could shot that would result in a slow and painful death. He had once made a list, mentally, in an idle moment, of ways in which he would prefer to go. He never told anyone about it for fear of being ridiculed. He had listed all possible ways of meeting his Maker in order of preference. At the top of the list were all the most immediate ways of dying-in a bomb blast; from a sonic weapon or a laser; a fatal bullet wound that would kill him before he knew what hit him. Following that, he considered more primitive methods such as decapitation, either by a guillotine or a headsman's axe; a sword thrust through the heart; an arrow wound, a slit throat… He had also dwelled upon the more terrifying ways of dying. Drowning was said to be an easy death, but the prospect of it horrified him. There was death by slow torture; death by burning; death by irradiation or disease; death by chemical poisoning… There was one method of execution that made Hooker's guts crawl. He was possessed of a lively imagination and, in this regard, he was his own worst enemy. He knew there was no rational logic to fear. What petrified one man would hardly give pause to another. Hooker was obsessed with his fear of death and one manner of demise horrified him more than any other. Hanging.
He had nightmares about being hanged. He had even researched it. There was a mythology concerning hanging that held that in most cases, strangulation did not truly occur. If placed upon a gallows, on an elevation, or if sat astride a horse preparatory to the dirty deed, it was said that the noose would often break the neck and death would be instantaneous, especially if a weight were used. Hooker knew that such was not the case. It was the exception rather than the rule. The image of men dancing at the end of a rope did not spring from nothing. Depending on the type of knot used, it could take a man as long as fifteen minutes to die.
When Hooker had seen his own corpse, he had been violently sick. Now he could not push the sight from his mind. He imagined the garotte slowly cutting into his throat, the blood running in rivulets down his neck, his tongue protruding from his mouth, his fingers madly scrabbling for the wire and failing to catch hold of it, fighting for breath with every fiber of his being and not succeeding…
His head had been practically severed from his neck by the monofilament garotte. A weapon from the future. A weapon such as the one hidden in one of Lucas' gauntlets, just at the inside of the wrist. There was a small metal button there. One quick pull and the deadly wire could be brought into play. The nysteel gear was right behind him, lashed to the mule. It was all there, the mail, the armor, the shield, the gauntlets… How long would it be before one of the Norman knights riding just ahead of him would discover the secrets of the armor? Hooker felt a moistness on his face that he first thought was sweat running down from his forehead, but he was astonished to discover that he was weeping silently. His wrists were growing numb. It felt very slippery back there. If only he could work his hands free! If only no one would notice-
There! He had worked one knot loose! He had hardly any feeling left in his fingers. They prickled as if stabbed with a thousand tiny needles. His fingers kept slipping off the knots, which were slick with blood. Please, God, he thought, abandoning his atheism, help me! He could now almost slip one hand free of the ropes. He gritted his teeth and pulled with all his might. He felt his left thumb being scraped raw, he felt his left wrist dislocate… and he was free!
He slammed his left fist into the face of the man to his left, crying out from the pain that shot up his arm as the dislocated wrist broke. With his right hand, he plucked the dagger from the man's sheath; moving with every ounce of speed that he could muster, he slashed it across the face of the man to his right, opening him up from his right eye to the bottom of his jaw. Then he made a headlong dive for the brush at the side of the trail.
'Catch that man!' he heard someone yell and then he rolled and was on his feet, running through the brambles, his one useless hand hanging limp at his side, the other clutching the dagger. He heard the pounding of horses' hooves behind him and the thrashing of men plunging into the brush. He ran as hard as he could, whimpering with fear. He tripped over a root and fell, striking his head.
'I have him!' someone cried.
Hooker looked up to see a man at arms bearing down upon him, sword drawn. He hurled the dagger. It stuck in the man's throat and he fell to the ground, gurgling horribly. De Bracy was upon him in an instant. He swung his sword, trying to strike Hooker with the flat of the blade, so as to take him alive. Hooker caught the blow on his right arm and he cried out as he felt his elbow break. Ignoring the pain, he snagged De Bracy's arm and pulled him from the saddle. The knight's horse shied away from him and he heard the others close behind. He ran. A crossbow bolt whizzed by him, then another. He ran, heedless of the branches lashing at his face, tripping, falling, getting up and running; he fled deeper into the forest, trying to outdistance his pursuers. He ran without looking back. He ran for his life, not knowing that he had escaped the frying pan only to fall into the fire.
There was a knock at the door of Irving's chambers.
'Yes?'
'We have taken a prisoner, Sire,' said the sheriff, from the other side of the door. Irving got up and opened the door to admit Sir Guy.
'Well?'
'You did say to keep you informed, Sire.'
'What of it?'
'One of my forest patrols has taken a prisoner. An escaped bondsman, it would seem. He stumbled out upon the trail before them and went wild.'
'What do you mean?'
'He seems to be a raving madman, Sire. Possessed by demons or else mad with fear. He had a wrist broken on one arm and an elbow on the other and still he made a struggle. My men said that he spoke in tongues, screaming and babbling like a lunatic. He has been held captive, that much is certain. His hands are rubbed raw from where he slipped his bonds.'
'A Saxon?'
'No, Sire. I do not know what he is, but I have seen him somewhere before, I think. He has a scar upon his face. I have seen that face recently, but I cannot remember where.'
'In Nottingham? At York?'
'No, Sire. Perhaps at Ashby… Yes, at the tournament. I'm sure I saw him among the knights' pavilions, but I cannot remember whom he served.'
'Where is he now?'
'Locked in the dungeons, below.'
'Very well, I will see him presently. Await me there.'
The sheriff left and Irving closed the door. A bondsman, but not a Saxon. Spoke in tongues. Was it possible? There was one way to make sure. Irving locked the door and pulled the case containing the chronoplate out from beneath his-bed. He opened it and took out the border circuits which, when assembled, formed the chronoplate. Inside the case was the computer and the tracer apparatus. Irving turned it on, then selected close range implant scan. Yes! There it was! The implant proximity signal! He was right on top of it. It was an amazing stroke of luck. The sheriff's men had caught themselves a temporal trooper. That could only mean that it was one of the adjustment team! He quickly packed the gear away and hurried to join the sheriff in the dungeons.
The nether regions of the castle were dark and damp. There was a fetid odor of decay in the stagnant air and rats scurried away before him as he descended into the torchlit dungeons. The sheriff awaited him with the turnkey, a hideous old man who smelled as if he had been three weeks dead himself. The turnkey lived down in the depths of Nottingham Castle and he had not seen the light of day in years. He was half blind and his skin was the color of the underbelly of a fish. As they passed several of the cells, Irving could hear Cedric shouting behind one of the doors.
'Silence, you!' The turnkey pounded on the door with his gnarled fist. 'Nothing but noise from that one,' he said. He cackled. 'He'll scream himself hoarse soon enough.' He paused by another door. 'This one's the lady,' he said, smacking his lips. 'Tender morsel, that. Will you be torturing her, Your Highness? I'm a good man with the bellows, that I am. I can heat the coals so that they glow red hot!'
'Shut him up,' said Irving.
'Quiet!' said the sheriff, belting the turnkey alongside the head hard enough to stagger him.
'Thank you, milord.'
The turnkey paused by the door of one of the cells and fumbled with his keys. It took him an eternity to fit the key into the hole-he kept missing it. Finally, he opened the door.
Irving gagged on the smell. He spun away, holding his hand over his nose and mouth.
