A Demon in the Night
It was late when the dark figure stole through darker hallways to where the more important prisoners were kept; still in the dungeon, but close enough to the Great Hall to smell sumptuous banquets or hear that babble of somewhat happy guests.
The guard at the door did not question the figure's presence. It was not for him to question after all, what his betters did in the quiet hours of the night. The unspoken rule of the midnight hour was that you saw nothing and heard nothing. If you did, it meant death.
The old man was huddled on a bench in what the Sheriff had been assured was the most draughty and damp cell, and in fact was only the third most draughty and fifth most damp.
"Sir Edward." A low rumble, inaudible to any but that to which it was directed.
Tired eyes darted to the tall silhouette, framed by the iron bars, and a gloved hand holding a small pouch through them.
"Why do you do this?" Edward asked, between slow bites of the small cheese and bread that had been offered and sips of the still warm mulled wine.
As usual, there was no answer from the waiting figure and as usual, the old man duly returned the pouch and swept away any sign that food had passed his lips that night. As usual, the dark figure, turned to leave.
"Does she know you do this? Does Marian know?"
The man halted at her mention, as if naming this bewitching creature could summon her there to catch him doing what he should not.
"No." Guy was sure of that. He had tried to tell her, but she'd been in no mood to listen to him and if she had? Well, she would not have believed him.
He had lied before.
"And you will not tell her." That was final.
The guard at the door did not question the figure's presence. It was not for him to question after all, what his betters did in the quiet hours of the night. The unspoken rule of the midnight hour was that you saw nothing and heard nothing. If you did, it meant death.
The old man was huddled on a bench in what the Sheriff had been assured was the most draughty and damp cell, and in fact was only the third most draughty and fifth most damp.
"Sir Edward." A low rumble, inaudible to any but that to which it was directed.
Tired eyes darted to the tall silhouette, framed by the iron bars, and a gloved hand holding a small pouch through them.
"Why do you do this?" Edward asked, between slow bites of the small cheese and bread that had been offered and sips of the still warm mulled wine.
As usual, there was no answer from the waiting figure and as usual, the old man duly returned the pouch and swept away any sign that food had passed his lips that night. As usual, the dark figure, turned to leave.
"Does she know you do this? Does Marian know?"
The man halted at her mention, as if naming this bewitching creature could summon her there to catch him doing what he should not.
"No." Guy was sure of that. He had tried to tell her, but she'd been in no mood to listen to him and if she had? Well, she would not have believed him.
He had lied before.
"And you will not tell her." That was final.