When he hung his head against the bars in defeat, the slovenly man spoke up. ‘There’s none who will hear you. Our jailor is a drunkard, much like yourself. If I were you, I’d save my breath, for it might soon be your last. I hear the magistrate hereabouts relishes a good hanging, so we could all be headed for hell soon enough.’
‘Surely my offence is not so grievous? Why did they bring me in here?’ said Bryce, unable to recall much after arriving at the tavern and downing copious amounts of whisky.
‘Drunken brawling,’ said the pretty whore suddenly. The lass still had her back to him and must have been listening but had given no sign that she was. Bryce had thought her asleep or indifferent.
‘This fine fellow is used to grander company and better lodgings, I’d wager,’ shouted the slovenly man to her. ‘Why don’t you cheer us all with a song, Maren?’
‘Later, Seamus. I am in no mood to entertain gentlemen at present.’
‘A peek at your paps then?’ said the man with a misplaced optimism.
Maren turned, glowered and looked away, and the man simply laughed, relishing the offence given and taking it further. ‘Your cunny, then. A juicy, tight little thing, I’ll wager. Come on, bitch. It’s all you’re good for.’
‘Leave the lady be,’ said Bryce, his temper sliding away from him, for there was cruelty in the man’s taunting and a hint of menace.
The other man smirked and turned away, not up for a fight, and Bryce was left to his growing anger and wondering how he had gone from feverish anticipation of a night with his mistress to now languishing with whores and ruffians in a jail.
Suddenly his exploits from the previous night crashed back in on him. Meg’s lack of remorse, his fist connecting with a stranger’s, her slap stinging his cheek. Damn the bitch to hell. No, that was unfair of him. They never made any promises to each other. She was a free woman who could do as she pleased and at greater liberty than he was at present.
Bryce sought out the least foul corner of the cell and slid down on his haunches with a groan of regret.
***
And so began a long and squalid day caged in a damp, icy cell with questionable company consisting of a skinny lad caught for pilfering bread and a fat clerk with a food-stained waistcoat, accused of debauched conduct. He seemed wholly unsuited to the charge and looked like he had never experienced debauchery in his life. Then there was the man in the stained plaid, with footpad written all over him, the one who had been baiting the whores. He most likely deserved his fate. Bryce’s final companion was a toothless, one-eyed old man who smelled like a privy and whom the others avoided like the pox. He seemed content to sit well away from them all, which was a blessing.
The only diversion for the male residents of the jail comprised of taunting the women prisoners housed in the cell opposite. No doubt, this had been designed as a cruel torment of sorts, as the men could see their heart’s desire without being able to get to it.
Most of the wretched women were decidedly unappealing, middle-aged, and with the fleshly sturdiness of dray horses. They were all beasts of burden, worn out from years of back-breaking toil in farms, mills and tanneries. Or else they were whores and thieves, so raddled with drink and vice that they looked far older than they were and would struggle to get a rise out of the most desperate of cocks. The only bonnie one was the lass with the red-brown hair, and she was a thoroughbred of a filly in comparison - tall, slender-waisted, with fulsome breasts and a sheen to her skin. She was blessed with a sweet, albeit grubby face, which Bryce found pretty and pleasing, without holding any claim to great beauty.
There was nothing to do to stave off boredom save to drink in the sight of the lass called Maren. Her bodice was torn as though she had been roughly handled, revealing a smooth, creamy shoulder and the plump curve of her upper breast. She was luminous, even covered in grime and lost in the gloom of the jail cell. Maren dragged a strand of dark hair behind one ear, and the careless gesture had a sweetness to it that reminded Bryce of a farm girl he had known in his youth who liked to pull up her skirts and mount him in her father’s barn. The memory warmed him a little.
As dusk fell and it grew colder, strangled sobbing started to come from a small, skinny lass crouched in the darkness of the other cell. Maren went over to her and put an arm about her shoulders. He could hear her shushing the lass in whispered tones but could not make out what she was saying.
Suddenly, a sweet, haunting melody wafted from the back of the cell. Maren had burst into song. It was an old ballad that Bryce had heard many times before about a lad that loses his lady love to another, a tale of sadness and longing. But he had never heard it sung so well as to make the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
Maren had a rich voice, tremulous, and with a hint of roughness to it that seemed to scour his soul and bring forth a great sadness to his breast. All the other unfortunates sat up and hung on each note of her song, as did he, and silence fell around her tune. The skinny lass stopped sobbing and wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.
When her song was finished, Maren laid her head back on the wall and caught Bryce’s eye. There was such sadness in her expression that he felt the need to reach out to her.
‘Come over here, lass.’
To Bryce’s surprise, she sauntered over and leant into the bars, and he could have sworn he saw the glisten of a tear sliding down her cheek as he said, ‘You sing fit to put a nightingale to shame, lass. ‘Tis the sweetest voice I ever heard.’
‘Keep your flattery, for I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth, high and mighty, Bryce Cullan.’ Her stare was bold and scorching with scorn.
‘I’m neither high nor mighty, as you can see.’ He indicated his torn plaid and dirty clothing.
‘You are wealthy,’ said Maren. ‘I can tell by the set of your clothes, and you have enough coin and influence to buy your way out of here.’
‘If you like. But tell me, why do you sing to the others?’
‘Tis a comfort to them. Most don’t know how they will end, be it hung, transported or tasting sweet freedom. And if it is freedom, then it is the freedom to go poor and hungry at best.’
‘So your hard heart holds some pity, then, lass?’
‘Aye, but none for you with your fine face and pretty manners. Your kind always survive.’
‘How so?’
