agony would come later. King Henry's men had known their business. Sabin was too high born and well connected to die, but not protected enough to be immune from a severe warning.
'Christ,' he groaned and struggled to sit up. His hands were still tied behind his back and he was naked. A purple bootprint stained his ribs, and his abdomen felt as if someone had been using it as a threshing floor. It was not the first time in his life that he had suffered such punishment, but usually his assailants had come off worse.
The charcoal fire had died to grey and the November chill was seeping into the room. How long had he been lying here? He knew not, save that the candles had been fresh when he and Lora had been shown to the chamber and now he was about to be left in darkness. He struggled to his feet, collapsed, fought his way up again and wobbled to the bed. The effort opened up a drying cut on his lip and he tasted fresh blood. Sabin fell face down on the mattress, turned his head to one side so that he could breathe and let oblivion swallow him.
When next his awareness returned, pallid dawn light was threading through the shutters. He was chilled to the bone, stiff as a corpse, and someone was kneeling over him.
'Is he dead?'
Sabin recognised Simon's frightened voice.
'Not yet, sir,' replied the landlord, 'but I doubt he's in the land of the living either.'
There was a sharp tug at Sabin's back as the landlord used a whetted dagger to sever the cords binding Sabin's wrists.
Sabin groaned. His arms had set in their trussed position and to move them was at first impossible, then agony. His entire body throbbed with pain, sharp and dull, incapacitating.
'Bones of Christ, what happened to you?' Simon came around the side of the bed. His thin adolescent features were puckered with worry and his complexion was sweaty and pale in the aftermath of his drinking session.
'King Henry's hirelings,' Sabin croaked and felt his lip sting and bleed again. 'I was with Lora . . . God, stop boggling at me like a witless sheep. Go away. Let me die in peace.'
Ignoring him, the youth hovered anxiously. 'I said you shouldn't chase her.'
Since he couldn't get up and walk away, Sabin closed his good eye and hoped that Simon would take the hint.
'The Blanche Nef sailed without us.' The youth's tone was despondent. He had been looking forward to voyaging on the finest galley in King Henry's fleet. 'The other ships have all gone too. We'll have to find a wine transport to take us home.'
Sabin grunted. Practicalities were beyond him for the nonce.
The tavern-keeper's wife arrived with a bowl of warm water, a cloth and some salve. A judicious application of leeches reduced the swelling around Sabin's eye and the cut on his lip was treated with some disgusting grease that nevertheless did its job and prevented the wound from splitting open every time he tried to speak.
In pain and great discomfort, but not at death's door, Sabin was able to dress and shamble into the tavern's main room
where he partook gingerly of bread soaked in milk and a cup of watered wine. He missed the customary weight of the sword at his hip and he had to borrow Simon's spare brooch to pin his cloak.
'My mother won't be pleased when she sees you.' Hunched over an almost untouched cup of wine, Simon studied Sabin's battered visage. 'There isn't an inch of you that's not black or blue or red.'
'Your mother never is pleased to see me,' Sabin retorted, pushing another morsel of milk-sodden bread between his lips whilst striving to open them as little as possible. His jaw was aching ferociously and at least two of his teeth were loose. 'You know as well as I do that she'd prefer I'd never been born.'
'She's always been fair to you.' Simon's tone was defensive. 'You've never lacked for anything.'
Sabin shrugged and paid for the movement with agony. Simon was right. The lady Matilda, Countess of Huntingdon and Northampton, had always been fair: so even-handed that no one
'Christ,' he groaned and struggled to sit up. His hands were still tied behind his back and he was naked. A purple bootprint stained his ribs, and his abdomen felt as if someone had been using it as a threshing floor. It was not the first time in his life that he had suffered such punishment, but usually his assailants had come off worse.
The charcoal fire had died to grey and the November chill was seeping into the room. How long had he been lying here? He knew not, save that the candles had been fresh when he and Lora had been shown to the chamber and now he was about to be left in darkness. He struggled to his feet, collapsed, fought his way up again and wobbled to the bed. The effort opened up a drying cut on his lip and he tasted fresh blood. Sabin fell face down on the mattress, turned his head to one side so that he could breathe and let oblivion swallow him.
When next his awareness returned, pallid dawn light was threading through the shutters. He was chilled to the bone, stiff as a corpse, and someone was kneeling over him.
'Is he dead?'
Sabin recognised Simon's frightened voice.
'Not yet, sir,' replied the landlord, 'but I doubt he's in the land of the living either.'
There was a sharp tug at Sabin's back as the landlord used a whetted dagger to sever the cords binding Sabin's wrists.
Sabin groaned. His arms had set in their trussed position and to move them was at first impossible, then agony. His entire body throbbed with pain, sharp and dull, incapacitating.
'Bones of Christ, what happened to you?' Simon came around the side of the bed. His thin adolescent features were puckered with worry and his complexion was sweaty and pale in the aftermath of his drinking session.
'King Henry's hirelings,' Sabin croaked and felt his lip sting and bleed again. 'I was with Lora . . . God, stop boggling at me like a witless sheep. Go away. Let me die in peace.'
Ignoring him, the youth hovered anxiously. 'I said you shouldn't chase her.'
Since he couldn't get up and walk away, Sabin closed his good eye and hoped that Simon would take the hint.
'The Blanche Nef sailed without us.' The youth's tone was despondent. He had been looking forward to voyaging on the finest galley in King Henry's fleet. 'The other ships have all gone too. We'll have to find a wine transport to take us home.'
Sabin grunted. Practicalities were beyond him for the nonce.
The tavern-keeper's wife arrived with a bowl of warm water, a cloth and some salve. A judicious application of leeches reduced the swelling around Sabin's eye and the cut on his lip was treated with some disgusting grease that nevertheless did its job and prevented the wound from splitting open every time he tried to speak.
In pain and great discomfort, but not at death's door, Sabin was able to dress and shamble into the tavern's main room
where he partook gingerly of bread soaked in milk and a cup of watered wine. He missed the customary weight of the sword at his hip and he had to borrow Simon's spare brooch to pin his cloak.
'My mother won't be pleased when she sees you.' Hunched over an almost untouched cup of wine, Simon studied Sabin's battered visage. 'There isn't an inch of you that's not black or blue or red.'
'Your mother never is pleased to see me,' Sabin retorted, pushing another morsel of milk-sodden bread between his lips whilst striving to open them as little as possible. His jaw was aching ferociously and at least two of his teeth were loose. 'You know as well as I do that she'd prefer I'd never been born.'
'She's always been fair to you.' Simon's tone was defensive. 'You've never lacked for anything.'
Sabin shrugged and paid for the movement with agony. Simon was right. The lady Matilda, Countess of Huntingdon and Northampton, had always been fair: so even-handed that no one
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