The Silver Falcon (17 page)

I
t’s going to rain,” muttered Robert, looking up with annoyance. Wet weather for days, just when he wanted to train the falcons in the open. It was enough to put anyone in a bad mood. An early drop fell near his nose. Sighing, he picked up both buckets, quickly filled them, and returned to the tower. Through the trees he saw Sibylle running toward the mews. She stopped in the yard, breathless.

“William! Robert!” Her voice sounded shriller than usual. “Where are you?”

“Here I am,” answered Robert. “What’s the matter? Why are you shouting so?”

“William! Where is he?” Sibylle looked around anxiously.

“You must have passed him on the path. He wanted to go to the village to buy some chicks.” Robert showed her William’s knife. “He forgot this. I thought about running after him, but I’m sure he can do without.”

“Good God, no.”

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating?” Robert looked at Sibylle, frowning. Why did girls always have to overreact so dreadfully?

“I don’t mean the knife. I’m scared because he’s not here. He’s running straight into his arms.”

“Will you please tell me what you’re talking about?”

“My mother, Pater John,” Sibylle stammered. When she saw that Robert was still looking at her questioningly, she made an effort to collect herself and started from the beginning.

“Pater John was with my mother this morning. He pretended to be apologetic and took a long time to get to the point. ‘I’m violating the sanctity of the confessional and risking my salvation, but I have no choice’—that sort of thing. He kept whining and beating about the bush until my mother lost her patience. ‘I act out of a sense of duty,’ he said, then told her that William had accused Odon of being responsible for the priest’s death.”

“Merciful heavens. I told him he should keep his mouth shut.”

“Pater John told my mother the whole story. A foolish prank that unfortunately cost a man his life. That’s what he called it. Then he talked about his brother, who doesn’t have enough money to send his daughter to a good convent. My mother promised to consider helping the child and told him to go on with his story. When she found out that William had talked about going to the sheriff to bear witness when next he came to Thorne, she promised to use her influence on behalf of Pater John’s niece, as long as he promised to keep silent about what he had heard and, if necessary, testified that William had confessed to murdering the priest himself.” Sibylle sighed deeply. Her shoulders, normally erect, slumped. “I know how my mother idolizes Odon, so I’m not surprised. But Pater John, he’s a man of the cloth. I would never have thought it possible that he would agree to such a thing!”

“Indeed.” Robert’s resentment of priests was rekindled.

“My mother spoke to Odon as soon as Pater John had gone and gave him leave to capture William. She wants to accuse him of murder and throw him in the dungeon. He won’t survive that for long. You should have seen Odon’s face. He couldn’t wait to see William locked up.” Sibylle sobbed with anguish. “She didn’t have a bad word for Odon. No rebuke. She didn’t even ask him what he was thinking of when he let the priest drown. And do you know the worst thing? As long as my father isn’t here, I can’t do anything for William.” She clasped her hands together and looked up at the sky. “Our Father in heaven, help him, I beg you.”

The ground seemed to sway under Robert’s feet. “How do you know all this anyway?”

“I eavesdropped. I know it’s unforgivable, but Pater John seemed so agitated when he arrived that I couldn’t help it.” Sibylle looked down in shame.

“Nonsense. The main thing is that you weren’t caught. Now you have to go on keeping your ears open. That’s all you can do for William at the moment. Meanwhile, I’ll do some thinking.”

Sibylle nodded and wiped away her tears. She kissed Robert on the cheek and left.

Robert stroked his cheek in surprise, touching the spot on his skin where her kiss burned like a branding iron.

When William came to, his head was throbbing. He was lying on damp straw that stank of urine and feces. It was a while before he could think clearly. How had he come to be here? The last thing he remembered was being on the path to the village. William touched his head and started with pain.

Anxiously, he felt the spot again. It was warm and sticky with blood where a huge lump cushioned a gaping wound on the back of his head. William tried to remember what had happened. On his way into the village he had met Odon. William tried to sit up, but his skull ached whenever he moved. So he reclined back on the moldy-smelling ground and closed his eyes in despair. The memory was coming back to him gradually.

“I told you the day would come when you would regret taking me on,” Odon had said with his sneering smirk. Then he’d dismounted his horse and punched William in the midriff. William had crumpled but had not fallen to the ground until he’d taken another blow and everything went black. Odon, or one of his companions, must have hit him over the head.

William noticed that his left arm hurt, too, and checked to see whether it was broken.

“Is anyone there?” he called out, suddenly afraid. But there was no answer. “Where am I?”

“Nobody there,” came a strange, snickering voice. “Never. Always alone.”

A shiver ran down William’s back. Mad Leonard. So he was still alive. Everyone in the village had heard of this unfortunate man. He had been locked up in the dungeon for years. Nobody really knew what crime he had committed or what had become of him. Some said he had become too familiar with the lady of the manor; others, that he had rejected her advances so she’d had him locked away. William had heard that his years in a cell had driven him mad with anguish and loneliness. Perhaps also with despair, he thought.

“Who are you?” William tried to start a conversation.

“Nobody there. Always alone.”

“My name is William. Leonard, is that you?” he asked as if they had known each other for years.

“Alone, so alone,” the voice wailed.

“No, you’re not alone anymore.” William felt the resentment rising in him. No, he thought bitterly, now I’m in here, too, and I don’t even know why.

“You won’t catch me, Satan,” the madman hissed suddenly, rattling his chains loudly. Then he thrust out his fist. “Get thee hence! Nobody there.”

William gave up trying to speak to him. Although he was not in irons, like the unfortunate madman, William felt very sorry for himself. At some point he fell asleep.

When he awoke, he felt an urgent need to relieve himself. He stood up slowly, swaying for a short while, and looked for some kind of vessel. A small window set high in the wall of the cell let in just enough light to reveal a feces-encrusted wooden bucket in
a corner. The penetrating smell of excrement emanating from the bucket so revolted William that he decided to wait. He withdrew to the corner where he had woken up, sat down with his knees to his chest, and fell to brooding over what could have brought him to this evil place. He had committed no crime. What was he accused of? It was a bit late to take revenge for the stone he had flung at Odon’s head so long ago. Was it something to do with the death of the priest?

The intense pain in his head did not make thinking easier. Only Robert and Pater John knew what he had seen. How could Odon have found out? The father was bound by the sanctity of the confessional. William groaned. Robert hated Odon. Perhaps he had forgotten himself and threatened Odon with what William knew? No, he couldn’t have been such a fool.

“Stand up!”

William started with alarm when a kick landed on his ribs. He must have fallen asleep again. Doing his best to look confident, he gritted his teeth and got up.

“You are a vile piece of dirt, William.”

The light of a flaming torch entered the filthy dungeon through the open oak door, amply revealing its neglected state.

“I know you can’t stand me, Master Odon. But don’t you think you’re going too far? When your uncle—”

“My uncle?” Odon laughed mockingly. “Do you think he’s going to come here and rescue you? Who knows if he’ll even come back safe and sound?”

Sir Ralph had been traveling with the king for months. It was said that he had stopped in Normandy. Nobody knew for how long. Perhaps Odon was right, and he was not even alive. Gripped by despair, William shuffled his feet in the rotting straw.

“It wasn’t my decision to throw you in the dungeon,” said Odon with a shrug. “My aunt insisted. She thinks it’s a fitting punishment for the death of the young priest.” Odon made a face, as if he felt sorry for William.

“But I had nothing to do with it,” William retorted angrily. “As you well know.”

“Do I? The last time I saw the priest, he was alive. I have three witnesses who can confirm it. Besides, Pater John says you confessed to it.”

“No, that’s not true. He can’t do that!
You
pushed the priest into the pond and left him to drown.”

“He fell in, an unfortunate accident. He was wet, that’s true, but he was very much alive when we rode away. My aunt says
you
drowned him. He fought back, apparently.”

William gasped, helpless as a fish out of water. “I didn’t touch him.”

“Who cares about that now? Have you noticed that one there?” He pointed toward Leonard, who was humming quietly. “You’ll die here, slowly, just like him. No one will ask after you, and if they do, well, then you just…died of a fever. How sad for poor William.”

Driven by raging panic, William threw himself at Odon. But Odon, a practiced fighter, stepped lightly to one side, grabbed him by the collar of his tunic, and drew him close.

He looks as if he’s been licked clean, thought William, staring at Odon’s pink, carefully shaven face.

“Maybe I should have you put in irons, too?” Odon said.

William did not doubt that he would carry out this threat, so he lowered his eyes.

Odon thrust him back to the ground. “You’d be better off saving your strength. I think you’re going to need it. Truly grim in here. I don’t think I’ll be coming back anytime soon.”

As the heavy oak door with its tiny eye-level grating creaked shut behind Odon, William felt lonelier than he had ever felt before. God, where are you? he wanted to scream, but his voice failed him. Trembling with fear, he cowered in the corner and stared gloomily ahead.

The time passed with dreadful slowness. When at last the jailer came by, William saw Mad Leonard for the first time in the flickering torchlight. His filthy, emaciated body was covered with bluish-brown bruises, his long hair was matted, and his eyes were troubled. Sallow skin, thin as parchment, lay in folds over his bony knees and hung from his arms and legs as if it no longer fit him. William’s fear increased. Absent a miracle, he would end up just as pitiful.

For two days, William sat there hoping that help would arrive soon, fearing that he would never be released, and hoping again. But nothing happened.

When the hopelessness of his position began to sink in, he was gripped by cold fear. Frantically, he ran up and down in his cell. Searching every corner for an escape route, he scratched at the joints of the walls to see if he could scrape away some of the mortar and loosen a stone. With his bare hands, he tried to dig up the solid clay floor; he tried to climb up to the tiny grated opening that gleamed at the two prisoners like a cyclopean eye. All in vain.

Mad Leonard rattled his chains and laughed hoarsely. He shook his head, as if he knew from personal experience that all these efforts were futile. Had he lain in chains all this time? Or had they been put on him because he had tried to escape?

Eventually, William dragged himself back to his corner, exhausted and discouraged, his hands and knees raw and bleeding.

The jailer, an old man with a curly reddish-blond beard and matted shoulder-length hair, came twice a day. He brought them bread or meal; occasionally an overripe pear, a worm-eaten apple, or some wilted cabbage; and a bucket of water. He was escorted by two armed men. William could see that there was no point in taking them on.

“Please give me a pot to relieve myself in,” he begged on the very first day, looking down humbly. And in fact he had been heard. The jailer, whose ashen pallor spoke of his long presence among these dimly lit corridors and dark cellars, emptied the bucket every other day.

The bread was dry and often moldy, the fruit was putrid, and the meal must have had more stones than grain ground into it, for it grated terribly on William’s teeth. The worst, though, was that there was never nearly enough to satisfy his hunger. The days were long, and sometimes William did not know when one ended and the next began, because he was constantly dozing off. Sundays were the only days he recognized. On that day they were given an extra piece of bread soaked in gravy, taken from the lord’s table, and William would dig in eagerly. He would bolt the moistened bread without hesitation, even after the young soldiers escorting the jailer spat on it once. He had learned that hunger and thirst were the worst enemies of self-respect.

Three Sundays had gone by when, instead of the jailer, a young man brought the prisoners their food. Judging by his stubby, robust nose and the reddish color of his hair, he was the jailer’s son. He fussed about in William’s corner for some time. The two soldiers paid no attention; they were too busy making fun of poor Leonard.