"In Nottingham? At York?"
"No, Sire. Perhaps at Ashby . . . Yes, at the tournament. I'm sure I saw him among the knights' pavilions, but I cannot remember whom he served."
"Where is he now?"
"Locked in the dungeons, below."
"Very well, I will see him presently. Await me there."
The sheriff left and Irving closed the door. A bondsman, but not a Saxon. Spoke in tongues. Was it possible? There was one way to make sure. Irving locked the door and pulled the case containing the chronoplate out from beneath his-bed. He opened it and took out the border circuits which, when assembled, formed the chronoplate. Inside the case was the computer and the tracer apparatus. Irving turned it on, then selected close range implant scan. Yes! There it was! The implant proximity signal! He was right on top of it. It was an amazing stroke of luck. The sheriff's men had caught themselves a temporal trooper. That could only mean that it was one of the adjustment team! He quickly packed the gear away and hurried to join the sheriff in the dungeons.
The nether regions of the castle were dark and damp. There was a fetid odor of decay in the stagnant air and rats scurried away before him as he descended into the torchlit dungeons. The sheriff awaited him with the turnkey, a hideous old man who smelled as if he had been three weeks dead himself. The turnkey lived down in the depths of Nottingham Castle and he had not seen the light of day in years. He was half blind and his skin was the color of the underbelly of a fish. As they passed several of the cells, Irving could hear Cedric shouting behind one of the doors.
"Silence, you!" The turnkey pounded on the door with his gnarled fist. "Nothing but noise from that one," he said. He cackled. "He'll scream himself hoarse soon enough." He paused by another door. "This one's the lady," he said, smacking his lips. "Tender morsel, that. Will you be torturing her, Your Highness? I'm a good man with the bellows, that I am. I can heat the coals so that they glow red hot!"
"Shut him up," said Irving.
"Quiet!" said the sheriff, belting the turnkey alongside the head hard enough to stagger him.
"Thank you, milord."
The turnkey paused by the door of one of the cells and fumbled with his keys. It took him an eternity to fit the key into the hole—he kept missing it. Finally, he opened the door.
Irving gagged on the smell. He spun away, holding his hand over his nose and mouth.
"Bring him out," the sheriff said.
The turnkey entered the cell and, after a moment, he could be heard fumbling with the prisoner's manacles. Then there were the sounds of a scuffle and a blow falling and Hooker hurtled through the door. The sheriff felled him with one blow. Hooker collapsed to the floor, moaning. The sheriff stuck his head into the cell.
"You alive, you wretch?"
"Yes, thank you, milord."
The sheriff slammed the door on the cell, leaving the turnkey inside. He bent down and lifted Hooker bodily, throwing him over his shoulder. Together with Irving, he walked to the end of the hall, carrying Hooker. They descended another flight of steps to the torture chamber.
Once there, the sheriff threw Hooker up against a wall, holding the semi-conscious man with one hand on his chest while with the other he fastened on the manacles.
"Bring him around," said Irving.
Sir Guy picked up a bucket containing viscous, stagnant water and dashed it into Hooker's face. Then he grabbed the corporal by the hair and shook him.
"He's coming to his senses, Sire."
"Leave us."
"Sire?"
"Await me in the upper level," Irving said. "I would question this man myself."
"As you wish, Sire."
The sheriff left. Irving pulled a crude wooden stool over wi
th his booted foot and sat down, waiting for Hooker to fully come to. When Hooker opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Irving sitting on the stool a few feet away from him, smiling slightly.
"Oh, Christ," said Hooker.
"Hardly," Irving said, "but I do see that you know me, don't you?"