he had been shackled hand and foot. The rough straw beneath him stung his skin, and the room was dank and cold. A little dim light found its way in through a grating set high in the wall above his head, along with a faint breath of damp air and the smell of the jakes. He realized that he had had nothing to eat since noon the day before, and was uncomfortably aware of his own need for the jakes when the low door before him opened soundlessly admitting the red-haired man, who held a smoking tallow candle. He leered at the naked form cowering before him and licked his dry lips once or twice before speaking.
“Well, Dickon my lad—it is Dickon is it not? Come along my lad, my lord wishes to speak to you,” he said jovially, but there was a dry insinuating rasp to his tone that sent his victim cringing against the wall. The crippled man darted forward, caught the chain between the manacles that encircled the prisoner’s wrists, and hauled the boy to his feet. Sommers half dragged him up two flights of stairs, through twisting passages and into a large vaulted room that might once have been an old chapel, where he shoved the boy down into the rushes at his master’s feet. The earl, sitting in a large chair at one end of the room surveyed the prisoner with a smile.
“You see, my little Welsh lamb, you really cannot escape me, after all,” Northumberland said softly. “But you need not fear me, boy, I will not hurt you, unless I am forced to do so. I am your friend, you know. I will protect you from him.” Richard struggled to his feet and flicked a glance at Sommers who lounged against a nearby wall, warming his hands over one of the braziers that served to heat the large room. “Oh, no, child, Sommers will not hurt you. I meant the man who names himself Prince Kryštof. You know what he is, do you not? How he preys upon the living, drinking their very blood? Yes, I thought so,” the earl’s voice had dropped even lower, so that Richard had to lean forward to catch the words. “He is a servant of Hell, Richard. He would seduce you, drive you into sin and madness, as he has done my pretty young cousin. But we will stop him, and you will help us.” There were little flecks of spittle on the thin lips, and that serpent’s tongue flicked over them, driving Richard back in disgust.
“No,” he heard himself saying, clenching his fingers over the chains that bound him. Like a cat, Sommers crossed the room behind him, and drove a fist hard as a stone into his kidney. Richard folded to the floor, blinded by the pain, and realized with humiliation that he had lost control of his bladder. The earl laughed softly.
“Oh, I think yes.” He motioned to Sommers, who hauled the boy over to an alcove and there fastened his shackles to rings set into the floor. “Come now, Sommers,” he added when the man had finished his task, “we must ready ourselves for tomorrow night’s masque. The lad will do well enough here, for the time being.
Richard tossed on the polluted rushes beneath him, the worse for the filth he had perforce added himself, itching from the vermin that swarmed over him. Tears ran unchecked from his eyes, and he needed to blow his nose. He had never been so dirty, so utterly wretched, in his life. A light shone softly from the door, and a draft of clean outdoor air struck him. A woman crossed swiftly to him, and his heart leapt, thinking that she had come to free him. She set the candle she carried on the floor near him, and turned to examine him by its flickering light. She was young, he saw, and very nearly as dirty as he was himself. Her tongue flicked over her lips for a second, then she leaned over him, bringing her mouth to his and thrusting her tongue deep into his mouth. He flinched, jerking his head away from the obscene touch, and she laughed. Sitting back on her heels she threw back the surcoat that was her only garment. She fondled her breasts then leaned forward again, and when he turned his face from her she jerked his head around by the hair, shoving her nipple against his mouth as he