Free Rose of Hope by Mairi Norris Page B

structures sunk deep in the earth alongside the hall. One entered down a short flight of stone steps and through a stout wooden door.
    There were five pits in all, the middle one, the interrogation pit, twice the size of the others. He unlocked the door to peer inside, but even with the entry open ’twas too dark to see clearly.
    “My lord!” Roul rushed across the courtyard, carrying a lit torch. A grin stretched his freckled face. “Sir Domnall said you might have need of this.”
    “You will give Sir Domnall my thanks.”
    His eyes straying to the cell door, Roul asked, his tone hopeful, “Might you be needing aught else first, Captain?”
    Fallard took in his squire’s eager expression. He could well remember his own fascination with prisons as a young boy. Roul wanted badly to see inside one of these, but ’twas not his place to ask.
    There is a lesson to be learned here for the boy.
    “Hold the torch then,” he said, “and follow me, but not too closely. I would prefer not to become a second source of light.”
    Roul’s eyes flashed and he fairly danced. A sharply curtailed giggle was his only vocal response.
    Fallard entered the chamber, his head barely clearing the ceiling. Instruments of torture flashed in the light, entirely too well maintained for his liking. Here too was a fire pit, but ’twas attached to the back wall and its purpose was not for providing warmth.
    He circled the room, noting several sets of manacles affixed both high on the wall and close to the floor so a man might be fettered either standing or sitting. The metal on the inner surfaces were left rough to abrade the skin as the prisoner moved. Various knives, brands, sharpened iron hooks, and stakes designed for applying the maximum amount of pain lay neatly arranged on a long table, including one instrument Fallard recognized as the razor sharp, crescent shaped blade required to perform the ancient Norse execution known as a ‘blood eagle’.
    He turned away, needing to see no more. He had been told that during Renouf’s tenure, more than one hapless man had disappeared into this chamber, never to be seen alive again, and many claimed to have heard muffled cries arising from the depths at such times. Whether the stories were true remained a matter for conjecture, but ’twas his intent most of the instruments in the room would be removed and put to other, more productive use.
    The manacles and corded leather whip would stay, for he approved of their use. A slave or other malefactor punished by moderate whipping usually recovered, and was soon able to return to his or her duties. As a discipline, proper whipping was proven successful in insuring loyalty and obedience without incurring hatred. But he would order the inner surfaces of the manacles rasped. He saw no good purpose in ripping the skin of a man’s wrists and ankles when his back was already lashed.
    As he prepared to leave the chamber, he glanced at Roul. The squire’s face was sickly green in the torchlight, his eyes nigh bulging as he stared at the instruments scattered about the room. He caught Fallard watching him, and swallowed hard.
    “Shall I explain the uses of these items?” The sweep of Fallard’s hand indicated the implements. He already knew the answer.
    Roul’s ‘nay’ was high-pitched and he tried valiantly to hide the gulps betraying his nausea.
    The boy’s response pleased Fallard. When confronted with the reality of what lay here, the youngster found the prospect of torture not so exciting as he had expected. Aye, ’twas a good lesson, one the lad would never forget, and mayhap ’twould one day temper the nature of the man he would become.
    They climbed from the chamber and Fallard took the torch. “Return to Sir Domnall. Remember to give him thanks for the light. Make yourself available for any duties for which he has need until the nooning meal, then return to me in the hall.”
    “Aye, my lord.” Roul gulped one final time. His freckles