A moment later Nigel stood among the group of men who had gathered round their captive. It was too dark to see him, and they dare not strike flint and steel.
Simon passed his hand roughly over him and felt a fat clean-shaven face, and a cloth gabardine which hung to the ankles. “Who are you?” he whispered. “Speak the truth and speak it low, if you would ever speak again.”
The man’s teeth chattered in his head with cold and fright. “I speak no English,” he murmured.
“French, then,” said Nigel.
“I am a holy priest of God. You court the ban of holy Church when you lay hands upon me. I pray you let me go upon my way, for there are those whom I would shrive and housel. If they should die in sin, their damnation is upon you.”
“How are you called then?”
“I am Dom Peter de Cervolles.”
“De Cervolles, the arch-priest, he who heated the brazier when they burned out my eyes,” cried old Andreas. “Of all the devils in hell there is none fouler than this one. Friends, friends, if I have done aught for you this night, I ask but one reward, that ye let me have my will of this man.”
But Nigel pushed the old man back. “There is no time for this,” he said. “Now hark you, priest—if priest indeed you be—your gown and tonsure will not save you if you play us false, for we are here of a set purpose and we will go forward with it, come what may. Answer me and answer me truly or it will be an ill night for you. In what part of the Castle does this tunnel enter?”
“In the lower cellar.”