‘If we had a fishhook we could pick it,’ Magnus said, glancing around as if half expecting one of us to have one hidden somewhere on our person. ‘Or a nail, maybe. Anything like that.’
I looked doubtfully at him. Somehow it seemed unlikely that one of noble birth such as he, the usurper’s son, would have had reason to learn the art of lock-picking. ‘And you know how to do that, do you?’
‘No, but we could try.’
‘I’ve seen it done, when I lost the key to my chest last winter,’ ?lfhelm put in. ‘Dubgall the smith’s son showed me how.’
‘You’ve done it before?’
‘No, but if a boy of eleven can manage it, then it can’t be that difficult, can it?’
‘We don’t have time for this,’ I said with mounting frustration. I didn’t know who Dubgall the smith’s son was, and even if he happened to be the wiliest thief in Christendom, I didn’t much care, for he wasn’t here, and this was no time for us to begin teaching ourselves his craft. At any moment the Dane whose wood-carving that was could return.
‘Do you have any better suggestions?’ Magnus asked.
I gave a sigh. ‘Go outside and keep watch,’ I told Godric. ‘If you see anyone approaching, come and let us know straightaway.’
‘Yes, lord,’ the boy said, and scurried back out into the open. Daylight flooded in briefly before we were plunged back into lantern-light as he closed the heavy door behind him.
I snatched up the whittling-knife that rested on the stool and passed it to ?lfhelm. ‘Will this work?’
He took it, turning the stubby blade over so that it caught the light. ‘We can try it,’ he said, kneeling down in front of the lock, and with his free hand gave a click of his fingers. ‘I need light. Bring me that lantern.’
I did so, holding it up so that its faint light shone inside the keyhole, while he peered at whatever levers and springs were housed within. I wondered that he could see anything at all, but after a short while he lifted the curved blade, which was just narrow enough, and slid it into the lock. His brow furrowed, listening carefully for the sound of the mechanism, he turned it first in one direction, then in the other, muttering curses to himself.
‘Faster,’ I hissed in between glances towards the door. ‘If this is going to take all morning—’
‘Don’t hurry me,’ the huscarl said. ‘Give me time.’
‘We don’t have time,’ I muttered, but he didn’t seem to hear me. His eyes narrowed in concentration as, using both hands to steady the handle, he turned the blade upwards, then widened again as a hint of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. He twisted again—
There was a click, so faint as to be almost imperceptible. ?lfhelm’s smile broadened. Beaming from ear to ear, he looked up, first at his lord and then at me.
‘And to think you doubted me.’ He withdrew the blade and gave the door a gentle push. It swung open into darkness.
I went first, holding the lantern high so as to light up the chamber beyond. ‘Oswynn?’
I tried not to speak too loudly for fear of being overheard, but my mind was running with a thousand thoughts, sweat was running from my brow and the breath caught in my chest. A dank smell hung in the air, as if a fire hadn’t been lit in some while. The hearth had been recently swept and fresh rushes had been laid. A tall ewer stood in the middle of the floor, next to an iron pisspot that needed to be emptied, for as I took another step inside I caught a whiff of its contents. Benches ran down each wall, and on each one were heaped crumpled blankets. I cast the lantern’s light down their length, until at the far end I found, huddled together, their eyes wide and white-glistening in the candlelight, three women who, had they not been trembling in fear, I would probably have called pretty.
Oswynn was not among them.
Before we could speak with them and try to find out where she was, however, I heard the sound of feet descending the timber steps that led down to the outer door. Godric had come to tell us that the guard was on his way back, I thought. I turned back into the guardroom as the door opened and frigid air flooded in.
The figure who ducked beneath the lintel wasn’t Godric. Round of stomach, he had long, fair hair that trailed from beneath a woollen cap, with a moustache and beard to match. In one hand he held a whetstone and, in the other, a lump of cheese from which he was just about to take a bite when he saw us. And froze.
His jaw hung agape in surprise and confusion, and I saw the half-chewed remains of his last mouthful. He stood there, blinking, for what felt like an hour but could only have been a heartbeart, his expression slowly hardening.