Free In a Dark Wood by Michael Cadnum

thick, trembling shadows into a chamber filled with gray straw. There was a smell of urine and sweat.
    â€œI want to talk with him alone,” said Geoffrey.
    â€œStir yourself,” said Nottingham. A hand crept into the torchlight. An eye gleamed. “I can make him talk,” said Nottingham. “I can make him do anything, but you must give me time. You can’t interrupt a procedure and expect—”
    Geoffrey gripped his arm. “Leave us.”
    â€œI fear you will simply waste your precious time, my lord.”
    â€œPlease.”
    Nottingham bowed. “As you wish.” He stared through the bars. “I skinned a man like him once. The thin ones are better than the fat. The fat ones ooze. We don’t flay often anymore, do we?”
    â€œNo need to.”
    â€œI’m glad. Such a messy procedure. But effective. A man will say anything when he has no skin.”
    Nottingham’s steps whispered down the corridor, and Geoffrey knelt, his face against a cold iron bar. “I passed a gibbet today,” he said. “It is on a mound of earth, and the view from the top of it must be impressive. It is the very gibbet we will use tomorrow.”
    Straw rustled. A figure crept into the torchlight but did not meet the sheriff’s eye. “Why do you tell me this?” Hoarse and weary. “How can I look forward to my death with anything but hope?”
    A pretty speech from a thief. “I have an offer for you.”
    The prisoner did not speak.
    â€œAn offer of mercy.”
    â€œWhy should you show mercy to me?”
    â€œHere is my offer. If you disclose the location of the treasure, I will set aside the sentence of death and order that your hand be cut off instead. In that way you can keep your life, and I can have the money.”
    â€œI would rather die.”
    â€œYou value your fingers so much?”
    â€œI don’t trust you.”
    Bold talk. Geoffrey stood. “You have as much as admitted now that you have a treasure, hidden somewhere. This interests me. I care nothing for you. Nothing at all. You are like a dog on a leash to me, even less.”
    The man shrank into a heap of dark cloth and said nothing. The pain in his feet was so great he could think only of relief, and hanging meant he would have no more pain. Geoffrey understood this and also understood that the loss of a hand was even more agony. You could not negotiate with someone who wanted to die.
    â€œOurs is an unpleasant job, sire,” said Nottingham, as if he had heard every word. “So much depends on us.”
    Geoffrey did not like agreeing with this soft-voiced man, but it was true. “Proceed with the hanging. There is no choice.”
    â€œIt is best to show no mercy.”
    â€œI have always thought so.”
    And yet, he thought, crossing the courtyard, stepping round a spill of fresh manure, he had not always thought so. He had commanded that men be tortured; he had even seen a traitorous tax collector, a man who had conspired to embezzle, lose his eyes, a proceeding that made Geoffrey thankful that such traitors were so rare. He had never questioned the justice of such punishments. But something about them made him feel frail and less sure of himself. No doubt this was yet another secret weakness, another flaw he had to hide.
    Someone turned to avoid his eyes and ducked behind the chapel. The falconer. Proof again that the falconer and Eleanor were lovers. As soon as he began to feel the ache less, something refreshed the pain. A goose was driven, honking and peering one way and then another, towards the kitchen. The whippet ran to his hand and tasted his fingers. The Fool balanced a kitchen knife, point down, on his nose, to the evident pleasure of the cooks.
    Sir Roger had said, Make him talk.
    He would make the Fool talk. He would make him explain everything. But this afternoon he wanted to sit with pages of vellum, and check sums, and perhaps hear a report