Some of the bystanders laughed and Arne began to breathe again. Jorg was still frowning, though, and reached for his arm. “Come over here, boy, and tell me more about your master.” His grip was painful, hard enough to leave a bruise, and Arne instinctively recoiled. As he did, his mantle was caught by a gust of wind, revealing the gloves tucked into his belt. Most of their audience did not notice. Jorg did, seeing enough to spark his curiosity, and he yanked Arne’s mantle back.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Grabbing the gloves, he held them up so his companions could see the soft leather and fur lining, and that changed everything. Arne’s throat constricted, cutting off speech. Surrounded by these predatory, cold-eyed men, he began to tremble, a lamb cornered by wolves.
THIS TIME ARNE HAD fallen into the hands of the duke’s men, for they took him straight to the castle and up into a chamber over the gatehouse. Shoving him down in a chair, they deliberately let the suspense build before Jorg said abruptly, “Are you ready to tell us about these gloves, boy?”
Arne had realized at once that he could not use his earlier cover story, for no knight or minor lord would have gloves like these. Nor could he claim he’d found them, for if he was suspected of theft, he’d be hanged. All he could think to do was to fall back upon Richard’s original disguise, and he told them haltingly that he served a rich merchant and the gloves were his. “My master was taken sick and stopped at Holy Cross Abbey, sending me on ahead to Vienna to buy supplies for him. He . . . he is a kind man and let me borrow his gloves because it was so cold. . . .”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Jorg backhanded him across the face. His head whipped back, blood streaming from his nose as the knight reached out and grasped the neck of his tunic, shaking him roughly. “Do not lie to me, whelp. These are no merchant’s gloves. They were made for a bishop . . . or a king.”
Arne swallowed, tasting blood on his lips from his broken nose. He could not wipe it away for another of the men had seized his arms and was binding them behind his back. “I . . . I am not lying, I swear it. . . .”
Jorg used his fist now, burying it in Arne’s stomach. Gasping for breath, he had to fight back nausea, and could only shake his head as Jorg snarled, “You serve the English king, churl, admit it!” His mute denial earned him another blow, this one to his face again. His head was spinning, and he’d never been so frightened. But when they demanded he tell them where the king was, he swore he did not know of any king, and sobbed, knowing he’d pay in pain for his loyalty. He could not betray Richard, though. Richard trusted him, and as the blows rained down, he clung to that, as his only lifeline in a world gone mad, that he must prove worthy of the king’s trust.
“Let me have a try.” This was not Jorg’s voice. “Look at me, boy,” he said, not unkindly. “We do not want to hurt you. But we know you’re lying. How do we know? You’re carrying a king’s gloves. You have a pouch filled with coins, including bezants from the Holy Land. And word came from Friesach that the men arrested there had been seen with a German-speaking lad.” He paused, and when Arne kept silent, he said, “You are being very foolish,” sounding almost friendly. “What is your name?”
Arne could barely see this new interrogator, for one eye was already swollen shut and his other eye was blurred with tears. “Arne . . .”
“Well, that is a start. Arne, listen to me. You will tell us what we want to know. By being stubborn like this, you are only prolonging your suffering. Answer our questions and you’ll not be hit anymore. We’ll even fetch a doctor to tend to your hurts. Now . . . where is the English king?”
“I . . . I do not know,” Arne croaked. “I do not know!”
Someone laughed harshly; he thought it was Jorg. The second man shook his head and shrugged. “So be it. He’s all yours, Jorg.”
Arne squeezed his eye shut, as if not seeing the horror might make it go away. But then Jorg grabbed his hair and wrenched his head up. “You see this, boy? Look at this blade. Damn you, look at it! If you do not start giving us honest answers, I swear I will take it and cut your lying tongue out!”
Arne was crying softly, hopelessly, and when Jorge put the dagger to his throat, he shuddered and sobbed again. When the blade sliced his cheek, he cried out. But he did not answer any of the questions Jorg was shouting in his ear, and a third man intervened, drawing Jorg away. Arne sagged against the ropes binding him to the chair, grateful for this brief reprieve from the pain. They were soon back, though. “One last chance, whelp.” When Arne only whimpered, Jorg turned away to take something from the other man. Arne was suddenly aware of heat and he squinted to see a fire iron only inches from his face. His hair was being held again, his head pulled back, and then there was nothing but the sickening stench of burning flesh and agony and screaming.