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Garron looked through the bars at the two men who lay silently in their filth. He’d wanted to break their wills, not kill them. He judged them to be ready.
He walked into the stinking cell. Neither man looked up. Neither man spoke. They looked broken enough. “Aleric, bring our two ancients up into the inner bailey, I wish to see them clearly in the sunlight, admire their lovely gowns. Ah, they stink. We’ll let them bathe in the well. Merry made some lavender soap, they can use it.” And Garron turned on his heel and left the granary, whistling.
He and all his people watched Pali and Hobbs strip the two men down to their skin. There was laughter when the men threw buckets filled with the cold water from the castle well at them, and they yelped and tried to duck and cover themselves at the same time, but with the continuous hooting and shouting of coarse remarks made by both men and women, they soon realized it was pointless. So they set about scrubbing themselves. The lavender soap was sweet smelling indeed.
Merry said to Garron, “This man, Sir Halric, he looks paltry.”
“Aye, he does.” Garron stood, arms crossed over his chest, and he never took his eyes off the two men. “But then you spent a good deal of time with him.”
“Jason of Brennan is young enough and comely, just as my mother told me.”
He said lightly, “But you’ve seen him before, Merry, don’t you remember? He came to Valcourt with your mother.”
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“Aye, I was but giving you her report of him.” She turned and lightly ran her fingertips up his arm.
“Mind your virtue, Merry,” he said, then turned back to the two men. He said easily, “I like the smell of the soap. What is the scent?”
She cocked her head at him. “How should I know that, my lord?”
Because you made it. He became very still. Once the two men were dressed, this time in trousers and tunics from the goods they themselves had brought to Wareham, Garron said, “Aleric, bring them into the great hall. It is time for them to share their deepest secrets with me.”
Garron sat in his new beautifully carved lord’s chair. It was the first time, he realized, that he’d ever in his life sat in judgment. He breathed in the fresh oak and let the power he knew was his alone settle into him. Robert Burnell stood off to one side, not saying a word. Probably thinking about his silver coins, Garron thought, probably wondering how he could claim more.
“Jason of Brennan, I would like you to meet the person who brought you down.” He nodded to Miggins, who flung her head back and proudly walked to stand beside his chair. She gave Jason a big grin and waved a gnarly fist in his face. “I got ye, ye little bastid, none other, jest me.”
Trousers gave a man courage, and so Jason of Brennan yelled, “Old crone, I’ll gullet you when I am free.”
Robert Burnell called out, “You will never again be free, sirrah. Best not make threats when your miserable life hangs in the balance.”
Jason of Brennan knew very well this was Robert Burnell, trusted above all others by the king. A scrawny man, he thought, his head covered with thick, dark hair that curled around his ears, not a single white strand threaded in. His father had once talked of knowing Burnell in their youth, and that meant Burnell was old enough to have white hair, and why didn’t he? Jason’s father had a mane of white hair. He saw Burnell’s bony fingers were covered with ink. His black robe looked musty and old. When all was said and done, Burnell was naught but a miserable scribe, Chancellor of England or not. But he had the king’s ear and that meant there would be no mercy, he knew it. He screwed up his courage and said nothing more. Sir Halric stood quietly beside him, the man seemingly as stolid as Jason’s father.
“I would like to hear the truth now,” Garron said, looking from one man to the other.
Neither even looked at him.
Garron drew his stiletto as he rose from his chair. “You wish me to remove an ear, Jason of Brennan? Will that encourage you to spit out the truth?”
Jason of Brennan said nothing, but his heart began to pound hard and hot.
“I do not know if losing an ear will make you hear less. Do you wish to take the chance?”
Jason of Brennan continued to say nothing. He looked at Garron, and once again, he spit at him. This time his spittle landed on Garron’s tunic.
Garron’s knife moved so swiftly, it seemed a blur. Garron sliced off his right ear, cleanly and quickly. Jason yelled in shock, grabbed his head, and fell to his knees, keening.
Garron stood over him and calmly wiped off his blade. “You will tell me the truth now, or you will lose your other ear as well.”
Jason began to sob, deep in his throat, and rocked back and forth on his heels. “You have made me a monster, a freak!”
Robert Burnell cleared his throat. “Listen to me, you miserable whelp, you will speak the truth now or I will take both you and Sir Halric back to the king. Lord Garron knows naught of torture, thus you lost your ear fast, with no fuss, no real pain, no undue mutilation, so quit your weeping. If you wish to bear unspeakable pain, pain that makes your tongue swell in your mouth so you cannot breathe, I will give you over to the king’s men. Stop your howling, do you hear me? By all the saints’ wooden crosses, you sicken me. You are a man, act like one!”
Jason of Brennan seemed not to hear.
“Jason,” Sir Halric said quietly. “Get hold of yourself. Tell them the truth. It matters not now. Nothing matters any longer.”
Slowly, Jason raised his face to Burnell. Blood streamed down his neck, soaking his tunic. It was Merry who silently walked to him, and gave him a folded cloth to press against his head. Garron said nothing, merely watched her from where he sat again on his lord’s chair.
