“Sorry to disappoint you, my friend. Palmer will put her straight back in and roast her till she’s dead.”
“Where’s the pleasure in that, Fitzurse?”
“Oh, I forgot the best bit. I will show the blacksmiths how to fashion a set of pipes here, leading to the nose. You can’t really hear the screams through the metal; instead the sound comes through these pipes and out the nose. Because of their shape, they change the human voice so that it sounds exactly like a bull.”
“I ask again, where’s the pleasure in that?”
Fitzurse looked at de Morville askance. “It’s very, very amusing, of course. As the Greeks wrote, ‘The screams will come through to you through the pipes as the tenderest, most pathetic, most melodious of bellowings.’” He smiled at de Morville. “You see?”
Palmer’s pulse pounded in his ears. De Morville stared at Fitzurse. “You and me laugh at different things, Fitzurse. But as a test for Palmer, it’s a good ’un.”
“He can clean up afterward, of course. Get rid of the body.”
De Morville nodded. “He’ll earn his purse with that job. Don’t think I’d fancy it much.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Fitzurse drained his cup. “We’ll make a start on the morrow. Early. I’ll meet you at the forge at dawn. Now, how about a drink for me before it all goes down your neck?”
Their talk shifted to blacksmiths, with de Morville whining about the time it took to train them.
Palmer’s temples hammered as if they’d burst. He’d sworn to pass any test. But this? His hands tightened more. Hands that would seize the small-boned Sister Theodosia. Strip her. Put her into some metal beast from a nightmare. Reach back into it, take hold of her while she was half burned to death. From his own mouth would have to come the lie of a promise that she could live. He’d see her hope in eyes blistered half shut. Eyes that would then know his lie as he placed her back inside, onto red-hot metal that would make her skin bubble and melt. Palmer fought his bile. And last, lift out her cooked remains and bury them. This was Fitzurse’s test. So sure he’d sounded that he, Palmer, was as low as a whore and would do all of this for his money.
Well, he wasn’t that low. He was a sworn knight. A fighter, yes, a killer, yes. He’d done plenty of both. But he’d done them against other men, men armed and ready to kill him in return. Not this. He’d failed the test. And lost the money. No matter. Right now, he needed to get out of this castle, cut his losses, and go back to the life he knew. But the money. No matter, he told himself again. He could have all the riches in the world, but no one would respect him for such a deed — he least of all. And every time he used his hands, every time he so much as looked at them, he would have a reminder of what he had done. His wealth would be fouled with shame, with dishonor of the worst kind. He went to rise, and his gaze lit on the sketch of the terrible bull again, as the pair below rambled on.
Still sick to his stomach, he crouched back down. He was being tested again, but not in the way Fitzurse intended. Even if Palmer succeeded in leaving Knaresborough, Fitzurse would easily find another sap to torture and kill the anchoress. It wouldn’t take him long — the money was simply too good. Fitzurse would just do it himself, forcurse him.
That meant only one thing. He’d have to try and get her away from here. Go against Reginald Fitzurse and suffer the effects of his actions. It would probably mean his certain death. Palmer knuckled the side of his head with his fist as Lullworth, his squire master, used to do. Think, lad. Think. Use what’s in that skull, not just your strength. Think it through, before you rush in like a ninny.
But Fitzurse’s words came back to him. “The screams will come through to you through the pipes as the tenderest, most pathetic, most melodious of bellowings.” No matter if he never actually heard them. If he did nothing, those sounds would haunt his dreams till the day he died.
Bent low behind the gallery’s edge, Palmer took silent steps back out to the corridor. He drew his dagger from his belt and hastened down the dark stairwell, heading for the dungeon below, where he knew the woman of the church was held. Palmer paused. Wait. The church. Wealthy as the King. Wealthier. They’d pay to get her back. Pay a fine ransom. A ransom he could name, as he’d have saved her life.
Palmer allowed himself a wide, wide grin. Low as a whore, eh? But one that was keeping all the rewards. Lullworth would have been proud of him.
♦ ♦ ♦
The steps led down past floor after floor. Palmer hurried, taking the steps two at a time on the curved staircase, careful to make no noise.