Neither Cross Nor Crown

A Lengthy Detainment

The clatter of a door slamming somewhere further into the bowels of the building jarred him into slow wakefulness. The steady dull thud of footsteps could be heard and he shifted slowly in a bid to get into a more comfortable position. He was stiff and sore, his back aching from where it had rested against the hard stone. Squinting, he screwed his eyes shut again but it was too late. The body once woken had a way of resisting dropping back off again.

Cathal O'Sullivan yawned and forced himself to stand up, eyes blinking in the dark. The clank of the chain attached to his leg brought him back to reality and he grimaced. Shivering a little in the cold, he let his eyes rove about the cell. They'd all gotten used to it by now, it didn't mean they had to like it. His two companions were silent though one was in his customary perch near the slit window. It brought in welcome air to clean out the fetid stench and occasionally the odd brief flash of sun to help dry out the perpetual damp present.

All things considered, they had one of the better cells. Not exactly something many would feel grateful for but when the screams and howls from below drifted up, it did put things in perspective. The man near the window muttered something, prompting a blank look from Cathal. He repeated himself, this time slower for his benefit. “I said it's day four” Jean observed cheerfully. He was the only one to bother keeping a counter. When queried as to why, he'd wryly observed that none of them had any idea how long they'd be incarcerated for.

They'd spoken in French, the only common language they all seemed to have. Cathal wasn't exactly fluent but there was no fear of being left out of the conversation. Not when their third companion rarely stirred from his reverie and joined in. A Spaniard they'd surmised. And while Cathal's Spanish might be more up to scratch than his French, it still hadn't helped them pry him out of his self-imposed silence. The man wanted to be alone, they left him alone.

“I wonder what it will be today” Jean mused as he closed his eyes, enjoying the relative freshness of the window. When they'd been forced to pick a corner of their cell for defecating, the smell had a way of accumulating. “Based on yesterday getting slop. And slop the day before that. And slop even before that, I'd wager it's slop” he concluded triumphantly.

Cathal managed the ghost of a grin, at least someone was still in high spirits. And laughs were few and far between in Freiburg. “You've been in prison before Jean” even before he said it, he wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question. The Frenchman gave a smirk and moved to begin scratching his daily mark on the cell wall. “And what pray tell me led you to that hypothesis?” he inquired, not looking around but there was a tinge of amusement to his tone.

“The marks” Cathal responded bluntly. Jean had the grace to wince and shifted a little, looking down at his free hand, turning it from side to side. “Yes they do have a marring the appearance somewhat” he murmured. Even in the half light of the cell, it was easy to see how his fingers were offset and crooked. “The third time they catch you, they like to just take the hand clean off so I've heard. After that it would have been to the Filles-Dieu for me and eking out my days panhandling.” A tightening of the mouth. “That or teaching squabbling brats how to pick a pocket and bearing my wounds as a lesson to not get caught. Not that it would do any good. It didn't for me”

The mood had darkened and they fell silent before Jean gave a quick bark of a laugh. “But of course things can always be worse. In Flanders I'd have been hung by now! I venture to say you perhaps might have seen that?” this time he turned to raise an eyebrow, flicking the questioning onto Cathal. The thief was shrewd and never one to let the topic linger on him for too long.

What harm. For all they knew, they could be on the gallows together by tomorrow. “What gave it away?” “Your accent isn't bad but it does grate on the ear a bit. Walloons, Normans, Picards, they all sound the same to me. It's not quite as pure as we speak down on the Seine.” he then jerked a thumb at their other sleeping companion. “And I heard you chance a word with yon conversationalist. No offense meant but you don't look like a Spaniard or a Frenchman. And the Army of Flanders seems to gather in half the vagabonds and bravos of Europe” Cathal gave a snort, a convicted thief commenting on the lack of high society in Imperial Spain's most northern contingent. “None taken” he responded, sitting himself down and unsuccessfully trying to get a better resting place against the stone.

 “You're not a German then, otherwise you might have known what that bastard of a gaoler was yelling yesterday” Jean pressed. “You're from one of the islands then?” a nod in answer. “What then?” came the persistent questioning. “Englishman? Irish? Scot? Welsh? I thought everyone got enough of fighting on your islands without coming here” Cathal rubbed at his eyes and let out a breath. “Irish” he said wearily. “Really? Is it true that before battle you paint yourselves blue?” a little thrown, Cathal sat back up in disbelief “What?! Where did you ever hear that?!” he demanded, mildly appalled.

 “Cease your prattling” came the growl from the corner. Their other cellmate had stirred. “Someone's coming”. He was already rising, slowly but with dignity. His jaw was set as he glared at the door. Jean and Cathal scrambled to their feet as quick as they could, the clink of chains restricting them as they struggled to stand.

 The footsteps halted outside their door and there was the rattle of keys followed by the lock clicking as the door was forced open. One of the Schlossberg's numerous gaolers stood there, his free hand resting on a shortsword as he peered into the chamber. “Aus! Los gehts!” he snapped. “He's telling us to move” Cathal translated needlessly. Jean rolled his eyes. “Allow me some credit friend” he murmured. The Spaniard was moving first, his haughty gaze above and beyond the guards, looking through them as if they weren't there.

 In the corridor, a half dozen more were standing. Four bore halberds and the ducal sigil of the town, a simple red cross on a white background. The other two were clad in black and wore no insignia. They studied the prisoners coolly, hands resting easily on the hilts of their swords.

 “Isn't it customary to get a trial first?” Cathal whispered to Jean but winced as the haft of a halberd rapped him sharply across the back of the legs. “Ruhe!” snapped the lead gaoler. He inspected their manacles briefly before stepping back. Cathal's mouth was dry, the initial fear of being tossed in the dungeon had faded with the monotony. His breathing was quickening, envisaging the gallows or the headsman waiting for them now. At the very least, it'd be in the open air. It'd be nice to get the sun on his face again. No matter how briefly. “Jetzt! Los!” came the command.

 Flanked by the guards, the trio began to shuffle awkwardly forward, to the chorus of rattling chains and slow marching. He risked one quick look back at their cell. Interesting how the stench didn't seem so bad now.