oswald,” said the desolate twin. He lifted a face that was wet with tears and appealed to Lucien forlornly. “I would not know what to do without him.”

“You could live,” the Wolf insisted. “It is not a new or uncommon notion, and I am certain your brother would have wished it.”

“No.” Stutter shook his head sadly. “We made a pact, my lord. To live and die together. We swore it.”

“Well … unswear it, damn you, and get into the shaft. We can argue honour later.”

“My lord … no. Even if I wanted to …” He glanced pointedly at his leg and the Wolf felt a further sinking in his breast as he realized the blood pooled on the floor was not Mutter’s. Stutter’s leg had been broken in the fight; he had been thrown by D’Aeth and had landed awkwardly on the stone, twisting his leg and breaking it with enough force to drive the splintered ends of the bone through the flesh.

“Oh God,” the Wolf murmured, sitting heavily on the edge of the bench.

Stutter shook his head. “You must not linger any longer to worry over us, my lord. Robert and I … we shall keep one another company, and together … we shall endeavour to keep the bastards honest. I am not nearly as good a shot as Robert, but I can keep the bows armed … and besides, you need someone to push the stones back into place behind you, or the Dragon’s men will just climb up after you. This way, perhaps they will be confused enough to have to think on it a while.”

“The lad speaks sense,” Robert admitted. “It would work in your favour for the bastards to find no answers here. And they’ll not find any, laird, not live ones. That I promise ye.”

Lucien Wardieu looked from Robert to Stutter, and it was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, to nod assent. “If I thought there was the slightest chance—”

“There is no chance for us, laird, an’ well we know it. But there is a chance for you to lead the rest o’ the men to safety, and by God, I’ll not be the reason any more good men give their lives! Go now, laird, and God be with you.”

“God be with you,” said the Wolf, clasping hands in a reluctant farewell.

He helped Stutter to the door of the cell and squeezed himself through the hole in the wall. He stood there in the darkness, clinging to the damp stones, listening to the harsh scrape of the blocks being nudged and cajoled back into place. His heart was pounding in his chest and his brow was clammy cold. The taste of rage was strong and bitter in his mouth—rage at his own helplessness; rage over the loss of the valiant men they were leaving behind.