Roderik squinted and looked each man up and down, rubbing his chin.
"I wasn't sure at first," Edmund said, "you being somewhat cleaned up and with shorter hair and no beard. You haven't been here long have you?"
"No. Not long at all." Roderik ran his fingers through greasy hair. "Kept the hair short after a bout with the louse."
"You'll likely get the louse anyway. Those nasty jailors and governor will likely let your hair and beard grow or get you sick in another way."
"How long have you two been here?" Roderik asked.
"A few days, and in separate cells. Last night they came for us and kept us up all night with questions and beatings." He rubbed his side and the back of his head.
Roderik snapped his fingers. "You're Edmund, a sailing master."
Edmund nodded.
"Your appearance is somewhat alarming, but your voice gave you away," Roderik said, and turned toward the man with the higher voice. "And you, I remember you as a sailor. Can't remember your name though." He remembered, but perhaps the lie would lend him more credibility rather than all the sudden remembering them both. If memory served, Bart was easily angered, so he didn't mention the man's stench or filthy appearance.
"Still an able-bodied sailor," Bart said.
"What brought you to the chateau?" Edmund asked Roderik.
"I'd taken up with a bad lot, but discovered my mistake too late," Roderik said.
"Shoulda stayed with your old crew," Bart said. "They've done well."
Edmund scowled.
Perhaps the pirates would let the manner of his imprisonment drop and refrain from further questions.
"So, these men, pirates?" Edmund asked.
Roderik shook his head. At least he prepared a partial explanation—a few days of staring at walls and counting cracks did wonders for the imagination. "No, I decided I'd attempt something different, so I joined with men willing to take wealth from the local government in Marseilles."
"Interesting."
"Yes, but not all of the men were trustworthy, and decided the safer, more prudent course was to turn me in along with the other man who masterminded the plot," Roderik said.
Bart's eyes narrowed. "Huh?"
Edmund shook his head at Bart. "Was there a reward for the scoundrels who turned you in?" He asked Roderik.
"They got their reward," Roderik said, looking at the ceiling. "Or perhaps damnation." He gazed at the floor.
No one spoke for a few minutes. Both pirates sat on their beds rubbing their chins as if in deep thought.
Roderik coughed. "Tell me, how were you two captured? The entire ship's company taken?"
Bart glanced at Edmund.
"What's wrong?"
"Our ship was taken." Edmund's eyes watered, but he quickly covered them with a crusty hand. "Beyond hope or help she was."
"What of my old ship and crew?" Roderik asked.
"They fled, but only because our captain stalled the privateer," Edmund said. "That privateer taking on two ships was bold."
"The navy of the order may have been that bold," Roderik said, "but their tactics depended more on deception and forcing their quarry into untenable positions."
Bart scratched his head as if not completely understanding, but Edmund nodded.
"Aye, a true statement. This was no ship of the order," Edmund said, "but some ship in the service of the French with much better armament than ours—and more seaworthy."
"A tough admittance for a sailing master, eh?" Roderik asked, but was met with silence. "Well, you two remain. How is that? Certainly you're not the only survivors."
"No, there were others, but the more agreeable ones were pressed into service aboard other ships while the others were, well . . ."
"I understand," Roderik said, "but why are you here?"
"We're not sure," Bart said. "We were meant for the gallows, but one night a man comes and takes us."
"We were brought before the governor in Marseilles who told us he'd rather see us rot at the chateau," Edmund said.
"I see," Roderik said. Michel must have either paid or made a deal with the governor of Marseilles to have the pirates sent to If.
Puzzlement filled Bart's face. "When we was thrown in here, one of the jailors said something about our own kind, but you said you'd quit the life. How did they know you'd been a pirate?"
Bart was not as dumb as he looked. Roderik glanced at Edmund who raised an eyebrow at him.
"My name is known, as are my deeds. My old grand master was from Provence as well as the new grand master from what I understand. D'If's governor assured me I'm much better off here at the chateau than in the dank dungeons on Malta."
"Debatable," Edmund said.
Bart shrugged.
"You two were like beaten dogs when they brought you in this morning." Roderik hoped to steer the conversation from him.
"They questioned and beat us, but got nothing useful out of us, right?" Edmund stared at Bart as if not entirely certain the younger man had remained loyal and not given away any secrets.
"I gave them nothing," Bart said.
Steady footfalls echoed outside the cell. Roderik held up a hand and then put a single finger on his lips. The stomping faded.
"Don't want them thinking we're getting along too well. As for me, I wasn't tortured, only slaps and a good beating—no questions." Roderik shrugged. "I suppose my crimes were obvious and of no use to the governor."
The two pirates shrank on their beds, faces sullen.
Roderik sniffed and wrinkled his nose. "No fresh air down here, only our smell and other rotten prisoners. I'd gladly go back to the open seas—wind breezing across the deck filling the sails, and seawater spraying as the prow dips. Not a bad life."
Both of the pirates' faces were wistful behind the layer of grime, but it faded.
"Easy to look back fondly." Edmund brought his arm up quickly and coughed. "But there's always a price."
"Aye. But I'd take my chances out there," Roderik said. "Well, they'll be coming around with watery slosh and hard bread soon."
"Agreed." Edmund's hand flew to his mouth as he repeatedly coughed. Once finished he pulled his hand away and rubbed the contents on his breeches. In the dim light and from across the room Roderik couldn't tell if Edmund coughed blood or phlegm.
"Down here we've no way of telling if the sun's up or down or right overhead," Roderik said. "Guess we'll gauge by the guards and when the jailors feed us. Both of you should rest."
They nodded and dropped on their backs and closed their eyes. Edmund hacked dry and hoarse—not the sound of phlegm. Roderik had seen others with this illness and they'd all suffered a slow and withering death.
Roderik sat back on his bedding. He'd learned a few pieces of information, but was thankful the two men remained friendly toward him—at least they didn't know much about him once he'd left the ship. Maybe one more day and night and he'd have all the information he needed to satisfy the governor.
****
The door creaked and slammed against the stone entryway. Roderik's head snapped up. He blinked a few times and started to roll off the bed, but two men yanked him off and dragged him. Both Edmund and Bart sat on their beds, staring at him, but a guardsman with a drawn blade stood over each of them.
The stone floor scraped Roderik's legs. The two men dragging him each squeezed one of his wrists. His arms strained against the sockets as if wrenching from his shoulders. The stone floor scraped the tops of his bare feet, flaying the skin. The governor's zeal for realism took the act a little far. Penance, he reminded himself.
As Roderik crossed the threshold he heard Bart protest followed by a slap and a thump. Eloy grinned as the men dragged Roderik past.
Few torches lit the hallway. They reached steps leading up and for a moment they paused—perhaps they'd allow him to ascend on his own. Both guards breathed hard, almost panting like dogs.
No.
They got their wind back and dragged him up the steps. Hi
s knees slammed into each step and his toes stubbed. More than one toenail must have cleaved or ripped clear off. He closed his eyes. No sense in fighting any of this.
After what seemed an eternity, but was likely a minute, the men released his wrists, dropping him to the gritty floor. He raised his head. He didn't recognize the room they'd placed him in. A table and two chairs adorned the room illuminated by a single torch behind him unable to penetrate the darkness shrouding the back of the room.
Roderik rolled over and sat up, but dared not peek at his ravaged legs, knees, and feet.
Anger replaced the pain for a moment, but his desire for the order's forgiveness won. Grand Master de Lascaris had placed him at the mercy of a governor who enjoyed inflicting pain on him—surely Lascaris played no part in this madness for he would never have sent him to the chateau. Would his penance be served after this and allow for an early release with the governor's good graces?
Roderik got to his knees. Pain spotted his vision and he fell over. He grabbed his knees, but released them as shards of agony stabbed his legs.
"Please understand, you're a prisoner now and authenticity is of the utmost consideration," Michel said.
Roderik rolled on his back, wincing.
"Please," Michel said, "sit in a chair like a civilized man. You've only been in a cell for a few days now. Surely you haven't yet succumbed? We need to discuss what you've learned."
"I've only been with them a few hours."
"You've had an entire day," Michel said. "Please, sit in the chair."
Michel turned toward the door and motioned. A man entered, placed another torch, and exited.
"You need those guards?" Roderik asked. "I'm not a real prisoner here, you know."
"But we all must act as if you are. There are some simple jailors amongst us and I fear they'll ruin any chance of obtaining information from those filthy pirates."
Roderik got to one knee, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He stood, but wobbled. A breeze light and fresh sailed through the door. Freedom. Life existed beyond these walls. He took a deep breath and sat in the chair.
He swallowed—a struggle against dry mouth and throat. "How long must this continue? A few more days?"
"Depends," Michel said, sitting in the chair across from him. "Depends on the usefulness of the information you provide."
"So, if I'm not getting anything valuable you'll pull me out of there?"
"Not precisely."
"What?"
"I paid to have those men brought over here and I intend to glean by any means at my disposal all the information they hold in their puny minds," Michel said.
"What if they don't have any timely or useful information?"
"Pray they do."
"You can't do this," Roderik said. "My order—"
"Your grand master willingly turned you over and you're willingly participating in this plan of mine. If you fancy leaving not only the isle, but also the cell one day, you'll play your part and do what I say. Now tell me what you've learned so far."
"I've learned nothing. Their ship was taken. That's all, but I'm sure you knew that. Now, I'll do what you ask," Roderik said, "within reason." He ran his tongue over cracked lips. God was testing him. Yes—or God had abandoned him as Roderik had abandoned his vows.
"How inconsiderate of me," Michel said. "You out there, bring some water. Quickly."
One of the guards outside stomped away.
Roderik stared at the governor, but the man did everything but look him in the eyes. Roderik's health was apparently secondary compared with Michel's lust for information. The trick would be for him to give the scheming rotund man as little as possible by way of information, but satisfy Michel enough to be released. Roderik harbored no ill will toward the pirates, Edmund and Bart, and wasn't looking to get them tortured or executed. However, like everyone else at the chateau, they were doomed to a life sentence.
The guard returned with a flagon of water and two cups and promptly departed the room.
"Drink as much as you like." Michel smiled widely.
A few minutes passed while Roderik drank and Michel watched.
"Enough. Perhaps you need more incentive to obtain what I need from those pirates." Michel's face darkened. He stood and exited.
A minute later, the two guards entered and dragged Roderik from the room as roughly as before and obviously unconcerned with his already abused body.
****
"Where are you taking me?" Roderik asked. His legs numbed. He imagined black and shriveled toes at the ends of his feet and cringed. "I'm confused. Isn't my cell the other way?"
They dragged him down a flight of steps and into the courtyard. Roderik squinted against the sun resting directly overhead obscured by no building or cloud. Three gulls perched atop one of the walls overlooking the courtyard, emitting not a single chirp or coo. Even the crying and moaning from with the chateau waned, leaving only the sounds of the surf tossing about in the breezeless day.
The governor waited near a large pole jutting from the ground. "No time to waste." Michel grinned.
Roderik struggled against the guards.
"Good." Michel winked at Roderik. "Good."
"Wait, you can't do this. I'm a—" Penitent prisoner—Roderik ground his teeth.
"Be careful," Michel said, "don't make me order the guards gag you."
Michel actually intended to publicly thrash Roderik, a knight of—nothing. He hadn't regained his knighthood yet. He let his head drop and gazed at the dirt and stone of the courtyard. The guards tied him to the greasy pole.
"This will soften your insolence," Michel said, his voice louder than usual and echoing in the courtyard.
No crying or moaning escaped the chateau's innards.
"Lord," Roderik said, "give me strength against this madness."
A line of pain crossed his back followed by a snap. His head rolled back and red filled his vision behind his closed lids as if he stared at the sun.
He refused to cry out.
He refused to beg mercy of this sick man, this governor he'd come to know the past three months and now witnessed a cruel side that had lingered under the fake docile surface.
"He won't cry out, not this one," Michel said, "he's too proud. A former knight, a knight Hospitaller turned pirate. You see?" Michel yelled. "Even a man such as this has no proof against me and the Chateau d'If."
"What do you want from me?" Roderik forced out between hoarse rapid breaths. A long, agonizing moan escaped. Roderik closed his mouth—realizing the pitiful noise had emitted from him.
"Ah, so pain does visit you after all," Michel said. "No more. He's finished for now and learned something about himself I'd wager."
Roderik twisted his neck, but saw nothing other than red—both from pain and anger at what men like the governor were capable of. Sure, Roderik was responsible for deaths outside of battle, but the power Michel wielded against sick and dying prisoners meant nothing, was worth nothing. Even if he got the pirates to talk, the information would likely be useless as most admissions provided under duress were usually to escape torture or death.
Roderik's hands were released from their binding and he slid down the pole.
"Give him a few seconds respite," Michel said, "then drag him back to his pirate cohorts."
Roderik's lips pressed against pebbles and dirt, the grit sticking to his lips. Sour wine and rotten cheese invaded the copper and salt tinged air. He vomited. The liquid pooled beneath his head and seeped into the dirt.
"Excellent," Michel whispered into his ear. "You'll be accepted and perhaps pitied by your friends waiting for you below."
Roderik kept his eyes shut and concentrated on not allowing the governor's breath to overpower him again. Retching now wouldn't produce anything—the vomiting of water dried him out, but had been a satisfying release. “Eloy," Michel said, "a few drops of water here. Our prisoner has seen fit to waste the generous amounts given him earlier."
Drops of wa
ter pelted the side of Roderik's face. He titled his head in an attempt at guiding the drops into his mouth.
"Give him more you dunderhead," Michel said. "We don't want him to expire—at least not yet."
A trickle ran down Roderik's cheek and he found the correct angle immediately, but the pouring ceased after a second or two.
"Get on your feet," Eloy said. "I'm not wasting anyone else's strength on the likes of you. Get up."
Roderik rolled over and struggled to his feet. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his legs. His banged up knees took his mind from the gashes he knew crisscrossed his back. He'd never received such treatment at the hands of the order, and the pirate crews had never been so evil-spirited. Perhaps his loyalties rested on the wrong side—even now; perhaps the pirate crews were more honorable than he'd given credence. The cost of redemption was high, perhaps too high for his weakened will to absorb.
He staggered as one guard led and another stood behind him pushing and poking. He stumbled and fell forward, his face slapping the guard's boot and then smacking the stone.
****
"Roderik," a voice said. "Are you all right?"
"What?" Roderik asked. "Yes . . . no."
"They made us watch the whole thing," Bart said. "Not so bad a lashing, eh?"
"As if you've experienced the like," Edmund said.
"I got whipped bad once. Maybe not as bad as all that down there," Bart said, "but they bled me good enough."
"Look at his legs," Edmund said. "They handled him rough."
Roderik licked his lips and pushed the words out. "Water? Food?"
"No, not yet. But we missed the first round of water and food on account of them having us watch," Edmund said.
The bedding was cold and hard. Roderik opened his eyes and lifted his head off the stone floor, wincing.
"We didn't want to move you," Edmund said. "The guards dropped you where you now lay."
"Last thing I remember is falling into a boot and hitting the floor. Even waking in the flea-ridden bed would have been better than this."
"Aye, but we were afraid we'd cause you more pain—"
"More than I'm already in?" Roderik pushed himself up and leaned against the bed and flinched—the gashes in his back lit up like trenches of fire. The blood on his back had dried causing the cloth of his thin shirt to stick in patches against his back.