Кэндис Робб - The Lady Chapel

“Take them below,” Scorby ordered. “I will visit them shortly.”

The dungeon with its seeping walls and fetid air was fitting for a house with a moat and drawbridge. Ambrose wondered what the family protected itself against. But his thoughts were all for Martin as he was dumped, unconscious, on the filthy floor. They’d tied a rag on his mutilated wrist, but it was already soaked with blood. Ambrose dropped to his knees beside Martin and put his head on his friend’s chest. His heart still beat. Praise be the Lord. Where there was life, there was hope.

“Please untie my hands so I might assist him,” Ambrose begged the man who wore the signet.

“And what do you think you might do, eh?”

“I can at least try to stop the bleeding.”

The man brought his torch closer and examined the blood-soaked rag. “I suppose, being in the dungeon and all.” He untied Ambrose.

“Could you bring some wine for the pain when he wakes?”

“He won’t be living much longer. The Master has plans for him.”

“But a person can die of pain.”

The man snorted. “I’d be dead ten times over.” He spat in the corner. “Die of pain.”

“There would be no more sport for Master Scorby if Martin dies of pain.”

The man looked uncertain. “I’ll see about it.” He closed the heavy door behind him.

Ambrose sat down and took off his jacket to untie the leather lace that attached one of the sleeves to his leather vest. The lace was thin but strong. He dug in the filthy straw until he found a small, thick twig. Gently he slipped the lace under Martin’s mutilated arm and tied the lace tight just above the elbow, then stuck in the twig to twist the lace as tight as possible. Martin whimpered. Ambrose lifted Martin’s head onto his lap and smoothed his sweaty brow.

And then he began to sing. He sang anything and everything he could think of. His intention was that no matter when Martin waked, he would know instantly that Ambrose was there.

Ambrose’s voice was hoarse by the time a timid servant came in, bearing a pitcher of wine and two cups. “You’ve a voice like an angel,” the woman said. “We heard you up above. Hide these under the straw after you have some. For later.”

Ambrose drank gladly, and when he lifted the cup to Martin’s lips, his eyes fluttered open and he drank a little. Ambrose helped Martin sit up. Martin drank more.

“Praise God you have not given up, Martin.”

“I should. Perrers. Her uncles won’t let me live.”

Ambrose helped Martin drink more of the wine. “Now try to rest again.”

“The singing. Bless you.”

Ambrose folded his jacket and made a pillow for Martin. He finished the wine he’d poured, then hid the jug and cups. Getting up, he paced to keep warm while he sang. When he felt the stiffness go out of his legs, arms, and back, he sat down again and took Martin’s head in his lap, singing all the while.

Ambrose had taken two breaks for wine and movement, and the light from the high, barred window had vanished long ago when Scorby came down with his two companions.

“Lift him up,” Scorby barked to his men. They lifted Martin and held him upright between them. “It occurred to me that you might bleed to death. And since that is not the death I’ve planned for you, I’m going to cauterize that nasty wound. Now aren’t you grateful?”

Martin slumped between the two men, his eyes fluttering as he tried to open them and keep them open. But he was terribly weak.

“You offer me no thanks, eh? Well, perhaps you do not believe I mean to be so kind.” Scorby clapped and a manservant came in with a jug and cup. “Brandywine, Wirthir. From the cellars of my father-in-law, may he rest in peace.” He filled the cup and handed it to Ambrose. “Help him drink. It will go better for him with a good dose of brandywine in his belly.”

Ambrose helped Martin drink. “They are going to burn the wound, Martin. It is a good thing. It will heal better afterward. But it will be painful.”

Martin nodded, understanding. After a few gulps of the brandywine, he whispered, “Enough, Ambrose, my friend.”

Ambrose stepped aside. He wished there were something he might do to lessen Martin’s pain, but he could think of nothing.

The men dragged Martin out of the cell.

“I must go with him.”

Scorby smirked. “It is a good show, ’tis true. And you have entertained the household so nicely today. Certes , I shall allow it.” He grabbed Ambrose by the arm and they moved forward, the manservant hurrying after with a torch.

They took Martin down a passage to a room with a stone floor, a fire pit in the center. A fire burned smokily in the pit. Tanner sat by it, heating an iron rod that was flattened on one end. Martin managed to move his feet enough not to stumble. They sat him down on a bench closer to the fire than Tanner’s. As they pulled at the cloth binding Martin’s stump, he cried out.

Ambrose tried to break away from Scorby and go to Martin, but his captor held him firm. “God’s mercy, moisten the cloth before you pull it off,” Ambrose cried.

“You heard him, men – moisten the bandage,” Scorby said.

They did so, and it went better for it.

Scorby turned to Ambrose. “How did you get the bleeding to stop?”

“I tied a lace up high on his arm.”

“Should we remove it now?”

“Dear God, I don’t know.” Ambrose felt stupid. “Perhaps after you’ve burned it and bandaged it again.”

Scorby nodded. “You heard, men. Now be done with it.”

Tanner lifted the smoking rod from the fire and applied it to the stump the two men held out toward him. The stench was sickening. Martin’s face was contorted with the pain, but he did not cry out. Tanner touched the rod to the wound several times, then thrust the rod back into the fire and reached for a grease pot.

“What is that?” Ambrose asked. The contents looked crusty and vile.

“Lard.”

“Up in my pack there is an unguent jar. Let me apply some of that instead.”

Tanner looked to Scorby.

“Forget the lard. Let them use their own supplies. That suits me.” Scorby turned to the manservant. “Go up and get the gentleman’s pack.” He turned to the two who still held Martin up. “Let him sit while we wait. And his friend here can give him some more brandywine.”

Ambrose held the cup to Martin’s lips. He helped himself with his left hand and took a long drink. With a shudder, he wiped his lips and looked over at Scorby. “I don’t understand.”

Scorby chuckled. “You mean why I’m suddenly kind?”

Martin shook his head slowly. “No. Why Matthew Ridley hasn’t returned and ripped off your balls.”

“Matthew?” Scorby looked confused for a moment, then shook his head, as if impressed. “You have been thinking. I am amazed that you can still think so clearly. Matthew Ridley.” He smiled. “He works both for John Goldbetter and our King – well, Alice Perrers and her uncles, who are the King’s most loyal subjects at the moment. Matthew will agree to nothing that will hurt the King, or us, of course. His father had the wrong loyalties.”

Martin rubbed his forehead with a trembling hand. “And you are a cousin to Perrers?”

“Indeed. We are a close family.”

Ambrose frowned. “How did you convince a son to turn on his father?”

“We convinced him that his father was a thief and a traitor. Which was true, but so are all the wool merchants. Or they would be – if they had the right connections. King Edward has not endeared himself to them.”

Ambrose began to piece it together. “They are the family you crossed, Martin?”

“Aye.”

“But the Perrers family – they sold to the Flemings against the King’s orders,” Ambrose said.