Chapter Six
The vaults of the gatehouse of Berwick were narrow, low and cramped.
With Stephen’s bulk, the constraints made it difficult for him to maneuver.
But the rebel prisoner he had captured last night in the brief skirmish had been shoved into one of the narrow cells and Stephen was intent on interrogating the man.
Joined by de Lara and a few lesser knights that were part of his garrison command team, Stephen let his subordinates take the lead in the interrogation while he stood back with Tate and watched.
The vault was a nasty, dank place that reeked of urine and rot.
Most of the Scots captured at the surrender of Berwick had been moved out of the city or killed, while several of Seton’s men who had surrendered the city were now prisoners at the castle.
The vault was two levels and could hold about fifty prisoners at any given time.
The last count Stephen was given, there were seventy-six.
The dungeons of Berwick were a hellish place.
After Stephen had left his wife, he had not planned to spend an over amount of time in the vault interrogating the prisoner, but the man had proven to be something of a challenge.
Tate had joined him at some point during the afternoon and they stood silently while two of Stephen’s knights went to work on the big Scot.
Sir Ian Malcolm and Sir Alan Grantham were young, strong and fiercely loyal to Edward; they made a brutal pair of interrogators.
But the man was tough and he would not answer any of their questions.
Several hours into the interrogation, Stephen finally called his men off and stepped into the cell himself.
He was so tall that he was nearly bent over in half.
The cell had other men in it, other prisoners, and he couldn’t avoid stepping on a few legs as he made his way to the rear of the cell where his rebel prisoner was chained to the wall and sitting in his own urine.
When he neared the big Scot, he crouched down several feet away, studying him.
“I am Pembury,” he told the man. “I am Guardian Protector of Berwick. Do you have a name?”
The big Scot was a little bruised but none the worse for wear. He was not young nor was he particularly old, with blond hair and intelligent brown eyes. He was also a burly man with enormous hands. He gazed steadily at Stephen.
“Yer knights were unable tae get me name,” he rumbled. “What makes ye think I shall tell ye?”
“Because I have politely introduced myself. The mannerly response would be to introduce yourself to me.”
The Scots lifted an eyebrow. “A mannered man, are ye? Then ye dunna belong in Berwick. This is a place for men who fight like animals.”
“Have no doubt I can out-fight and out-think you any time I choose. I would not be here now if I could not. May I have your name, please?”
The Scot stared at him. Then, he snorted. It was the first smile, or semblance of one, that the man had displayed all night.
“Ye tried a tactic none of these other idiots have tried,” he told him. “Yer askin’ nicely.”
“I believe in treating all men with respect to a certain degree.”
“Yer men couldna beat me name out of me.”
“I am not beating you. I am simply asking.”
The Scots cocked his head as if pondering the statement. After a moment, he simply turned away. Stephen, sensing that the man had no interest in conversing civilly, turned to leave. But a low voice stopped him.
“Kynan,” the Scot said quietly. “Kynan Lott MacKenzie. When ye killed young Tommy Seton, ye killed me kin.”
Stephen slowly resumed his crouched position. “You are related to Alexander Seton?”
Kynan looked at him. “Aye,” he said, losing some of his smugness. “It was a dastardly thing ye did tae young Tommy. He was a good lad.”
Stephen didn’t have an answer for him; he simply stared at him for a moment. “How are you related to Seton?”
“Alexander married me father’s sister.”
“And you have been defending the city against Balliol and the English?”
“’Tis young David’s city, it ’tis.”
Stephen grunted. “That is a matter for debate. Now it belongs to Edward.”
Kynan pursed his lips. “Like his grandfather, he is. Young Edward wants Scotland just as Longshanks did.”
Stephen studied the man carefully, wondering just how much to tell him about familial relations.
He opted for all of it, hoping it would put the man in a chatting mood.
Scots were, if nothing else, very loyal to their kin.
Family relations meant everything. Stephen intended to use it to his advantage.
“Let us return to Alexander Seton,” he redirected the conversation. “You said that your father’s sister was his wife.”
“Aye.”
“That would make you a cousin to all of the Seton offspring; Joselyn, Alexander, Thomas, William and Margaret.”
Kynan nodded his head faintly. “What are ye gettin’ at, English?”
“Joselyn is my wife,” he didn’t hold back. “That makes me your kin as well.”
Kynan’s eyes widened. “Ye married Jo-Jo?”
Stephen nodded firmly. “The night the city surrendered.”
“I dunna believe ye!”
“Shall I send her in here to confirm it?”
Kynan was growing increasingly outraged.
He couldn’t be sure that the man was not bluffing because he knew that the Setons had been at Berwick Castle when the English confiscated it.
It was quite possible that the Guardian Protector, as he called himself, had married her simply to make his mark upon the Setons.
The English were intent to force them all into submission any way they could, including a marriage.
It was not out of the realm of possibility. The mere thought drove him mad.
“She’s not meant for the likes of ye, English,” he spat. “She’s known enough humiliation.”
A peculiar gleam came to Stephen’s eye. “What do you mean?”
Kynan’s ruddy face was growing redder. He stumbled over his words, not at all wanting to say what he meant. “She… she’s meant for the cloister.”
“Not anymore,” Stephen’s blue eyes suddenly turned hard.
“Kynan, you and I are kin no matter how much you would like to deny it. I married Joselyn two nights ago and I have fully claimed her as my wife. Therefore, you will hear me now; I am finished toying with you. I will ask you a question and if I do not like your answer, I will go to my wife and take your insolence out on her. With every question you refuse to answer, or with every answer that does not tell me exactly what I need to know, she will receive your punishment. Is this becoming clearer to you? Deny me again and I will take it out Joselyn.”
Kynan looked at Stephen with more emotion than the man had exhibited throughout his entire interrogation. He was horror stricken.
“What manner of bastard are ye?” he hissed. “Would you truly beat an innocent woman?”
Stephen’s jaw ticked, his blue eyes searing with intensity. “I hanged an innocent boy in full view of his father. Do not doubt that I am capable of far worse things than that.”
Kynan gazed steadily at the big knight, feeling a surge of power from the man like nothing he had ever experienced.
He knew he was cornered and all of the resistance he had put forth suddenly faltered.
He could not take the chance that the massive English knight would do exactly as he said.
The man was easily three times Joselyn’s size and would undoubtedly kill her.
Joselyn had seen enough pain in her life.
What beatings and harassment could not achieve, a simple threat against his precious cousin would.
The English had won again.
“Ye’re a lowly bastard for doin’ this,” Kynan’s voice was barely a whisper.
“I know.”
“Tell me what ye want and be done with it.”
Stephen’s expression bordered on triumph; not quite, but almost. He would not be so crass as to gloat. Rising, he made his way out of the cramped cell, stepping on a few more legs as he did. Once outside, he motioned to Ian and Alan.
“Ask him your questions again,” he told them. “Make sure you understand everything he tells you.”
The two young knights re-entered the cell.
The prisoner’s demeanor was quite a bit more cooperative, they quickly discovered.
Tate stood with Stephen just outside the cell door watching what was, now, a rather subdued exchange.
Tate nodded with satisfaction as Kynan Lott MacKenzie began to give forth the vital details they had sought all afternoon.
“Brilliant tactic, Stephen,” he muttered.
Stephan, watching the activity in the cell with his massive arms folded across his chest, glanced at Tate.
“You heard me?” he asked.
Tate nodded. “Every word,” he lifted an eyebrow at him. “Should I go tell your wife to run for her life?”
Stephen gave him a crooked smile. “Don’t tell me that you believed what I said.”
Tate shook his head, a twinkle in his eye. “I did not, but your prisoner certainly did. Most convincing.”
“Perhaps we shall have something useful from him, after all.”
The two of them fell silent, listening to the exchange in the cell. Stephen’s thoughts were moving ahead to other tasks he needed to complete for the night, such as checking the guard posts, when a soldier descended the narrow stairs and moved straight for him.
It was one of Norfolk’s men. After a few whispered words to Stephen, the big knight flew up the steps faster than Tate had ever seen him move.
*
Lane de Norville greeted Stephen at the door to the chamber he shared with his wife.
But Stephen blew past him so forcefully that Lane didn’t have time to speak to him.
He simply followed as Stephen entered the room, all but shoving anyone or anything from his path as he made his way to the bed.
Tilda and Mereld were standing by the bed and fretting over Joselyn’s state.
They leapt out of the way when Stephen appeared.