[Envinyatar]

‘Which cell is Heldór kept in, Brytta?’

Aldwulf leaned back in his chair, a considering look on his face. His eyes glittered in the dim light of the candle lantern hung on the rafter above their table. ‘I have had the dubious honor of guarding the prisoners held beneath the Hall. It will not be easy to get a man out of there.’ His finger traced the smaller room that held the stairs to the main Hall. ‘We cannot go out this way. There will be too many guards placed here, protecting the entrance to the King’s Hall.’ He leaned forward and pulled the crude drawing closer to him.

‘Here, where the barred window is, is the south end of the Hall. The steps leading up to the Main Hall are on the north. The cells are here along the western wall – one large common cell in the middle with five cells to the north of it and six cells to the south. The last, and smallest one, is at the southern end, nearest the wall that holds the window. A dingy, hopeless little room – it is usually reserved for those facing the trip to the gallows.’

‘Aside from the lamps inside the prison hall, the only light comes through that barred window.’ He tapped his finger on the southern end of the rectangle. ‘That window may be Heldór’s saving grace. There are five bars in it, one inch rods, about three feet long, set into holes drilled into the wooden frame. It shutters from the inside. And they are just latched not locked.’

Aldwulf drummed his thick fingers on the table. ‘Two of my big draft horses could do it, I think.’ He tapped on the inside of the larger rectangle. ‘The window is set just a man’s height above the ground, not a far drop once the bars are gone.’ He looked round at Brytta, Rochil, and Liol.

‘Can you three get inside and get Heldór out of the cell? And to the window? And I’d need to have someone set the ropes about the bars for me.’

His voice dropped off at the end as a serving maid brought round a pitcher of ale, filling the patrons’ mugs as she went. She smiled invitingly at Aldwulf, brushing her hand against his as she took his mug to fill it. He winked at her, drawing her attention to him as his hand went out casually to cover Brytta’s map of the prisons.

‘Three coppers for you, darlin’ mine,’ he said to her, ‘if you’ll just leave the pitcher for our thirsty little band.’ The girl crimsoned prettily, and set the ale near him. He fished in his pocket for the coins and placed them in her plump outstretched hand. She smiled saucily and curtsied, leaving them to pour their own drink.

‘There is another problem once we get him out of the prison itself. There’s only one gate that passes through the dike and wall surrounding the city. There will only be a short time before they begin to pursue us. How are we to get him through . . .?’

[ July 16, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]