Chapter 23      Dell

 

 

 

As Edward had instructed him, Dell closed up shop when the wet cooper sent his apprentices home for the evening.  He waved to one of them, Tom, who was about his own age.  Tom waved back wearily as he slogged up the street to the house where he had a room.  Uninviting, the street waited, a turbulent river of mud frozen into strange shapes, ridges where wagon wheels had pushed aside wakes, and craters, where horses and oxen had stepped.  The crust could almost hold the weight of a man, but usually waited until a step was committed before breaking through to the liquid below.  The frozen mud waited, treacherously, to trip a load or sprain an ankle.  Everyone kept to the sides, where the wagons could not reach and the animals never trod.  There, at least, the mud had some predictability.

On winter evenings, it did not take long for the street to empty, and more so on this dismal night.  Darkness crept into the smoke colored air like a thief, and swiftly emptied the sky of light.  Patches in the thin clouds let the stars shine through, but even that only deepened the solitude.  Dell watched the last passerby disappear around the bend of the road.  The last door closed, the last shutters pulled tight together.  Nothing stirred now, not man nor beast.  Even the smoke from hearth fires streamed straight up into the haze, characterless without the wind to guide it.

He did not like the street this night.  The feeling persisted.  The street waited.

Pushing the heavy doors closed, Dell drew the bolts into their receivers, top and bottom.  The forge lay still and the anvil rested.  The interior was quieter than he ever remembered it.  No fire burned, no hammer pounded metal.  The bellows did not breathe.  It lay in the shadows like a dead animal.  Dusk filled the ceiling spaces and crowded in from the corners.  As pleasant as the silence could have been, here it crept about like a sinister thing.  He missed the noise of Edward, for this was his place.  These were his tools, his goods.  Without him, the smithy felt foreign, he an unwelcome visitor, a stranger.  Edward was big enough to fill this place.  He was not.

With disconcerting suddenness, he realized he was frightened to be alone there.  The absence of the smith was too strong, the darkness too inky.  What lived there in the smith's absence, he did not wish to meet.

Crossing to the inside door, he quickly shed his apron and gloves.  He had broken enough clinkers off the grates for one day.  He picked up his lamp, and went through the door, feeling a measure of security when the thick door seated itself into its frame behind him.  He ran the bolt home.  One good thing about a blacksmith's home, it had good hinges and bolts.

Dell went to the kitchen.  Mary stood at the hearthstone, stirring a pot of stew.  The crackling of the fire sounded lonely, its light dim, and Dell could tell that Mary also felt Edward's absence.  Her shoulders drooped and her movements seemed leaden.

"Hullo, Dell," Mary said with a welcome smile.  Her voice betrayed more.  She welcomed the sight of him even as he welcomed her.  This must be what the house is like when the smith went on his trips to procure iron.  Worse this time, because of the known danger.  Word had spread.  Rumors flowered and bloomed in the aftermath of the stable fire.  Mary wore lines of worry.

"I closed up shop," said Dell.

"I heard the bolts," she said.  "Though, I doubt you had anyone in all afternoon.  This has turned a miserable night."

Dell knew she wondered where her husband would spend the hours of darkness.

"We got no pennies today, mistress."  He wanted to say something to make her feel better.  "Sir Cadmon said Master Edward was the best swordsmith since Weyland."

"Did he?"  Her opinion of Cadmon was vague, yet a man of his reputation bore respect, as did his words, especially when they pertained to her husband.  She listened with pride.

"Yes."  Dell took a plate of bread from the bread cabinet and pulled the linen off it.  Barley bread and a bit of the molasses bread from several days before.

"Have you heard anything more?" asked Mary, placing a tallow lamp in the middle of the table.  It cast a wavering pool of yellow which spilled onto the floor.

"Gil stopped by with some irons he wanted narrowed.  He said wagons of timber were already coming in from the hunting lodge to rebuild the stable.  Jack Crawford, the woodwright from Lord Stephen's manor, has marked out the new foundation, and all the old wood has been cleared away, now."

"But, have you heard anything about the men who did the burning?"

Dell shook his head.  "No.  They may as well have never been here for what a man can find of them.  They must have come and gone by foot.  There is no sign of horse or wagon."

"Evil men."

"Yes, mistress.  Bad men.  Gil says they are French, but I do not know how he could be so sure."

"Evil men, Dell.  Wherever they come from."

"Yes, mistress."

Mary put out some mutton and yams and motioned for Dell to seat himself.  When Dell had settled, Mary bowed her head.  Dell tucked his head also and put the palms of his hands together.  Mary said her thanks to God for the food and added a plea for divine watchfulness over her beloved husband.  Dell added a silent plea for rescue from the forge.

"Amen," said Mary.

"Amen," said Dell.

They ate in near silence.  Dell at last licked his fingers clean and dried them on his leggings.

"I will help you tidy up," said Dell.

"No, I will be all right.  You go on and get yourself to sleep."

"Thank you, mistress.  I am tired."  He had not done that much, but the strain of fending for the shop alone drew upon his reserves.  Besides, it was dark out, and he felt the need to cover his head, as do fowl when the sun goes down.

Dell slept in a room over the kitchen, a small compartment lined with heavy timber, wattle, and lathes.  Nails from the stone covering the roof penetrated through the boards in places.  He remembered Edward saying a smith's house lay too close to the forge for thatching.  That was the reason many in the town wanted him to remove his forge to the far end of the green, where no buildings stood and the prevailing winds would carry sparks into the woods.  Edward refused to go on all grounds of reason.  He said he did not like to be pushed, that he and the cooper were the first to build in that section of the town and the others had been Johnny come latelies, and as far as he was concerned, they could go suck straw.  Edward had a point.  The complaining neighbors had moved in next to the forge knowing full well the dangers, but the way Edward pressed the issue stood him ill.  The thing was unfair, but what in life was not?  Edward could not but lose the fight, but he would not bend until the town forced him.  It would bring more ill will, and the results would be the same, but that was Edward.

The mistress had given him some old tapestries she had bought from a trantor in the market square, and they brought some color and kept out the cold.  He had a little table where he kept his lamp and a few odd-sized trimmings of paper he had begged from the paper seller for a penny.  He had several thin wires of plumbum lead which he had pounded into shape himself and used to draw with.  He pulled out his little pile of papers and examined his handiwork.  There were illuminated letters of all kinds, including some fanciful letters which he had made up because they looked elegant.  All were illuminated, crawling with vines and ivy, with little animals and men peeking out of holes or clambering over the humps and turns of the letters.  He wished he could read.  The letters the priest had showed him were nothing more than pictures.  They were supposed to make sounds, but he did not know what sounds each letter was supposed to make.  But they were beautiful.  He edged the lamp closer and admired the "O" and "H" in particular.  They were very symmetrical, like the spans he saw in churches and other stone buildings.

He was afraid to keep his lamp anywhere but on the table as quarters were so close.  He pulled up an overturned basket and sat down.  He felt too tired to draw, but felt compelled to make a few strokes nevertheless.  The oily feel of lead on paper always made him feel better, whatever the problem.  Besides, if he did not practice, the monks would put him to cleaning stables instead of copying manuscripts if he ever got the chance to escape the infernal burnt smell of the forge.

Time passed.  He heard Mary shut her chamber door.  The house fell into disquieting silence.  No wind without, no mice within.  Too quiet, too still.  Though he resented the sentiment, he wished Master Edward were somewhere in the house.  If he were home, his presence would permeate the walls like the musk of a Billy goat, overpowering, but welcome.

Dell restacked his drawings and put a stone on them, placed his lead wires in a little wooden box, and with a darting movement, pinched the light out and jumped into his rustley straw tick mattress, pulling the blanket over his head.  The night was bad.

He shivered until his body warmed the bed and blanket.  The silence kept him awake for a long time, but eventually he felt his mind clouding and foggily welcomed the numbness of sleep.

Suddenly, he was awake.  He knew he had been asleep, but now, he was awake.  What had wakened him?

A sound.  Yes, there had been a sound.  His heart beat hurriedly.

He came up on one elbow, clearing the sleep from his brain.  It was still dark out, cool, clammy.  The air smelled late, somewhere in the true mid night.

He listened.  Silence.

Had it been a dream?  What had it sounded like?  He blinked and frowned.  The bellows, that unnatural animal breathing of the bellows.  That is what had awakened him.  What of Mary?  No, she would never hear it.  The sound was too subtle and she slept on the far side of the house.  Besides, she was used to the noise the smith made when he slept.  She would never wake to such a small sound.  He listened.

Nothing.

Then, a great long sigh.  The bellows!  It was the sound of the bellows when you release the great arm high and let it settle of its own accord.  Someone was in the forge.  Some beggar off the street.  If he interfered with any of the smith's things, there would be, as Edward himself would have put it, "Hell to pay."  But....

A bolt of fear shot through him.  It fell to him to see, to him to investigate.  He was the man.  He had been left in charge of the forge.  What could Mary do?  Look at him scornfully for not doing what a man should do?

No, he was not up to it.  He shook his head under the blanket.  The sighing continued.  He would have to go.

Slowly, he got out of bed, careful to not make a sound.  It was inky dark, but he had gotten to know the cramped space thoroughly in his time there.  He did not need light.  He got into his leggings and boots, pulled his wool jerkin over the shirt he wore at night.  Ready is as ready does, he said to himself.

Go down?  The thought made him shiver.  Maybe the sound would go away.

The bellows sighed again.

Had Master Edward come back?  That must be it.  How else could someone have gotten into the forge?  The window.  He had not bolted the window!

Anxiety spread its wings over his skin, a cool tingle, a chill.  Whoever worked the bellows, it was not Edward.  Whether or not the smith could have gotten back is of rare providence, but the movement of the bellows had not the firm deliberation that Edward would have given it.  The bellows moved languidly, in easy draughts, like a cat's breath.  Edward would have been incapable of such subtlety.

He would have to go see.  What he did after that might be little more than to bolt the door again before a hound of Hell burst through, or spirits of knights murdered by Master Edward's knives made ingress.  Most probably a man.  Yes, the old, one-eyed beggar.  Or any of a dozen others seeking warmth by the coals of the forge.  Yes, there were men enough about. But more than that roamed the night.  Forget that.

He started down the stairs to the kitchen.

Dell remembered the swirls of mist which accompanied him and the smith when they brought back the iron.  It looked like mist, but something moved within it, of that he was sure.  And something moved in the forge, he was equally sure.

A few embers still glowed in the kitchen grate.  The poker lay against the stone.  Should he light a lamp?  How else could he see?  If whoever was in the forge had started a fire there, light would be no problem.  If he carried a light, they would see him for sure.  No.  No lamp.  He picked up the poker.  It had a comfortably heavy feel.

He edged along the wall until he came to the short passage which led to the forge door.  The crack beneath the door showed a pale peach colored haze.  There was a light in the forge.  Someone was there.  The bellows breathed again.

Too bad Edward never put a sight through the door.  That would provide safety while finding out what lay beyond.  But such oversight was typical.  Edward feared neither man nor beast nor God.  Such extravagances were unnecessary for a man who seemed to welcome confrontation with everything the world could offer.  He wished he could feel a little that way right now.

Strategy.  He would brace the door with his foot and silently raise the bolt handle and worm it back until the end was free of the receiver.  Then he would ease the door open a crack and peer through.  If the devil stood there, he would slam the door closed and ram home the bolt.  If it was a beggar, he would let him stay the night, then remember to lock the window shutter from then on.  Would the door creak?  He fought to remember.  He did not think so.  The hinges were kept oiled.

So.

He put the outside of his right foot sideways against the door, then slid his foot back an inch.  He would open it no further.  The poker felt cold and sweaty.  It had felt solid in his hand and he had felt potent carrying it to the door, but now, at the moment of opening the door, the poker felt no more than a heavy piece of metal.  Yet, he had a duty.  The smith had, with reluctance plain in his eyes, left him in charge.  The house and its protection was his responsibility.  He remembered the sneers of condescension in the smith's every gesture.  He would prove himself to the old bear.

Placing his hand against the door, he eased the bolt handle up until his hand fitted around it.  All right so far.  Twisting the handle up and down, the bolt slowly worked its way back.  With a sudden rush, the bolt came free.  He almost let the handle click against the latch it did move so suddenly, but he stopped it in time.  No sound.

Now, the hardest part.  Be bold.  Remember Edward.  Be Edward.  He edged the door open.  As he remembered, it moved easily, without scrape or squeak.  The edge of the door moved past the frame, opened further until it stopped against his foot.  He would have to open it more.  The thickness of the door still had not cleared the frame.  Easing the weight off his foot, he drew back another inch.  That would be enough.

Suddenly, the door moved swiftly of its own accord and a hand muffled his sudden intake of breath.  Another hand grasped the wrist holding the poker and squeezed with such pressure that the iron slipped from his hand.  He felt himself lifted, pulled into the forge and heard the door coming quietly shut behind him.  He was shoved toward the forge.  A man half seated on the brickwork turned from warming himself as if he were the proprietor of a shop and Dell merely a customer who had dropped by.

The man made a motion with his fingers, touched them to his lips, the same motion a child makes when saying to another, "Be quiet!"  The man nodded, inquiring if Dell understood.

Dell nearly fainted.  Everything had happened so suddenly.  This thing was happening to him.  Woodenly, he nodded back.  The hand covering his mouth came away, but the hand wrapped around his left arm held, unmoving, as if it were not flesh but some mechanical contrivance.

"Ah, Dell, is it?" said the man.  He spoke English, but the words had the sound of Norman French to them, a light accent, painting his English with murmuring softness.

Dell nodded.

"We are pleased to meet you, Dell," he said.  Something about the flatness of the voice loosed coils of dread in his stomach.  The voice said the wrong things in the circumstances, pleasantries where no pleasantries belonged.  The paradox frightened him more than anything else he could have conceived of.

He looked at another man who worked the bellows.  The man who had grabbed him stood behind.  He could only see the speaker's face clearly.  The speaker hopped off the forge and stood facing him squarely, his hands on his hips.

They regarded one another.  Dell knew the time was intended for him to assess his position and consider the many things he was considering.  Despite the situation, the man before him presented a calming effect.

The man stood short but broad, with a face also short for its breadth.  The eyes smiled from beneath a wide brow.  His nose was small, as was his mouth, almost as if his features were designed for a face smaller than that upon which they were fastened.  Overall, he had a not unpleasant countenance.  His hair was black or dark brown and was pulled back, perhaps tied at the back, and he was clean shaven.  All in all, he seemed quite fit, agile in an acrobatic way, with the bearing and self possession he had only seen in certain knights, some aristocracy and the priesthood.  His age?  Perhaps thirty five.  His gaze was unnaturally steady and he blinked very infrequently.

"Dell," he smiled.  "Please, make yourself comfortable.  Come warm yourself by the fire.  The night is cold."  To the man behind him, he said, "Let him come."

The grip loosened and Dell felt blood again flowing in his veins.  He massaged the flesh where the fingers had indented it.

These were not beggars.  Something deep within his brain shouted, "These are the men!"  And he knew he was right.  He quaked inside.  What did they want?  What would they do to him?  To Mary?

"My name is Jacques Mandrou.  These are my friends.  Denis, whom you met at the door -- the man behind snorted at the invocation -- and Berne."  The man at the bellows, a tall, lanky fellow with a beard and uncombed hair, merely nodded.  "I know you would have invited us in if we had but knocked, but for sake of Christian charity, we started the fire for you instead.  Come warm yourself."

He moved forward as if he were a puppet.

"Dell?"

The man called Jacques wanted him to speak.

"Yes."  His voice sounded very small, nothing like the angry bellow the smith would have responded with.

"We did not make this fire just to warm ourselves.  You know that, do you not?"

Dell glanced at the small pile of coals.  The bellows heaved its long drawn out breath into the tuere and the coals glowed.  He did not understand, but a small fear kindled deep in the recesses of his mind.

"Dell, my friend Denis is a strange man.  To tell you the truth, sometimes I think there is something unhealthy about his love of pain."  There was an amused laugh from Denis.

Dell turned to see the man.  He was big, rough of feature and clothes.  In the dim light, little more showed.  It was enough.

Jacques smiled pleasantly.  "Other people's pain," he clarified.  "Personally, I do not like pain -- other people's or my own.  I prefer to work things out as honest men should, truth for truth, fair bargains struck.  No one should leave the bench empty handed."

Denis chuckled again, but said nothing.

Dell closed his eyes.

"You cannot make us go away that easily, Dell.  There is only one way we can leave and feel we have been hospitably treated."

"What," said Dell.  His voice came from a toad.

"You held him too hard, Denis," said Jacques, his expression changing to exaggerated concern.  "Do you hear how he wants us to go?  I mention we cannot leave but one way, and immediately he inquires of that way.  I fear we have made a bad impression."

Denis chuckled yet again.  He seemed to have an endless capacity for small amusements.

"Ah, Dell.  We need to find a friend of yours, urgently.  But we seem to have lost sight of him and we were hoping you could point us the way."

Dell looked at Jacques.  Those earnest eyes had more the look of a fish or reptile than a man.  He could not look into them without feeling sick, yet look he must, for those portals offered the only clue to his fortune.

"Who?" he said after a moment.

"Why, your mentor and master, Edward the smith.  It is his whereabouts we seek."

"I do not know," said Dell.  It was the truth.  He still vividly remembered the heavy door closing in his face as Cadmon, Alexander, and Edward went to the chambers to talk, leaving him alone, marked as untrustworthy before a knight and a stable boy squire.  Yet, he had learned later, Edward had not told his wife either, but that balance offered no solace.  She was but a woman.

"Dell," said Jacques with sympathy.  "I know the allegiance an apprentice has to his master, but I think that you should tell us.  We only want to know which way they went.  Nothing more.  Tell us now, quietly, and we will be out that door like a whisper.  No one will know.  No one will ever suspect."

Jacques paused.  Then he began another tack, his voice acquiring a subtle edge.  "Think about it.  You could go back to bed and wake up in the morning, and this will have all been a bad dream.  But defy me, Dell, and I will have to let Denis treat you more harshly."  Jacques' voice became a whisper.  "Denis is a bad man.  I really do not like working with him, but some of the people we meet are really quite unreasonable."  His voice regained its volume.  "So, how is it with you, Dell?  You will be reasonable?"

Dell switched his eyes to the fire then to Jacques, to his horrible vision of being plunged into the fire.  He did not know!  And they would never believe him until they had mutilated him.  Tears formed.

"We have upset you, Dell," said Jacques in his manifestly reasonable voice.  "I am truly sorry.  You betray no one.  Simply letting us know which way he went is nothing to be ashamed of."

"I do not know.  Honestly."

"Dell, Dell.  Come.  Be more straightforward.  Your Lord William and his men set us quite a puzzle, you know.  They sent a group of knights riding together two evenings ago, all outfitted with packhorse and destriers, even a cart.  We followed them for a day, and do you know what?  They were not the men we thought they were at all."  Jacques shook his head, as if remembering a nostalgic incident from his youth.  "They played quite a trick on us, Dell.  This knight Cadmon Druce, your master, and several others slipped out by quieter means and we have quite lost their scent."

Dell swallowed.  God, what was he to do?

"Ask the mistress," said a voice.  It was Denis, speaking instead of chuckling for a change.

"No, no," said Jacques.  "We are asking the right fellow, Dell here.  A man like Edward would not confide such things to a woman."  Jacques looked into Dell's eyes as he finished his reply to Denis, "But he would tell his faithful apprentice, the man who will keep his shop and home while he was away.  Would he not, Dell?"

What could he do?  Tell them something?  Anything?  Would they believe him?

"What are you going to do?"

"Tell me what I ask, and we leave, as I said before.  Refuse, play the honorable fool, and Denis will do a little forge work.  I cannot be plainer, Dell, and though it pains me to put things so bluntly, I must, for we are in haste.  Let us say a count to thirty?  Think.  Then tell me your decision."  Jacques motioned to Denis.

Turning to see what Denis was doing, he felt a knot of coarse cloth enter his mouth, pulled so tightly, he could not help but open his mouth and let it enter.  He felt another knot form at the back of his head.  He could barely breathe.  The rag tasted like oil with a grit of iron scale.  Stunned, Dell watched Jacques as he calmly strolled back and forth in front of the forge, his stout cat's body casting weird shadows on the floor.  Denis finished the tying, the short ends evidently giving him trouble.

Jacques made the gesture for silence again and began counting.  Each count flowed dreamily, sweeping by much more swiftly than the shadow from the gnomon of a sundial, but just as unstoppable.  "One."  Cannot someone see what is going on in here?  "Two."  Will not someone help?  "Three."  What did Jacques mean by forge work?  "Four."  There was no one to help.  He was alone.  "Five."  What would they do to him if he did not tell?  He imagined many terrible things in quick succession.  "Eleven."  Honor.  Would he tell the truth if he knew the truth?  Even Saint Paul had denied Christ.  What could Edward expect of him?  "Eighteen".  Can I trick them?  "Twenty-three."  This cannot be happening.  This cannot be.  "Twenty-nine."  Thirty?

"Thirty," said Jacques wearily.  "Have you found a will to speak?"

Dell nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Jacques made a fluttering motion with his fingers and the gag loosened.  Jacques wasted no time.

"Where are they bound for, Dell?"

Dell paused, wondering how to say it.  He had to pick some place believable and he had to say it in such a way that they would not suspect him of lying.  He knew nothing about what was going on.  Did Cadmon and Edward go to board a ship?  Did they head for the continent?  What was their goal?  He could not guess, but if he guessed wrong, these men would never give him a second chance without enough pain to convince them he was lying no longer.  Yet, if he guessed again, and got it wrong, they would probably kill him, saying he was tough and loyal but leaving him smashed and dead.  God, help me, he prayed.  God please hear my prayer....

"Dell."

"You will leave if I tell you?"

Jacques nodded.

"You will not hurt me?"

"I promised, did I not?"  Jacques sounded a little impatient.

"Yes," Dell sighed heavily, he hoped convincingly.  Lord William had taken the mesnie first to Southampton.  Why not Cadmon?  Summoning his voice, he said, "They went to Southampton harbor."

"Southampton.  To board ship?"

"Yes, I think so.  For France."

"Well, that would certainly account for why we lost their scent, eh, Berne?"

Berne let the bellows handle fall.  The device breathed into the fire like a big animal mournfully sighing.  The coals glowed for a few seconds.  The faces of the men became visible, and more disconcerting than had it been to the contrary, they seemed plain and ordinary.  Just people you would see on the street.  They did not look mean, only businesslike.

Jacques shook his head.

Instantly, the gag went back in.  They knew he was lying.  He collapsed, but Denis caught him up in strong arms and sat him down on a stool.

"You disappoint me, Dell.  I would have thought you were a good judge of character.  Can you not see our faces?  Do you not think we are men of our word?  Do we not seem firm of intent?  I think you have misjudged us.  Yes, an error of judgment.  But we will talk again."

Jacques turned from the forge and moved into the pool of darkness just beyond the light.  In the darkness, his eyes continued reflecting the glow of the coals.  He was, Dell considered dreamily, as accurate a depiction of the devil as he ever imagined.  "Denis, just a little bit at first.  Just enough to let Dell see we are in earnest."

"No!" shouted Dell, awaking from his stupor, but his shout dissipated into the gag.  Nothing but an "umph" came out.  He rolled his eyes toward his captors, but none of them showed the slightest inclination toward sympathy.  These were assassins.  He feared what they would do.

Denis took his right arm by the wrist and started toward the fire.  Dell fought, but Denis outweighed him by five stone.  He could have no more stopped him than he could have stopped the smith.

"Left hand, Denis," said Jacques.

Denis paused.

"Left hand."

Denis, obedient as ever, switched his grip to Dell's left wrist, never breaking his relentless movement forward.

What did they mean?  Dell panted frantically.  Not his hands.  No, please God.  Not my hands.  They have not illuminated a manuscript.  Please save my hands for your glory.  Please....  He tried to scream, to tell them to stop, but his words would not form.  He looked frantically toward Jacques.

"I am sorry, Dell," said Jacques in a reasonable tone, "but the next time we talk, I must be certain your words are truth.  Moreover, you must be certain your words are truth."

Dell stared in horror.  They meant to do this horrible thing, no matter what he said.  His strength left him and he felt himself being supported entirely by the big man beside him.

It happened quickly, without pause or hesitation.  Denis extended Dell's hand, balled into a tight, protective fist, into the coals of the forge.  At the same time, Berne let the bellows board descend and the coals flared.  Dell smelled his skin burning and fainted.  When he came to moments later, his hand was still held by Denis with Berne pumping the bellows to cast a fair light.  Dell stared at the blackened, crusty patches of stuff that had been the skin of his knuckles and first joints.  There was little pain but the horror of his hand shocked him.  He felt cold, sweaty, bloodless.  He had no strength to stand.  He tried to move his fingers and found they would still respond.  Quickly he stopped the movement.  If the fiends saw he still could move his hands they might do it again to finish the job.  Denis put him on the bench again.

"Dell," said Jacques sympathetically, "why did you force us to do that to your hand?  I am very sorry, but cheer up, lad.  It looks much worse than it is.  Most of the black is ash.  You are burnt, but if you keep yourself covered with mud and grease for a few weeks, you will be right again."

The leader of the assassins paused.  He pulled up a bench across from the one Dell sat upon, sat down and leaned forward with a look of concern on his face.

Dell thought furiously, frightened to his center.  He saw himself as a sun-illuminated stained glass window.  Saw who he was, outlined in colored glass.  He was not a knight or a martyr.  He was Judas.  He began to cry.  Huge tears rolled down his cheeks and he did not care.  He would tell if he knew, would tell them anything they wanted to know.  The realization surprised and disgusted him, but one thing was certain:  He would not let them burn him again.

"Dell."

Dell looked up at Jacques.

"You do not want us to do that again."

He shook his head.

"No, I thought not.  Tell me, Dell.  Where have they gone?"

"I do not know."  His voice sounded weak, plaintive, a runt kitten begging for a teat.

Denis, behind him, growled disgustedly and reached for his hand.  Dell pulled his injured hand protectively under his other hand and shook his head furiously.

"No, Denis," said Jacques, a note of weariness in his tone.  "Dell," he continued, "do not be ashamed.  Fear and weakness are natural things.  On a battlefield, a knight will risk death many times, mutilations and disfigurements too horrible to contemplate.  You have seen the pitiful survivors limping and crawling around every town you have ever seen.  Is this not so?"

Dell nodded, listening attentively.

"They linger on for a few winters, begging, sleeping in ash piles, pulling themselves around on stumps, the horror and pity of all who see them.  Then they die, some cold night of some miserable winter, and they blow away like leaves.  You have seen them."

"Yes."

"You do not want to end like that."

"No."

Jacques shifted his position.  "Those same knights, Dell, alone in the darkness, as you are now, feel the same weakness and fear you feel.  They give in.  They must.  It is no sin to be weak.  Such is not your fault.  It is the spirit and the flesh at worst advantage.  Do not be ashamed.  No man, be he king, knight, Viking or apprentice, could withstand torture alone.  You have nothing to be ashamed of."

Dell wept.

"Dell."

He looked up through his copious, shameful tears.

"Tell me."

"I do not know," Dell said shaking his head.  "They did not trust us.  They closed the door and spoke alone."  Dell looked up, fearful again.  "Please, I speak the truth!  You must believe me."

Jacques motioned for him to speak softly.  His eyes looked kindly.  "Us?" repeated Jacques.  "Do you mean your mistress?"

Dell looked at the floor and nodded.  He heard Jacques sigh.  Looking up through his lashes, he saw Jacques glancing between his comrades.

"Dell," said Jacques.  "I believe you."

Jacques' way of speaking said that he did believe him.  Probably, he had developed a keen understanding of his victims and could tell when he heard foundation level truth.  No doubt.

Jacques addressed Denis.  "We will have to seek our information elsewhere, I am afraid."

Denis said nothing.

"Drock," muttered Berne.

Dell listened for signs of what they intended to do next.  He feared they would simply kill him and be on their way.  He noted, though, that Berne's accent bespoke the German Empire beyond France.  Truly, Jacques's crew came from all winds.

They were talking quietly among themselves now, a few paces away.  A warning look from Denis told Dell to remain where he was and he did.  How long would they take to decide?  His hand, feeling burnt and seared before, now began throbbing, slowly but with increasing pain, as if the flesh were waking from a bad dream and realizing the dream had been real.  Dell, began crying again, this time for his mutilation and his pain.  Would this hell of spirit never end?  They had collapsed all of the things he had thought well of himself, his honor, his courage, his self esteem.  They had wrenched all of it loose.  He flopped about like a trout thrown from the river.  He lay struggling and gasping, but the air was gone and he had no footing.  He was left with the sad fact of himself, a self he felt growing shame of.  He cried more bitter tears.

"Enough," said Jacques, standing before him.  "Time will heal your hand and your pride.  When comes dawn, seek a physic and your hand will bear nothing more than a few scars.  Move from this place before dawn and an arrow will find your heart.  Do you understand?"

"Yes.  I understand."

"Cover your wound with grease until then."

Dell nodded.  He did not look any of them in the face.  He did not wish to see their disgusted looks of reproach for his weakness and his shame.  He heard the bar lifted from the big outer doors.

"Dell, we are leaving now.  Remember, sound no alarm until dawn or Berne will shaft you through.  There is no better archer in Christendom.  Do you understand?  Speak!"

"Yes, I understand."

"Very well," said Jacques.  "Keep yourself.  Adieu."

Dell looked up in time to see the last of them ease quietly through the half-opened doorway and pull the door shut behind them.  There was no sound, not even from the coals, now frosted over with gray ash.  Dell looked up at the high window and saw it was unbolted.  That was how they had done it.  Foolish boy! he chided himself.  He had brought this horror to himself as surely as he had insulted a witch.

They must be gone now, unless Berne remained to shoot him, but he doubted it.  That was probably just a threat.  His hand throbbed.  He plunged it into a bucket of cold water and the pain dissipated.  He sighed deeply.  He would wait. 

"The devil take them!" roared Lord William, slamming his fist upon the table and rising in one motion.

Dell quaked, but the lord seemed intent on other matters than punishing a cowardly apprentice who fortunately had not the knowledge to make betrayal a tragedy.

"Will you send word to Cadmon?" asked the marshal.

"No.  Their trail is cold.  They did not let this young man live out of compassion, but to provoke a warning to Cadmon.  We will not accommodate!"

Agreement was unanimous.  The banneret nodded, as did the sheriff from the town.

"Anyone who knows their destination and speaks it will answer to my justice," William said, fixing each man with a gaze which clearly told how William came to be baron of Norbury.  "We will search our Cotswolds high and low for these men.  We have a day or so, I reckon, before they realize we are not taking to their bait, so do it right.  Every man in manor and town will move.  It begins now.  Marshall, you and banneret organize and lead.  I will join you."

Dell looked bewildered.  He had never seen decisions made so forcefully, decisions which would throw every man he knew into action.  It pleased him.  Maybe the  men would kill Jacques and his dogs.  Dell squinted, realizing he would like to see them hang.  An eye for an eye, their lives for my honor.  It was not enough.

William's gaze fell upon Dell and lingered.

"I would like to help," said Dell.

"You will remain in the manor.  If we find them, you will recognize them?"

"Without doubt, sir."

William managed a kindly softening of his eyes.  "You have had quite a time of it, young man.  Stay here and enjoy my hospitality.  Let my physic look to your injury."  William's attention snapped immediately to his men.

The marshal and banneret made to leave.  William gave a nod and all departed, leaving Dell alone with William and his lady.

Lady Em and William exchanged a glance.

"Find them, Will," said the lady.  Her eyes and tone said more.

"Aye," said William.  "It has started to snow.  Too bad it did not fall last night so our trail would be plain.  They have had the first move and the second.  They will have no chance for a third."

Em continued looking at her husband.

"I worry, too," he said, "but they are strangers and will be known on sight.  If they be mortal, we will find them.  Take care.  The house is yours."  William smiled and squeezed his wife's arm affectionately, then turned abruptly and strode out the front doors, a hound on the scent, all else forgotten.

The door slammed closed and the echo died away.  Dell looked at Lady Em.  She was older than he thought, from hearing all the talk in town.  He could see many lines about her eyes and mouth, and her hair showed many strands of gray.  She turned to him.

"Come, Dell," she said, more kindly than anyone else had been.  "You have done well to tell us all which transpired.  You chastise yourself for weakness, but you had the courage to tell, and that is a courage rare.  Come.  We will tend to your hand.  Our surgeon is very knowledgeable."