The She-Wolf. Морис Дрюон
the bishop and the daughter of King Herfast of Denmark. He defeated the whole army of the King of France under the walls of his castle of Mortemer-en-Bray.3 And yet he so greatly offended the Conqueror, our kinsman, that all his lands and possessions were taken from him.’
The younger Roger sat on a stool, crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and leaned backwards a little to support his shoulders against the wall. Every day he had to listen to an account of their ancestors, hear for the hundredth time how Ralph the Bearded, son of the first Roger, had landed in England in the train of Duke William, how he had received Wigmore in fief, and why the Mortimers had been powerful in four counties ever since.
In the refectory the soldiers had finished eating and were bawling drinking songs.
‘Please, Uncle,’ Mortimer said, ‘do leave our ancestors alone for a while. I’m in no such hurry to go to join them as you are. I know we’re descended from royal blood. But royal blood is of small account in prison. Will Herfast’s sword set us free? Where are our lands, and are we paid our revenues in this dungeon? And when you’ve repeated once again the names of all our female ancestors – Hadewige, Mélisinde, Mathilde the Mean, Walcheline de Ferrers, Gladousa de Braouse – am I to dream of no women but them till I draw my last breath?’
For a moment the old man was nonplussed and stared absent-mindedly at his swollen hands and their long, broken nails, then he said: ‘Everyone fills his prison life as best he can, old men with the lost past, young men with tomorrows they’ll never see. You believe the whole of England loves you and is working on your behalf, that Bishop Orleton is your faithful friend, that the Queen herself is doing her best to save you, and that in a few hours you’ll be setting out for France, Aquitaine, Provence or somewhere of the sort. And that the bells will ring out in welcome all along your road. But, you’ll see, no one will come tonight.’
With a weary gesture, he passed his hands across his eyes, then turned his face to the wall.
Young Mortimer went back to the window, put a hand out through the bars and let it lie as if dead in the dust.
‘Uncle will now doze till evening,’ he thought. ‘He’ll make up his mind to come at the last moment. But he won’t make it any easier; indeed, it may well fail because of him. Ah, there’s Edward!’
The raven stopped a little way from the motionless hand and wiped its big black beak against its foot.
‘If I strangle it, I shall succeed in escaping. If I miss it, I shall fail.’
It was no longer a game, but a wager with destiny. The prisoner needed to invent omens to pass the time of waiting and quiet his anxiety. He watched the raven with the eye of a hunter. But as if it realized the danger, the raven moved away.
The soldiers were coming out of the refectory, their faces all lit up. They dispersed over the courtyard in little groups for the games, races and wrestling that were a tradition of the Feast. For two hours, naked to the waist, they sweated under the sun, competing in throwing each other or in their skill in casting maces at a wooden picket.
Then he heard the Constable cry: ‘The King’s prize! Who wants to win a shilling?’4
Then, as it drew towards evening, the soldiers went to wash in the cisterns and, noisier than in the morning, talking of their exploits or their defeats, they went back to the refectory to eat and drink once more. Anyone who was not drunk on the night of St Peter ad Vincula earned the contempt of his comrades. The prisoner could hear them getting down to the wine. Dusk fell over the courtyard, the blue dusk of a summer’s evening, and the stench of mud from the river-bank became perceptible once again.
Suddenly a long, fierce, hoarse croaking, the sort of animal cry that makes men uneasy, rent the air from beyond the window.
‘What’s that?’ the old Lord of Chirk asked from the far end of the dungeon.
‘I missed him,’ his nephew said; ‘I got him by the wing instead of the neck.’
In the uncertain evening light he gazed sadly at the few black feathers in his hand. The raven had disappeared and would not now come back again.
‘It’s mere childish folly to attach any importance to it,’ the younger Mortimer thought. ‘And it’s nearly time now.’ But he had an unhappy sense of foreboding.
But his mind was diverted from the omen by the extraordinary silence that had fallen over the Tower during the last few minutes. There was no more noise from the refectory; the voices of the drinkers had been stilled in their throats; the clatter of plates and pitchers had ceased. There was nothing but the sound of a dog barking somewhere in the garden, and the distant cry of a waterman on the Thames. Had Alspaye’s plot been discovered? Was the silence lying over the fortress due to a shock of amazement at the discovery of a great betrayal? His forehead to the window bars, the prisoner held his breath and stared out into the shadows, listening for the slightest sound. An archer reeled across the courtyard, vomited against a wall, collapsed on to the ground and lay still. Mortimer could see him lying motionless on the grass. The first stars were already appearing in the sky. It would be a clear night.
Two more soldiers came out of the refectory holding their stomachs, and collapsed at the foot of a tree. This could be no ordinary drunkenness that bowled men over like a blow from a club.
Roger Mortimer went to the other end of the dungeon; he knew exactly where his boots stood in a corner and put them on; they slipped on easily enough for his legs had grown thin.
‘What are you doing, Roger?’ the elder Mortimer asked.
‘I’m getting ready, Uncle; it’s almost time. Our friend Alspaye seems to have played his part well; the Tower might be dead.’
‘And they haven’t brought us our second meal,’ the old Lord complained anxiously.
Roger Mortimer tucked his shirt into his breeches and buckled his belt about his military tunic. His clothes were worn and ragged, for they had refused his requests for new ones for the past eighteen months. He was still wearing those in which he had fought and they had taken him, removing his dented armour. His lower lip had been wounded by a blow on the chin-piece.
‘If you succeed, I shall be left all alone, and they’ll revenge themselves on me,’ his uncle said.
There was a good deal of selfishness in the old man’s vain obstinacy in trying to dissuade his nephew from escaping.
‘Listen, Uncle, they’re coming,’ the younger Mortimer said, his voice curt and authoritative. ‘You must get up now.’
There were footsteps approaching the door, sounding on the flagstones. A voice called: ‘My lord!’
‘Is that you, Alspaye?’ Mortimer asked.
‘Yes, my lord, but I haven’t got the key. Your turnkey’s so drunk, he’s lost the bunch. In his present condition, it’s impossible to get any sense out of him. I’ve searched everywhere.’
There was a sniggering laugh from the uncle’s pallet.
The younger Mortimer swore in his disappointment. Was Alspaye lying? Had he taken fright at the last moment? But why had he come at all, in that case? Or was it merely one of those absurd mischances such as the prisoner had been trying to foresee all day, and which was now presenting itself in this guise?
‘I assure you everything’s ready, my lord,’ went on Alspaye. ‘The Bishop’s powder we put in the wine has worked wonders. They were very drunk already and noticed nothing. And now they’re sleeping the sleep of the dead. The ropes are ready, the boat’s waiting for you. But I can’t find the key.’
‘How long have we got?’
‘The sentries are unlikely to grow anxious for half an hour or so. They feasted too before going on guard.’
‘Who’s with you?’
‘Ogle.’
‘Send him for a sledgehammer, a chisel and a crowbar, and take the stone