CHAPTER XII   IN WHICH GEOFFREY IS LAID BY THE HEELS

The courtyard of the Castle of Malevereux presented a scene of utter confusion, following Sir Oliver's desperate deed and successful flight.

With one accord the spectators made towards the gate, shouting and jostling in their haste to leave the scene of the tragedy. Many were the glances cast askance at the mangled heap lying in ghastly solitude on the floor of the daïs, for not one of the chief guests remained by the body of the dreaded Tyrant.

Filled with a wild excitement of joy at his father's escape, Geoffrey mingled with the surging crowd. Now that the object of his visit to Malevereux was accomplished, though 'twas not his doing, the lad realized that his best plan was to depart as unobtrusively as possible and make his way back to Taillemartel, whither Sir Oliver must assuredly have gone.

The lad had gained the gateway of the outer bailey. In another moment he would have crossed the drawbridge and shaken the dust of Malevereux from his feet, when a heavy hand grasped him by the shoulder.

"'Tis he, sure enough. Secure him, mes garçons," exclaimed a deep voice, and, turning his head, Geoffrey found that his captor was the man-at-arms who had spoken to him at the entrance to the inner ward.

"Sir, why thus? Methinks that all have safe conduct here this day."

"List to him," laughed the soldier. "Doth a peasant lad talk thus? His speech betrayeth him."

"I myself heard him cry encouragement to the Englishman," said another soldier.

"Ay, and he called him father," added a third.

"Ah, is that so? Guard the lad carefully. We must bring him before Sir Denis. Answer me—is Sir Oliver thy sire?"

Geoffrey kept silence. He was in sore straits, yet he resolved to bear himself right manfully. His arrest had been carried out without attracting attention from the outgoing throng, and even had he appealed for aid his words would have fallen upon deaf ears.

In the centre of a ring of steel the lad was urged against the press of departing spectators, and conducted to a groined room in the inner ward, where Sir Denis was lying stripped of his harness.

The discomfited knight was in a sorry plight, for, in addition to the partially-healed burns sustained at Taillemartel, he had been bruised from head to foot by the fall from his horse. Added to his bodily injuries, the fact that he had been vanquished by an opponent whom he had regarded with disdain did not improve his temper. The iron of humiliation had eaten into his soul.

"Parblieu! 'Tis well that ye have laid the young viper by the heels," he exclaimed. "Did I not hear him shout words of encouragement to the Englishman? More than that, he called him father."

"Ay, mon seigneur, I also heard him speak thus," added one of Geoffrey's captors.

"Thy name and conditions, sirrah. I perceive that thou art not of common stock. Answer truly for thy life."

"I'll answer thee truly, though not by reason of fear. I am Geoffrey, son of Sir Oliver Lysle."

"If thy father were worthy of the name he would have returned to aid his son," sneered Sir Denis.

"Without doubt he will in good time," replied Geoffrey boldly.

"I trust he will. Perchance he may again be a guest under my roof. But a truce to idle talk; search him."

Under the rough practised hands of the soldiers the files and the dagger concealed on the lad were discovered and promptly taken possession of by his captors, and with coarse gibes he was hurried from the presence of the fierce baron.

From the room in the inner ward Geoffrey was taken across the courtyard, where he had a brief glimpse of the clear blue sky that was to be a stranger to him for many a long, weary day.

Unlocking a small heavily-barred door on the ground level of the massive keep or "donjon," the men-at-arms thrust the lad within. Then, taking a lighted torch that cast a weird glare upon the low, musty stonework of a long passage, one of the men led the way, followed by the captive and the rest of his guards.

At the termination of the passage a flight of narrow stone steps communicated with another tunnel-like way twenty feet beneath the upper one. Here the atmosphere was even more dank and unwholesome, while to the young prisoner the footfalls of the men sounded like a knell.

Still deeper in the bowels of the earth did they descend, till Geoffrey found himself in another tunnel-like passage roughly constructed of stones set herring-bone fashion, rising to an uncemented line of key-stones overhead. Through the joints the moisture dripped incessantly, forming slimy pools that reflected the dull red glare of the flaming torch.

"Here's thy kennel, wolf's whelp," said a soldier gruffly, laying a detaining hand upon the lad's shoulder. 'Twas well he did so, otherwise Geoffrey would have stepped blindly into a yawning unfenced pit in the floor of the passage.

Hitherto the captive had offered no resistance, but the sight of the horrible pit filled him with a nameless terror. Madly he struggled with his captors, but, in spite of his youthful strength and energy, he was no match for the burly ruffians that worked the will of the Lord of Malevereux.

In a trice he was secured, a stout cord passed through a rope girdle fashion round his waist, and with a savage kick Geoffrey was hurled into space. Then the cord took the strain of his weight, and slowly he was lowered into the loathsome den that was to be his prison.

Down and down he found himself being dropped, till far above his head he could perceive a narrow circle illumined by the torchlight, then with a jerk his feet touched the floor of the pit.

Throwing down one end of the cord and hauling up the other, the men-at-arms removed all means of communication with their prisoner, and with a brutal jest and mocking laugh they disappeared, their echoing footsteps growing fainter and fainter till all was still.

Left to himself, Geoffrey could scarce control the agony of his emotions. The impenetrable darkness seemed to possess weight—it literally crushed him with its terrors.

For a considerable while he dared not move a foot, fearing that the uneven floor might contain a pitfall that would assuredly compass his destruction. There he stood, overcome with the sense of his horrible surroundings, vaguely wondering how long his body and mind could exist under such appalling conditions. He had heard of men languishing for months, nay, years, in oubliettes and loathsome dungeons till death came as a merciful release, but until now he had not realized the bodily and mental torture of the silence and darkness of a living tomb.

At length his legs refused to support him, and having carefully felt all around him, Geoffrey sank down upon the moist and slimy stones that formed the floor of the dungeon. Then he gradually worked his way, proceeding with the utmost caution, till his hands encountered the jagged wall. This he followed, making several complete circles ere he realized, by the leaving of one of his shoes on the floor, that the place was built in the shape of a bottle.

Then, gaining confidence, he made another circle, taking count of the number of strides required to bring him back to his starting-place. Thus Geoffrey discovered that his prison was but twenty paces round, and without angles or doorways communicating with other parts of the subterranean chambers.

This was one piece of information, but a most trying question was how to measure the space of time. Already he was unaware how long he had been in the awesome pit; time seemed to have ceased to exist.

After seeming hours of torturing suspense the sound of footsteps rumbled down the tunnel-like passage, and a gleam of light, that gave indescribable comfort to the miserable prisoner, began to grow brighter and brighter, till the outlines of a man leaning over the mouth of the pit were thrown into strong relief by the light of a horn lantern.

"Here's thy food," announced the man gruffly. "Cast loose the cord, I pray thee."

As he spoke he lowered a pitcher of water and a loaf of rye bread. Geoffrey unfastened the cord by which they were lowered, and without another word the gaoler proceeded to pull up the sole means of communication.

"How long am I to lie in this horrible den, I beg of thee to tell me?" asked the lad pleadingly, but his only answer was a gruff chuckle, and the man hurried away.

Geoffrey consumed his sorry meal, then sitting with his head resting on his knees, tried his utmost to reconcile himself to his surroundings. Fortunately, sleep came to the relief of his bodily and mental anguish, and stretched upon the hard floor he fell into a deep yet dream-haunted slumber.

How long he slept he knew not. Suddenly he awoke with a start, to find the pit illumined by the glare of numerous torches, while men's voices roughly shouted to him to bestir himself.

Staggering to his feet, Geoffrey found a stout-noosed rope dangling within a few inches of his head, and, in obedience to an order, he passed the loop under his arm-pits. The next instant he was lifted off his feet, and, swaying to and fro, he was hauled to the surface.

Escorted by his captors, the lad retraced his steps along the damp stone passage that he had traversed long hours before, but ere the ground level was reached the party halted before a low iron-bound door.

"This will be thy quarters," exclaimed one of the men, producing a heavy key that hung with others on his girdle. "How did'st thou like the night in my lord's guest-chamber, eh? Have a care, therefore, and behave thyself circumspectly in thy new abode; for, failing this, back to yon pit thou'lt go."

So saying, the gaoler unlocked the door, that creaked and groaned on its hinges as it opened.

"In with thee."

Geoffrey could not but obey. Indeed, he was only too thankful to have escaped the terrors of the oubliette. But as he stepped across the low threshold he gave a cry of surprise, for the glare of the torches showed him that the prison-chamber was already occupied—and by none other than Oswald Steyning!

The ponderous door was closed and locked, but Geoffrey heeded it not. He had almost forgotten his gloomy surroundings in the joy of greeting his friend. For some considerable time both lads were too full of excitement to do more than wring one another's hands, but by degrees they calmed down, and for the next two or three hours they exchanged stories of the events that led up to their presence in the Castle of Malevereux.

Thus began the first of many long days of joint captivity. The room in which the lads were held prisoners was gloomy enough, though it lacked the grim terrors of the pit. It was barely ten feet in length and six in breadth, while from floor to ceiling the height varied from nine to five feet.

At the highest end, which was farthermost from the door, was a square aperture communicating with the open air, but owing to the thickness of the walls and a sharp curve in the opening it was impossible to see the broad daylight. Consequently, though there was a tolerable supply of fresh air, only a dim subdued light filtered in through the grated aperture, barely sufficient to penetrate the gloom of the prison.

Beyond the daily visits of the gaoler who brought their food and water, the lads saw no one. Time hung heavily on their hands, though in addition to being able to engage in conversation, they took as much exercise as the confined limits of the cell would permit, in order to preserve, as far as possible, the suppleness of their limbs and the strength of their muscles.

Notwithstanding the threat of the oubliette that hung over their heads like the sword of Damocles—for Oswald, too, had made acquaintance with the loathsome dungeon—the lads were ever on the alert to take advantage of an opportunity to effect their escape.

So far their vigilance was ill-rewarded, for, being without weapons or tools, they were unable to remove the iron bars forming the grating of the air-shaft, while tunnelling through the walls or under the floor was equally impossible. Nor did the gaoler take any undue risks; for, although he entered the cell alone, three or four armed men were always within easy call, ready to rush to his aid at the first summons.

One day the lads were aroused by an unwonted stir without the castle walls. Borne faintly to their ears came the sounds of strife, men shouting and shrieking, weapons clashing, and the sharp hiss of bolts and arrows.

"The castle is attacked," exclaimed Oswald. "They are storming the battlements."

"Thou art right," replied Geoffrey. "I trow 'tis my father and the men of Taillemartel that are without."

"Would that we could see," continued his companion, hauling himself up the bars of the grating. "Certes, 'tis a fierce encounter."

"Dost hear English voices?" asked Geoffrey anxiously.

"Nay, I cannot distinguish any such."

Long did the sound of strife continue, till at length all was quiet, save for the exultant shouts of the garrison. Whoever the attackers were, it was evident that they had been repulsed, and with the utmost dejection the lads were compelled to admit that their hope of deliverance had been rudely shattered.