The tower was essential to the castle in time of siege, because it commanded both the inner rampart and the jetty in the cove. But in normal times there was no need to man it. The higher, ivy-grown Green Tower blocked its view of the land; and any ship entering the cove would have been spotted much sooner from the top of the Queen's Tower. There was never any guard on duty in the Dutch Tower. Did the regent know that ?
He remained fretful for a moment and then took a decision who might meant his life, but also the boy's, so it was worth it. He walked briskly along the battlements on top of the inner rampart, from which he could have seen the eight main towers of the Dyfed Keep, its black and white walls and its slated shops, erected by its successive occupants, norman kings, saxon knights, moor corsairs and saracen raiders. The guard on the other side of the wall did not seem to think strange that he would come this way to the armory. Maybe he guessed Jean had come from the Queen's tower, and chose to take the long way through the battlement rather than trampling through the mud of the courtyard.
Once inside he went through the second staircase, the one few people knew, and at its bottom lit a torch and ventured through the old cellars, looking for a tunel few people knew but the oldest guards in the place. A new flight of dank, old stairs were descending and taking a turn to the south, then to the west, following the rampart above them.
Walking in the dark he pondered his intentions. Was it really for the best ? How could he be sure ? He remembered all he had seen for these last two years. Yes the regent was a bad man and king a sad boy, but what would he do once they were away. He did not know anybody and could only speak some garbled norman from the Irish settlements. His only chance, he reckoned, would be to flee abroad, but where ? Could he really mean it ? Then he saw the red mark that still stained the wall where marshall Castore had fought away Dirk's mercenaries to buy his king the flee, and he was sure he meant it.
When his boots rang on a metal grid, he smiled. That was here. He removed the bolts who held the grid shut and pull it, while is torch was smoking and waning on the ground. Careful now, he thought. He scrambled in the dark for the holds craved in the stone and difficultly climbed down a few yards until sea water licked his feet. Through a narrow slit in the rock a weak, grey light seeped, and an old rowboat still rocked in the middle of the cave. At high tide, he knew, the water would be knee-high and it would be possible to exit row out of the cave without being seen by the Small or the Hill Tower, under the cover of the knight. If he could find somebody to take the oars, that was.
With only one good hand it took him even longer to climb back up, and night was already falling by the time had hurried back to the second floor of the Old Tower, so he hasted along the top of the sea-facing ramparts toward the Small Tower, where he few other veterans had their bunks. Who of them could he trust, he wondered, and how would he convinced them. Under the battlements the sea was battering the bottom of the walls, and he worried thatit might be wiser to wait for the morrow.
Then he saw one of these few Moorish soldiers Maertjin had in his service, standing immobile against a merlon. The Arab was black-bearded and broad-shouldered, almost as tall as Jean had stood in his youth. Maybe he would make a good rower. As the old soldier get closer he made no move to give him way, staring at him with expressionless eyes.
“ Excuse me.” Jean said, then he heard the gentle tap of good boots over the limestone battlement. Behind him was the regent, clad in a dark cloak who covered part of his face. He looked the guard up and down, as if surprised by what he saw, then nodded and before Jean could react it was to late, two big, robust hands had grabbed him by the shoulders. Even if he had not been too shocked to cry the wind would have drown his voice.
“ Do it.” the small, wiry man ordered, all courtesy gone from his hard voice.
The voice ! That was the voice he had heard below the battlements of Caen, when poor king Hugues was lying on top of him. As he fell once again, he remembered.
“ Your sons are next.” the voice had said.
(actually it's kind of a multiplayer game so...)
