The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [147]
“None of that, horse thief. The only thing this scribe’s going to write for you now is your death writ.”
They disarmed him, bound his hands behind him, then pushed him along through the streets. Those few people still out at night stopped to stare and jeer when the guards announced that he was a horse thief. At one point they met a slender young man, wearing the plaid brigga of the noble-born, who was followed by a page with a torch.
“A horse thief, is he?” the young lord said. “When will you be hanging him?”
“Don’t know, my lord. We’ve got to have the trial first.”
“True enough. Well, no doubt I’ll hear of it. My mistress is quite keen on hangings, you see.” He gave the guard a conspiratorial wink. “She finds them quite … well, shall we say exciting? And so I take her to every single one.”
At last they reached the guard station at the foot of the royal hill and turned Perryn over to the men there, though the man who’d first recognized him stayed to escort him into the royal compound itself. By then Perryn had recovered enough from the blows to feel the terror: they were going to hang him. There was no use lying to the king’s officers; the rambling scribe would hang him on its own. Although at one point he did have a sentimental pang that he’d never see Jill again, at the root he was too terrified to care much about that one way or another. What counted was that he was going to die. No matter how hard he tried to pull himself together and face his death like a warrior, he kept trembling and sweating. When his guards noticed, they laughed.
“You should have thought about this rope when you were putting one on another man’s horses, you cowardly little bastard.”
“There must be a bit of fun to being hanged, lad. Why, a man gets hard, then spews all over himself when the noose jerks.”
They kept up the jests the entire time that they were dragging him through the warren of sheds and outbuildings that surrounded the king’s many-towered broch complex. In the flickering torchlight Perryn was completely disoriented. By the time that they shoved him into a tiny cell in a long stone building, he had no idea of which way north lay, much less of the layout of the palace grounds.
The cell was about eight feet on a side, with fairly clean straw on the floor and a leather bucket, swarming with flies, in one corner. In the door was a small barred opening that let in a bit of light from the corridor. Perryn stood next to it and tried to hear what the guards were saying, but they moved down along the corridor and out of earshot. He heard: “Of course Lord Madoc’s interested in horse thieves; he’s an equerry, isn’t he?” before they were gone. All at once his legs went weak. He slumped down into the straw before he fell and covered his face with his hands. Somehow or other, he’d offended one of the powerful royal servitors. He was doomed.
Perryn had no idea of how long he’d sat there before the door opened. A guard handed him a trencher with half a loaf of bread and a couple of slices of cold meat on it.
“Pity that we had to take your dagger away, lad.” His smile was not pleasant. “Just use your teeth like a wolf, eh? In the morning one of the undercouncillors will be along to see you.”
“What for?”
“To tell you about your rights, of course. Here, they caught you red-handed, but you’ll still get a trial, and you’ve got the right to have your kin by your side. Just tell the fellow, and he’ll get a herald to them.”
“I don’t want them to know. Ah ye gods, I’d rather die slowly in pieces than look my uncle in the eye over this.”
“Pity you didn’t think of that before, eh? Well, I’m sure it can all be arranged. If you don’t want your kin here, no need to waste the herald’s time.”
The warder handed in a tankard of ale, then locked the door. Perryn heard him whistling as he walked away.
Although the food and drink were unexpectedly decent, Perryn ate only to pass the time. The thought