Nobility Chapter 22
Some minutes later Daniel and Rueben were dressed and, at Lord Aidan’s request, armed, standing in a cramped hallway near the kitchens. Lord Aidan had not yet presented himself, but his guard captain stood by.
“We have no dungeons in the manor,” he explained. “Rather than transport these villains to the stockade and risk their escape, we secured them in an empty larder.” Daniel saw that a stout chain had been run through the door handle and around a nearby wall sconce, then made fast with a great, iron padlock. The captain continued, “The lord prefers to question the cabal’s leader in private rather than in his hall.”
“Is it that the Lord Aidan fears yet an attempted escape, most stalwart captain, or do you in your heart believe our honorable lord harbors some anxiety at the speculation of what these brigands might speak?”
“Not for me to speculate, Sir Reuben.”
Before further discussion could take place, Lord Aidan turned a corner into the hall, flanked by a pair of guards who were in turn followed by a pair of retainers. One carried a sheaf of paper and a charcoal stick, so Daniel reckoned him a scribe. Aidan preempted any attempt at formalities with a gesture, then stood outside the door for a moment, squaring his shoulders. At a nod from him, the guard captain leaned in to open the padlock and remove the chain, then pushed the door inward.
Lord Aidan stepped in, followed by his scribe and the captain. The second retainer motioned for Daniel and Reuben to enter, leaving the rest of the group to crowd around the doorway. The troupe leader sat in the far left corner, his knees bent in front of him and his back against the wall. His wrists and ankles were in shackles. He looked at Lord Aidan but didn’t speak.
“I half expected you to kill yourself in the night,” Aidan said. “Your fate is grim enough to warrant it.”
The man shrugged. “It’s not so easy a thing as it sounds.” He still wore his garish robes, but to Daniel they didn’t seem so ostentatious and fine as they had the night before. They had become a pitiful mockery of the freewheeling lifestyle this man once enjoyed.
“I will not insult your cleverness,” the lord went on. “The priests may offer a mercy deep enough for what you’ve attempted, but you’ll not find it this side of death. You will never taste freedom again; that much is certain. Nor will I ask my subjects to provide your upkeep from their taxes while you provide nothing in return. It is a life of cruel labor or the headman’s ax for you. If you answer my questions to my satisfaction, then on my honor I will allow you to choose whichever of those fates seems easier to you. Fail in this, and you’ll be forced to gamble on my discretion.”
“There’s something else I want,” the prisoner answered. “Grant me that and I’ll tell you all I can.”
“Speak.”
“My people knew nothing of my real purpose here. Have mer-“
“That’s a lie!” Daniel shouted.
Only at that moment did the doomed man seem to notice Daniel, and he cringed away when he did, seeming to shrink somehow into his robes.
“Don’t interrupt,” Rueben started to whisper.
“No, good knight, let the boy speak,” Lord Aidan countered. “Say on, miller’s son. Tell what you know of this.”
Daniel had shouted out of instinct, but now he realized his words had been impulsive. He leaned toward Reuben. “I don’t want Rebekah dragged into this,” he murmured.
“That bell you have now most vigorously rung, young page,” Reuben replied. “It is not now in your power to recall its tolling. It would stand now far worse to stay silent.”
Daniel turned back to Lord Aiden. “Our friend Rebekah traveled with these same players for a time. She overheard talk of a plot, or was believed to, and they tried to have her killed for it. I don’t know the ways of intrigue, but I don’t see how someone can overhear discussion by a conspiracy of one.”
Aidan looked to Sir Reuben.
“I am without any knowledge gained first by my own hand,” the knight answered, “but Daniel’s words now bear consistency with what he has told me yesterday, the girl as well. The time I’ve known them has been but short, but in my knightly intuition I see nothing false in them.”
“Well then,” Aidan answered, raising his eyebrows at Daniel, “thanks to this lad we have uncovered our assassin’s first lie. And we’ve barely even begun. This bodes poorly for you, assassin.” He turned back to the prisoner.
There was a storm behind the man’s eyes, and Daniel suspected he was unused to failure in wits or deceit. “I want to see my friends,” the prisoner grunted. Then he raised his chin. “Ax or chain, do your worst. I’ll see my people or say no more.”