Loyalty (12 page)

   “I wish your daughter a speedy recovery, lady,” said Sir John with what sounded like genuine sincerity.

   Mary risked a smile at him, and hastened out of the garden.

   
Chapter 12

Pale morning sunlight seeped through the bars of the dungeon’s tiny window, just below the high vaulted ceiling. The prisoner had no cause to welcome it, and groaned at the aches in his body and the thought of the day to come.

   Sir Geoffrey Malvern rolled over onto his back and refused to open his eyes. He was lying on a pile of dirty straw scraped together into a makeshift bed. The dungeon teemed with rats, and the straw was rank with their urine and droppings, but was at least preferable to sleeping on the rough stone floor.

   It was a far cry from the comfort of Malvern Hall, but Geoffrey was able to adapt very quickly. That was one of his survival traits. A reluctance to give in to despair was another. Both were needed in his present straits.

   For the thousandth time, he cursed the stupidity and ill-fortune that had brought him here. If he had possessed any sense at all, he would have told King Edward’s herald to go to hell and refused to leave the safety of home. Even then, he should have tarried on the way to Nottingham, instead of riding with all speed to join the royal army, terrified of falling foul of the king’s displeasure if he was late.

   The moment of waking could not be put off much longer. Geoffrey sat up and scratched himself, blinking in the poor light. At least, he reflected gloomily, he had a dungeon all to himself. The same could not be said for many of the poor souls held captive in this dreadful castle.

   While he waited for the guards to come and fetch him, he stood up, stretched, and touched his toes a few times. It made sense to be as limber as possible, in case he spotted a chance to escape.

   All the while, he fought to suppress the panic and terror churning in his guts. The air of the dungeon was musty and foul, but there was something else mingled with the stale atmosphere. A taint of blood and death. Geoffrey knew where it came from, and his teeth chattered at the memory.    

   He didn’t have long to wait before footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and keys scraped inside the lock of the heavy cross-timbered door.

   Geoffrey pressed himself against the far wall of the dungeon, perspiring freely and trying not to piss himself.

   “Up you get, sir knight,” piped the sneering voice of the jailer, a monstrously fat yellow-faced man dressed in soiled black hose and jerkin, “the sun is high in the sky, and the time is ripe for all good little lords to be up and doing.”

   The jailer had three soldiers with him, archers from the garrison. They were tall, sinewy brutes, armed with swords and daggers. Geoffrey quailed, but did his best to look brave.

   “I demand to see your master,” he squeaked, folding his arms so they wouldn’t see his hands tremble. “He has no right to imprison me thus, in this stinking vault. I have caused him no offence.”

   “You’re a Yorkist,” rumbled one of the archers, slightly older than the others, with streaks of grey in his short red beard, “that’s enough to cause any loyal man offence. And you need not worry, traitor. You will be seeing our lord soon enough. We were sent to take you to him.”

   The archers closed on Geoffrey, seized his wrists and bound them behind his back with a length of coarse twine.

   “This way,” one of them grunted, shoving him towards the door..

   “Be gentle with him, lads,” cried the jailer, “I’ll keep his bed warm until he gets back.”

   The archers laughed as he undid the laces of his filthy hose and started to piss all over the straw.

   Geoffrey was pushed and kicked down the narrow corridor outside the dungeon, up a flight of steps and along another corridor. This one was wider and better-lit, with air and light pouring through a row of arrow-slit windows. More steps beckoned, opening onto a wide courtyard.

   It was a grim winter’s day, damp and cold, with light drizzle pattering onto the cobbles. The squat round towers that guarded the inner ward were grim and forbidding piles of stone, but paled next to the ancient Norman keep that loomed high above Geoffrey’s head and dominated the surrounding hills and river valley. Those flinty walls, aged by time and weather, had watched over the landscape for centuries, ever since Duke William came to England, and served as a stark reminder to generations of local peasants of their conquered status.

   Geoffrey had been held in the dungeon for five days and nights, and his eyes struggled to adjust to daylight. He blinked and rubbed them.

   “Take your time, traitor,” said the bearded archer in a jovial tone, “you might wish you had stayed blind.”

   Geoffrey opened his streaming eyes, and found himself looking at a scene from the pit of nightmares.

   A scaffold had been set up in the middle of the courtyard. It was thrice Geoffrey’s height, and from the cross-beam dangled seven corpses. They were scarcely recognisable as men. Each had been maimed and gelded, and their bodies flayed. The red-raw, bleeding carcases resembled the carcases of slaughtered pigs, skinned and hung up to dry.

   “They were reluctant to dance, at first,” said the archer, chuckling as he pointed at the dreadful remains, “but soon livened up once we threw a few bowls of hot porridge on their wounds.”

   Geoffrey recalled hearing a pipe and fiddle playing a reel while he tossed and turned on his noisome bed, the previous night. At the time he had thought he was suffering a nightmare, since the music was accompanied by a cacophony of hellish shrieks and mocking laughter.

   His bowels dissolved as he stared, round-eyed, at the poor wretches on the scaffold, and imagined the hideous tortures visited on their bodies before the sweet release of death.   

   “Please…” he whined, backing away and clutching at the hem of his filthy tunic, “don’t…not me…I could not stand it. Please, we are Christian men! You cannot! You must not!”

   The archers grinned at each other. “Peace,” said red-beard, “you won’t suffer the same fate as those rogues on the scaffold. They were commoners, like us. No, our lord has something far more inventive in store for you.”

   Geoffrey’s stomach gave a great heave. He clapped his hands over his mouth, terrified lest he puked over the cobbles. Fortunately he had been given no food since the previous morning, and there was nothing to be brought up.

   The lord of this terrible castle was Lord Bulstrode, a Lancastrian and an ally of Marquis Montagu, who had so recently swapped his allegiance from York to Lancaster.

   Geoffrey had blundered into the Marquis’s army as it force-marched south, hoping to snare King Edward before he could escape from Doncaster. Ignorant of Montagu’s treachery, Geoffrey had blithely approached his vanguard and hailed the marquis himself. They had served together at the second Battle of Saint Albans, and Geoffrey considered him a friend.

   He swiftly realised his mistake. Notwithstanding their previous friendship, Montagu had ordered Geoffrey and his men to be clapped in chains, and then turned them over to the care of Bulstrode.

   Montagu’s army arrived at Doncaster to find that King Edward and his chief nobles had fled, leaving their confused and leaderless men to do as they thought best. Most had scattered, abandoning their gear and baggage, but a few of the most stubborn or less intelligent had remained at their posts, presumably in the hope that Edward’s absence was only temporary.

   These men were all killed or taken prisoner. The latter were handed over to Lord Bulstrode, and he was instructed to take them to his castle, called Crowspur, situated in a wild region of Nottinghamshire. Crowspur was remote enough for there to be little chance of the prisoners escaping.

   “We can get to know one another at Crowspur, lads,” Bulstrode cheerfully informed his prisoners as they were marched north in chains, “no-one will disturb us there.”

   Montagu was not a cruel man, and Geoffrey supposed he must be unaware of Bulstrode’s true character. Otherwise he would surely not have consigned his prisoners to the care of such a beast.

   “You are one of the few our lord has not played with yet,” said red-beard, “he is out hunting at present, but desired you to see your men, one last time.”

   His men. The flayed pieces of meat dangling from the scaffold were all that remained of the archers and men-at-arms that had followed Geoffrey faithfully out of Staffordshire.

   Coward though he was, Geoffrey was not without a conscience. He had no wish to lead men into danger, any more than he wished to confront it himself.

   “God forgive me,” he breathed, crossing himself and averting his eyes from the horror, “God forgive us all.”

   The archers laughed. “Is he a knight, or a fucking priest?” cried one, “shall we confess him our sins?”

   “We haven’t got all day,” said red-beard, “lordship will be back soon, and then this one can beg for God’s mercy all he likes. Much good may it do him.”

   The other two seized Geoffrey’s arms and dragged him up the flight of timber steps leading to the first storey of the keep. Geoffrey would have preferred to enter the threshold of Hell than that grim tower, but was helpless in their grip.

   He was taken into the hall, a draughty and old-fashioned cave, with none of the comfortable refinements that might be expected in a baronial residence. Battered shields adorned the bare stone walls in place of tapestries and friezes, along with racks of rusting spears and lances. A tattered, moth-eaten banner hung from the ceiling. It displayed the faded Bulstrode arms, a red griffon and two crossed swords against a black field.

   A few long benches and tables were scattered about, covered in dirty bowls and rotting trenchers and bits of discarded food. Flies buzzed among the food, filling the air with a low hum. A few rangy dogs snuffled for scraps in the greasy rushes. Lord Bulstrode was unmarried, and it showed.

   Four shabby serving-men lounged at one of the tables, drinking heavily from leather tankards. They barely looked up as the soldiers entered with the prisoner.

   The hall was freezing cold, despite a good fire burning in the great stone hearth behind the high table. Geoffrey trembled violently as he was shepherded inside. The chill raised goosebumps on his skin. Fear gnawed and clutched at his innards.

   “Clear a space,” ordered red-beard. The servants reluctantly got to their feet and started to scrape the tables and benches against the walls.

   “Stand there, traitor,” he said to Geoffrey, pointing at the middle of the floor. Wondering fearfully what was planned for him, Geoffrey did so.

   He was left standing for over an hour, while the archers took their ease and polished off the beer left by the servants. Occasionally they jeered and threw bits of stale bread at him, but otherwise he was ignored.       

   Eventually the sound he was dreading echoed outside. Hunting horns, accompanied by the clatter of hoofs and the excited barks of deer hounds. Lord Bulstrode had returned.

   Shortly afterwards, Bulstrode’s heavy tread and the jingle of his spurs echoed down the corridor outside. His harsh, cracked voice was lifted in song – Geoffrey vaguely recognised it as some old Crusader’s hymn – and he was joined in the chorus by the voices of his huntsmen and men-at-arms. The raucous noise carried into the hall, and then Bulstrode himself appeared in the doorway.

   He was a squat, blocky man, bow-legged and pot-bellied. His oversized head was bald, his nose broken in three places, and his face adorned by a thick reddish moustache.

   A man of blood and bile, then, with an excessive fondness for strong hot wine that gave him an unhealthy scarlet complexion. Geoffrey’s best hope of survival was that he would swallow one cup of wine too many, or force too much fatty red meat down his gullet, and have a fatal seizure.   

   Bulstrode’s deep-set little eyes swept the hall and fastened on Geoffrey.

   “Little rat,” he said with a grin, “been dragged out of your hole, eh?”

   Geoffrey marshalled the threads of his dignity. “I am Viscount Malvern,” he said, drawing himself up, “and a wealthy man. There is no need for any unpleasantness, Lord Bulstrode. I can afford to pay a good ransom for my release.”

   Bulstrode waddled into the room, chuckling and running one thick hand over his glistening bald pate. His soldiers and huntsmen trooped in behind him. None, Geoffrey couldn’t help noticing, carried any game.

   “A ransom,” Bulstrode spat, as if he had tasted something foul, “I know who you are, Sir Geoffrey, and have no interest in your money. Now that King Henry is back on the throne, God bless him, there will be lands and riches aplenty for those who held true to Lancaster.”

   He rubbed his gloved hands together and gave Geoffrey a shrewd, appraising look. “Yes, little rat, I’m comfortable,” he said, “and likely to be more comfortable still. The wheel has turned, and cast the adherents of York into the dust. Where they belong.”

  Geoffrey found himself alone in a widening space. Bulstrode’s retainers spread out, to lounge against the walls or sit on the benches that the servants had arranged for them. More servants came in, bearing trays laden with jugs of steaming hot wine and cider, plates of fresh, sweet-smelling bread and other delicacies.