Fate & Fortune

by Michaels, Fern

  “My God, Tori,” Granger gasped, but Tori ignored his outburst.

  “What do you think, Josh? Will it work?”

  Hope sprang into the big man’s eyes. Till the meaning of her words penetrated his brain. Still, the hope remained, glowing feebly.

  “Lass, Marcus would have none of it. Ye cannot sell yourself to get his freedom. He’d never forgive himself.”

  “Just answer one question, is there any other way? Is there, Josh?” Her voice became shrill as she saw Josh shake his head. “It’s my body and I’ll use it as I see fit! Are you telling me that if I go through with my plan that Marcus will turn against me? Is that what you’re trying to spare me? Well, save your breath! He is already done with me, he ordered you to take me away, he can’t bear the sight of me.”

  Josh shrugged his shoulders dejectedly.

  “The decision is mine, regardless of the outcome,” Tori said quietly. “Besides, Marcus has made it very clear what he thinks of me, and I’ve nothing to lose. If he dies, Josh, I die, too!”

  “Tori,” Granger asked hesitantly, “are you sure this is what you want? That this is the only way? I’ll do whatever you ask if you’re sure in your heart that this is what you want.” He looked into her beautiful eyes and did not need to wait for an answer.

  Tori sat before the fire, her arms clasped about her drawn-up knees. From time to time she glanced at Josh and winced inwardly at the expression on his face. There was no other way! Hour after hour passed, and dawn slowly crept upon the sullen trio.

  Josh stirred himself and stoked the fire which had burned almost to the embers. “We must all have something to eat before we set out.” The effort of talking brought on a fit of coughing. It was Granger who helped the weakened giant to a seat, his eyes full of concern as he noted the condition of the handkerchief Josh held near his mouth. The spasm lasted longer than the others, and Josh looked weak and drained. He forced a smile for Granger’s benefit. “Don’t worry, lad, I can do me part. You make me a promise, though,” he gasped weakly. “If I fall behind you’re to leave me. Your promise, lad, swear.”

  Granger murmured his agreement.

  Tori nibbled on a cold piece of meat and washed it down with warm ale. She coughed and sputtered; she couldn’t eat. Not now! Not ever!

  Granger paced the room while Josh rested. “Look!” he exclaimed, “it’s snowing again!”

  “No,” Tori wailed, “not again!” She looked at Josh and her heart lurched. Good God, he had never looked this bad; perhaps Granger could take his place.

  Josh answered her unspoken question: “The weather will help us just as it did the day of the robbery. Get dressed, we leave in ten minutes.”

  “This robe will have to suffice, Granger. ’Tis the best I can do. Since all we friars are in poor straits it’ll pass muster. Here,” Josh said, “slip this pistol into your boot like me and be careful. They’ll search us this day.” He slipped a knife similarly into his own boot with shaking fingers.

  Tori watched the trembling hand and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Josh, would it not be better if you stayed behind or went ahead to the ship? Granger and I can do what has to be done. If we’re killed it’ll make little difference. Please, Josh, return to the ship; you may stand a chance that way.”

  “’Tis good of ye to think of me, lass, but I’ll be having none of it. Me days are numbered as ye know. I must be a party in this, for Marcus is me friend. I couldn’t go to me Maker without at least trying to save him.”

  Tears welled in Tori’s eyes. “All right, Josh, I’m ready.”

  The cold made Tori gasp, and her arm throbbed as the bitter wind seeped in under her cloak. She ignored the pain; her thoughts of Josh and the coming task she must perform occupied her mind. Could she do it? Of course, she could do anything she had to. Are you prepared to die? Tori questioned herself. If I must, came her quiet reply.

  Cold, numb, weary, the small party dismounted and climbed the snow-packed steps. The jailor looked at them with suspicious eyes. Tori took the initiative with a slight wave of her hand to Josh and Granger.

  “Sir,” she said boldly, extending the missive written by Lord Fowler-Greene. She watched the jailor covertly, her gold-green eyes lackluster. She extended her arm in what she hoped was a languid gesture and patted the jailor’s filthy cheek.

  “It’s fortunate that you’re indoors in this weather. When I leave here I fear I may get lost in the storm. The good friars are headed in another direction,” she cooed softly, the cat’s eyes half closed as she watched his reaction. He was only too happy to talk.

  “If’n Oi’m any judge a worse storm than th’ other day. It’s brewin’, Oi tells ye. Lucky Oi am tha’ Oi’ve comfortable quarters ta go ta. A fire, a bed wi’ a little ale an’ some meat an’ cheese. Wha’ more can a man ask?” He leered at Tori.

  “Why, sir, you left something out—a woman to warm that bed of yours.”

  “There be no women in th’ dungeons an’ Oi’ve no jurisdiction over th’ ones on th’ debtors’ side,” the jailor smirked.

  Josh was the first to proceed, then Granger, the jailor, and finally, Tori. She suddenly clutched the keeper’s ragged arm and asked anxiously, “Are you the one that’ll hang my brother?”

  The jailor laughed. His foul breath reached Tori’s nostrils, and she fought a retch. “No’ Oi, th’ ’angman does th’ job. Bu’ Oi plan ta watch,” he laughed gleefully. “Oi loikes ta ’ear th’ snap o’ th’ neck!”

  Tori blanched but didn’t falter. “Well, I shall not be here to hear it,” she sighed. “I shall be lost in the snowstorm. Remember to look for my body in the spring,” she laughed.

  As they continued down the labyrinth of passageways, the air became more stagnant and mephitic. Tori could hear Granger gulp and Josh plodded ahead, his mind on other things. Tori stepped lightly, her flimsy slippers soaked from the numerous scummy puddles she had trod in.

  The jailor walked abreast of her, glancing at her now and again, his murky eyes appraising her knowingly.

  Tori fought the urge to draw away from his foul-smelling body but had only to see Marcus’s face flash before her to make her stay close to the ugly, wretched jailor.

  As a tendril of moss hanging from overhead touched Tori’s cheek she cried out and moved closer to the jailor. Taken by surprise, he was quick to take advantage of her movement. He laughed as he caught her, and she lurched against him. Tori felt a large hand cup her breast and heard his in-drawn breath. Boldly, she looked into his murky eyes, not objecting to his advances, feeling his hand tighten as she stood shivering in the cold. The jailor opened his mouth to smile, and she saw stubs of rotted teeth and a white, coated tongue. The sight was so repulsive she closed her eyes and willed herself to stay close to him.

  The jailor, taking this as a sign of acquiescence, slipped his hand inside her gown, his rough, scaly hands scratching the soft skin of her breast.

  “Not here,” she whispered. “Later. I must see my brother first.” He was reluctant to let her move from his side and grasped her breast tighter. His fingers found her nipple and he ground it between his fingers. Tori’s eyes teared with the pain, and with one quick movement she was free and leaning against the wall. “Wait here, I must see my brother; then if you want for the rest of the day I’ll stay with you,” she said, turning from his ugly face.

  The jailor, overcome with the promise, slouched against the wall; he watched Tori move to the heavily barred cell. His breath came in short gasps as he anticipated the outcome of the day. There were still a good many hours till he would have to take the next watch, and then, he thought hotly, he had the rest of the night.

  His hands were on fire; never had he felt flesh so smooth and warm. He longed to cover that soft breast with his mouth while his hands did other things. It had been a long time since he had had a woman. He would have to make up for lost time today. The lust in his loins couldn’t be fought any longer; his body was an inferno.

  Tori glanced at Josh, wh
o refused to meet her eyes. Granger was busy talking to two watchmen who stood outside the barred door. Both, Tori noticed, had pistols in their belts. Marcus’s cell was within sight now.

  The jailor’s hoarse voice called, and Tori looked at Granger. “I’ll not be long, Friar, perhaps five minutes,” she croaked meaningfully. The jailor advanced on her, not waiting for her return.

  She looked in horror at his glazed eyes and his drooling mouth and clenched her teeth as she saw him lay down the key ring and the pistol on the sweating stone floor. His torch rested precariously against the wall and he appeared a specter in the dim orange glow. Pray God that Granger’s hand would not slip and there would be no outcry. She worked her face into what passed for a smile and advanced toward the jailor. Impatient with her slow progress, he reached out an arm and roughly pulled her to him.

  Her body taut as a spring, she fell against him. One of his knees parted her legs. Hot hands fumbled at the wide neck of her gown while his wet mouth assaulted hers.

  Abruptly, one of his arms dropped and she tried to grasp it and put him away from her. Surely he would not take her here with the others! She was aware of him lifting her skirts and his hot breath scorched her face. He was like a rutting pig! His other hand dropped and she was free for a second; only his legs pinned her against the wall, his knees holding the voluminous skirt to her thighs. Then she was thrown against the wall, and the last she knew was a loud whack mingled with the outraged roar of some wounded animal.

  Marcus had seen Josh and a young man approach his cell, but his attention was drawn to a chalk-faced, bloodless-lipped Tori as she spoke to “Friar” Josh. What was going on here? Why did Josh look so constrained? What was Tori doing here?

  He had heard a harsh voice that he recognized as the jailor’s and dimly realized he was calling Tori.

  From where Marcus’s cell was located he could barely make out the jailor leaning the torch against the sweating wall and saw Tori walking slowly toward him.

  Rage exploding within him, Marcus witnessed the attack the jailor was making upon Tori . . . his Tori! And she was allowing it!

  Anguish squeezed his heart, burst his lungs, and escaped his throat in the roar of some primeval animal losing its mate to an ancient enemy.

  Seeing Tori’s collapse onto the slimy, stone floor, Josh bellowed oaths mingled with threats, advanced on the grotesque jailor, his hand fumbling inside his boot for the pistol. He failed to see the man’s upraised arm and the knife that was held tightly in it.

  Stone-faced, Marcus watched as Josh’s life’s blood seeped out, spreading through the rough, dark-brown monk’s cloth.

  “Get the girl out of here,” Marcus barked, repressed sorrow tightening his jaw, his scar burning dully on his whitened cheek. White-lipped anger hoarsened his voice. “Get Tori out of here!” he called to Granger, who was bending above her, attempting to lift her into his arms. “Now! Get her away before she sees . . . !”

  Even as Marcus spoke the words, Tori’s lids fluttered open. Bewilderment furrowed her brow as she looked upon the passageways filled with guards. Then her eyes fell to the form beside her. “Josh . . .”

  Granger pulled her to her feet. “Don’t look Tori, there’s nothing we can do for him now.”

  “No . . . no . . . it can’t be . . . it mustn’t . . .” Granger lifted her into his arms, but she fought him; she had to get to Josh, her friend, Marcus’s friend.... Arms outstretched, agony inscribed on her features, she reached to his still form, refusing to believe he was gone.

  Granger dragged her away, but for one moment her eyes locked with Marcus’s. She saw her own anguish mirrored in his dead-dull black eyes. Tori stirred dizzily, she felt herself being carried. She looked up into Granger’s troubled face. Slowly, the realization washed over her that their plan had failed . . . failed miserably! Then her thoughts sank into merciful blackness.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The interior of the Owl’s Eye Inn was lit with a dim yellow glow from greasy, soot-blackened hurricane lamps, their tallow candles smoking off an acrid odor. Granger sat in a corner of the taproom nursing a mug of mulled wine, inconspicuous among the shuffle of men and a few doxies vying for the men’s favors and trade. Every time the tarnished bell above the door sounded he quickly glanced up, his eyes searching for the one person he hoped to find this night.

  A few days after the fiasco of trying to rescue Scarblade from Newgate, Ned and Richard had brought word to Granger that Charles was known to have been carousing drunkenly and boasting that he had been one of Scarblade’s men. Ned also informed Granger that Charles’s natural meanness and brutal behavior had not won him any friends among the riffraff that inhabited the neighborhood. Granger had come to the Owl’s Eye to see just how far Charles’s bragging had gone and how damaging his boasts were to Scarblade.

  At the sound of the bell, Granger looked up to see a tall thin man enter, his face still swollen and bruised from a fairly recent beating. Granger sat quietly listening for any hints of the man’s identity.

  A group of men who had been drinking at the bar saw the tall man and pointedly took up their tankards and moved to a table across from Granger. They muttered beneath their breaths and looked accusingly at the man they had made room for at the bar.

  One’s words fell on Granger’s ears. “’E’s a mean coot, ’e is, an’ badly used, Oi’ll gran’ ye, but ’tiz no excuse fer wha’ ’e done ta tha’ poor whore!”

  “Whazzit ’e’s done?” the second asked.

  “As Oi ’ears it when poor Sally put ’im off ’er ’e took offense an’ beat th’ poor lass ta death. Thems th’ know it wuz ’im fer sure won’ do nothin’ abou’ it becuz we don’ loike th’ authorities interferin’ in our business. Bu’ ’twuz ’im, all righ’.”

  Charles, aware of the hostile glances of the men in the taproom, swore profusely, yelling into the room that if any there among them felt man enough to take him on he was ready for all comers. No one made a move toward him and yet Charles was not satisfied. “Why are ye all lookin’ at me tha’ way? Tha’ little whore is out o’ th’ way o’ trouble now, th’ thievin’ little tart. Refusin’ me th’ way she did. A man ’as ’is rights, ’e ’as!” Charles then turned his attention to the tankard the innkeep had set before him, giving the men a view of his back.

  Granger shuddered to think that this man had tried to force himself on Tori. Granger wouldn’t like to tangle with the man himself, and was more than glad that Scarblade had left the mark of his fists upon the man’s ugly face.

  Charles again turned to face the center of the tap room. “An’ th’ gold! All tha’ gold an’ me wi’ na a tuppence ta me pockets.”

  He was speaking of the tax robbery, Granger was sure of it. And now Scarblade was to lose his life for it and the colony would still suffer. What a shame that Lord Fowler-Greene prevented Captain Elias from sailing to North Carolina with the booty. Scarblade would hang for naught.

  Sounds of a scuffle brought Granger from his thoughts. Charles had thrown his tankard at the innkeeper, accusing the man of serving him spoiled ale. The looks of hatred the others laid on the man were enough to make a sane man crawl, but still none of them moved to put an arm on Charles and toss him out. Granger was reminded of the words he had heard a few moments ago, and though he knew they feared Charles and hated him, he also knew they wouldn’t call the patrols, for many of them also had a price on their heads and none of them would want the law poking around.

  Charles drunkenly mumbled, his words becoming clearer and louder. “Me own brother wuz murdered, do ye ’ear?” He leered a malevolent toothless grin to the room. “An’ the dirty bastard’ll ’ang fer it, Oi made sure o’ tha’, Oi did.”

  Failing to attract attention from this statement, he became more heated in his response. “An’ any among ye who thinks tha’ th’ barstard wuz Scarblade wha’ wuz th’ brains behind those robberies, let me tell ye a few truths. Oi, Charles Smythe, wuz th’ brains an’ me brother John me righ’ ’a
nd man. An’ if anyone deserves th’ fame fer bein’ Scarblade, ’tiz me!”

  A glimmer of an idea was born in Granger’s mind as he listened to the despicable man boast. Perhaps . . . he thought to himself, the Newgate jailors have the wrong man after all. Picking himself up and draining his tankard, Granger walked on unsteady feet to the bar. Placing himself next to Charles, he pretended to be the worse for wear due to the wine. When next Charles turned to bemoan the fates that had taken his brother, Granger paid him his sympathies.

  Charles, hearing the first friendly voice directed at him in weeks, quickly offered to buy Granger a refill of mulled wine and proceeded to bend his ear with stories of injustices which had been inflicted upon him. Granger kept a sorrowful expression on his face and punctuated Charles’s statements in all the correct places with a “tsk-tsk . . .”

  Throughout the course of this one-sided conversation, Granger managed enough praise to bolster the man’s spirits and led him on to making crowing boasts about himself.

  “So, as anyone can see, Oi wuz th’ leader o’ tha’ pack, Oi wuz. It wuz me who gave th’ orders an’ saw ta it tha’ they wuz follered out.”

  Granger took the lead and said, “If you were the leader then who’s that miserable soul who’s pacing off a cell in Newgate?”

  Charles, sensing he had the reluctant attention of all within earshot, raised his voice to a roar, “Tha’s th’ rot wha’ killed me brother! Bu’ ’e wuz jus’ a flunky, Oi’m Scarblade, Oi am! Oi’m th’ one wi’ th’ ’ead on me shoulders no’ tha’ pig-lovin’ dog! Oi’m Scarblade!”

  Unable to contend with Charles’s boasts a moment longer, the crowd in the taproom began to sneer and mock. “Scarblade indeed!” One voice was heard above the others! “An’ Oi’ll be supposin’ th’ it’s you wha’ ’as captured th’ ’earts o’ all th’ laidies that ye robbed. Scarblade, indeed!—why a poor workin’ girl loike Sally wouldn’ bed ye fer thrice th’ price!”

  Enraged, Charles turned in a fury upon those who had dared to ridicule him. “Oi’m Scarblade, if’n Oi says so. An’ who’re ye ta talk ta me tha’ way? Ye petty thieves an’ pimps”—he pointed a gnarled, filthy finger at one of the men—“an’ ye, Stevie Nespoint, Oi suppose ye doubt who Oi am, too? There’s no doubtin’ who ye are, an’ wouldn’ th’ watch patrol luv ta know tha’ who they’re lookin’ fer in a little matter o’ purse snatchin’ is sittin’ righ’ ’ere! An’ ye,” he roared, pointing his finger at another, “what abou’ tha’ little matter o’ settin’ fire ta th’ roomin’ ’ouse so’s ye wouldn’ ’ave to pay yer rent wha’ wuz due? No record, no rent, right? There’s bounty fer mos’ o’ ye, an’ those tha’ ain’ bein’ sought wuz at one toime er another. ’Ow would ye loike me ta put th’ bulldogs on ye, th’ lot o’ ye? Tha’ would teach ye no’ ta mock th’ man tha’ calls ’imself Scarblade!”