Edward Marston - The Foxes of Warwick

Boio was fast asleep in a corner, curled up in the straw like an animal, apparently still fettered and manacled.

‘Shall we wake him up for sport?’ said one man.

‘Let him sleep,’ said the other. ‘It is his last night on earth.’

‘We will need a thick rope to stretch that neck.’

‘Forget about him until tomorrow.’

‘Why?’

‘The night holds other pleasures for you first.’

They exchanged a coarse laugh then went out again, locking and bolting the door before putting a stool apiece either side of the brazier. They held their palms over the flames then rubbed them.

‘I will need warm hands for my office,’ said the smirker.

‘She will warm your hands, feet and pizzle.’

‘I will glow in the dark.’

‘Do not leave me alone here all night.’

‘Rutting must not be rushed.’

‘Have your fill of it, Huegon, but be back well before dawn.’

‘I will.’

‘And make sure you are not seen.’

‘Have I ever been caught in the past?’

‘No. You blend with the night.’

Huegon smirked again. ‘I blend with my mistress.’

‘I will look for the wicked smile on her face tomorrow.’

They chatted amiably for a long time until Huegon felt it was safe to leave his post. If he were caught, the penalty would be severe but the risk was well worth it. The comely wench who awaited him could not be denied. He went up the stairs, let himself out and looked around the bailey. It was empty and windswept. Sentries were posted on the ramparts but their gaze was turned outward. They did not notice the shadowy figure who ran nimbly across the grass. Huegon was still smirking as he went into the keep.

Hunched over the brazier in the dungeon, his companion remained at his post and tried to fend off envy. There had been other nights when he had been the one to take his pleasure while Huegon stayed on guard. Each man helped the other. To pass the time he took a coil of rope from a hook on the wall and amused himself by plaiting it into a noose, holding it up to inspect it and imagining the huge body of the blacksmith twitching impotently in the air.

A scuffling sound took his attention to the floor and he saw a rat darting past. He hurled the rope at it but the animal had vanished into the drain. Drawing his dagger, the man set it on the table so that he could have it to hand if the rat returned but the creature had somewhere else to go. Time passed and fatigue set in. The tedium of his work added to the man’s drowsiness and he eventually dropped off to sleep.

An hour slid past. He was snoring quietly when the noise started. The clang was muffled but it brought him instantly awake.

When he rose to his feet the noise suddenly stopped. He gave a shrug and decided that the prisoner was merely rattling his chains in despair. Then he smelled the smoke. At first he thought it came from the brazier but his gaze soon turned to the door of Boio’s cell. Smoke was rising from beneath it. The guard flew into a panic. If there was a fire in the cell the prisoner would be burned alive and he would be held responsible. Fearful of opening the door alone, he was afraid not to do so. To summon help would be to admit that he condoned Huegon’s desertion of his post. He had to deal with the emergency himself.

Grabbing his dagger, he rushed to draw the bolts and unlock the door of the cell. Smoke was now thickening. When he pushed open the door he saw that straw had been piled up behind it and that it was smouldering. Before the guard could decide what to do, firm hands seized him and flung him so hard against the wall of the cell that his helm was dislodged and all the breath was knocked out of him. When he looked up in wonderment at a prisoner who was no longer manacled and fettered, a mighty forearm swung and knocked him senseless.

Boio moved quickly, stamping out the fire then fetching a bucket of water to dowse its last flickers. The guard was alone but he would call for help when he became conscious again. Seeing the coil of rope outside, Boio used it to tie the man up, tearing a strip from his own tunic to act as a gag. When the guard was securely bound, the prisoner locked him in the cell and threw the key into the drain. In his hand was the file which had eaten its way through his bonds then was used to create the sparks which ignited the straw. He held it tight. It was his talisman.

The bailey was in pitch darkness when he emerged furtively into the fresh air. Overpowering the guard had been simple enough but escape from the castle would be more difficult, even though he had been there a number of times and had a good knowledge of its design. The gates were locked and sentries were posted.

Boio was trapped. He lay behind the cover of the slope and cudgelled his brains until an idea finally seeped out of them.

With luck it might work.

A smile spread slowly in the darkness.

Only a token guard was on duty throughout the night. Attack was not feared because the county was quiescent and far too distant from the Welsh border to attract raiding parties. Yet sentries were strictly maintained by Henry Beaumont, partly as a means of training his garrison to remain alert and partly to supply the gates with porters in the event of unexpected nocturnal visitors.

Two men were on the rampart at the southern end of the castle but they did not stay there. Pinched by the cold and jaded by the dullness of their task, they slipped down to the guardhouse at the base of the wall to steal some rest. Its open door allowed one of them to keep an eye on the bailey.

‘How much longer until dawn?’ moaned the other.

‘Hours,’ said the watchful one.

‘I hate sentry duty, even in summer.’

‘Do not let the lord Henry hear you say that. He believes that it is good for discipline and does wonders for the soul.’

‘Why is he not out here with us then?’

‘There is an easy answer to that.’

‘Yes, he lies abed with the lady Adela and-’

‘Stay!’ interrupted the other.

He stepped quickly outside and scanned the bailey. His friend followed him out. It was as dark and deserted as ever.

‘I thought I saw a figure moving across the grass,’ said the first guard. ‘There is nobody there now.’

‘Perhaps you saw a ghost.’

‘I thought it might be that lunatic monk.’

‘Brother Benedict?’

‘He goes to the chapel at all hours of the night. It may have been him. Or nobody at all. Fancy sometimes plays tricks with my eyes. Let us go back inside away from this wind.’

They stepped back into the guardhouse but their respite did not last long. The sound of a loud splash made them start. It was as if something very heavy had dropped into the river outside.

One of them took a torch from its holder and they scrambled up the steps to the rampart. Looking over the wall, they stared down at the water, convinced that someone had jumped from the castle into the river.

‘Call the others,’ said the man with the torch.

‘Who but a madman would go swimming in this weather?’

‘We will find out. Call them. I will open the gate.’

More men were summoned and extra torches were brought.

They went running through the gate and over the bridge to the other side of the river, moving along the bank to see if anyone was trying to clamber up it. An uneventful night had at last delivered some interest for them. They were so caught up in the excitement of their search that they did not see the burly figure who stole out through the open gate, crossed the bridge and trotted off in the opposite direction.

Boio was soon swallowed up in the blackness of the night.

Gervase Bret was in the chapel when he heard the commotion.