Brother Cadfael 09: Dead Man's Ransom

Shrewsbury castle, and lay with stretched ears, struggling up from the dullness of sleep and wondering what had shaken him out of so profound a slumber. He had grown used to all the daytime sounds native to this place, and to the normal unbroken silence of the night. This night was different, or he would not have been heaved so rudely out of the only refuge he had from his daytime miseries. Something was not as it should have been, someone was astir at a time when there was always silence and stillness. The air quivered with soft movements and distant voices.
    They were not locked in, their word had been accepted without question, bond enough to hold them. Elis raised himself cautiously on an elbow, and leaned to listen to Eliud's breathing in the bed beside him. Deep asleep, if not altogether at peace. He twitched and turned without awaking, and the measure of his breathing changed uneasily, shortening and shallowing sometimes, then easing into a long rhythm that promised better rest. Elis did not want to disturb him. It was all due to him, to his pigheaded folly in joining Cadwaladr, that Eliud was here a prisoner beside him. He must not be drawn still deeper into question and danger, whatever happened to Elis.
    There were certainly voices, at some small distance but muffled and made to sound infinitely more distant by the thick stone walls. And though at this remove there could not possibly be distinguishable words, yet there was an indefinable agitation about the exchanges, a quiver of panic on the air. Elis slid carefully from the bed, halted and held his breath a moment to make sure that Eliud had not stirred, and felt for his coat, thankful that he slept in shirt and hose, and need not fumble in the dark to dress. With all the grief and anxiety he carried about with him night and day, he must discover the reason of this added and unforeseen alarm. Every divergence from custom was a threat.
    The door was heavy but well hung, and swung without a sound. Outside the night was moonless but clear, very faint starlight patterned the sky between the walls and towers that made a shell of total darkness. He drew the door closed after him, and eased the heavy latch into its socket gingerly. Now the murmur of voices had body and direction, it came from the guard, room within the gatehouse. And that crisp, brief clatter that struck a hidden spark on the ground was hooves on the cobbles. A rider at this hour?
    He felt his way along the wall towards the sound, at every angle flattening himself against the stones to listen afresh. The horse shifted and blew. Shapes grew gradually out of the solid darkness, the twin turrets of the barbican showed their teeth against a faintly lighter sky, and the flat surface of the closed gate beneath had a tall, narrow slit of pallor carved through it, tall as a man on horseback, and wide enough for a horse to pass in haste. The rider's wicket was open. Open because someone had entered by it with urgent news only minutes since, and no one had yet thought to close it.
    Elis crept nearer. The door of the guard, room was ajar, a long sliver of light from torches within quivered across the dark cobbles. The voices emerged by fits and starts, as they were raised and again lowered, but he caught words clearly here and there.
    '... burned a farm west of Pontesbury,' reported a messenger, still breathless from his haste, 'and never withdrew... They're camped overnight... and another party skirting Minsterley to join them.'
    Another voice, sharp and clear, most likely one of the experienced sergeants: 'What numbers?'
    'In all... if they foregather... I was told it might be as many as a hundred and fifty...'
    'Archers? Lancers? Foot or horse?' That was not the sergeant, that was a young voice, a shade higher than it should have been with alarm and strain. They had got Alan Herbard out of bed. This was a grave matter.
    'My lord, far the greater part on foot. Lancers and archers both. They may try to encircle Pontesbury... they know Hugh Beringar is in the north...'
    'Halfway to Shrewsbury!' said Herbard's voice, taut and jealous for his first command.
    'They'll not dare that,' said the sergeant. 'Plunder's the aim. Those valley farms... with new lambs...'
    'Madog ap Meredith has a grudge to settle,' ventured the messenger, still short of breath, 'for that raid in February. They're close... but the pickings are smaller, there in the forest... I doubt..."
    Halfway to Shrewsbury was more than halfway to