Maurice Druon - The She-Wolf

‘What are you doing, Roger?’ the elder Mortimer asked.

‘I’m getting ready, Uncle; it’s almost time. Our friend Alspaye seems to have played his part well; the Tower might be dead.’

‘And they haven’t brought us our second meal,’ the old Lord complained anxiously.

Roger Mortimer tucked his shirt into his breeches and buckled his belt about his military tunic. His clothes were worn and ragged, for they had refused his requests for new ones for the past eighteen months. He was still wearing those in which he had fought and they had taken him, removing his dented armour. His lower lip had been wounded by a blow on the chin-piece.

‘If you succeed, I shall be left all alone, and they’ll revenge themselves on me,’ his uncle said.

There was a good deal of selfishness in the old man’s vain obstinacy in trying to dissuade his nephew from escaping.

‘Listen, Uncle, they’re coming,’ the younger Mortimer said, his voice curt and authoritative. ‘You must get up now.’

There were footsteps approaching the door, sounding on the flagstones. A voice called: ‘My lord!’

‘Is that you, Alspaye?’ Mortimer asked.

‘Yes, my lord, but I haven’t got the key. Your turnkey’s so drunk, he’s lost the bunch. In his present condition, it’s impossible to get any sense out of him. I’ve searched everywhere.’

There was a sniggering laugh from the uncle’s pallet.

The younger Mortimer swore in his disappointment. Was Alspaye lying? Had he taken fright at the last moment? But why had he come at all, in that case? Or was it merely one of those absurd mischances such as the prisoner had been trying to foresee all day, and which was now presenting itself in this guise?

‘I assure you everything’s ready, my lord,’ went on Alspaye. ‘The Bishop’s powder we put in the wine has worked wonders. They were very drunk already and noticed nothing. And now they’re sleeping the sleep of the dead. The ropes are ready, the boat’s waiting for you. But I can’t find the key.’

‘How long have we got?’

‘The sentries are unlikely to grow anxious for half an hour or so. They feasted too before going on guard.’

‘Who’s with you?’

‘Ogle.’

‘Send him for a sledgehammer, a chisel and a crowbar, and take the stone out.’

‘I’ll go with him, and come back at once.’

The two men went off. Roger Mortimer measured the time by the beating of his heart. Was he to fail because of a lost key? It needed only a sentry to abandon his post on some pretext or other and the chance would be gone. Even the old Lord was silent. Mortimer could hear his irregular breathing from the other side of the dungeon.

Soon a ray of light filtered under the door. Alspaye was back with the barber, who was carrying a candle and the tools. They set to work on the stone in the wall into which the bolt of the lock was sunk some two inches. They did their best to muffle their hammering; but, even so, it seemed to them that the noise echoed through the whole Tower. Slivers of stone fell to the ground. At last, the lock gave way and the door opened.

‘Be quick, my lord,’ Alspaye said.

His face glowed pink in the light of the candle and was dripping with sweat; his hands were trembling.

Roger Mortimer went to his uncle and bent over him.

‘No, go alone, my boy,’ said the old man. ‘You must escape. May God protect you. And don’t hold it against me that I’m old.’

The elder Mortimer drew his nephew to him by the sleeve, and traced the sign of the Cross on his forehead with his thumb.

‘Avenge us, Roger,’ he murmured.

Roger Mortimer bowed his head and left the dungeon.

‘Which way do we go?’ he asked.

‘By the kitchens,’ Alspaye replied.

The Lieutenant, the barber and the prisoner went up a few stairs, along a passage and through several dark rooms.

‘Are you armed, Alspaye?’ Roger Mortimer whispered suddenly.

‘I’ve got my dagger.’

‘There’s a man there!’

There was a shadow against the wall; Mortimer had seen it first. The barber concealed the weak flame of the candle behind the palm of his hand. The Lieutenant drew his dagger. They moved slowly forward.

The man was standing quite still in the shadows. His shoulders and arms were flat against the wall and his legs wide apart. He seemed to be having some difficulty in remaining upright.

‘It’s Seagrave,’ the Lieutenant said.

The one-eyed Constable had become aware that both he and his men had been drugged and had succeeded in making his way as far as this. He was wrestling with an overwhelming longing to sleep. He could see his prisoner escaping and his Lieutenant betraying him, but he could neither utter a sound nor move a limb. In his single eye, beneath its heavy lid, was the fear of death. The Lieutenant struck him in the face with his fist. The Constable’s head went back against the stone and he fell to the ground.

The three men passed the door of the great refectory in which the torches were smoking; the whole garrison was there, fast asleep. Collapsed over the tables, fallen across the benches, lying on the floor, snoring with their mouths open in the most grotesque attitudes, the archers looked as if some magician had put them to sleep for a hundred years. A similar sight met them in the kitchens, which were lit only by glowing embers under the huge cauldrons, from which rose a heavy, stagnant smell of fat. The cooks had also drunk of the wine of Aquitaine in which the barber Ogle had mixed the drug; and there they lay, under the meat-safe, alongside the bread-bin, among the pitchers, stomachs up, arms widespread. The only moving thing was a cat, gorged on raw meat and stalking over the tables.

‘This way, my lord,’ said the Lieutenant, leading the prisoner towards an alcove which served both as a latrine and for the disposal of kitchen waste.

The opening built into this alcove was the only one on this side of the walls wide enough to give passage to a man. 5

Ogle produced a rope ladder he had hidden in a chest and brought up a stool to which to attach it. They wedged the stool across the opening. The Lieutenant went first, then Roger Mortimer and then the barber. They were soon all three clinging to the ladder and making their way down the wall, hanging thirty feet above the gleaming waters of the moat. The moon had not yet risen.

‘My uncle would certainly never have been able to escape this way,’ Mortimer thought.

A black shape stirred beside him with a rustling of feathers. It was a big raven wakened from sleep in a loophole. Mortimer instinctively put out a hand and felt amid the warm feathers till he found the bird’s neck. It uttered a long, desolate, almost human cry. He clenched his fist with all his might, twisting his wrist till he felt the bones crack beneath his fingers.

The body fell into the water below with a loud splash.

‘Who goes there?’ a sentry cried.

And a helmet leaned out of a crenel on the summit of the Clock Tower.

The three fugitives clinging to the rope ladder pressed close to the wall.

‘Why did I do that?’ Mortimer wondered. ‘What an absurd temptation to yield to! There are surely enough risks already without inventing more. And I don’t even know if it was Edward …’

But the sentry was reassured by the silence and continued his beat; they heard his footsteps fading into the night.

They went on climbing down. At this time of year the water in the moat was not very deep. The three men dropped into it up to the shoulders, and began moving along the foundations of the fortress, feeling their way along the stones of the Roman wall. They circled the Clock Tower and then crossed the moat, moving as quietly as possible. The bank was slippery with mud. They hoisted themselves out on to their stomachs, helping each other as best they could, then ran crouching to the river-bank. Hidden in the reeds, a boat was waiting for them. There were two men at the oars and another sitting in the stern, wrapped in a long dark cloak, his head covered by a hood with earlaps; he whistled softly three times. The fugitives jumped into the boat.