They slung Gilbert across the back of his horse, then led it through the forest to where William had left their own mounts. The other horses became agitated when they smelled the blood seeping from the wound in Gilbert’s horse’s rump, so William tethered it a little way off.

He looked around for a tree suitable to his purpose. He located an elm with a stout branch protruding at a height of eight or nine feet off the ground. He pointed it out to Walter. “I want to suspend Gilbert from this bough,” he said.

Walter grinned sadistically. “What are you going to do to him, lord?”

“You’ll see.”

Gilbert’s leathery face was white with fear. William passed a rope under the man’s armpits, tied it behind his back, and looped it over the branch.

“Lift him,” he said to Walter.

Walter hoisted Gilbert. Gilbert wriggled and got free of Walter’s grasp, falling on the ground. Walter picked up William’s club and beat Gilbert about the head until he was groggy, then picked him up again. William threw the loose end of the rope over the branch several times and pulled it tight. Walter released Gilbert and he swung gently from the branch with his feet a yard off the ground.

“Collect some firewood,” William said.

They built a fire under Gilbert, and William lit it with a spark from a flint. After a few moments the flames began to rise. The heat brought Gilbert out of his daze.

When he realized what was happening to him he began to moan in terror. “Please,” he said. “Please let me down. I’m sorry I laughed at you, please have mercy.”

William was silent. Gilbert’s groveling was very satisfying, but it was not what William was after.

When the heat began to hurt Gilbert’s bare toes, he bent his legs at the knee to take his feet out of the fire. His face was running with sweat, and there was a faint smell of scorching as his clothes got hot. William judged it was time to start the interrogation. He said: “Why did you go to the castle today?”

Gilbert stared wide-eyed at him. “To pay my respects,” he said. “Does it matter?”

“Why did you go to pay your respects?”

“The earl has just returned from Normandy.”

“You weren’t summoned especially?”

“No.”

It might be true, William reflected. Interrogating a prisoner was not as straightforward as he had imagined. He thought again. “What did the earl say to you when you went up to his chamber?”

“He greeted me, and thanked me for coming to welcome him home.”

Was there a look of wary comprehension in Gilbert’s eyes? William was not sure. He said: “What else?”

“He asked after my family and my village.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing. Why do you care what he said?”

“What did he say to you about King Stephen and the Empress Maud?”

“Nothing, I tell you!”

Gilbert could not keep his knees bent any longer, and his feet fell back into the growing flames. After a second, a yell of agony burst from him, and his body convulsed. The spasm took his feet out of the flames momentarily. He realized then that he could ease the pain by swinging to and fro. With each swing, however, he passed through the flames and cried out again.

Once more William wondered whether Gilbert might be telling the truth. There was no way of knowing. At some point, presumably, he would be in so much agony that he would say whatever he thought William wanted him to say, in a desperate attempt to get some relief; so it was important not to give him too clear an idea of what was wanted, William thought worriedly. Who would have thought that torturing people could be so difficult?

He made his voice calm and almost conversational. “Where are you going now?”

Gilbert screamed in pain and frustration: “What does it matter?”

“Where are you going?”

“Home!”

The man was losing his grip. William knew where he lived, and it was north of here. He had been heading in the wrong direction.

“Where are you going?” William said again.

“What do you want from me?”

“I know when you’re lying,” William said. “Just tell me the truth.” He heard Walter give a low grunt of approval, and he thought: I’m getting better at this. “Where are you going?” he said for the fourth time.

Gilbert became too exhausted to swing himself anymore. Groaning in pain, he came to a stop over the fire, and once more bent his legs to take his feet out of the flames. But now the fire was burning high enough to singe his knees. William noticed a smell, vaguely familiar but also slightly sickening; and after a moment he realized it was the smell of burning flesh, and it was familiar because it was like the smell of dinner. The skin of Gilbert’s legs and feet was turning brown and cracking, the hairs on his shins going black; and fat from his flesh dripped into the fire and sizzled. Watching his agony mesmerized William. Every time Gilbert cried out, William felt a profound thrill. He had the power of pain over a man, and it made him feel good. It was a bit like the way he felt when he got a girl alone, in a place where nobody could hear her protest, and pinned her to the ground, pulling her skirts up around her waist, and knew that nothing could now stop him from having her.

Almost reluctantly, he said again: “Where are you going?”

In a voice that was a suppressed scream, Gilbert said: “To Sherborne.”

“Why?”

“Cut me down, for the love of Christ Jesus, and I’ll tell you everything.”

William sensed victory within his grasp. It was deeply satisfying. But he was not quite there yet. He said to Walter: “Just pull his feet out of the fire.”

Walter grabbed Gilbert’s tunic and pulled on it so that his legs were clear of the flames.

“Now,” William said.

“Earl Bartholomew has fifty knights in and around Sherborne,” Gilbert said in a strangled cry. “I am to muster them and bring them to Earlscastle.”

William smiled. All his guesses were proving gratifyingly accurate. “And what is the earl planning to do with these knights?”

“He didn’t say.”

William said to Walter: “Let him burn a little more.”

“No!” Gilbert screamed. “I’ll tell you!”

Walter hesitated.

“Quickly,” William warned.

“They are to fight for the Empress Maud, against Stephen,” Gilbert said at last.

That was it: that was the proof. William savored his success. “And when I ask you this in front of my father, will you answer the same?” he said.

“Yes, yes.”

“And when my father asks you in front of the king, will you still tell the truth?”

“Yes!”

“Swear by the cross.”

“I swear by the cross, I’ll tell the truth!”

“Amen,” William said contentedly, and he began to stamp out the fire.

They tied Gilbert to his saddle and put his horse on a leading rein, then rode on at a walk. The knight was barely able to stay upright, and William did not want him to die, for he was no use dead, so he tried not to treat him too roughly. Next time they passed a stream he threw cold water over the knight’s burned feet. Gilbert screamed in pain, but it probably did him good.

William felt a wonderful sense of triumph mingled with an odd kind of frustration. He had never killed a man, and he wished he could kill Gilbert. Torturing a man without killing him was like stripping a girl naked without raping her. The more he thought about that, the more he felt the need of a woman.

Perhaps when he got home… no, there would be no time. He would have to tell his parents what had happened, and they would want Gilbert to repeat his confession in front of a priest and perhaps some other witnesses; and then they would have to plan the capture of Earl Bartholomew, which would surely have to take place tomorrow, before Bartholomew mustered too many fighting men. And still William had not thought of a way to take that castle by stealth, without a prolonged siege…

He was thinking with frustration that it might be a long time before he even saw an attractive woman when one appeared on the road ahead.