He chuckled. 'And the captain. Humping like a little bunny. Nice to know the nobles get boils on their arses, isn't it?'
Will lifted the tankard and half drained it. The ale was strong, and he felt his head swimming.
'I've never done that before,' he said. 'Never will again. I'm not going to wait for the summer.
I'm going south tomorrow. I'm finished here. Wish I'd never come.'
'You've got blood on your hand,' said Relph. 'Did she bite you?"
Will jerked and rubbed the dried blood on to his leather leggings. 'No. It's not my blood.' He bit his lip and looked away, but Relph saw the tears spilling to his cheeks.
'What's got into you? Is it the boy? He'll get over the whoop, Will. I'm sure he will. Come on, mate, this isn't like you at all. Here, let me get you another drink.' Relph stood, but Will reached out and took hold of his arm.
'It doesn't bother you, does it? She was screaming. She was cut, bitten, thrashed. It doesn't bother you?'
'It didn't bother you at the time, either. And no, why should it worry me? Worse'll happen to her tomorrow. At least she went out with a good rut, eh? Anyway, the captain told us to. So why not?
God's teeth, Will, she's only a whore. Whores were made for sport.'
Will released his hold and Relph moved back into the crowd. He gazed around him through bleary eyes, listening to the laughter of the revellers, and thought of Betsi; picturing her in that cell. Relph returned with two tankards. 'Here, get that down you, mate. You'll feel better.
There's a dice game back at the barracks at midnight. You fancy a bet?'
'No. I'll get home. Got to get Betsi to pack ready for tomorrow.'
'You're not thinking this through, Will. No one will be taking on mercenaries down south. What will you do?'
'I don't care.'
Relph leaned forward. 'You have to care, Will. You have a family to support, and a sick son. You can't go dragging them out into the countryside. It's not fair on them. Look, I don't know why this has got to you so bad. You stuck a few inches of gristle into a few soft warm places. Now you want to ruin your life and your family's lives. It don't make no sense. You get home and get a good night's sleep. It'll all look differentin the morning.'
Will shook his head. 'What will be different? I'm forty-two years old. I've lived my whole life by an iron set of rules which my dad beat into me. You ever heard me lie, Relph. You ever seen me steal?'
"No, you're a regular saint, mate. They ought to put up statues to you. But what's the point you're making?'
'I just betrayed everything I've lived for. Everything. What we did there was wrong. Worse than that, it was evil.'
'Now you're talking daft. What do you mean evil? She was a slag, and I'll bet she's been jumped before. What pigging difference does it make? She's dead anyway, come morning. You heard the captain, they're going to put out her eyes and hang her in the old cage. Bloody Hell, Will, you think what we done is any worse than that? Come on I'll walk you home. You look all in.'
Relph stood and helped Will to his feet. The big man staggered, then headed for the door.
'I should have stopped it,' mumbled Will. 'Not joined in. Oh God, what will I say to Betsi?'
'Nothing, mate. Nothing at all. You just go home, and you sleep.'
*
The relief guard was called Owen Hunter; the man he replaced told him of the sport he had missed.
Owen was a Lowlander, married to a harridan named Clorrie who made his life a misery. As he sat at the dungeon table in the flickering torchlight, he tried to remember the last time he had enjoyed a woman. It was more than three years - if you didn't count the alley whore.
He had smiled when the guard told him of the afternoon's entertainment, and even managed to say,
'That's life,' when the man pointed out that it should have been Owen's shift, except that the Lowlander had swapped it earlier that day.
But now, as he sat alone, he allowed his bitterness to rise. Of all the women to choose he had married Clorrie: sharp-tongued, mean-spirited Clorrie. Life's a bastard and no mistake, thought OwenNLike the other soldiers, he had heard of the incident when the Baron lost his eye. Even now the surgeons were at work in the upper room of the keep, plugging the wound and feeding the Baron expensive opiates.
There was no sound in the dungeon corridor, save for the occasional hiss from the torches. Owen stood and stretched his legs, remembering the last words of the man he replaced: 'What an arse on her! I tell you, Owen, she was a jump to remember.'
Owen lifted a torch from its bracket and walked past the four empty cells to the locked door.
Pulling open the grille he peered inside. There was no window to the cell and the torchlight did not pierce the gloom. Slipping the bolt, he opened the door. The woman was lying on the floor, her legs spread open. There was blood on her face and thighs, and one of her breasts was bleeding.
Owen moved closer. She was still unconscious. Despite the blood he could see that she was beautiful, her hair gleaming silver and red in the torchlight. His eyes scanned her body. Even the hair of her pubic mound was silver, he noticed. She was slim and tall, her breasts firm. Owen saw that one of her nipples was bleeding, a thin trickle of red still running down to her side.
Kneeling alongside her Owen ran his hand up her thigh, his fingers stroking the silver mound, his index finger slipping inside her.
He made his decision and rose, planting the torch in a wall bracket. Swiftly he stripped off his leather leggings and knelt between the open legs, pushing his hands under her thighs to draw her on to him. Why not, he thought? Everyone else has had their pleasure. Why not me?
Why shouldn't Owen Hunter have a little fun? His last sight was of the woman suddenly rearing up.
His own
hands were locked beneath her thighs, but he saw her right hand stab forward, felt the terrible pain as her first two fingers struck his eyes. Then all was pain and an explosion of light that was unbearable.
Sigarni dragged her fingers from the oozing sockets and groaned. Her ribs hurt, but that was as nothing compared with the pain within. She pushed the body of the guard from her, then rolled to her knees. Nausea rose in her throat and she vomited. Her head was pounding, her body begging her to lie down, to rest, to heal. Instead she forced herself to her feet. The guard began to moan.
Dropping to her knees she pulled his dagger from his belt and plunged it through the nape of his neck. His legs spasmed, one foot striking the narrow cot. Blood filled the man's throat and he began to choke. Dragging the dagger clear she held the point over the centre of his back and threw her weight down upon it. The blade slid between his ribs, skewering the lungs. Now he was still. A pool of urine spread out from beneath him. Sigarni stood again, then sat on the cot looking round the cell, taking in every block and stone, every rat-hole. Her leggings had been thrown into a corner. Retrieving them, she dressed. The cord of the waist had been cut. Dragging the guard's belt clear, she pierced a new buckle hole in the leather and strapped it to her waist.
Everything hurt. Her lips were swollen, her cheek cut and bruised. There was a knife-cut in her right buttock and another on her left thigh. The guard moaned again. Sigarni could not believe the man could still be alive. Taking hold of the jutting knife with both hands she wrenched it clear of his back, then knelt forward to slice the razor-sharp blade across his throat. Blood gushed to the stone floor. Grabbing him by the shoulders she rolled him to his back, slashing the sharp blade again and again across his lower body. At last, exhausted, she stopped, her hands drenched in blood.
'You've got to get out of here,' she told herself. 'You've got to find them.' She had feigned unconsciousness at the end, even when two of them had stood and urinated over her. She had heard the small man, Relph, talking about the Blue Duck tavern. She knew it - it was close to Market Street.