E. M. Powell (8 page)

His father lay on the earth floor, silent and still.

Palmer put the dish down and went to his side. “Father?”

Father’s eyes opened, and he forced a small smile. “You’re a good boy, Benedict. But ’tis too late for me. Bring the pudding to your mother; she needs it or all will be lost.”

“But Father — ”

His father groaned and arched his back in sudden agony. “I’m full, boy, full. Can’t you see that?”

Palmer gaped as his father’s ragged tunic fell open. He backed away. He could count his father’s ribs in his thin, thin chest, see them move up and down with fast breaths. And he looked like he was about to birth a child. A lump the size of a baby’s head stuck from the paleness of his stomach.

“Full,” his father gasped. “Now go.”

Palmer snatched up the bowl and ran from the cottage, haring past it to the meadow beyond. Mother and his sisters walked right at the top of a steep, steep slope, specks against the blue sky. “Mother!” He called, he ran, but the field seemed to rise up under his feet. His mother and sisters walked on, backs to him, not hearing him. He stumbled on a thick grass root, and the pudding flew from his hands and splattered across the grass. He struggled to his feet to set off again but fell over another root. A buzzing came from it. It was covered in flies. As was another and another. Palmer stood in the tipping meadow, flies all around him. It wasn’t grass roots, it was the arms and legs of dead soldiers, cut down not by battle but by the bloody flux. A fly buzzed into his face. He swatted at it with a yell and turned to run, to flee from this meadow full of disease and death. Another fly hit his other cheek. And another and another, filling the air with blackness and noise.

Palmer awoke to darkness on his narrow rush bed. Sweat coated his whole body. He’d no idea how long he’d slept, but the night was still pitch.

The loud buzz carried on. De Tracy made even more noise asleep than when he was awake. His snores fair echoed off the walls in this room. Le Bret slept in the other corner. What he lacked in noise, he made up for in stink.

Palmer looked into the darkness, rubbing his face dry. When death came knocking, give him a straight fight any day. Disease and sickness were no way to be taken, silent enemies that got you without your seeing them come. The dream was still crystal, but the terror faded. A miracle pudding, eh? He rolled his eyes at his own foolishness. He must have had a real skinful. He tested the inside of his mouth with his tongue. Tasty as the bottom of a birdcage and twice as dry. He had to find some water. The upside of going to bed so drunk was he was still fully dressed. He roused himself from the rumpled bed and made his way over to the door, careful not to wake the other two.

Out in the corridor, a number of small sconce lights lit the way. He went down a couple of flights of the stone spiral staircase. He’d try the hall first. The servants had left jugs of water with the wine. Not that he’d drunk any water. He’d been too busy emptying de Morville’s fine cellar. If there were no water left, he’d go to the kitchens below.

Palmer spotted a door ajar through which dim light shone. This must lead to the hall. He stepped through. No, he’d gone in one too soon. This led to the empty minstrel gallery. He looked down at the quiet hall, the table cleared, the lights quenched, and the fire burning low. No chance of water there; he’d carry on down to the kitchens.

As he went to retrace his steps, he stopped in surprise as a voice floated up to him.

“I don’t agree. Palmer wasn’t a mistake.”

Fitzurse. He was being discussed. Had he fallen short? With a silent oath, Palmer crouched down behind the low, tapestry-hung wall of the gallery. He couldn’t be about to be dismissed. Could he?

“I bloody think he is.” De Morville’s familiar whine slurred at the edges from drink.

Palmer took a cautious look over.

The two knights sat on the stone hearth of the low fire to catch its glowing heat, a large pitcher of wine between them.

“He does as he’s told. He’s a good fighter — nay, a great one,” said Fitzurse.

“Or so we’ve heard. I’ve not seen that yet. He couldn’t even find the anchoress and the monk in the cathedral.”

Palmer’s jaw clenched at the sneer, though he knew de Morville was right.

“Neither could you, de Morville. Nor anyone else.”

“Well, he worries me,” said de Morville. “Like at dinner, with questions he’d no business asking. Blathering on like a simpleton, he was. Especially about Becket.” He spat into the hearth. “Not that he’d laid a hand on the Archbishop. Left that to us.”

Palmer tensed more. De Morville was right again.

“Yet look at him on the ship,” said Fitzurse. “If it hadn’t been for his quickness, his strength, we’d all be wet corpses.” He jabbed a finger at de Morville. “Achieved nothing.”

De Morville grunted. “I suppose. Still, he bothers me. I don’t know why.”

Palmer relaxed a mite but stayed where he was. He needed to be sure he was still on this mission.

“Palmer’s perfectly safe,” said Fitzurse. “He’s a mercenary, and mercenaries are like whores. They’ll do anything if you pay them enough.”

 My battle prowess scorned as a putain’s tricks.
Palmer forced himself not to rise and shout Fitzurse down. He went to leave, hear no more.

“Speaking of paying enough, he needs to earn his purse.” Fitzurse took a drink.

His words halted Palmer.

Fitzurse continued. “I agree with you that he has been found wanting on a couple of things. But he can still be of use with what I have planned for the girl. What’s more, it will be a useful test of his backbone.”

A test? Palmer squatted low again, peering over the edge. To hell with their test. He wouldn’t be found wanting.

“What plan?” De Morville hiccupped. “What test?”

“You’ve heard of Phalaris, the great Sicilian ruler?” said Fitzurse.

“Oh, balls to you and your high-minded carry-on,” said de Morville. “’Course I haven’t.”

Fitzurse filled their glasses again. “An ancient Greek. He is mentioned in great writings.”

“Greeks? I’ve killed ’em. Not read ’em.”

Both men laughed, de Morville with his wheeze, Fitzurse with his clipped sound.

Fitzurse said, “He is credited with overseeing the invention of one of these.” He reached into the ashes of the hearth and pulled out a stick of black charcoal. He drew something on the pale stone.

Palmer squinted hard, barely able to make it out in the dim light. It looked like an animal.

“A cow?” said de Morville, mystified.

“No, a bull.” Fitzurse tapped a finger on his drawing. “A Brazen Bull, to be precise.”

De Morville’s shake of his head matched Palmer’s own confusion. “How’s a Brazing — ”

“Brazen.”

“Brazen Bull going to test Palmer?”

“A Brazen Bull is made of metal,” said Fitzurse. “Traditionally bronze, but any will do. It is hollow, and there is a door, or a hatch, on the back here.” He squiggled on his drawing.

De Morville shook his head again.

Fitzurse went on. “The fire is lit beneath here.” He made another mark. “Of course, the victim is usually placed inside before the fire is lit.”

De Morville gave a stunned gasp as Palmer’s limbs locked rigid.

“I want your blacksmiths to fashion one of these, de Morville.”

“Fitzurse, you’re going to put Palmer into this thing? Fine by me, but — ”

“Not Palmer, you dolt. The girl. Stripped naked and bound. By him, and he will put her in.”

Palmer’s fists curled.

De Morville gasped again. “A good test, by my life. But is it worth killing her just to see what he’s made of? We need information from her, remember? We still don’t know where the mother is.”

“The bull will serve both purposes, de Morville. Palmer can put her in, give her a taste of it. Promise her release if she tells us what we want to know.”

De Morville coughed suddenly and Palmer started, knocking one knee against the gallery wall. His pulse tripped for action. Had they heard him?

“Here, have another drink, man,” said Fitzurse.

Thank Jesu, they hadn’t.

“You have one too.”

“I’ve used this thing before. No one can stand the pain. So he can haul her out, find out what we need.”

“She’ll be a bit raw, but no matter. As I’ve got her here, I want to try my cock in her. She’ll be pure, and I like that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, my friend. Palmer will put her straight back in and roast her till she’s dead.”

“Where’s the pleasure in that, Fitzurse?”

“Oh, I forgot the best bit. I will show the blacksmiths how to fashion a set of pipes here, leading to the nose. You can’t really hear the screams through the metal; instead the sound comes through these pipes and out the nose. Because of their shape, they change the human voice so that it sounds exactly like a bull.”

“I ask again, where’s the pleasure in that?”

Fitzurse looked at de Morville askance. “It’s very, very amusing, of course. As the Greeks wrote, ‘The screams will come through to you through the pipes as the tenderest, most pathetic, most melodious of bellowings.’”
He smiled at de Morville. “You see?”

Palmer’s pulse pounded in his ears. De Morville stared at Fitzurse. “You and me laugh at different things, Fitzurse. But as a test for Palmer, it’s a good ’un.”

“He can clean up afterward, of course. Get rid of the body.”

De Morville nodded. “He’ll earn his purse with that job. Don’t think I’d fancy it much.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Fitzurse drained his cup. “We’ll make a start on the morrow. Early. I’ll meet you at the forge at dawn. Now, how about a drink for me before it all goes down your neck?”

Their talk shifted to blacksmiths, with de Morville whining about the time it took to train them.

Palmer’s temples hammered as if they’d burst. He’d sworn to pass any test. But this? His hands tightened more. Hands that would seize the small-boned Sister Theodosia. Strip her. Put her into some metal beast from a nightmare. Reach back into it, take hold of her while she was half burned to death. From his own mouth would have to come the lie of a promise that she could live. He’d see her hope in eyes blistered half shut. Eyes that would then know his lie as he placed her back inside, onto red-hot metal that would make her skin bubble and melt. Palmer fought his bile. And last, lift out her cooked remains and bury them. This was Fitzurse’s test. So sure he’d sounded that he, Palmer, was as low as a whore and would do all of this for his money.

Well, he wasn’t that low. He was a sworn knight. A fighter, yes, a killer, yes. He’d done plenty of both. But he’d done them against other men, men armed and ready to kill him in return. Not this. He’d failed the test. And lost the money. No matter. Right now, he needed to get out of this castle, cut his losses, and go back to the life he knew.
But the money.
No matter, he told himself again. He could have all the riches in the world, but no one would respect him for such a deed — he least of all. And every time he used his hands, every time he so much as looked at them, he would have a reminder of what he had done. His wealth would be fouled with shame, with dishonor of the worst kind. He went to rise, and his gaze lit on the sketch of the terrible bull again, as the pair below rambled on.

Still sick to his stomach, he crouched back down. He was being tested again, but not in the way Fitzurse intended. Even if Palmer succeeded in leaving Knaresborough, Fitzurse would easily find another sap to torture and kill the anchoress. It wouldn’t take him long — the money was simply too good. Fitzurse would just do it himself, forcurse him.

That meant only one thing. He’d have to try and get her away from here. Go against Reginald Fitzurse and suffer the effects of his actions. It would probably mean his certain death. Palmer knuckled the side of his head with his fist as Lullworth, his squire master, used to do.
Think, lad. Think. Use what’s in that skull, not just your strength. Think it through, before you rush in like a ninny.

But Fitzurse’s words came back to him.
“The screams will come through to you through the pipes as the tenderest, most pathetic, most melodious of bellowings.”
No matter if he never actually heard them. If he did nothing, those sounds would haunt his dreams till the day he died.

Bent low behind the gallery’s edge, Palmer took silent steps back out to the corridor. He drew his dagger from his belt and hastened down the dark stairwell, heading for the dungeon below, where he knew the woman of the church was held. Palmer paused. Wait. The church. Wealthy as the King. Wealthier. They’d pay to get her back. Pay a fine ransom. A ransom he could name, as he’d have saved her life.

Palmer allowed himself a wide, wide grin. Low as a whore, eh? But one that was keeping all the rewards. Lullworth would have been proud of him.

♦ ♦ ♦

The steps led down past floor after floor. Palmer hurried, taking the steps two at a time on the curved staircase, careful to make no noise.

Finally he reached the bottom and stepped off the last stair into a poorly lit stone corridor. The last flight of steps had been far older than the rest, worn in the middle to a smooth curve. The changed air told him he was underground: stale, damp, a mushroom-like smell. He must be near the dungeon now. Or dungeons. In a castle this size, de Morville could have any number of people locked away. And any number of guards to watch them.

He put his hand to his belt and drew his dagger, cursing he didn’t have his sword. But that lay beside his bed. He couldn’t risk going back for it. He might wake the sleeping le Bret or de Tracy, or, worse, meet Fitzurse and de Morville on the stairwell.

Palmer took cautious, quiet treads. The corridor sloped down to take him deeper underground. Black mold spread thick on the flags under his feet, and close on either side the walls oozed damp. Ahead, the wall curved to the left and orange light flickered from beyond. He halted. That would be the guards. He cursed his lack of sword again.

He couldn’t rush in blind, not as badly armed as he was. He needed to judge his foe first. Sticking his dagger back in his belt, he raised his chain mail hood and straightened his surcoat. He stepped forward with definite strides and rounded the corner.