Taking a firm grip on the torch, Geoffrey took his first few steps down the passageway. Mabel had been right in that it was a tight fit. Geoffrey was too tall for it, and had to bend his head to prevent it from bumping against the roof. There was barely enough room for him to walk, even turned slightly sideways. His sword scraped along the wall, and was the only sound except for his unsteady breathing.
Cautiously, he edged along the passageway until he came to a steep flight of stairs. The torch was not bright enough to light what lay at the bottom, and it seemed to Geoffrey that the steps disappeared into a pit of nothingness. The air in the tunnel was still and damp, and Geoffrey began to imagine that it was also thin and stale. He started to cough, and only prevented himself from turning and racing back the way he had come by taking several deep breaths, closing his eyes tightly, and resting his head against the cold stone wall. In control of himself once more, he forced himself to take a step down, and then another. His leather-soled boots skidded in some slime on the third step, and he took the next few faster than he intended, coming to a small landing. Beyond, more stairs sloped away into the darkness.
Godric’s bedchamber was on the keep’s top floor, and Geoffrey tried to estimate how far he had descended as he walked. Below Godric’s room was the hall, and below the hall were basements-large, dank rooms filled with bags of flour and barrels of water to be used should the castle ever come under siege. Geoffrey had the feeling that he had descended a good way past the storerooms before he reached the bottom of the stairs.
He was surprised that Godric had managed to have the stairs inserted without anyone knowing. Walter, Joan, and Stephen were all old enough to recall the great keep being built, and Geoffrey was curious that none of them had stumbled upon Godric’s secret while playing around on the walls. But a closer inspection revealed that the stairs had been added later, and comprised roughly hewn blocks inserted into a vertical slit that ran parallel to the garderobe shaft, Despite his unease, Geoffrey smiled at Godric’s cunning. His secret stairs had clearly been disguised during construction as a shaft that, to all intents and purposes, appeared like a sewage outlet running down the inside of the wall to drop into the moat. Of course, the slit descended a lot farther than the moat, and delved into the rock beneath the foundations.
At last, Geoffrey reached the bottom of the stairs, his legs aching from tension. He paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes and looked around. The tunnel changed abruptly from a neatly made passage with straight walls to an unevenly hewn cave, sloping downwards in what Geoffrey assumed to be the direction of the river. The rock underfoot became slick, and the walls glistened with moisture.
The tunnel walls and roof were of sandstone, a soft rock that Geoffrey knew from personal experience was prone to collapses. It had been a sandstone tunnel in which Geoffrey had been trapped in France. Here and there, small piles of dust and stones indicated where parts of the roof had fallen, and Geoffrey felt the strength drain from his limbs as he contemplated the possibility of a cave-in. He had written to Enide about his unnatural horror of dark, confined places, but could only assume that if she had made the same journey, then it was most certainly not a fear that she had shared.
As he scrambled over an especially large pile of rocks, the walls of the tunnel came close together as they snaked between two large boulders. Geoffrey squeezed between them, but the space was narrower than he thought, and he became wedged. With a show of strength made great by blind terror, Geoffrey ripped free of the confines of the walls, and shot forwards onto his hands and knees.
In front of him was a stout door. Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief, aware that he had reached the end of the tunnel, and that he would soon be out. Warily, he listened at the door for a few moments, before taking the handle and hauling it open.
“Malger!” he exclaimed in astonishment.
Sir Malger of Caen, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s chief henchman, looked up from where he knelt next to a prostrate figure on the ground. Seeing Geoffrey, he leapt to his feet, hauling his sword from his belt, and assumed a fighting stance. Grateful that he had not abandoned his chain-mail completely, Geoffrey drew his own sword, and met Malger’s lunge with an ear-splitting clash of metal, dropping the flaming torch as he used both hands to parry the blow.
He sprung backwards as Malger lunged a second time, kicking out so that the other man lost his balance and stumbled against the wall. Before he had a chance to take advantage of Malger’s vulnerability, a moving shadow seen out of the corner of his eye warned that there was someone behind him. Ducking instinctively, he span round as Drogo’s sword whistled through the air above his head. While Drogo recovered from his wild swing, Geoffrey jabbed his own sword forwards, and succeeded in slicing through the chain-mail on Drogo’s arm. Drogo let out a howl of pain and rage, and came at Geoffrey, wielding his sword around his head, and striking sparks as it grazed the ceiling.
Meanwhile, Malger had regained his balance, and was advancing. Geoffrey darted forwards when Drogo’s sword was high in the air, and drove the knight hard up against the wall, before grabbing his arm and swinging him round to collide with the advancing Malger. Both men stumbled, but not before Drogo had seized a handful of Geoffrey’s tunic to haul him down with them.
Aware that Malger was already drawing his dagger, Geoffrey scrabbled his way clear of the thrashing melee of arms and legs, pausing only to bite a hand that made a snatch at his throat. Drogo grasped his leg, and brought him crashing to the ground, while Malger was on his feet and was coming forwards at a crouch, dagger at the ready. Geoffrey’s well-aimed swipe with his own sword sent it skittering from his hand, and drew a cry of pain from Malger. Drogo hurled himself forwards, pinning Geoffrey’s legs under his heavy body, leaving the knight all but helpless as Malger advanced yet again.
But Geoffrey had faced worst odds in the Holy Land, and was determined that he was not going to be summarily dispatched by the henchmen of the Earl of Shrewsbury. He twisted violently, so that Drogo’s grip loosened, and he was able to strike at Malger with his sword. Malger ducked backwards and Geoffrey brought the heavy hilt down square upon Drogo’s helmeted head. The resounding clang made Geoffrey’s arm ache, and Drogo went limp. Malger backed off farther as Geoffrey struggled out from under Drogo’s inert body. Then Malger’s arm flicked upwards, and Geoffrey was enveloped in a cloud of swirling dust.
Geoffrey flapped it out of his face, but it was in his eyes, blinding him, and catching at the back of his throat. He began to cough, straining to look with his smarting eyes to where Malger might be. A shadow moved to his left, and Geoffrey whipped round, painfully aware that he could barely see, and struck out wildly with his sword. There was a grunt, and then a thrown stone struck him hard on the chin. Reeling, he lunged again, stabbing with his dagger in one hand and his sword in the other.
“Leave him,” shouted Malger as Drogo, thick skull quickly recovering from the stunning blow to the head, moved forwards again. Geoffrey leapt towards the voice, but his eyes were now stinging so much that he could not open them at all. Footsteps of someone running echoed briefly. Then there was the sound of a heavy door slamming, and all was silent.