The Embers of Daylight, page 5
The town jail was a squat rectangle of stone with no visible windows. Like the courthouse, it had been constructed relatively recently and was seen as a modern and civilised place to detain criminals. Towns that did not have secure buildings typically threw criminals in a barred pit or an empty cellar while they awaited punishment, or else shackled them somewhere outside where they could face public humiliation. It was rather grand to keep thieves and drunkards locked up as if they were captive noblemen.
Isaac went inside and Simon sent the man accompanying them back to the castle. There was a hall at one end of the jail occupied by a couple who looked like they lived there, presumably the jailer and his wife. The wife was stoking hot coals in the hearth while the jailer spoke to the trio who had brought Stephen in.
“He's in there waiting for you, Sheriff,” the jailer said, pointing to a heavy door that led to the area where the prisoners were kept. Upon noticing Isaac, he made a hasty bow. “Milord.”
“Bring him downstairs,” Simon said.
The jailer produced a thick iron key and unlocked the door. Two of the men went inside and brought Stephen out. They took him to a flight of stone steps that led down to a cellar. Simon spoke a few inaudible words to the jailer's wife before following with Isaac.
The cellar room was cold and damp, reminiscent of the jail Isaac had been thrown into in Rambirch. There was no illumination save for the candles they'd brought with them. Isaac felt a strand of cobweb snap against his face as he ducked through the doorway. Stephen was brought to the back of the room and pushed into a chair. A feeling of unease gripped Isaac's stomach when he saw that there were shackles built into the chair's arms and legs. A device built to restrain someone so thoroughly could serve no kind purpose.
“Lock in his legs and one of his arms,” Simon said as he entered the room behind them. The men obeyed. Stephen started to struggle as they held him down, but there was little hope of him escaping. Isaac began to wish he'd stayed at the castle. People told grisly tales about the methods cruel sheriffs used to extract confessions from their prisoners, but he'd never witnessed anything like it himself. Torture seemed like something outlaws and corrupt nobles employed, not men of the law. He wondered whether he'd misjudged Simon.
It was hard to focus on the conversation that ensued between the sheriff and his prisoner after that. Isaac's eyes kept being drawn to the iron rings set into the floor and the shackles attached to them. There was a hearth and a pair of bellows in one corner. He tried to remind himself that Stephen had done terrible things to innocent people, things that were probably worse than whatever this room was used for. He deserved what was coming to him.
After a while, Simon asked Isaac to repeat his version of events. He tried not to let his voice betray his unease as he recounted the scuffle outside the kitchen for the second time.
“It's within my authority to try a crime like this without the presence of a judge,” Simon said, keeping his eyes on Stephen. “With no witnesses to speak on your behalf, you will be found guilty of assault.”
“My lord will speak on my behalf.”
“He wasn't there,” Simon stated bluntly. “I won't accept his testimony.”
Sweat glistened on Stephen's brow in the candlelight. He knew he was in serious trouble. Assault was grounds for punishment up to and including mutilation. He could be flogged or have his hands submerged in boiling water. Such injuries were especially dire for men-at-arms who relied on their physical aptitude to do their jobs. If Stephen ended up crippled, he wouldn't be able to serve his lord.
“I'm searching for Harald Redcloak,” Simon said. “It sounds like your master thought that kitchen boy knew something about it. That's why he sent you outside to intimidate him. If you know where Harald is hiding then you must tell me now.”
Again Stephen answered with silence.
Simon glared at him. “Dealing with you is a waste of my time. If Harald is in the county then I'll find him sooner or later. You can either tell me where he is and go back to your master, or I can punish you and begin searching Rosepath.”
“My lord has nothing to do with Harald Redcloak.”
“Will the people of Rosepath tell me the same thing? Will my suspicions be allayed if I look through Lord Edward's letters?”
The sweat on Stephen's brow began to trickle down his cheek. “I wouldn't know anything about that.”
“I'll have no reason to inconvenience your lord if you tell me where I can find Harald. You can go free first thing in the morning and we'll forget tonight's misunderstanding ever happened.”
“I said I don't know anything.” Stephen averted his gaze and fixed it on the wall behind them. He had the dead-eyed look of a man committed to denial. He wasn't going to talk.
“Tell Mary to come down,” Simon said to one of his men. “She should be ready by now.”
Isaac looked up the stairs, disturbed by his own morbid curiosity. A few moments later, the jailer's wife entered the cellar holding a pair of smith's tongs. The pincers gripped a metal bracelet forged in the same shape as a shackle, with two semicircular bands connected by screw bolts on either side that could be tightened so the metal pressed firmly against the wearer's flesh. The bracelet was glowing red hot.
Unbidden, Isaac recalled the pork-fat roasting scent of burnt flesh coming from the charred corpse he'd seen in Duckley. He averted his eyes, swallowing the rising nausea.
The jailer's wife passed the tongs to one of the men and gave Simon a pair of pliers.
“Use these to tighten the bolts.”
Simon nodded and stepped toward Stephen. “Hold his arm out straight.”
The two other men pressed Stephen's unshackled forearm against the arm of the chair so he couldn't move it. The sound of his breathing was so loud Isaac could hear it across the room. He thought of the state he'd found Elizabeth in the last time he saw her and the horrible burn scars Kaylein tried to conceal with her modest clothing. The blistering mutilations of fire disturbed Isaac more than most wounds. He knew he would never look at Simon the same way after this. Kaylein had been right. It had been a mistake to let himself get drawn into this vile business again.
Stephen made a stifled groaning noise as the bracelet drew close to his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Isaac could see his fingers twitching and curling like the limbs of a panicked spider.
“Keep still, or the metal will stick to your fingers when we slide it over your hand,” Simon said. His tone was disturbingly calm. The sound of Stephen's breathing grew quicker and sharper. Isaac forced himself to stare into the corner of the room, his arms folded, fingers digging into his biceps.
“Wait!” Stephen exclaimed in a rush of breath. “I'll tell you where to find Harald!”
Simon motioned for the man with the tongs to stop. “Where?”
“He's with a verderer outside Rosepath.”
“And this verderer's name is..?”
“Oliver Tall.”
Simon bade the man lower the tongs. “I know Oliver. I hope for his sake he isn't aware he's sheltering a criminal.”
Stephen's body shook with relief as the men unhanded him.
Simon passed the pliers back to the jailer's wife. “You can let him go at dawn.”
Isaac followed the sheriff and his men back upstairs, relief warring with disgust in his stomach. He regretted getting involved, but at least Simon hadn't taken his interrogation any further than was necessary. He doubted he would have slept well that night had he been forced to watch the red-hot bracelet tighten around Stephen's wrist.
“That isn't a method I would usually resort to,” Simon told him on the way back to the castle. “I would appreciate it if you kept what you saw in there to yourself.”
“Of course.”
“I can see it upset you.”
“The last time I saw a man burned was during the war.”
Simon nodded. “A barbaric time. When I served the former sheriff, I was forced to watch him torture prisoners on four separate occasions. He wasn't a cruel man, but in his mind the ends necessitated the means. He once did it to coerce an outlaw into revealing the location of a gang that had kidnapped two farmer's daughters. Another time it was a bailiff refusing to tell us where he'd hidden hundreds of silver shillings in stolen taxes. A sheriff must be seen to be effective, or the king will replace him.”
“I only thank God that I'm no sheriff.”
Simon looked down at the road as they walked. “You disapprove. I understand. When I was witness to my former master's interrogations, I learned something very important about the practice of torture. Of those four men I saw threatened with the red-hot shackle, all but one of them began to confess before it even touched his skin. The threat–and the belief that it is real–is enough to loosen most tongues.”
Isaac gave him a curious look. “Would you have stopped even if Stephen didn't confess?”
“I prefer not to say what I would and wouldn't do. God can be both harsh and gentle, and I strive to follow his example in all things.”
He said nothing more on the matter. Isaac hoped the sheriff's coyness was a bluff to maintain his image as a fearsome man of the law. He clearly saw it as a matter of personal pride to bring Harald to justice as one of his first great acts as sheriff.
When they returned to the castle, the celebration was still ongoing. A minstrel had begun to perform, and most of the guests were listening quietly from their seats. Isaac found Kaylein and Emilia talking privately in a corner. Lord Edward was nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, Isaac!” Emilia said, throwing herself against his chest dramatically. “Is everything well? The ruffian didn't cause any more trouble, did he?”
“No. The sheriff has everything in hand.” He took his wife by the shoulders and eased her off him. Emilia enjoyed attention, and her display had drawn half the eyes in the room away from the minstrel's performance. He wished she would be more discreet at times like this.
“Edward left in a rage,” Kaylein said. “He was very upset.”
“I expect he'll have a lot more to be upset about soon.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Isaac shook his head. The evening's events had tired him out. “I'll tell you tomorrow before we leave. Can we trouble you for a bed somewhere a little quieter than the hall tonight?”
Kaylein gave him an apologetic look. “I'm afraid we've promised the rooms in the solar to the sheriff's family, but you can take one of the servant's beds out in the parlour.”
“As long as it's quiet.” Isaac had spent plenty of nights sleeping on hall floors and hard earth. He didn't much care for the comfort of where he laid his head, he just wanted to forget about the unpleasant scene he'd witnessed and get some rest. He hoped Simon would catch Harald and make him confess to his illicit dealings with Edward. Perhaps Edward would wind up at the end of a noose and Cristiana would finally be free of him. Whatever happened, Isaac decided that he wouldn't get involved again. He'd done his part. Now he had a home to get back to and a wife to take care of.
He started to doze off on one of the servant's mattresses, thinking about how he would go to see his dogs tomorrow afternoon. But as always, his thoughts began to drift where they willed. When he thought of his dogs, he thought of Bryn and Briar. He wondered whether Bryn was still alive and healthy. Had Elizabeth carried on taking care of him after he left? He thought of Elizabeth's wavy, straw-coloured hair, and the way she'd always slept with her arms curled protectively around herself. She's slept like that until he'd given her someone else to hold on to. He thought about the look on her face when they stood in the forest with a cloth binding their hands together. Even though that marriage had been performed in secret, with no priest to officiate and no witnesses to confirm its happening, it remained one of the most vivid memories of his life.
He could barely remember what had happened the day he married Emilia.
Chapter 4
Kaylein was relieved when the last of the guests departed and life at the castle returned to normal. She had found that she could slip back into the rhythms of noble life as easily as changing clothes, but she no longer savoured the feeling of authority that came with being a lady of the manor. True happiness came to her when she sang with the choir at church, or when Mother Jane allowed her into the convent to peruse their quiet little library. She enjoyed her hours in the castle solar, too, most of which she spent with Tabitha. Tabitha had endured a year of her novitiate at the convent before taking her final vows and coming to live at the castle. These days some monks and nuns were being initiated within a matter of months rather than years. Poverty meant that the church in Tannersfield was struggling to maintain its former numbers, and manpower was especially important now that more hands were required to provide each priory with its own income.
Thankfully the Tannersfield convent was faring better than most under Mother Jane's efficient leadership. Their brewery, scriptorium, and laundry services had always provided them with a personal income independent of the king's taxes, and an expanded focus on those trades had stabilised their finances. The nuns had to work hard for every penny, for the monastery owned most of the church's land in the area, but Mother Jane was trying to have some of those assets signed over to the nunnery. She was a more tactful negotiator than the monastery's prior, and according to Tabitha she was the one who currently held the bishop's ear.
“It's just a matter of proving that the monastery doesn't need so many farms,” Tabitha explained, “but she can't do that without poking her nose into the prior's finances. She's hoping his sacrist will let her look at the records. He's Sister Isabel's brother.”
“The mother superior does not poke her nose, Tabitha. She inquires.”
Tabitha frowned as her quill dripped a trickle of ink down the vellum sheet she was using to transcribe a page of Kaylein's book. She wiped it off quickly and scratched the remaining blots away with her knife. During her time as a nun, she had proven to be one of those most strange pupils who had learned to copy writing excellently but still struggled with reading. For most people, it was the other way around.
“Well,” Tabitha said once she was satisfied with the state of her vellum, “she's inquiring her nose very deeply into the monastery's business.”
Kaylein fought back a smile. Tabitha was one of the few people who could make her laugh. They'd become close friends over the past five years. Tabitha's surly attitude had never quite left her, but these days it was a thin crust rather than an impenetrable wall. Mother Jane said she'd been a difficult novice, bright and full of enthusiasm, but only for the subjects that interested her, like herb lore and healing. She had a habit of disappearing when it was time for prayer, and she stubbornly refused to accept the lessons of the scriptures at face value. Tabitha had been assigned many small penances for her apathy toward spiritual pursuits during her time at the convent. Not all nuns donned the dark robes because they were faithful. That might have bothered Kaylein in the past, but these days she had a more open mind. Pious or not, she knew Tabitha had a good heart, and God would welcome her into heaven when the time came.
Kaylein turned back to her work. Tabitha was using the writing desk, so she had a wax tablet open on the table and was trying to estimate the cost of producing additional copies of her book. It was all very difficult, especially since the price of materials seemed to fluctuate depending on where and when you bought them. She also faced the problem of finding scribes who could be discreet about who hired them. It was a difficult process for Kaylein. When she was writing, everything came naturally to her. She could study old books for hours searching for parables that would support her arguments, and in doing so she often found ways she could improve and refine her ideas. It was like following a thread that kept splitting and branching out with possibilities before looping back in on itself. Sometimes she lost herself all day in the process. Yet when it came to the organisational work that followed, she felt like a lamb stumbling through the mud. Hers was a mind suited to the academic and abstract; practical matters did not come easily to her.
She sat back on her stool and groaned, realising that her back had become stiff. The lasting discomfort of her burns had grown more tolerable over the years, but it hadn't gone away entirely. The worst areas, mainly on her back and legs, itched sometimes, and the scarred flesh had a habit of growing uncomfortably dry and tight. Her physician, a Siraban man named Talhah, had advised her to rub an ointment of lavender oil and animal fat into the problematic spots. At first she had been wary to follow his advice, for he did not base his treatments on the theory of the humours that most healers adhered to. Applying a little ointment had seemed harmless enough, however, and to her pleasant surprise she found that not only did it alleviate some of the tension, but the massaging often chased away her phantom itches as well. She hadn't questioned Talhah's methods again after that. Tabitha was currently learning all she could from him so that she too could be a great healer one day.
Tabitha put down her writing implements when she saw Kaylein stretching. She went into the count's bedchamber and brought out a pot of ointment.
“Thank you.” Kaylein gave her a smile of gratitude. She smeared her scarred hands in the ointment and reached back to rub beneath the neckline of her dress.
She tried not to regret what had happened to her in the fire. God had brought her there to save Calia's life, and He had seen fit to spare her from injuries that should have killed her. Scars and stiffness were a fair price to pay. Yet when people stared at her bare skin when she neglected to cover up, it was hard not to feel self-conscious. She only felt comfortable taking off her gloves with Tabitha and a few other trusted maidservants.
