Rose of Hope (61 page)

“This one,” and now he pointed to Cynric, “I want gagged and taken to the interrogation pit. Leave him there. I have plans for him that include not the others. Ere you leave, bind his knees and feet again.

“As for the rest, drag all but this one,” he gestured to a nameless rebel, “into the hall of the crypts. Insure their bindings are secure and leave them in the dark to contemplate…defeat.”

Ruald’s frenzied scream was muffled and his body heaved and bucked as he was hauled out of the corridor.

Fallard regarded the rebel kept behind. Even in the chill of the corridor, the man perspired profusely. His eyes darted from one to the other of Fallard’s men and he swallowed repeatedly. Fallard glanced at Jehan and Varin, and jerked his chin. They lifted the man to his feet with ungentle hands, pinning him to the wall. Fallard drew his knife. The razor edge of the blade flashed in the torchlight as Fallard thrust it close to the man’s face, letting it fill his vision. He began to moan.

“If you wish to survive this night in one piece,” Fallard said, indenting the weapon’s tip so deeply into the man’s skin while drawing it down over his cheek that a faint red line appeared, “you will answer my questions, immediately and without attempt at evasion. If you lie, I will know. If you seek to confuse, I will know and I give my word you will regret it.” He glanced at Varin. “Remove the gag.”

As Varin jerked forth the rag, the stench of fresh urine lifted from the front of the man’s braies.

“Now,” Fallard said, as he shaved off one of the prisoner’s eyebrows and made a show of sprinkling the hair from his fingers. “Tell me fully of Sir Ruald’s plan for taking control of my hall, and leave out no detail.”

***

The wooden door slammed shut behind Leda, confining her in the upper tower chamber. She shivered. Her hands clenched as she sought to control her breathing. She had one chance, and only one to survive this new defeat, but she must control her fear. As she had done before in the crypts, she fought and defeated the demons of her own terror.

Briefly, she paced among rolled tapestries, extra chamber pots and braziers, storage chests for spare linens, shelves lined with surplus crocks, bowls, and pitchers and other useful, but currently unneeded items of the hall. It had been one of her many responsibilities to keep the chamber organized, to insure all the items were cleaned before storage and to transport them back and forth from the hall as required. She hated the chore, but it had provided a convenient excuse for spending more time closeted in the room than otherwise would be expected.

She crept to the door and laid her ear against it. All was silent, but she knew her guards remained. There was no escape that way.

But the tower chamber was Leda’s sanctuary, and she knew its secrets. There was another way, one she believed even the dark knight’s whore had forgotten. She had found it long ago, by accident when she tripped and fell. Beneath her weight, the wall snapped inward by the space of two fingers, revealing the facade of a concealed door. Curious, she searched until she found and mastered the mechanism of the latch. She edged the door open. Light from the window embrasures disclosed a steep, narrow stairwell of wood. ’Twas some time ere she found the courage to explore her discovery, for the entrance was filled with webs and smelled of disuse. Who knew how dangerous it might be? Mayhap, ’twould crumble beneath her feet and she would be lost forever at its base.

In due course, she overcame her reluctance and learned the staircase circled to a long-unused exterior door. This one opened alongside the back garden fence. Concealed by its resemblance to the stone around it and hidden from the sentries by the tight confluence of the fence and the tower’s curve, the stair had been her secret ever since. It had amused her to use it to foil the dark knight’s watchers. Those fools had never known that all the time they believed her busy at some chore in the tower, she had disguised herself in a ceorl’s headrail and syrce and made use of her freedom to accomplish her part in the plots of her true love.

Now, she wasted no time. At the head of the stairwell, she kept a long wooden box. From it, she withdrew a langseax, two fighting hadseaxes and a leather satchel. Within the satchel, swathed in the protective ceorl garb, were the games pieces and folded board of the priceless
Hnefatafl
set, a bag of coins, two small objects of high value no one had ever missed, her message materials and the set of burh keys she had long ago stolen from the hoarding room and secreted away.

She changed into the ceorl’s clothing, re-wrapped the
Hnefatafl
set and other treasures in her ragged cyrtel and returned them to the satchel. Keeping the keys in her hand, she bundled the weapons and the satchel inside a linen towel and fastened it securely around her waist. She donned a black cloak and made her way down the stairs, one palm sliding along the cold wall, the treads creaking beneath her weight. Her caution was great, for she had no torch. She let herself out into the wet night. At least, ’twas no longer raining. She paused and tried to sight the sentries in their oilskin cloaks who would be pacing the south wall, but the darkness was too deep.

If only she could have stolen the keys to the garden gates! ’Twould have been so much easier to pass through that dark yard to the orchard. But as had Renouf, the dark knight kept the only keys in his possession. She would have to go the long way around, stopping first to free Cynric, and then work her way past the northeast tower and through the shadows in the courtyard. Hugging the tower wall, she pulled tight her dark cloak and crept on wary feet around the base to the pits.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Fallard stood within the north guard tower above the gates. He held a cresset high inside the embrasure overlooking the clearing and slowly swung it back and forth. He covered the light and turned to cross to the opposite embrasure that opened onto the courtyard. Using his body to shield his action from those to whom he had just signaled, he briefly let shine the flame. The burh troops, scattered about below, would note the warning and know their waiting was at an end.

He raced down to the gatehouse and with the help of one of his knights, cranked open the inner portal. The distinctive metallic clank was loud. Even over the sporadic gusts of rain, the sound would clearly reach Ruald’s men where they waited beyond the clearing in the tree line.

The expected questioning shout was raised from one of the sentries above, but as planned, he left it unanswered. Another shout was heard, more demanding this time, and then another, more urgent still. From high above, the alert trumpet sounded. Sentries raced along the wall and down the stairs.

More shouts, and what sounded like a clash of swords began only to quickly die away. The warning trumpet’s clarion call was suddenly silenced.

The outer gate lifted. Fallard stood poised in the tunnel entrance. Once again, he swung the cresset. To those waiting, he would be visible only as the tall, cloaked figure they expected to see. This time, his effort gained a detectable response. From among the trees along the edge of the clearing poured the horde of Ruald’s men, perceivable only as gyrating shadows as they rushed the gate. They were no more than halfway across the clearing, their leader approaching the bridge, when from behind them a semi-circle of equally shadowy and silent men slipped out from beneath the same trees and raced behind them.

Torches flared to life all around the courtyard, sputtering and smoking.

Fallard retreated to the hall stairs, dropped the cresset, threw aside his cloak and grabbed his waiting shield. As the rebels pounded through the tunnel into the courtyard, he drew his sword. Seemingly from nowhere rose the warriors of the burh.

“Dex Aie!”
Fallard’s voice roared the terrifying war scream as he leapt from the steps to meet the foe. Dozens of voices echoed the cry from within and without.

Caught in the vise between the armed warriors confronting them unexpectedly from the front and the crush of more falling in behind, the insurgents floundered. The more experienced among them overcame the first rude shock. They fought like madmen, rallying the rest. The chaos of battle spilled over the bridge and into the clearing. Furious shouts, and the screams of wounded and dying men, rose above the resounding clash of weaponry. Thunder rumbled and reverberated overhead, as if the gods approved the conflict.

***

Cynric Wulfsingas lay on a straw pallet in the interrogation pit. Yet, he could find little cause for complaint, for his captors had offered him his fill of water to drink and allowed him to relieve himself ere he was bound. They covered him with a woolen blanket, and left a torch burning in a holder on the wall. He wondered at treatment that seemed much too gracious for his situation, but he was grateful, for his clothing was damp and an unpleasant chill seeped from the walls. The warmth of the blanket and the light from the torch that chased away the blackness were very welcome.

Despite Ysane’s conviction her husband would grant him leniency, his heart thudded in bitter recognition of his fate. He held no illusions about the dark knight’s intentions. He had always known the consequences should he be captured, and long since counted the cost and accepted the risk. But he could banish not the shafts of terror that scorched his soul as he thought of the king’s many methods of punishment for traitors. His father’s fate was possible, but unlikely for one who had aided Ruald the Rebel. The death he would face would be not easy.

He was trying not to dwell on the frightening future that loomed all too close when he heard the faint scrape of a key in the lock. His heart slammed, then doubled its pounding rhythm. Who came for him?

Inexplicably, the scraping sound continued for quite some time. Suddenly, the door above him burst open and someone came halfway down the steps. The cloaked figure stopped.

“Cynric?”

He stiffened in shock, then forced his body upright. Blighted hope soared at the possibility of escape. How or why he could guess not, but the voice belonged to Leda. He groaned an unintelligible mumble from behind the gag.

She was at his side in a moment. While he gaped in disbelief, she fumbled with a bundle dangling from her waist to pull out two knives. With one, she severed his bonds. The other she gave to him.

“What do you here, Leda? How did you get free?”

“If you want out of this place, follow me,” she said, “and be quiet!”

She bounded up the steps. Cynric followed as she turned left and crept round the base of the northeast tower. She stopped and pulled the hood of her cloak closer about her face. From the torchlit courtyard came the unmistakable clamor of all-out battle.

Leda turned to him. “There is fighting! Ruald did not expect this.”

Almost, Cynric laughed. He knew well the conflict’s cause. The rest of the dark knight’s trap had been sprung.

“You should come with me, Leda.” He tried to take her arm and pull her back to the relative safety behind them, but she jerked away.

“Leda!” Cursing, Cynric followed her for now she made no effort to hide. Though she hugged the wall, she moved perilously close to the combat.

Unwilling to join a sword fight with naught but a hadseax, Cynric halted at the hall steps. But his companion, intent on some unknown objective of her own, arced a circle around the base, dodging warring men as she went. She fled toward the orchard. Abruptly, Cynric realized where she was headed. The crypts! She was going to release Ruald.

Before he could move, a cry was raised and two men, one massive and the other tall and wearing a black hauberk, chased after her. Cynric recognized the tall warrior as Fallard. He leapt across the hall steps to pursue them, but found his progress impeded by a group of fighters. He was forced to crouch out of the way and wait for a breach through which he might pass. He saw his chance, and ran. Lightning seared the night and far ahead in its lurid glare, he saw the two knights reach the crypts. Instead of following, he raced instead for the chapel.

***

The impact as his blade pierced the heart of a rebel soldier jarred Fallard to his shoulders. In the pallid light cast by a nearby torch, the man’s vivid green eyes blazed with shock, then rapidly glazed as Fallard wrenched his sword from his chest.

He paused for a few moments, panting as he stared at his fallen foe. The older warrior had been a powerful and deadly swordsman, probably a knight in former service to some Saxon lord, now dead or disinherited. It had taken all his considerable skill and experience to best him.

This man’s resemblance to Cynric is uncanny. I give thanks he is not my wife’s brother.

He whirled to parry the next powerful blow he sensed slashing toward him, his feet slipping on wet pavement. ’Twas no longer raining, but faith, he hated fighting in wet weather, and hated it worse at night. His blade clashed with the other, striking blue sparks. As the two blades slid against each other in a teeth-clenching screech of steel, he gave a powerful twist of his wrist, forcing the other blade down. He disengaged, and in that split moment when the other’s guard was off, he plunged. The blow struck home. The man cried out and went down.

In the lessening chaos of the melee, he glanced around, seeking his next opponent. His keen eyes found Domnall, Jehan and Trifine still on their feet. His troops appeared to be steadily winning the fray.

A sudden, furtive movement in his peripheral vision exposed a form in a dark cloak. Too small to be a man, it darted through the pools of torchlight around the base of the northwest tower and sprinted for the orchard.

Leda!

He dashed water from his eyes and shouted. Someone crashed into him from behind. He staggered and spun to face the threat.

Varin’s grinning face loomed over him as the knight’s massive fist caught and steadied him. “Sorry, Captain,” he yelled.

Fallard wasted no time with battlefield pleasantries. The big knight was exactly who he needed for his next task. “Varin, come with me!”