THERE WERE NO other doors leading off from the kitchen. Outside, adjoining the hall, were two small storehouses whose timbers were decaying, and I tried their locks. Both opened on the same key as the cellar; the first was empty while the second held only some mould-ridden sacks of vegetables and flour that provided food for the rats, which scurried away the moment the door creaked and I stepped inside. Which meant that Beatrice was probably being held in one of the other halls: either the large, two-storeyed one that I imagined would have been both the refectory and, on the up-floor, the abbot’s chambers; or the one forming the eastern wing opposite from it, which was probably the dormitory. Thinking that the Danes and Eadgar would probably have taken the latter with its large hearth-fire for their chambers, I made instead for the refectory. In truth it was a guess. I had no way of knowing whether she was here at all, and had not been taken to another part of the town entirely.
Unlocking the heavy oak door, I ventured into the blackness, wishing I had a torch or something else to light my way. When my eyes adjusted I could see a long dining table with a dozen stools around it, some of them overturned, and the abbot’s chair at the far end. Rotten, half-finished food that no one had cleared away sat on wooden plates, while a clay pitcher lay in fragments on the floor. The rushes and sawdust were stained with what could have been either wine or blood. The monks must have been in the middle of their repast when the pagans stormed the abbey.
‘Beatrice!’ I shouted. ‘Beatrice!’
There was no answer. A flight of stairs led to the up-floor and I ran up them two at a time until I found myself in what must have been a private parlour, hung with richly embroidered drapes, but which now, to judge from the many gilded candlesticks, silver-inlaid plates, bags of coin and fine winter cloaks of wool and fur that had been left here, was being used as a treasure house to store the enemy’s plunder.
From the parlour a door led to a chamber beyond, from which I could hear movement: a shuffling that sounded like it came from more than simply vermin.
‘Beatrice?’ I called. ‘Is that you?’
There was no reply, but I was certain that there was someone in there. I tried the door only to find it locked, and I could not open it with any of the keys on the ring. Of course the abbot had probably possessed a separate key to his quarters that was not kept with the others, but it could be anywhere, and I had not the time to search for it.
‘Stand back,’ I said, and drew my sword. An axe would have been better had I thought of fetching one, but in that moment all I cared about was breaking down that door as quickly as possible by whatever means were at hand. Teeth gritted, I raised the weapon high and brought it down again and again, hacking at the timbers around the lock. At first it did no more than bounce off the surface, but after a couple of strikes the edge began to bite, and shortly splinters were flying, until eventually I cast the blade with a clatter to one side and hurled myself shoulder first at the door. The first time I heard a creak as the wood flexed; the second time I felt it budge. The third time it gave way, flying back on its hinges, and I found myself stumbling forward, breathless, into the chamber.
There she was, sitting huddled in the far corner upon a mattress of straw. Her hands and feet were tied; her knees were drawn up in front of her chest; her mouth was bound with cloth to stop her from speaking. Her fair hair was loose and dishevelled and streaked with dirt, falling across her pale shoulders and breasts. They had stripped her of her clothes, leaving her with nothing so much as a coverlet to hide her modesty.
Her eyes widened in relief as she saw it was me, and I rushed to her, untying the gag from across her lips and freeing her from her bonds.
‘Tancred,’ she said, gasping and almost in tears. ‘Is it really you?’
She threw her arms around me and I held her trembling, naked figure close as a surge of affection coursed through me: affection of a sort and an intensity that I had not expected.
‘It’s me,’ I replied, partly to reassure her and partly because I could think of nothing else to say. My throat was dry. There were bruises upon her arm and upon her face where she had been beaten, and a graze to her forehead too. ‘Are you hurt? Did they—?’
I didn’t want to finish the question, though she knew well what I meant. ‘No,’ she said hurriedly. ‘No, they didn’t.’