Chapter V

 

V.

            It was the third day Langley had been chained in the dungeon. He had yet to receive any nourishment from the King’s guards. His wrists and ankles were clenched by shackles; large gashes were appearing around them from where he had let his body hang limp for a few hours. He had had very little sleep—it was enough to make a man go crazy. It was constant blindness, hunger, and pain, a never-ending cycle of darkness and starvation. Day and night were indistinguishable. It was silent in the pitch black; he had not heard footsteps since the day he was brought down into the cell. Had he been forgotten? Surely not, as this was just a part of the King’s wrath. Surely, God would be his guiding light. He prayed fervently. There were not really any other options than to pray. It was better to feel like he was talking to somebody than to know he was talking to himself. However, soon he got an answer.

            He thought he was delusional. A voice, speaking to him? His brain was desperately trying to keep him sane. He was hearing nonsense, but soon, the nonsense became sensible. Was there someone else in the dungeon with him, all this time? It did not seem possible. No, it could not be. The voice he was hearing was inside of him, pulsing through him, beating into him, until he could recite every line the voice spoke from memory. Surely, this was the voice of God.

            “Four horses. White, red, black, and pale. One to save, one to murder. One to starve, one to damn. I will call for them to come. Four horses. White, red, black, and pale. One to save…”

            “Aye, he has indeed gone batty.” It was one of the guards.

            “Better give this ol’ boy some water right quick.” There were two guards.

            “Aye, I shall go fetch him some water. Perhaps some porridge.” He left, and there was one guard once again.

            “Say, what’chya babblin’ about there, ol’ boy? Horses? I would not expect any horses real soon, lad; the King is quite mad at you. You are actually quite lucky he has not kilt you yet. You are a funny one.”

            Langley could dimly see the guard’s face from his candle. It was nice to see light again; though, he had not realized exactly how disgusting the dungeon he was staying in had been. The thought of water and porridge had heightened his senses somewhat.

            The guard returned. “Here, have ye some water. I believe our King wants to speak with you soon. He changes his mind with the seasons, it seems, am I right, Henry?”

            “Yes, Charles, quite right. With the seasons, I must say. Perhaps with the months, Charles?”

            “Perhaps, perhaps. Oh yes, I smuggled some porridge for ye. Best I could do given the…circumstances.”

            “Yes, sorry about the sparse supply of water, lad. Better your head than ours!” Charles and Henry both had a hearty laugh. “Quite a plucky thing you did there the other day, ol’ boy, rash, but plucky indeed.”

            Langley tried to muster a thank you, but only managed a hoarse cough.

            “Aye, careful there now, lad, hurrying never got anybody nowhere. I mean, look where it got you, you impulsive little—“

            “Leave the kid alone now, hey. He has enough on his mind now, such as pleading with the King to allow him to keep his head. Best of luck to you; I surely hope your God does not take days off from work.”

            Charles and Henry both chipped in for a joyous chuckle, yet, there was an underlying tone of sorrow.

            “Well, Charles, I dare say we better be going. I do wish you the best of luck, is it, Langley? Farewell to you, sir.”

            “Yes, Langley, I bid thee farewell!”

            And abruptly, they left, leaving Langley with a full stomach, his thoughts, and the unwelcome, familiar darkness that had enveloped him for the past three days.

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