But the gaoler did not notice. Blood lust ran hot in him, and in seconds he had ripped away the remnants of her clothes and pulled down his breeches. Fiercely aroused by the fight she had put up, he was hard and more than ready. Forcing her legs apart, he thrust into her, savage strokes that tore at her; he was built like a bull, and not for nothing did the town whores evade him unless there was no choice.
His climax came quickly, for a man like him had no concept of self-control. Panting, he slumped on the woman. ‘There, now,’ he managed after a while, ‘that weren’t so bad, eh?’ And — thinking that he might again have for free what he normally had to pay for — ‘We might do that again, now, eh? Old Forin might come by again, maybe bring you. .’
But whatever his unimaginative mind might have come up with as a suitable gift for a woman he had just raped was never to be expressed. For, belatedly, he had noticed his prisoner’s unnatural stillness.
Rising up — he was kneeling between her wide-spread legs — he gazed down at her. There was blood on her thighs, and he wondered if he had just deflowered a virgin. Shame if so, he’d have made more of the moment if he’d known. Silly cow ought to have said.
Then he saw the other blood. Flowing from the back of her head, where she had hit the floor.
He thrust one hand into her long, dark hair, pooling around her head. He felt something warm and wet and, withdrawing his hand, he saw that it was covered in her blood.
He stared down at her small white breasts. Soft, they were, and nicely rounded. He put his hand on one, pinching the nipple hard; that’d wake her up if she was shamming.
She made not the slightest move.
He stared at her face. Her eyes were wide open, fixed; he could not bear to look into them. Leaning down over her, he listened for a hint of breath, watched for any rise and fall of her chest.
Nothing.
Standing up, pulling up his breeches and straightening his tunic, he said, in a low and somehow triumphant tone, ‘She’s dead, then. Aye, dead.’
He reached up for the torch and took it from the bracket. Then, leaving the cell door open — she certainly wasn’t going anywhere now — he strolled off along the passage.
Dead. Ah well, it’d save the hangman a job.
Part One
1
‘King Richard a prisoner? Nonsense — this cannot be so. Someone must be having a wicked jest!’
Josse d’Acquin, house guest of his late mother’s brother, Hugh of Lewes, heard his own heated words and belatedly remembered his manners. ‘I apologise, Uncle,’ he muttered. ‘But, nonetheless, I am certain there can be no truth in this terrible story. Why, the King heads a great army!’ Or at least he did three years ago, Josse added silently to himself, when he rode off with such proud pomp at the head of the vast crusading force. Since then, King Richard had suffered mixed fortunes. Moreover, of late the sparse news filtering back from Outremer with returning crusaders had been depressing.
And, for all that there were many tales that boasted of the King’s bravery, prowess and deeds of outstanding daring, there were also the hushed voices that spoke of sickness. Of a recurrent fever. Of a wound. Of plotting between Richard’s own brother, John, and the King of France, Richard’s sworn enemy. There were even — God forbid! — whispers that said King Richard was dead.
Trying not to dwell on that frightful thought, Josse blustered on. ‘How could it be that those whose sworn duty it is to guard the King would have allowed him to be taken?’
Hugh had waved the apology away. ‘Oh, Josse, I understand your emotion and I too, on hearing the fell news, had the same reaction: there must be some foul trickery here.’ His shocked eyes met Josse’s. ‘But not so. The reports flying around at court are, I deeply regret to say, absolutely true.’ He glanced over his shoulder as if to ensure that they were not overheard, then, putting his mouth close to his nephew’s ear, whispered, ‘Editha has it from Howell, who, as I believe we have told you, is kin to one of the secretaries of Walter of Coutances.’ The whisper dropped to a still softer pitch as Hugh added, ‘And it was Walter himself who broke the news to Queen Eleanor!’
‘Aye,’ Josse said distractedly. ‘Aye, you have indeed spoken of Howell’s important and influential cousin.’ He refrained from adding that it was strange how Howell — married to Hugh’s middle daughter Editha — managed to have distinguished relations whilst remaining unutterably dull and unremarkable himself. ‘But how does Walter of Coutances come by the news? Is there not still room for hope that the report, wherever it comes from, may yet prove false?’
‘I do not know, Josse.’ Hugh gave a heavy sigh. ‘I pray you are right, yet in my heart. .’ He did not continue with the remark. Then suddenly he burst out: ‘I fear for England if Prince John rules us!’
Josse, too, had his misgivings concerning the Prince. He had encountered the man a matter of months previously, and knew better than many with what single-mindedness, even then, John’s hungry ambition had been fixed on the throne of England.
Yet, indeed, with Richard gone, who else was there?
But Hugh was speaking again. Josse arrested his despairing thoughts and listened.
‘Editha and Howell will be here again by and by,’ Hugh said. ‘Then we shall have fresh tidings, for they have been visiting Howell’s family. I pray God the news is good.’
‘Amen to that,’ Josse agreed.
‘Until then,’ Hugh said, on another sigh, ‘let us try to turn our thoughts to happier matters.’ His face brightening, he managed a light laugh. ‘A game of chess, perhaps? I believe you like to play?’
‘Er — it is many years since I enjoyed a game, and I fear that what skills I once possessed may have deserted me. But I will take up the challenge, Uncle, if you issue it.’
Now Hugh’s laughter was stronger. ‘That I do, nephew, albeit on another’s behalf. For if the guest whom we expect this afternoon can indeed spare the time to grace us with a visit, he will certainly not wish to pass up the chance of pitting his wits against a new opponent.’
His heart sinking — chess had never really been his game — Josse said, trying to put a note of polite enquiry into his voice, ‘And who may this guest be, Uncle?’
‘Why, Father Edgar!’ Hugh exclaimed, as if Josse ought to have guessed. ‘You remember, our priest!’
‘Oh.’
Hugh wrapped an affectionate arm around Josse’s shoulders, thumping the fist of his other hand against his nephew’s broad chest for good measure. ‘Ah, now, Father Edgar’s a good fellow, Josse, with a wide-ranging mind and possessed of lively intelligence. You have not yet had occasion to assess the measure of the man.’ Noting Josse’s expression — which despite his best efforts must have remained sceptical — Hugh laughed again and said, ‘Just wait! Just you wait!’
Josse had been the guest of his uncle and aunt throughout the Christmas season and the month of January. Aware that he had neglected them for far too long, he had not been entirely sure what sort of a welcome he would receive. His father’s kin were from northern France, where Josse’s four brothers lived with their wives and their children on the family lands of the d’Acquins. Josse’s father Geoffroi, however, had married an Englishwoman, Ida, daughter of Herbert of Lewes with whom he had fought in the Second Crusade. As a boy, Josse had been despatched by his mother to visit his English relatives and he had kept warm, though faint, memories of Uncle Hugh, Aunt Ysabel and his three cousins, Isabella, the eldest (who was the same age as Josse), Editha and Aeleis. Until this Christmas, however, he had not seen any of them for more than twenty years.