Chapter 3

3

NOTTINGHAM, ENGLAND, 1291

T he arrow flew straight and true.

It punched through the layer of chain mail and underlying bullhide armor as if both garments were made of soft cheese. The barbed steel tip pierced through muscle and sinew, shattering two knuckles of bone in the spine before emerging red and dripping out the backside links of the hauberk. The victim gave a startled grunt of pain then slumped sideways and fell out of the saddle.

Five more arrows fired in swift succession came zinging down from the canopy of leaves overhead, each striking their targets dead centre.

The ambush lasted less than ten seconds.

Another twenty seconds saw coarsely dressed men rush from the dense cover of the greenwood to drag the twitching bodies out of the clearing and lead the horses into the forest.

Ten seconds more and the only movement in the glade came from the soft flurry of dust motes drifting across the slanted beams of waning sunlight .

Less than a mile away the silhouettes of four mounted knights stood black against the horizon. The sun was sinking toward the distant hills and the few clouds that glided majestically after it were rimmed in white and resembled ships under full sail, a sight that inspired at least one of the knights to turn his head to the west. The steel helm he wore gleamed like polished bronze, a fiery effect that travelled down the elongated triangle of the nasal and outlined the sensuous shape of his mouth beneath. His eyes were mere pinpoints glinting through the slit in the visor, lacking any discernable shape or color between the thick black lashes which were squinted against the glare of the setting sun.

Like his three companions, he wore full armor. The bulk of his upper body was sheathed in a layer of wool shirting beneath a breastplate of bullhide padded with sheepskin. Overtop lay a heavy hauberk of oiled chain mail, the links thick enough to deflect a blow from a well-swung sword. Notably absent was a gypon, a sleeveless tunic embossed with the crest and coat of arms to identify the knight who wore it.

All four knights carried swords without decoration, the hilts wrapped in strips of leather concealing any jewels or crests. Their shields were unpainted wood; they carried no talismans, wore neither rings nor brooches that might offer a hint of who they were or what they were about.

The palfreys they rode were as anonymous as their masters, the saddles unmarked by any bossings or fretwork. They bore no fancy bridles, no cloths with embroidered trim, no ribbands woven into their manes. The gray woolen cloaks the knights wore over their armor fanned out across the horses' flanks, keeping even the arched pride of their tails repressed.

Three of them were having a serious discussion.

"Do you suppose she is in there?"

"Do you suppose she is really a witch? I heard tell in the village that Nottingham caught himself a hag who was a witch."

"You are too easily swayed by stories of elves and goblins."

The fourth knight had refrained from entering the conversation thus far. He had been admiring the sky-borne vessels and now glanced across the vast sweep of the valley that stretched below them. His focus turned to the battlements of the castle perched on top of a rocky promontory. Distance made the citadel seem almost unimposing despite its multiple squared towers and rounded barbicans. They were forty feet high and ten feet thick. There was an outer bailey that housed the village, an inner bailey separated by a thick curtain wall, and a square cobbled courtyard within yet another stone wall that encircled the castle.

One of the other knights cleared his throat subtly. "Renn? Are you with us?"

Rennwick de Beauvoir nodded after a moment. "I am with you."

The knight arched an eyebrow and Rennwick glared. "The cause of my distraction, Roger, is not wondering if there is a hag-witch somewhere behind those walls. Rather it is pondering how the hell we are supposed to get her out."

Beside them, Terrowin of Wykeham grinned. "Do I detect a lack of enthusiasm given to simply riding through the gates and snatching her up?"

Renn shook his head. "There may be a guard or two within those walls who might detect some familiarity in my face."

"Would it be such a bad thing to be recognized?" asked the fourth man, known only by a single name—Baldor. He was a dour-faced hulk with a voice like two millstones grinding pebbles. "Were you not fostered here as a youth?"

"I made no friends inside those walls."

The words were said with enough quiet venom to draw the gaze of the man who had ridden by Renn's side for over a decade and bore the scars to prove it. There was neither rebuke nor recrimination in Roger Burke's dark eyes, rather the infinite patience of someone accustomed to dampening fires before they turned into blazing conflagrations. He did so now, veering the topic away from sensitive matters.

"If it is true this witch can see through dark curtains into the future, perhaps she knows we are here and will meet us at the gate."

Baldor made a hasty sign of the cross. "God's mercy, I would beg thee not to speak so loosely of witches."

"Would you prefer to have to steal her from a bed of rotting fungus and entrails?"

"Bah!" Roger adjusted his seat with a creak of leather. "The only fungus grows between your ears. The gates stand open. There do not appear to be an excess of guards on the walls, and there are villagers strolling to and fro across the drawbridge with naught else to concern them than the dust collecting between their toes."

"The open gates could be a ruse," said Terrowin in self-defence. "A false picturesque to lure us into a trap." He turned halfway around in his saddle to peer into the darkness of the forest behind them. "Moreover, I do not like that we sit here alone. The louts we hired to shield our flank should have caught up to us by now. "

"They were challenged to watch our backs, not catch us up."

"Leofric the Stout was leading them," Baldor added with a snort. "He has trouble shielding his face when he spits in a windstorm."

"Nonetheless—"

"Nonetheless," Rennwick interrupted, putting an end to all speculation, "We go forward as soon as the sun sets. If we can find the old postern gate, and if the years have not mortared it shut, we should have no trouble gaining entrance. If this so-called hag is here, and if the information we have been given is correct, she will be locked away in the east tower, easy enough to get in and out if I remember the way."

"A good many 'ifs' my friend."

Renn shrugged aside the comment. "Heavy clanking armor will do us no favors within the walls however, so I suggest we strip here. We will be able to move faster and with more stealth in simple tunics. Roger, you will remain here with the horses. Should trouble creep up behind you, blow a long note on that horn of yours."

Roger nodded, accepting his limitations. He was missing his left foot, which had been replaced by a carved wooden facsimile specially fitted to a tall leather boot. A fearsome warrior, he was far more comfortable and effective on horseback than he was on the ground.

The three remaining knights dismounted and began stripping down. Rennwick was their leader. They had already followed him into a dozen hells where their survival was, at best odds, improbable.

What was one more ?

In full darkness the unencumbered knights approached the outer wall of the castle. It had taken the better part of an hour to cross the valley on foot and locate the small, nearly invisible, wooden portal door at the rear of the outer castle wall. The blocks were thick with ivy at the base, slimy with moss and mold and other stinking detritus not worth thinking about. A faulty memory or searching a foot too far would have sent them stumbling over the edge of a ravine strewn with boulders. As it was, only half the portal was on solid ground. The other half was suspended over a dark void where the earth had been eroded by the fierce winds and weather known to buffet the northern ramparts.

Terrowin peered cautiously over the edge. "You say you used this postern as a lad?"

"The side of the ravine was made of firmer stuff back then. Help me with the door."

In the end it took the efforts of all three to scrape away the weeds and decades worth of neglect to pry it open. With Rennwick in the lead, they stepped gingerly across the crumbling ledge and emerging on the other side of the wall behind a screen of thick vines.

After watching carefully for any sign of nearby sentries, the three followed the shadows around to where the distance was narrowest between the outer and inner curtain wall. One by one they strolled as casually as they dared across the open space, pressing flat to the wall once they were across.

The darkness was lit only by sporadic pinpoints of light in the village below and the torches that flickered in the narrow alleyways that wound between the barracks, stables, and smithy.

After three attempts, Rennwick located another sally-port, this one at the rear of the castle gardens and used mainly by serfs and servants. This time, when it was opened, Renn did not walk through to the other side, he ran his hands over the stone blocks on a side wall until he found the one he wanted. With help from the tip of his dagger, he chipped away some of the mortar until he was able to dislodge a six-inch brick and expose a metal lever inside. It took a few grunted attempts before the rusted lever moved, and a further effort by Baldor to pull the false front of the wall open, only to find themselves inside an airless black tunnel.

All three men coughed at the earthy stench of mold.

"You are full of surprises this day," Terrowin remarked, as he helped drag the stone panel aside. "When you said we could move easily within the walls, I had no inkling you meant within the walls."

"The castle is riddled with secret passageways below and above ground. A man merely has to have a firm grip on his wits to pass unannounced through them. This particular tunnel leads under the courtyard."

He again ran his hands over the stone walls until he found a shallow ledge. On it were several cobweb-encased tallow candles. He took a shard of flint and some dry rushes from the pouch that hung from his belt and struck the flint on the edge of his dagger to create a shower of sparks. A tiny flame burst upward and was instantly extinguished on a gust of air that swept through the open door.

Using Baldor's bulk as a shield, the flint was struck again and this time the rush stayed lit long enough to carry the flame to the wick of the candle.

Rennwick held the flickering light up, casting a pale glow over the opening of the narrow passage. The rough stone walls were white with ghostly shrouds of cobwebs that drifted to and fro in the drafts. "The steps are steep going down and the ceiling is low; have a care to guard the top of your head."

Baldor, known and feared in the lists as the undefeated Beast of Bremen, held a second candle to the opening of the narrow passage and his cheek twitched. "I have no love of small dark places."

Renn smiled crookedly. "Even stripped to your breech-clout and larded with pig fat, my friend, you carry too much bulk in your shoulders to squeeze through the narrower places."

Terrowin blinked. "Narrower than this?"

Renn ignored the question and nodded to Baldor. "You will stay here and keep watch. If we cannot bring the hag out through the tunnels, we may need to bring her through the bailey and it would be best if we had warning of an ambuscade. Two chir-rups if clear."

Baldor nodded, clearly relieved. "Aye, two chir-rups . It shall be done."

"He might need help," Terrowin said, eyeing the blackness of the secret passage.

"You and your sword arm will be with me," Renn said.

"The curse of being indispensable," Terrowin muttered.

Rennwick started down the stone steps, taking the light with him.

Terrowin drew a deep breath, released it on a soft oath, and followed.

The two knights moved as quickly as the uneven ground, and sticky veils of spun webs would allow. Renn held the candle stub aloft throwing light on the close walls of broken stone and clods of mortar. The air was stale and cold, much like he remembered from his youth. He had been fostered into the care of the Royal Warden of Nottingham at the age of seven when both of his parents had been felled by the yellow pox. Lord Alfred Falconard, had raised him as his own and schooled him in the art of warfare alongside his own two sons, Harold and Carac, neither of whom let Renn forget he was not a blood-born brother. The two were bitter and resentful because of Renn's superior fighting skills and treated him as if he was a thing to be tormented and beaten for no reason.

By sheer accident, after a day of hard training and the harder restraint needed not to bash the brothers heads together, Renn had stumbled upon a secret doorway in his chamber that opened into a warren of hidden passageways through the walls that allowed him to move freely around the castle without being seen. Indeed, spying through one of the stone grates had given him his first lesson in what men and women did in bed.

It had also made him privy to many household secrets, including the fact that both of Lord Alfred's thick-necked sons were bastards. The elderly noble had been cuckolded by his wife and the captain of the castle guard who, so far as the fourteen-year-old Rennwick could gather, had been lovers even before the marriage to Lord Alfred had been arranged.

Lady Caroline had been a cruel beauty with raven-black hair and dark eyes that could seduce a man out of his senses at a glance. The captain had been tall and built like a gladiator but, like the sons his seed produced, lacked the ability to think beyond the length of his cock.

Their affair had come to a shattering end when the lady attempted to lay a third bastard at her husband's feet. He had discovered his wife's duplicity by then but instead of cowering and begging forgiveness, Lady Caroline had struck him with a heavy gold candlestick. Over and over she struck him with Renn watching through a stone grate, too shocked to do more than cover his mouth with both hands to contain his horror. He had watched as the captain rushed in and gaped at his blood-soaked paramour. He had watched as the lady pressed herself into her lover's arms, transferring the blood that stained her garments onto his. Then Renn watched as the lady thrust the candlestick, clotted with Sir Alfred's blood and brains into the captain's hand and screamed for the guards. The hapless captain had been cut down where he stood, blamed for the foul murder.

Renn had left the castle that same night and never returned. He had heard, through whispers and rumors, that the lady had died in childbirth and the elder son, Harold, had been granted the title of Warden of Nottingham Castle which also came with the position of Sheriff. Carac had married a wealthy shipmaker's daughter and moved to France.

Now, as he walked, hunched over in half, he was completely focussed on finding the little marks and scratches on the walls of the tunnel that he had made for himself over a decade ago. Twice he opened shallow gashes on his head and several times heard cloth tearing as his shirt or leggings were snagged on rock. He lost the strip of rawhide that bound his locks in a tail at his nape, with the result that his hair swung free, slapping him in the face with his own sweat.

Terrowin was not faring much better and it was with some measure of relief that a second stone staircase was found and climbed. At the top, an iron grate was pushed aside that gave them access into a passage that allowed them to stand at their full heights.

"God's ballocks, that was unpleasant," Terrowin said, brushing handfuls of dust and dead insects off his sleeves. His curly red hair was covered with so many cobwebs it looked white. "I never thought the day would come when I would envy Baldor his fat arse, but ho! That day is come."

Renn replaced the grate over the opening in the floor and signaled Terrowin to keep his tongue between his teeth and follow, for they were now in the passageways within the castle itself. The walls were comprised of smooth blocks and while their shoulders still brushed on stone occasionally, there was now a cool flow of air around them that provided some relief. With a hand cupping the candle flame to protect it, the two knights moved swiftly and silently to yet another set of narrow steps that rose past a series of narrow landings to what Rennwick hoped was the upper chamber in the east tower.

Near the top he stopped again and pinched out the flame. He climbed the final few steps in darkness, guided by a thin sliver of light that shone through a small peep hole cut into the back of a wooden panel. After a long moment, he cautioned Terrowin once more to silence, then drew a dagger out of his belt.

He ran his fingers along the side of the panel until he located the hidden catch. He then fed the tip of the blade through the crack and flicked the iron lever upward releasing a spring that, in turn, freed the panel.

"Stay here," he whispered. "Hold the latch lest it close behind me and lock you out."

Gingerly, he eased the panel open a finger's width. There was another soft rush of air tinged with the scent of camphor and smoke, but aside from a slight creak from the hinges, the panel moved quietly enough for Renn to lean forward and inch an eye around the side.

The chamber was large and square and occupied the entire upper floor of the tower. The secret door Renn stood behind was built into one of two ornately carved oak panels that flanked either side of a twelve-foot-wide raised dais, half of which was occupied by a large French bed. The four sides were draped in curtains, which rose above the top of the frame and were gathered into a twist of velvet that reached almost to the ceiling.

On the opposite wall, a pile of burning logs flamed in the hearth, sending up a thin haze of smoke and casting patterns of light and shadow across the walls and floor. On a table beside the bed, a night candle burned, the wax scored to show the hours as they melted away.

The bedding was rumpled as if someone had been laying there recently. It was difficult to see the entire room through a hand's width of space and Renn risked pushing the door wider. At first, beyond the flickering ring of firelight, he could see little more than empty space. The chamber was domed, the ceiling braced with thick wooden beams that absorbed any light before it reached the arched peak.

Renn eased the panel wider still and tipped his head around… enough to see a figure standing beside the window embrasure. That it was a woman, there could be little doubt for her hair was loose and hung in a mass of white, tangled waves to below her waist. She had a woolen blanket draped around her shoulders like a shawl; her nightdress was long enough for the hem to brush the floor. Her face was turned to the window, not that he would have known how to recognize a witch by her features alone. It was the specific mark she bore that would identify her as the quarry he sought.

After blowing out a shallow breath, Renn stepped fully through the opened panel. The wood creaked again, almost imperceptibly, but loud enough to bring the woman spinning around. Renn caught a flash of steel streaking across the room and sheer instinct bade him duck a fraction of a second before the dagger thunked into the wood where his head had just been.

The woman was instantly in motion, the blanket cast aside as she dashed across the room, a shortsword gleaming in her hand. With his own sword still strapped to his hip and only his dagger to raise in defense, Renn pushed through the door and somersaulted out of the hag's way as her blade slashed through the air. Rolling upright, he came at her from behind, narrowly missing a second hacking thrust. By then he had his sword to hand and met the third cut with the ring of steel on steel. Sparks flew off the blades as the woman slashed again and again, her attack so quick and fierce Renn could only defend.

It was the distracting movement of seeing Terrowin come through the wall panel that caused her focus to break long enough for Renn to turn his wrist and smack the flat of his blade against her shoulder. The blow sent her off balance and she spun aside but came out of the stumble snarling and on the attack again. Terrowin was in her path, his vows as a knight making him hesitant to raise a sword against a female—witch or no witch—but the hag was bound by no such constraints. Her sword sliced through Terrowin's sleeve, biting into flesh, sending him back with a yelp.

She twirled in search of Renn, but her hair had flown across her face, blinding her for the precious few seconds it took for him to swoop in and knock the shortsword out of her hand. It spun away in the firelight with her shrieking and leaping after it, but Renn was ready. He abandoned any thought of chivalry and blocked her charge with his fist, snapping her head aside with the force of the blow and sending her sprawling onto the floor, unconscious.

Breathing heavily, Rennwick and Terrowin stood over the prone figure, alert for any sign of fakery. Renn nudged a booted toe into her skinny rump and when there was no response, he relaxed out of his fighting stance and ran to the chamber door. He opened it and put his ear to the crack to listen for any sounds of alarm, but there was only silence in the staircase and a vague drift of common noises rising from the great hall two storeys below.

Behind him, Terrowin touched a hand to his arm and stared at the blood.

"Christ on a cross. A full year have I gone without a drop spilled in combat. Yet this she-bitch draws it in a single swipe of a blade."

"You should have stepped out of the way," Renn said, closing the door.

"You should have taken your own advice." Terrowin pointed to the blood leaking from a cut on Renn's cheek.

"Light some candles while I find something to bind her hands."

"I suspect she will not follow us meekly through the walls, bound or not."

Renn leaned over the hag and pulled her upright then lifted her and carried her to a straight-backed chair, which he dragged closer to the fire. He found a length of ribbon and tied her wrists together behind her, noticing as he did so that there were several drops of blood splashed down the front of her nightdress. Her head was lolled to one side, her face buried under the tanglement of hair but she was starting to make small snuffling sounds in her throat and scraping her bare feet on the floor.

Terrowin lit half a dozen candles, throwing more light onto the bound figure. He kept his sword drawn, as did Rennwick, but before she could fully regain her senses, Renn took to a knee and lifted her nightdress to expose her right thigh.

The skin was smooth and white, as flawless as that of a newborn babe.

Her head came upright as an expelled puff of breath moved her hair… hair he noted now in the light of the candle was not white as he had first thought, but silvery yellow.

Fearing they had found the wrong hag, Renn pushed the nightdress higher to expose the skin on her left thigh but it too was milky white and unmarked. He cursed and was about to tug the gown down again when his eye strayed to the triangle of pale curls peeking from beneath the bunched-up linen.

There on her inner thigh, almost hidden in the crease of her thigh was the mark he sought.

The mark of the rose.