Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Set woke to a damp, dingy cell that smelled of mold and rot. A lump of human flesh and bones moaned on the floor in the cell across from him. Ragged strips of clothing revealed stretched, leathery skin. The man’s jagged moans were the only signs of life that Set could identify.

A large brand covered the man’s left shoulder, barely visible in the moonlight that shone through the narrow, barred window above. Three vertical lines rose up from the man’s skin, infected scar tissue that bubbled with puss at the edges. One straight line was burned across the top but it did not touch the others.

Set recognized the symbol. He had seen it once before during a town hanging. He was only a small child then but his father brought him to watch the event once a year, every year, on Set’s birthday. He watched as the hooded executioner dropped a noose over an old man’s head and tightened it around his neck. The executioner wore a kind of black tank top that exposed the sweat which glistened on his chest and beneath his armpits in the midday sun.

The old man stood on a footstool as the executioner jerked the noose. Set remembered the old man’s wide eyes, his clenched teeth and fists balled up at his sides. Four straight lines marked his shoulder in similar fashion.

“All set,” he remembered the executioner saying before kicking the footstool. The old man did not die quickly.

“Your turn.”

Set looked around the unfamiliar place and noticed a lanky, scraggly looking woman standing outside the bars of his cell. She had a large keyring in her hand.

“Oy, get up. It’s your turn.”

He tried to respond but his throat was too dry to speak. What came out of his mouth sounded more like the croaking of a frog.

“Get up. Get up or I’ll brand ya twice like that poor old sod over there,” she said, jerking her head toward the lump of flesh and bones lying on the floor across from him.

Set crawled up onto his knees. The shackles which bound his wrists clinked and echoed along the wet stone floor.

The scraggly woman unlocked his cell door with a CLANG and pulled it open. “Like to take advantage of women, do ya?” she asked. “Well I’ve got somethin your gonna enjoy. Come on, get up.”

Set managed to get out a few words as he slowly rose to his feet. “Why am I here?”

The scraggly woman cackled. “Why’s ya here? Why’s ya here? Ha! That’s what they all say, innit? Least till Old Dunford gets his brandin iron hot and red. Once they gets a sight of that, it’s no more borin questions from them!”

She grabbed Set by the arm and walked him out of the cell. “Then it’s just piles of shrieks and screams. AHHHH, ME ARM!”

The woman fell into uproarious laughter and slapped her knee. The metal keyring on her waist clinked against a wooden baton.

They walked by a series of cells, bodies clumped inside in various states of discarded neglect. Some of the prisoners watched him pass by but none of them spoke. The scraggly woman pulled at his arm and they turned right. The hallway ended in flickering red and orange light.

“Where are you taking me?”

The woman stopped walking. She turned toward Set and withdrew the baton, striking him in the groin. He immediately fell to the floor, his shackles clattering against the stone. Blood rushed to his face and his abdomen convulsed, trying to vomit but nothing came out.

“That’ll teach the likes of you. Won’t be botherin no more women with your little jimmy beat up black and blue now will ya?”

Set grit his teeth, trying to regain his composure.

“Is that a bit of spite I see flashin in your eyes? Would you like another floggin on your wee bits then?

He shook his head and made an effort to stand.

“Looks like you’ve got a bit of spirit left in you,” the woman said, as they continued toward the flickering light at the end of the hall. “That’s alright. Old Dunford likes it better when they haves a little spirt left in em. It’s like squeezin the last bit of juice out of a lemon, he says. It’s only sour if you don’t have the taste for it. Isn’t that right?”

The woman looked at Set, waiting for him to answer. Her eyes narrowed when he failed to reply and she slowly reached for her waist with her right hand.

“Yes, yes of course. Why am I here? I think there’s been some kind of mistake. My name is Set Forsyth. My father is-”

“I know who your father is ya twat. Your father is Lord Able. He’s the one who sent you here. Signed the paper from the constable myself, I did.”

“How is that possible? I-”

“Stop your yammerin fore I gives you another one. Lord Able sent his footman down last evenin with the constable. Said I was to process you in for havin your way with a woman. You might be Lord Able’s son but Old Dunford will see to it that you recognize your wrongdoin. Don’t you worry about that.”

“That’s impossible. I would never-”

The scraggly woman moved with a quickness that belied her decrepit appearance and Set found himself heaving upon the stone floor once again.

“Lyin won’t help you now, ya ninny twat. You couldn’t get a woman the normal ways before. Keep runnin your trap and you won’t be gettin no woman no ways!” Spit flew from her mouth and drooled from her chin. Her eyes looked down on him with reflected firelight and her hair sprouted up from her head in a tangle of gray like misshapen juniper.

“You don’t understand,” Set wailed. “I’m not supposed to be here!”

“Get up!” the woman yelled. “Your lucky your father signed your name to the frontlines or I’d crack your skull like an egg, right here and now. I’d dance barefoot on your brains like a New Year’s jig, I would. Now get up!”

The doorway at the end of the hall opened into a windowless room that baked like the inside of an oven. A large stone fireplace blazed at the far side and a hooded figure stood between him and the fire.

Beady eyes peered through the two holes that were cut into the hood and strands of stray hair stuck out through a seem at the top where the stitching had come loose. He wore a soiled black tank top that reeked of mildew and mixed with the smell of burning wood. He spoke through a round hole in his mask and Set could see that the man was missing his two front teeth which made it difficult to understand what he was saying. “I heards about you. Constable told me you like havin your way with womans.”

Set looked at the fireplace. A metal poker lay stuffed into the logs. The end of the poker was shaped into a “T” that glowed red hot within the fire.

“No, this is a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here!” Set cried. “I’m not supposed to be here!”

Old Dunford guffawed and held his belly which poured over his waistband and jumped up and down as he laughed.

“I told him,” the scraggly woman chimed in. “I told him, that’s what they all say, innit Old Dunford?”

The fat man laughed again.

“I said you’d teach em. You’d show em alright,” the woman cackled. She hunched over with excitement, eyes fixed on the red hot poker, drool sliding down from the corner of her mouth.

“I always teaches them,” the fat man said. “I always teaches them but this one special. Constable said this one goin to the frontlines. Don’t hurt him too bad, constable said. Marching Platoons want live bodies not dead bodies. Lucky boy. I try joining Marching Platoons but I don’t thinks right enough.”

“Don’t you worry yourself on that, Old Dunford,” the woman said as she reached up to pat him on the shoulder.

“Wait, I have gold,” Set said. “I can get you gold.”

Old Dunford eyed Set through the holes of his hood. “What you mean, gold?”

“He is the son of a lord,” the woman said. “Suppose that would make em a lordling.”

“What that mean?” Old Dunford asked.

“It means I can get you gold and silver. What would it take? I can get a message to my mother!”

The scraggly woman and Old Dunford broke into laughter.

“ He can get a message to his mother ,” she mocked, slapping her knee, keys clanking against the baton. “Did you hear that? The ninny twat’s gonna get a letter to his mummy!”

Old Dunford roared with laughter and his belly shook. “He wants his mum,” he said. “The little fairy wants his mum,” he repeated.

“What’s wrong with you people, don’t you want money? You could leave this place,” he implored. “Have a better life.”

Old Dunford stopped laughing. “Better life? What would I want with a better life? I quite like my life.”

“Now you’ve done it,” the scraggly woman said. “Now you’ve gone and done it. I warned you. Shut your trap and mind your P’s and Q’s when Old Dunford’s around or you’re gonna get it.”

She paced around the room as she spoke, leaving Set standing bound and shackled before Old Dunford. “Old Dunford, just stay calm now. No need for goin hog-wild on the boy. Remember what the constable said. The Marching Platoons need em good and strong for the frontlines.”

Old Dunford breathed heavy and quiet, motionless as he stood in front of Set.

“Let’s just do our part and get the sign on em,” the woman said. "Three lines and one over the top."

“I quite like my life,” Old Dunford repeated.

Set looked around the room as he tried not to panic. It was sparsely decorated with a footstool and a bucket of water. A small wooden cross, hand carved by Old Dunford from the look of it, hung crooked from a large nail that protruded from a patch of grout. Smoke burned his eyes and made it difficult to breathe. He coughed.

“You think I wants your life,” Old Dunford said. “My life not good enough?”

“Now, Old Dunford, calm yourself. You know how you gets. Just put the sign on the boy. Constable said just put the sign on the boy and drill em off to the Marching Platoons.”

Old Dunford stood motionless, staring down at Set through the holes in his hood and breathing heavy. “Lucky boy,” he said. “I try joining Marching Platoons but I don’t thinks right enough.”

The scraggly woman breathed a sigh of relief and grabbed Set by the arm. She brought him over to the footstool and pushed him down onto it.

Set sucked in quick, ragged breaths as he frantically searched the room but recognized nothing. The fireplace cracked and popped in front of him. His skin baked and sweat and smoke stung his eyes.

“You sit. Don’t move,” Old Dunford said as he plodded toward the fireplace. He donned a large quilted blacksmithing glove over one hand and reached into the fire to retrieve the poker.

Logs broke and fell into the massive hearth as he pulled and the poker’s end glowed red hot. Smoke floated up from its flat edge. Old Dunford held it up in front of his face and Set could see the red glow reflected in the man’s eyes. The scraggly woman stood with Set’s arm held tight in her grasp, transfixed upon the poker.

“No, no. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this!”

“You sit. Don’t move,” Old Dunford repeated.