He studied her with a gimlet eye. “You quality always have strange requests and that one, I’ll be denying. Going it alone with the ruddy bastard will not sit well if something happens to you, and I gets the blame. A regular devil he is, took six extra guards to get the bloke in his cell. ‘Tis said after his judgment come down, he outfought a dozen o’ the King’s Guardsmen.”
Claire gripped her cousin’s hand like a drowning woman to a life rope. The shouting outside was muffled by the thick greasy walls of Goad’s office.
“You cannot go through with this,” Lily squeaked.
Of course, the Master Gaoler wanted to frighten her. He let Claire simmer a few moments longer while he examined a broken fingernail. Prepared for such an event, Claire produced another precious coin. “I believe this will do, Mr. Goad.” Claire looked down her nose, using her presence of the highborn she hoped would kindle a sense of inferiority in Mr. Goad.
“Your servant, m’lady.” He grabbed for the coin.
Claire snatched it back. “You’ll have a neat little profit after my requests have been granted. It’s a matter of negotiation.”
His sallow face puckered as he heaved a sigh through rotted teeth. “Very well, wait here while I get your betrothed ready for his weddin’ day.”
Devon Blackmon’s cell was not a cheerful place. Moisture dripped down gray stone walls blackened with splotches of mold. The odor of dampness mingled with a stink, rivaling the worst of London’s sewers. The furnishings lay sparse−a chamberpot and filthy straw strewn in the corner for a pallet to sleep. One small barred window yielded a view of the prison-yard, where Devon observed a drunken banquet to celebrate his departure into the unknown. Since dawn the street had been packed with people hoping to catch a glimpse of the damned. Unable to see their quarry, they were content to enjoy a vicarious thrill from the snatches of song and squeals of happy laughter that rose over the dreary walls.
His eyes roved over a sheet dividing his cell placed by orders of the master gaoler. Weighted down by additional chains, he squinted through swollen eyelids. Mr. Goad had arrived accompanied by two guards to hold Devon down. They claimed he needed a lesson in manners for a visitor. For their effort, one guard had received a broken nose, and the other, a pair of cracked ribs. If Devon’s stomach had been properly filled, the damage to them would have been worse. Chained to the wall with little room to maneuver, he slid down on his pallet and resumed his pastime of late, picking lice.
Under sentence of death, there were no advantages, Devon reflected wryly. No last meal or priest to comfort him. He was dressed in the clothes he’d been arrested in six months before, torn from the beatings he received from his captors. The lack of water to wash and shave created dismal grime far from the cleanliness to which he was accustomed. For the past three days he’d dined on nothing but a moldy slice of bread. God, he was hungry. Unable to stop himself from dreaming, he pictured a fat roasted goose baked crisp with all the trimmings: gravy, potatoes, and fresh baked bread with butter.… He dropped his head to his knees, feeling nauseous. His stomach, so empty, he could feel its sides clamping together, gave a harsh growl followed by a dry heave. He forced his mind away from the treacherous subject of food.
He sat huddled on the rough stone floor, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees for warmth. His added chains clinked. One of the new indignities he received from the grinning guards who savored to beat and taunt him. The words, degrading and dehumanizing, were something he preferred not to think about, reminding him of the starved, half-crazed, filthy wretch he’d become. Oh, well, he thought with an attempt at black humor, he wouldn’t have long to worry about his misfortunes. His time was near.
What did keep his mind alive were contemplations entertained on wonderful bits of vengeance on King James and England’s aristocracy− for he was an innocent man.
Devon raised his head. His eyes drifted over the sheet, dividing his cell. He wondered what new humiliation the guards contemplated. They mentioned a visitor. All his relatives were dead. He’d join them soon enough. He bowed his head.
“Stand clear,” Mr. Goad shouted. The door swung open. The sun had set, and in the darkness the Master Gaoler hooked a lantern on the ceiling, light flowing into the shadows. Goad’s florid face appeared around the sheet. Cautious, until he saw how far Devon’s chains stretched, or rather, if Devon could get his hands upon him, he nodded, apparently satisfied his men had cinched him tight enough to the wall.
“Take heed,” said Devon. “It’s my rest you’re disturbing.”
Mr. Goad stood not amused. “Odds blood! Ye think I’m to bow to the likes of you rebels? There’s gallows awaiting you at Tyburn Tree with an audience to give their approval.”
“Faith, you mean it’s not time for my bath and bread-pudding?”
Mr. Goad considered him with a kindling eye then cocked his head, listening to the clangor of church bells. “I’ll not cater to the likes of you, you haughty traitor. Hear them bells? The bellman of St. Sepulchre’s never fails to sound the bells on the eve of execution day.”
“If your wit were as big as your voice, it’s the fine man you’d be.” Devon sneered, his fury dissolving into grim resignation.
Claire saw Mr. Goad’s jaw work up and down, listening to his dispute with the prisoner. She had waited hours with Lily in the prison office. Mr. Goad’s way of letting her know who remained in charge. Her nerves raw, she had been led down a maze of dark, clammy corridors. The rotting smells were so horrible she clamped a perfumed handkerchief to her nose. Almost worse than the smells were the sounds−heart wrenching moans of pain joined sobbing cries of misery. Her throat closed up, and her heart despaired for the humanity locked with these walls. Thank goodness she had left Lily in Goad’s office and spared her this ordeal.
“You may find me fine enough to hang you myself.” Goad’s scowl deepened. “It would be a great pleasure to stretch yer bloody neck.”
Something scurried over Claire’s foot. She squelched a scream and stepped into the cell. Was it a rat? She wished Goad and the prisoner would stop their bickering. She desired to marry the condemned man and leave.
“Certainly you have the manners and appearance of a hangman,” said the prisoner to Goad. “None but a fool or a savage would merit such an occupation.”
Despite the prisoner’s reckless defiance, a subtlety of intelligence lay defined in his tone and speech. Irish wasn’t it? With all the ferocity of a winter squall, he dared to quarrel with the Master Gaoler. Claire reversed her initial opinion. The prisoner was either insane or half-witted.
Her head jerked up at the sound of something hard hitting flesh. The Master Gaoler’s cruelty had struck her like a physical blow, forceful enough to rattle her bones.
“Enough of your bluster. Keep your bloody mouth shut,” Goad ordered.
“Stop.” Claire’s voice broke. She could not bear the thought of any man beaten. “Leave us, Mr. Goad.”
“I’ll not leave. Not ‘til this animal learns who his betters is.”
Mr. Goad’s obstinance rang eloquent. Claire took the hint, opened her purse and produced another coin. “Do not make me speak again.”
Mr. Goad wavered between his petty revenge and the coin dangled in front of him. The gaoler’s greed won out. He snatched her last precious coin like a cock at a worm, slammed the door and locked it. “It’s your neck, milady.” Goad pressed his face against the bars and laughed. “Don’t beg for me when ‘e gets his hands on you. I’ll pretend not to hear what he does to you.”
