The She Wolf of France Read Free Page B

miserable prison, the eighteen months of fog pouring in through the low window and rain trickling down the walls, or, in the summer season, the oppressive, stagnant, stifling heat at the bottom of their hole seemed to have got the better of the Lord of Chirk. The elder Mortimer was losing his hair and his teeth, his legs had swollen and his hands were crippled with rheumatism. He scarcely ever left the oak plank that served him for bed, while his nephew stood by the window, staring out into the light.
    It was the second summer they had spent in the dungeon.
    Dawn had broken two hours ago over this most famous of English fortresses, which was the heart of the kingdom and the symbol of its princes' power, on the White Tower, the huge square keep, which gave an impression of architectural lightness in spite of its gigantic proportions, and which William the Conqueror had built on the foundations of the remains of the ancient Roman castrum, on the surroundi ng towers, on the crenellated walls built by Richard Coeur de Lion, on the King's House, on the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula; and on the Traitor's Gate. The day was going to be hot, sultry even, as yesterday had been. The sun glowed pink on the stonework and there was a slightly nauseating stench of mud coining from the banks of the Thames, which lay close at hand, flowing past th e embankments of the moat. 1 * `
    Edward, the raven, had joined the other giant ravens on that famous and melancholy lawn, the Green, where the block was set up on days of execution; the birds pecked at the grass that had
    * The numbers in the text refer to the Historical Notes at the end of the book.
    been nourished, by the blood of Scottish patriots, State criminals, and fallen favourites.
    The Green was, being raked and the paved paths surrounding it swept, but the ravens were unconcerned. No one would have dared harm the birds, for rave ns had lived here since time im- memorial, and were the objects of a sort of superstition. The soldiers of the guard began emerging from their barracks. They were hurriedly buckling their belts and leggings and donning their steel helmets to assemble for the daily parade which had, this morning, a particular importance for it was August 1st, the Feast of St Peter ad Vincula - to whom the chapel was dedicated and also the annual Feast Day in the Tower.
    There was a grinding of locks and bolts on the low door of the Mortimers' dungeon. The turnkey opened it, glanced inside, and let the barber in. The barber, a man with beady eyes, a long nose and a round mouth, came once a week to shave Roger Mortimer, the younger. The operation was torture to the prisoner during the winter months. For the Constable, Stephen Seagrave, Governor of the Tower,' had said:' `If Lord Mortimer wishes to be shaved, I will send him the barber, but I have no obligation to provide him with hot water.'
    But Lord Mortimer had held to it, in the first place to defy the Constable, secondly be cause his detested enemy, King Edward, wore a handsome blond beard and finally, and above all, for his own morale, knowing well that if he yielded on this point, he would give way progressively to the physical deterioration that lies in wait for the prisoner. He had before his eyes the example of his uncle, who no longer took any care of his person; his chin a matted thicket, his hair thinning on his skull, the Lord of Chirk had begun to look like an old anchorite and continually complained of the multiple ills assailing him.
    `It is only my poor body's pain,' he sometimes said, `that reminds me I am still alive.'
    Young Roger Mortimer had therefore welcomed barber Ogle week after week, even when they had to break the ice in the bowl and the razor left his cheeks bleeding. But he had had his reward, for he had realized after a few months that Ogle could be used as a link with the outside world. The man's character was a strange one; he was rapacious and yet capable of devotion; he suffered from the lowly