sank in the deluge. Those Welsh who'd survived the earl's passing hid, weeping and gibbering, under any cover they could find. And those who hadn't survived, those whose ragged forms adorned the gibbets and gallows on every road and ridge to the English border, started twisting and jerking in their bonds. To the north, on the tragic field of Maes Moydog, the mountain of Welsh corpses, cut and riven and steeped in blood and ordure, was also washed by the rain — and slowly and surely began to twitch and judder. In the chapel graveyards — even those graveyards that were long abandoned and overgrown — the topsoil broke and shifted as the rain seeped through it and the green, rotted forms crammed underneath slowly clawed their way out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The skies over Grogen Castle were black with swollen clouds. Torrents of rain poured, drenching the mighty walls, flooding the walks and gutters. Even indoors there was no respite. Cold, wet wind gusted through the rooms and tunnels, groaning in the chimneys, extinguishing candles, whipping the flames in the guardroom hearths. Rainwater dripped from every fault and fissure.
In the Keep it was too dark almost to find one's way. Ranulf ascended from one level to the next, with a loaf, a bundle of blankets and a water-skin under his right arm. In his left hand he carried a flaring candelabra; an oil- lamp hung from his belt. He added a little fuel to each wall-sconce he passed and put a candle flame to it, creating a lighted passage, though all this really did was expose the cockroaches scurrying across the damp flagstones and the bats hanging from the arched ceilings like clusters of furry fruit.
When he unlocked the door to the cell it was so heavy that he had to heave it open. Gwendolyn was sitting in a far corner, knees clasped to her chest, her back rigid. The only window was a high slot, too narrow for a human to pass through, and deeply recessed — it must have been ten feet from the start of its embrasure to the finish. Even in bright sunshine, it admitted minimal light.
'I've brought you this,' he said, placing the lantern at the foot of the steps, and lighting it with a candle. 'I'll replenish the oil every so often.'
Gwendolyn didn't reply. She looked pale, her pretty features smudged with dirt and tears. Her hair, once like spun copper, hung in grimy rat-tails.
'I've also bought you these.' He laid the blankets down, walked over and offered her the loaf and the water- skin. She still said nothing, gazing directly ahead as if seeing neither him nor his gifts.
'You need to eat, my lady.'
'My lady?' She seemed surprised, before giving a cackling laugh. 'I see your bachelry still deceives itself with Arthurian pretension?'
'You need to eat.'
Reluctantly, she took the bread and water. At first she only nibbled, but soon capitulated to her hunger, tearing the loaf apart with her teeth and fingers. Ranulf glanced around the cell. The filthy straw gave it the stench of a stable. Water ran down its black brickwork. Having seen the quarters allocated to the men in the barrack house, there were few facilities at Grogen that were much of an improvement on this. Though of course the men hadn't been violently abducted, stripped naked, beaten and sexually assaulted.
'I don't suppose…' he said. 'I don't suppose it would do any good to apologise?'
She looked up at him, again surprised. 'On behalf of whom — yourself, or the bloodstained madman you serve?'
Ranulf wasn't sure how to respond.
'Let me spare you the trauma of trying to answer,' she said. 'You're right, it won't do any good.'
'I'm not happy about what's happened here.'
Ranulf wasn't quite sure why he'd admitted that. Before coming up into the Keep, his father had reminded him that the girl was nothing more to them than a prisoner, the spoils of war, a pawn in a greater game. It was unfortunate for her, but there were always winners and losers in the politics of strife. Ulbert had concluded by strongly advising that whatever was going to happen to Lady Gwendolyn would happen, and that their first duty was to themselves and their family name. They mustn't allow 'futile sentiment' to endanger their cause.
Yet, if the prisoner was aware that Ranulf had taken a risk expressing sympathy to her, she was unimpressed.
'I'm sure your unhappiness will be great consolation to those who've died,' she said. 'Or who've been maimed, or left destitute.'
'I understand your anger. Earl Corotocus is a pitiless man.'
'And those who willingly serve him? What are they?'
'We don't all serve him willingly.'
She smiled, almost maliciously. 'Spare me your conscience, sir knight. If it's torturing you, I'm glad. You'll find no absolution here.'
'To make things easier, I can only suggest that you comply with the earl's wishes.' He retreated towards the door. 'No matter how distasteful you find them.'
'Comply with the earl's wishes? I think you mistake me for someone else. I will do no such thing, not least because in a very short time the earl and you murderers he calls his retainers will all be dead.' Ranulf waited by the door as she laughed at him. 'You think this fortress will protect you, Englishman? Welsh vengeance is about to fall on you people with a force you can't imagine.'
'Your spirit does you credit, my lady. But don't hang your hopes on how easily the previous garrison here was overwhelmed. To call them 'foolish sots' would be an insult to both fools and sots. Earl Corotocus is of a different mettle; a monster yes, but a soldier through and through. His mesnie has been hardened by battle over many years. In addition, they're nearly all English-born. From birth, they've been raised to view the Welsh as the foe over the mountain, as an enemy existing purely to be crushed.'
'Foe over the mountain?' Like many who obsess that they are oppressed, Gwendolyn found it difficult to grasp the concept that her oppressors might feel they acted from a just cause. 'What have my people ever done to you? You are the aggressors! You always have been!'
'When I was a child, miss, I lived on the shore of the River Wye.' Ranulf mused. 'I grew up hearing stories of how Prince Gruffud burned Hereford, the capital city of that region, and slew its entire population.'
'That was nearly two-hundred years ago.'
'King Edward has learned from the mistakes his forebears made. He won't tolerate hostile states on his borders.'
'We're not hostile to you.'
'Even neutral states must be viewed as hostile. Better to have a wasteland at your door than a tribe of barbarians whose loyalty your enemies can buy for a few cattle.' He shrugged. 'At least, that's the king's view.'
'By the sound of it, it's a view you share.'
'I understand the reasoning, even if I disapprove of the methods.'
'Well in that you've set me a good example.' She smiled coldly. 'When my kinsmen get hold of you, forgive me if I understand their anger and merely disapprove when they tear you apart between their horses.'
There was a sudden echo of voices from the passage. Ranulf withdrew from the cell, closing the door and locking it. At the next corner, he met Navarre carrying a flaming torch, and one of Garbofasse's mercenaries.
'Where did you put the Welsh slut?' Navarre asked.
'Who needs to know?' Ranulf said.
'Murlock needs to know, if he's to look after her.'
Ranulf looked at the mercenary properly. Murlock was a brutal, bearded hulk, several inches taller than most men, his massive, ape-like frame crammed inside a steel-studded leather hauberk. When he grinned, fang-like teeth showed through a mass of dirty, crumb-filled whiskers.
'You're no longer the official jailer here, FitzOsbern,' Navarre explained. 'I thought you'd be pleased — one less onerous duty for you.'
'And this whoreson is taking over?'
'The earl asked Captain Garbofasse for a man whose special skills fitted the task. Garbofasse nominated
