Rose of Hope (54 page)

His eyes found Roana, who had come into the hall after his retirement to the hoarding room. “I would have you accompany her, my lady. You will go now.”

Roana nodded and slipped away to the bower she shared with Trifine to make herself ready.

“Fallard?” Ysane’s voice was a whisper.

“Obey me, Ysane.”

The steel that underscored his words left no room for argument. He made no further attempt to ease the worry in her eyes.

She left and returned to the hall moments later, attaching her headrail as she came. He took the gloves she carried. Roana, duty basket in hand, linked arms with her and they went together out the great doors as Trifine appeared from the southeast tower, dragging a smirking Leda.

Halting before his captain, Trifine hauled the slave in front of him. The First wrapped his fingers around a fistful of her short hair and pulled back her head so she was forced to meet Fallard’s eyes.

“I know you made several attempts to slay my wife.” Fallard made his voice bitter as ice. “You will now confess, and tell me also of the plans of your lover, Ruald. I would have all that you know.”

Leda’s complacency slipped a notch.

Fallard gave her merit for courage as she kept silent and tried to stare him down, but he had no time to waste. “I
know
, slave. I know what you have done. I offer you one last chance. Tell me now, all you know of the activities of the rebels around London, of the plans to attack this hall, of the waylaying of our messages and of your murderous actions, and mayhap, my judgment will go easier on you.”

Her eyes widened and she began to tremble, but still she defied him. He suspected she thought him weak because his hand had never been harsh toward her.

“Well and good, slave,” Fallard said to her. “I now honor your choice.”

He nodded to Trifine and strode to the hall doors. Flinging them wide, he stepped outside as Trifine dragged Leda, his hand still fisted in her hair, onto the steps in view of those who were without.

Fallard lifted his voice so all could hear. “I would have your attention, folk of Wulfsinraed!”

Silence fell.

“So that all may know Fallard D’Auvrecher is loyal to King William, hear now my proclamation. The slave Leda has been declared guilty of conspiracy with the Saxons who have chosen to rebel against their king. She also stands accused of the attempted murder of the Lady Ysane, my wife. In front of witnesses, she was offered clemency did she confess. She defied my mercy. She will be offered no further leniency. Therefore, be it known my judgment for the crimes of Leda the slave is death by the punishments of fire and lash.” He looked at Trifine. “Remove her to the pit!”

Collective gasps rose from around the courtyard and in the hall. Fallard caught sight of Roul and Fauques. Their eyes were wide and wondering.

The faint bravado that still lingered on Leda’s face disappeared, to be replaced by terror. She blanched and nigh fainted. She would have fallen had not Trifine held her.

Domnall and Trifine, each taking an arm, half-carried her down the steps. She began to fight and shriek, her screams interspersed with curses no woman should have known. Domnall glanced at Trifine over her head.

Fallard’s mouth tightened. The first marshal knew not what game he played. But Domnall seemed to relax, as if he saw in the First’s eyes that which satisfied him.

As they traversed the courtyard, silence met them as all sidled quickly out of their way. Young children were hustled away from the area by women whose eyes were huge and horror-filled.

They were met at the door of the interrogation pit by Second-Marshal Harold, who held the key to the pit and an open wooden box, filled with a battery of frightful instruments, in his hands. His expression was starkly unhappy. Leda moaned.

Fallard nodded. Harold unlocked the door and led the way into the dark chamber. He went round the room and lit the tallow candles in their holders on the walls. Together, Trifine and Domnall divested Leda of the threadbare syrce she wore, leaving her clad only in her equally worn cyrtel. They shackled her wrists high above her head with her back to the wall, and then locked her ankles into the lower manacles, as well. She gaped as Harold started a roaring blaze in the fire pit against the back wall and began to lay the necessary instruments into the heat.

She screamed again when Trifine picked up the whip and lashed the air viciously in front of her.

He chuckled. “Why do you cry out, girl? We have yet to touch you. Little fool. You thought not to be caught in your treachery. Think you any will come to your aid? Hah! Naught are you but a slave. None will care when your screams fill this chamber. Your lover is far away, but were he here, he could do naught to save you, even did he choose. Truth to tell, could we lay our hands on him, we would have him join you in our play.”

“Nay,” Leda screamed. “Please, I beg you, do this not! I am innocent. I have done naught.”

Fallard moved to stand in front of her. He took her chin in his fingers, his expression unrelenting and his grip firm. He held her amber gaze, as a serpent would hypnotize its prey. She wept freely and loudly, then whimpered pitifully when he stepped away to the fire. He lifted a knife with a blade already heated to a glowing red. Returning to his prisoner, he stood with the blade so close to her face the heat forced her to flinch away.

“Mayhap we will begin with this toy,” he said, the tenor of his voice conversational. He turned the searing blade this way and that as if choosing where against her skin to lay it first. “’Tis my favorite, for it both slices and sears at the same time, doubling the agony. Even strong men scream from the pain. I have seen some rather exquisite examples of facial scars created with it. What think you, Trifine? Shall we start with the face? Or mayhap she might prefer we begin lower.”

He laughed cruelly when he brought the fiery blade close to her breast. She screamed again.

“You ask an interesting question, Captain,” Trifine mused, “but one that mayhap, we should let the slave answer, since she is the one to receive the weapon’s caress. But, should you ask of me which I would prefer to administer, ’twould be the kiss of the whip. It has been some time since I honed my skills on a living subject.”

Fallard laughed again and pointed to Trifine. “My First jests with you, slave. He is a master with that implement. I have seen him slice the skin from a woman’s belly with one slash.”

The sudden flicker in his First’s light eyes betrayed his effort to keep from laughing.

Fallard lied through his teeth. Trifine was indeed talented in the use of the whip, but he had never heard of anyone
that
good. But even if he was, his First would not use his skill against a woman unless directly ordered. But Leda would not know that.

“So,” Fallard continued, raising the knife back to her cheek. “Methinks we will let you choose. The blade, or the whip? The face, or…? What say you, slave?”

But Leda only screamed, her eyes all but popping from her face as she writhed in futile effort to avoid the glowing blade.

“Forgive me girl, I understood not your choice,” Fallard said. “Ah, but mayhap you have no preference? Well and good, then I will choose for you. Methinks we will begin with the lash and follow that with the knife, since we will have need to stop the bleeding with the heated blade.”

Again, he stepped back and his voice was sharper than the lash of the whip Trifine wielded.

“Strip her!” he ordered. Domnall hesitated, blinked and then moved to obey.

Leda fainted.

Trifine looked at Fallard and offered a crooked smile, his glance rueful. “Methinks mayhap, you went too far, Fallard.”

Harold sighed, the sound like the flutter of a bird’s wing in the ugly chamber.

Fallard frowned, annoyed. “Mayhap, I did, but ’tis her terror we need. Domnall, revive her. ’Tis time to see if our traitorous little slave will now cooperate freely.”

“What if she still refuses, Captain?” Curiosity was the only apparent emotion underlying his First’s question.

“I warrant I have thought not that far,” Fallard answered. “’Tis truth I thought her of less courage. I expected her to have confessed all by now.”

“Aye, that was also my thought.”

“Then, you mean not to torture her?” Harold’s relief was so great he grinned like a fool. “’Tis but trickery, to force her to speak?”

As Domnall approached Leda with a bucket of water, Fallard glanced at the second marshal. “Methinks you should wipe that smile off your face, Harold, unless you can make it appear as if you are anticipating pleasure from her pain.”

“Aye, my thegn.” The grin disappeared as if it had never been.

Fallard nodded, took a deep breath and rearranged his own expression as he lifted the knife. Trifine raised the whip. Domnall threw the water in Leda’s face and then slapped her cheeks, far more gently than a tortured reality would have called for. Her eyelids drifted open slowly. She blinked rapidly, then stared blankly at him. Her eyes flickered around the pit and she jerked away, the terror flashing again.

“We have been discussing your fate while you slept, slave,” Fallard said as he turned a little away from her. He held the knife as nigh as was comfortable to his own eyes, as if fascinated by the deep orange-red color of the metal. “’Twas said to me—and this was naught but a suggestion—that mayhap, we should seek once again to gain information from you ere we begin our play. After all, once the agony reaches a certain level, the victim is no longer capable of coherent thought, much less speech. We would have what you know ere you reach that point.”

Fallard whirled suddenly and fixed her with a gaze as cold as death. The knife was thrust again in front of her. “What say you, slave? Have you aught to tell us about your lover’s plans? Mayhap, if you reveal all, including your role in the attempts on my wife’s life, I might be persuaded to forego my previous judgment. I could choose to offer mercy and kill you quickly, instead of with endless hours of agony. I might even think to let you live, or, since you failed in your task to kill my wife, I might choose to lighten your judgment to a mere twenty lashes. At my behest, my First can make those lashes light, barely raising a welt, though he is also capable of skinning you alive and flaying your flesh to the bone.”

Trifine nodded. That much at least, was truth.

“Would any of those choices loosen your tongue, girl?”

Leda could not hide the hope that sprang into her eyes as she stared at her tormenter.

He waited. Still, she spoke not.

He moved to the fire and placed the knife back into the flame, then lazily retrieved a red-hot implement with a wicked, razor-sharp hook on one end.

He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. “’Twould seem the girl has naught to say, Trifine. Mayhap, your suggestion was foolish, and I would choose not to hear her confession now even did she think to make it. Methinks I will insure she cannot.” He turned and held aloft the heated hook. “Aye, I have made my decision. I will begin her punishment by slicing her tongue into ribbons and cutting them off, one by one. The heat from the blade will sear the flesh as I cut, leaving no concern she may bleed to death ere our play is finished. Aid me, Domnall. Hold open her mouth. We will feed the pieces to the dogs.”

Domnall reached for her.

Leda shrieked, then suddenly broke and began to babble. “Nay! Nay! What seek you from me? Only ask, I will tell all you wish to know, but hurt me not. Please, I beg you, do this not. Ask me aught, I will speak. I swear!”

She began to scream without ceasing.

“Silence, slave, or I will give you reason to squeal!”

Domnall dropped his hold on her chin and clapped his hand over her mouth, cutting off the noise. Tears streamed down her face as she sagged in her bonds.

Trifine looked at Fallard. “Mayhap, she is ready to speak to us now, Captain.”

Fallard nodded at Domnall, who dropped his hand.

Leda whimpered. Eyes closed tight, she talked.

Profound relief washed through Fallard, though he allowed not a whit of it to show in his mien. By the saints! He hated what he had been forced to do, but by his action, they were learning the truth, and he would have the proof he needed to save his beloved.

***

Outside the pit, the quiet in the courtyard was nigh absolute. Roul and Fauques waited in a corner outside the stable, pretending a manly nonchalance. Men with grim faces, and women pale as fulled fleece went about their business as muffled screams rose from the chamber below the ground. All had believed their new lord a man of less barbarity. The fear that held them in thrall while Renouf ruled the burh had returned in full force.

The screams were cut off abruptly, as if by the sharpest blade. To many of those who listened, the silence was worse.

For the time it took the sun to rise nigh to mid-morn position, the quiet in the pit reigned. Then the door opened and Leda emerged, stumbling, sobbing, yet apparently undamaged, though her face was chalk white and her red-rimmed eyes dazed. Her steps wobbled so wildly the First had perforce to support her with both hands.

Harold locked the pit door and returned to the gatehouse, whistling softly to himself, and carrying his box of unpleasant—and to all appearances, unused—equipment. Domnall walked through the tunnel to find Ysane and Roana. Trifine escorted Leda back inside the hall. A great, communal breath seemed to sigh through the courtyard, echoed not the least by the two young squires.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Fallard stopped at the top of the hall steps before the great doors and once more faced his people. In the day’s growing heat, sweat trickled down his brow, but he ignored it.

One by one, he met the eyes of those willing to face him. Many quailed before the white-hot rage that radiated from him like the heat waves that shimmered above the courtyard, for he now knew of all
three
attempts to kill Ysane, and knew who had given the order. As suspected, the missives he had sent to William had gone astray, the messengers disposed of. New reports, subtly injurious to both himself and his wife as only a cunning woman could craft, had been substituted in their place.