I would dispatch you to such a pestilent hole?”
Henry pushed back his mail hood and raked his fingers through the flattened, sweat-dampened locks of tawny hair, discovering a lump the size of a toadstool cap behind his ear.
“In truth,” he muttered, “I was of the opinion you were possessed of an odd sense of humour, therefore it was more than possible you would send us to a brothel. I must say, however, this is far more to my liking.”
The taproom was large, well lit, furnished with sturdy tables that looked scrubbed clean daily. Fresh rushes covered the floor. A fire crackled in the hearth, warming the air as well as whatever savoury concoction bubbled and burped in an enormous black cauldron suspended over the flames. They were the only occupants; a thick wooden bar had been dropped across the door after their arrival to ensure against unwanted interruptions.
As Henry’s gaze roved around the room, it settled on Sparrow’s belligerent features. The elfin seneschal was perched on the lip of a table, his legs swinging over the side, quite content to see two prime specimens of Norman knighthood lick and suck at their wounds.
“Lucky for you we came along when we did, my Bold Blades,” he chuckled. “Other else, you might have found your arses swived on the end of some lumpkin’s pike.”
“Our thanks for your sympathies.” Henry grimaced. “How did you happen along when you did?”
“Happens we were waiting and watching, to-ing and froing when our gracious host”—Sparrow paused and flourished a hand in M’sieur Gabinet’s direction, who in turn paused in his bandaging and took a small bow of acknowledgement—“made mention of another scurrilous inn on the ot side of town where a man could have his brains addled for the price of a sop of ale. It seemed an odd place to go a-looking for lost souls, but a-looking we went, and hey-ho, there you go. Fists flying, tables crashing … and nary a sword unsheathed. Aye,” he added with a much-put-upon sigh, “lucky we came along when we did.”
Sedrick scowled and in no uncertain terms advised Sparrow where he could thrust his luck, with or without the aid of a lumpkin’s pike.
“Tsk tsk, Sir Borkel. Save such hasty wishings for another time. Where we are going, we will need all the luck we can gather about us.”
Henry glanced quickly over at Eduard. “You have had word from my uncle?”
Eduard shook his head. “No, but M’sieur Gabinet has his own sources. Hopefully the marshal will be able to confirm it by the time we reach St. Malo, but for the moment, our destination appears to be … Purbeck.”
Henry suffered a twist in his gut that had nothing to do with the beating he had sustained. He had prayed sincerely to hear the princess was being held at Bristol … or even the London tower … if only for the added physical comforts that were available for a prisoner of such noble delicacy. But Purbeck … It was on the Dorset coast and, looming over it like a satyr’s eye, was Corfe Castle, a bleak and hellish place, seeming always to stand gray and ugly under a wind-blown, evil sky. Many prisoners disappeared inside the walls of Corfe Castle. Few were ever seen or heard from again. None, to Henry’s knowledge, had ever escaped.
“Well then,” he said. It was all he said, all he could think to say before he turned away and took several more deep swallows of ale.
Sparrow looked from one solemn face to another and supposed it was up to him to suggest a word or two in their favour. Unfortunately for his good intentions, one of the logs in the fire chose that same moment to send a shower of sparks bursting out over the hearth. When he glanced at the grate to see what had caused the minor eruption, he saw that the small body of a bird had fallen out of the chimney and lay outlined against the glowing bed of embers. It was a sparrow and it was only there for a blink or two before the heat curled the wings and the tiny body caught on fire.
Sparrow felt an uncomfortable scratching at the base of his spine and he looked up to see if anyone else had noticed.
No one had, and when he looked back, the body of the bird was gone, leaving only the acrid scent of death behind.
Chapter 13
William the Marshal’s confirmation came by way of a monk, who