welling up between his thick fingers. Then he fell to the ground, dead.
John’s chest was heaving. He wiped the sweat from his brow and sank down on his straw mattress. He was weaker than he would have liked. He got up again and began to pace his cell. Five paces. Turn. Five paces. Turn. Five paces. Turn . He did the circuit one hundred times after both his morning and evening meal. He would add another session in the afternoon, and another session of practice swordplay. If he was ever freed from this dungeon, he would be ready to make his enemies pay.
He had been in prison for something like eight months. It was hard to be exact when there was no sunlight, and the torches in the hallway outside his cell burned night and day. Only the food, which came twice a day, let him know when one day ended and the next began. Sometimes, though, he lost track of which meal was breakfast and which supper. After William’s visit, the food had improved, but it was always the same: a thick slice of black bread and a cup of thin vegetable broth. On good days, there would be a small piece of onion or carrot in the broth. Between meals, when not exercising, John thought of those who had put him in his cell – of Heraclius, Guy and Sibylla. He thought of Baldwin, of Yusuf, of his son Ubadah and of Zimat. He thought again of Reynald and rubbed the scar on his forearm.
John finished pacing and lay down. He could hear the distant drip of water. Until recently, he would have also heard the Weeper, as John had dubbed the man in the cell across from him. He had cried quietly for hours on end. Sometimes, he had sobbed loudly and banged on his door. Until the day the gaoler came to his cell. John had not thought it possible for anyone to scream so loud. After that, John had not heard from the Weeper again. One-Eye was gone, too. He had not lasted long after the gaoler put his eye out.
Scratchy occupied the cell to John’s left. Each night – or what he thought was night – John heard a faint scratching sound coming from his cell. He had thought the man might be trying to communicate. He had found a small pebble and scratched on the wall of his own cell. The sound from Scratchy had ceased at once and not returned until the following night. John had not tried again. If the man was trying to tunnel out through the thick walls, then he was mad, and John would not waste his time on a madman. It was hard enough keeping himself sane.
John called his neighbour to the right le Père. Every time food was brought, the man asked after the health of his son. Other than that, he made no sound. John kept his silence, too. He had asked after Baldwin for the first few weeks, but had received nothing more than sullen grunts and the occasional cuff to the head.
John heard the creak of rusty hinges as the door to the dungeon swung open. It was too early to be supper. It must be a visitor, or a new prisoner. John went to the grille in his cell door. He heard voices. He could not make out what they were saying, but one of them sounded like a woman. A visitor, then. John peered through the metal grate. Any change in the monotony of his days was welcome. He heard footsteps approaching along the hall. When he saw the gaoler, he stepped back. John knew better than to peer through the grate at him. That was how One-Eye had lost his eye. The gaoler had put a dagger in it.
The footsteps stopped before John’s cell. He heard the gaoler fumble with his keys, and a moment later the door creaked open. The gaoler stepped aside to reveal Agnes. She was dressed in robes of buttery silk and had a fur around her neck. She winced when she saw John.
‘Leave us,’ she told the gaoler.
‘Wha—’ John croaked, his voice rusty after weeks of disuse. ‘What do you want?’
‘I am freeing you. Come with me.’
John did not move. ‘Why now? It has been months.’
‘The regent Guy forbid me to come. He had me watched. I dared not even visit so long as he was in the
John’s chest was heaving. He wiped the sweat from his brow and sank down on his straw mattress. He was weaker than he would have liked. He got up again and began to pace his cell. Five paces. Turn. Five paces. Turn. Five paces. Turn . He did the circuit one hundred times after both his morning and evening meal. He would add another session in the afternoon, and another session of practice swordplay. If he was ever freed from this dungeon, he would be ready to make his enemies pay.
He had been in prison for something like eight months. It was hard to be exact when there was no sunlight, and the torches in the hallway outside his cell burned night and day. Only the food, which came twice a day, let him know when one day ended and the next began. Sometimes, though, he lost track of which meal was breakfast and which supper. After William’s visit, the food had improved, but it was always the same: a thick slice of black bread and a cup of thin vegetable broth. On good days, there would be a small piece of onion or carrot in the broth. Between meals, when not exercising, John thought of those who had put him in his cell – of Heraclius, Guy and Sibylla. He thought of Baldwin, of Yusuf, of his son Ubadah and of Zimat. He thought again of Reynald and rubbed the scar on his forearm.
John finished pacing and lay down. He could hear the distant drip of water. Until recently, he would have also heard the Weeper, as John had dubbed the man in the cell across from him. He had cried quietly for hours on end. Sometimes, he had sobbed loudly and banged on his door. Until the day the gaoler came to his cell. John had not thought it possible for anyone to scream so loud. After that, John had not heard from the Weeper again. One-Eye was gone, too. He had not lasted long after the gaoler put his eye out.
Scratchy occupied the cell to John’s left. Each night – or what he thought was night – John heard a faint scratching sound coming from his cell. He had thought the man might be trying to communicate. He had found a small pebble and scratched on the wall of his own cell. The sound from Scratchy had ceased at once and not returned until the following night. John had not tried again. If the man was trying to tunnel out through the thick walls, then he was mad, and John would not waste his time on a madman. It was hard enough keeping himself sane.
John called his neighbour to the right le Père. Every time food was brought, the man asked after the health of his son. Other than that, he made no sound. John kept his silence, too. He had asked after Baldwin for the first few weeks, but had received nothing more than sullen grunts and the occasional cuff to the head.
John heard the creak of rusty hinges as the door to the dungeon swung open. It was too early to be supper. It must be a visitor, or a new prisoner. John went to the grille in his cell door. He heard voices. He could not make out what they were saying, but one of them sounded like a woman. A visitor, then. John peered through the metal grate. Any change in the monotony of his days was welcome. He heard footsteps approaching along the hall. When he saw the gaoler, he stepped back. John knew better than to peer through the grate at him. That was how One-Eye had lost his eye. The gaoler had put a dagger in it.
The footsteps stopped before John’s cell. He heard the gaoler fumble with his keys, and a moment later the door creaked open. The gaoler stepped aside to reveal Agnes. She was dressed in robes of buttery silk and had a fur around her neck. She winced when she saw John.
‘Leave us,’ she told the gaoler.
‘Wha—’ John croaked, his voice rusty after weeks of disuse. ‘What do you want?’
‘I am freeing you. Come with me.’
John did not move. ‘Why now? It has been months.’
‘The regent Guy forbid me to come. He had me watched. I dared not even visit so long as he was in the
Similar Books
