"I have heard the news, and I would like to take The Gypsy Witch, and my men, along to help, Captain."
Scott didn’t hesitate. "I’ll be happy to have you, Captain Fitzwater. Welcome aboard." He stretched out his arm to shake hands with David. The petty jealousy of years gone by was blotted out by their union against a common enemy.
Scott paced the deck impatiently as his ship moved out into the Channel on the evening tide. Closely behind were the men of St. Mary’s, with Mr. Smythe in command, aboard the French ship Scott had ordered refitted, The Sea Vixen. Bringing up the rear of the flotilla were the French Huguenots from Lizard point with David Fitzwater aboard The Gypsy Witch. Ricardo Perez, was once more aboard with Scott.
Scott strained with ill-concealed impatience for the first glimpse of land, although he knew it would be hours before the lookouts could sight anything.
Each day Scott drew closer to Danielle. He had questioned every ship’s captain that he met until he found his answer in an old English merchantman in the Channel.
"Aye, Capt’n. I spotted that same ship, ‘bout three days ago it was. She was ‘eaded to the Normandy Coast. Me own ship was na’ equiped to ‘andle their charge, so we ran for it."
"Thank you, Captain, that’s all I need to know. God speed!" Scott looked at Ricardo, standing at his elbow and frowned. "Did you hear that?"
"Aye, Scott. That means they’ve taken them to that damn prison on the rock island. It’s the only one in Normandy. It may be harder than we thought, Scott. No one has ever escaped from that hell hole! How are we going to manage it?"
"Don’t worry, Ricardo. If it’s never been done before then the guards will be lax. I will get Danielle off that island, whatever it takes."
The Scarlet Eagle, under full sail, gathered speed, the wind on her port quarter. The towering cliffs of the Normandy coast slid past and Scott saw the perfect fjord in which to hide his ships. He glanced up, judging the wind in her sails. Her masts could carry no more canvas than she bore now.
Scott took the helm, and steered his craft away from the cliffs in a large curve to enter the mouth of the cove. As his frigate slowly passed the entrance, Scott noticed a hidden inlet to the south that was near some more high cliffs. He steered his vessel in this direction and noticed that it would be the perfect place to anchor. The cove was large enough for all three of his ships and the cliffs would keep their tall masts hidden from view of any French patrols that happened to sail by the entrance.
"What a piece of luck, eh, Scott?" It was Ricardo near his side, a grin on his face. The first one Scott had seen since he had told the older man about Sir Francis and Danielle.
"Aye, that it is, my friend." Scott answered, watching the other two ships slowly sail in behind him and drop their anchors.
"What are your plans, now, Scott? Avranches lies just beyond the next bend, and that’s the closest village to the prison. How are we going to check it out without being recognized as Englishmen?"
"You will see." Scott answered confidently, before turning aside and entering his cabin, closing the door after him.
Ricardo didn’t have long to wait before the door reopened allowing an elaborately dressed French dandy to step out. This sweet smelling paragon, garbed in tight, fawn colored pants and matching thigh-length coat, with frills at his sparkling white shirt front and cuffs, black shoes bearing gold buckles on the toes, walked toward him, then bowing low, spoke in perfect French.
"Bonjour, monsieur."
"Scott? Is that you under all that frippery?" Ricardo stared aghast.
Scott laughed. "As shocked as you look, Ricardo, it must be a great disguise. I hope I can fool the people of Avranches as well. I will wander into the village with the excuse that my horse broke a leg and I had to shoot him. Mayhap I can find out some information about the layout of the prison and how those damnable tides run around that island. Just keep the men quiet, and I’ll return when I have news. Order the longboat to row me ashore while I get my cape and weapons."
As he re-entered his cabin, Ricardo yelled, "Bosun, on the double!"
Ricardo and David and all the men lolled about the ship waiting for Scott to return with news. Ricardo would find himself drawn to the taffrail squinting anxiously at the shore for the sight of their captain. Finally, on the morning of the second day when he was least expecting it, Ricardo heard a voice shouting.
"Ahoy there, mates!"
He looked to the shore and saw Scott riding one horse and leading another that was laden with bundles.
After Scott was safely aboard and the horses freed, he called David, Ricardo and Mr. Smythe into his cabin. After pouring each a tankard of ale he placed his hands flat on the table and stood over them.
"I found out some very interesting information in the village. It seems this prison used to be an abbey. They still allow monks to visit the chapel once a day in the evening for prayers. So… " He gestured to the bundles he had brought from the spare horse. "Tonight we will all become monks." He grinned into the shocked looks on the faces of the men.
"I also talked to an elderly fisherman, and after a few free tankards of ale he began to tell me boastfully how he’d figured out the tides around the rock island holding the prison.
"Fishermen have been known to completely lose their boats if the tide catches it just right, so that’s out. No rowing to the prison. But… at low tide there is one spot that you can walk from the mainland to the island." He allowed this to sink in before he let the blow fall. "But there are bogs of quicksand that can completely swallow a man within five minutes!" He held up his hand to stifle their groans. "Unless you are led by someone who knows the land. And it seems that these monks go over to the island during low tide with nary a mishap.
"Since we are lucky enough to have a low tide this evening after dark, we will go to the island with the monks on their way to prayer. Once inside we have exactly thirty minutes to rescue Danielle and Sir Francis and rejoin the monks at the gates to follow them back to the mainland before the tides start covering up the passageway."
Silence overtook the men at the table, each in his own thoughts, wondering if they would see this night through alive. Ricardo sat rubbing his chin with his hand, deep in contemplation.
"By damn, Scott! I think it will work. Where did you get so many of the monks robes? Won’t that look suspicious when so many come to pray? We are no small number, you know."
"There was an old warehouse that housed the robes which belonged to the hundreds of monks that lived on that island when it was an abbey. I’m sure they won’t be missed for days. And as to the other… a certain French dandy came to town and told a story of a large order of monks on their way here to pray. It is said that different orders from all over Europe come to kneel at this altar to give thanks. So be it." A slight grin raised one side of his mouth as he looked questioningly down at the other three men.
"Well, gentlemen, shall we ready our men for nightfall?" he asked, adjourning the meeting. As they rose from their seats, each in turn nodded in favor of the plan.
"One other thing, mates. All signs lead to a little squall tonight. In fact, the clouds have already started to move into the area. Leave a small skeleton crew aboard, just enough men to sail these ships out of this cove after dark and nearer to the island as soon as we take our leave. Then we won’t have to walk so far to get back to safety and there won’t be any danger of beating our ships against these cliffs in our escape. Each ship can send their longboats to shore as soon as they have laid anchor and we will find them along the shore when we are ready to leave. Also, I want each man that is left in charge to know that if we are not back, one hour after dark they are to leave us, and go back to England. If we are not back in that time, we will not be coming back at all. Is everything understood?"
"Aye, Captain."
"If anyone is having second thoughts, now is the time to speak." He looked deep into the eyes of the men trying to read their feelings of fear and apprehension. But he let out a s
igh of relief as he saw nothing but grim determination mirrored there.
After the men left the ship, Scott ate a hearty meal, then retired to his cabin to go over his plan one more time and to work on his charts, plotting their route of escape for that night. He had spent the previous evening and night drinking with the French fisherman while learning the schedules of the monks and tides. Even as he returned to the ship this morning, he was plagued by a throbbing pain in his temples from his over-imbibing. Although his mood was one of anxious impatience, he knew there was no recourse but to lay down, giving his body a much needed rest. Grudgingly, he stretched his long length upon his bunk, and closed his eyes, waiting for the hour of departure to arrive.
Twelve
Danielle sat as close to Sir Francis as possible, trying to keep warm. She surveyed her fellow prisoners as best she could in the darkness of the over-crowded cell. There were people from all walks of life living in squalor together in this one large, dark, dank room. Robbers, murderers, women of the streets, gentlemen, wives, mothers, now were all fellow roommates. Some were criminals, others just Huguenots that didn’t want to obey the dictates from the crown regarding their religion.
Some of the prisoners she could not see in the darkness, but knew they were there, scattered around the room, because of the moaning and crying out of the ones that were sick or dying painfully after being tortured.
The night before she had heard the pleas of one woman who was being sexually molested by some of the men. Not one soul had come to her aid and Danielle, angered by their apathy, rose to her feet, ready to give what aid she could.
"You disease ridden swine!" She shouted, moving in the direction of the woman’s cries, and the guttural sounds of the men urging each other on to new heights of crudity. "You’re not men, you’re not even swine!" She filled the room with descriptive expletives.
Suddenly she was jerked round as someone caught her arm and pulled her back. "Let go, you filth!" she ordered, swinging hard with a clenched fist.
"It’s me, Danielle," the familiar voice of Sir Francis said softly near her ear. "Come back. There’s nothing we can do for her now. They will only turn on you next. There are four or five of them from the sounds of their voices, and I would be no match for them. Please, come back and sit with me quietly."
Danielle, conceding to his better judgment, allowed him to lead her back to their cramped space by the door. Sir Francis gently placed her on the floor, sitting next to her offering his shoulder as a cushion against the cold stone wall.
"I think perhaps it was a mistake to let you sail my ship after all," he admonished her language gently, glad for the darkness that hid his embarrassment. "Never in all my years, have I heard such a tirade. And from a woman… why, you would put a seasoned sailor to shame."
His words seemed to calm her and she almost smiled at some of the words she had used. "It’s just that I cannot bear the way these people do nothing, like mindless beings they sit, and stare, and wait to die. It’s despicable! If die I must, I vow to you, I will go out fighting with my last breath. I will not give those bilious slime one easy moment." Her blood still boiled in her veins as she leaned back, her arms folded across her bosom and silently glared into the dark about her.
Danielle had no idea how many days she and Sir Francis had been there. It was hard to tell, with no sunshine to let one know if it was day or night. She slept fitfully when she was tired, and crouched huddled on the floor of the vile, reeking dungeon when she was awake. At first she had discussed with Sir Francis ways to escape, but both, decided it was hopeless.
Twice a day, the turnkey opened the door and threw in stale dry pieces of bread and a bucket of rancid water. There was never enough to go around and the prisoners fought over a crust of bread like a starving dog after a bone. Had it not been for her tenacity, there would have been a few times when they would not have had anything to eat. But she always managed to grab some of the hard crusts for her and Sir Francis, before they were devoured by the other hungry occupants.
Sir Francis was growing weaker. His age being nearly three score and four, he was not as resilient under such physical hardships as his youthful friend, and Danielle took it upon herself to see that he had as much food as she could wrestle from the others.
The only other time the turnkey opened the door was to have two guardsmen carry out the dead carcass of some poor soul that had gone to a better life, and they did not do that nearly often enough from the putrid smell of rotting flesh which always choked her senses, if she took a deep breath.
In the beginning, the stench of this dungeon had made her retch. The one corner that was kept for a public privy was foul beyond description. But she no longer noticed the odors, knowing full well that after the first couple of days she must smell as bad as the poor people sitting nearby, just as the jailer had told her, on that first morning.
There was only filthy vermin-filled straw on the floor for the people to use as a place to sleep. Luckily Danielle and Sir Francis were the newest prisoners and therefore had a place near the door so that twice a day, at least when it was opened, they were able to breathe air that was a little fresher than inside their rock cell.
The turnkey took great joy in telling someone when they were soon to be executed, and tormenting them with the knowledge, until he came to take their screaming, crying body away. Then the next day he would describe in detail the ways they were tortured to death to the other prisoners, roaring with laughter if anyone moaned or prayed over the dead.
With dreaded finality, the day came when he told Danielle and Sir Francis that they would be next to feel the torturous rack. He leaned down putting his face close to hers, showing his rotten teeth in an evil sneer. His breath was hot and vile and smelled of stale wine. She fought to keep from wretching as the gross turnkey spoke, his stench overpowering all other odious smells in the surrounding cell.
"Ah, mademoiselle," he focused his attention on her, spittle dribbling unchecked from his thick lips. "We will see if the feisty wench has met her match at last." He wrung his hands in gleeful anticipation. "Your haughtiness will soon succumb to promises of pleasure to one and all as the screws tighten on your fair skin." He cackled with glee and left them, clanging the door shut.
Danielle shuddered. Not from fear so much as from disgust and anger at her helplessness. Though there was no escaping what lay ahead, she still could not escape her fate. Scott, she thought, I know you’re coming. This would be a good time to make an appearance.
Sir Francis patted her hand that rested on his sleeve. "At least now we know it will soon be over, my dear. This waiting and wondering is enough to drive a man insane. Let’s just pray to God they won’t prolong the agony"
As promised, the turnkey came later in the day and took them from their cramped cell. In the passage between the two cells, Danielle saw a man being drawn and quartered. The sight was so ghastly that she knew she would never forget it. The poor man had already been partially hanged because the remains of the rope was still around his neck, but he was still alive and his screams of excruciating agony echoed in the dark corridor. He was being disemboweled, in preparation of having his entrails burned.
The two prisoners were thrown into a small cell where they were the only occupants. Once again there was just filthy straw upon the dirt floor, mixed with the dried blood of the previous occupant. Braced against the wall with her shoulder against the stone, Danielle hung her head, her body racked with dry heaves.
Another day drew to a close, and both Sir Francis and Danielle were silent, each with their own thoughts. Danielle knew Sir Francis was thinking of his wife, Lady Elizabeth. What would this do to her? She was not at all well and she was very dependent upon her husband.
Danielle sighed as her mind flickered to her own loved ones. Little Scotty. She wouldn’t be able to see him grow into a man, or hold her grandchildren close in her arms. But at least by now, Scott was aware of him. There was no doubt in her mind what a wonderful father Scott
would be. Because of never knowing a father’s love himself he would probably spoil their son to extreme.
Scott! How she loved him! His strong virile body, his laughter, his anger, his voice, his kiss, his caress… Danielle felt warmth flow through her body even in the coldness of her surroundings. If she could just feel Scott’s arms around her one more time she wouldn’t mind dying tomorrow. Oh, to feel his strong arms crushing her against his muscular body. Danielle sat huddled deep in thought and memories. She had been sure he would come.
Voices outside the cell door brought her sharply back to the present. Two of the guards were arguing in a gruff and vulgar language.
She strained to hear their conversation and realized the topic of their argument was her! Before she had time to collect her wits about her the door was opened and in stepped the surly guards. Their eyes glowed with lechery, as they grinned with evil excitement.
"Mon dieu, Duvall, you were right! She is a fetching wench! We ain’t seen nothin’ this tasty down here before."
One of the men stepped toward her. "Come, my pretty, let us help you share your last night. Two hardworking men need a little entertainment now and then."
Danielle pressed herself into the corner of the cell ready to fight them off as long as she could. Suddenly from the other side of the room Sir Francis leaped at the two guards. He knocked one down and as he reached for the other one he yelled at Danielle.
"Run! Run for your life!"
Danielle sprang to her feet and started moving. When she reached the open door, she looked back at the guard overpowering Sir Francis. She turned down the passageway and ran as fast as she could. As she climbed the stairs, she heard heavy footsteps coming behind her. She willed herself to move faster but her body was moving as swift as it could. The distance between her and her pursuer was closing. With only a few more steps to go, to reach the top of the stairs, not knowing where she could run to from there, she felt a callused hand grip her ankle.
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