by Sam Burnell
There was water in the room, but he ignored it to start with. Later the icy droplets running down the slimy walls became too tempting. An animal urge from within made him crawl along the walls until he found the dampest point. The putrid water made him gag but it offered some relief. He cursed himself over and over but he couldn’t stop, despite knowing that three days now would become four and then five and then more. After two days, he knew that if there’d been a knife, he would have used it. On his hands and knees, he felt over the whole floor hoping to find something he could have used.
There was a presence in the room with him. No longer did he find himself afraid of the dark and the loneliness; now it was his companion who delivered terror to his nights and days. The malevolence was not always there, mostly the cold lacked a presence. It was just cold and he knew he was alone. When it was there, the first he would become aware of it was with a kind of warming on his skin, as if one side of him was turned towards a fire. The feeling of warmth gained his attention, and turned his mind towards the creeping evil he knew was back in the corner of the room with him. A black and unholy presence, inescapable and wholly terrifying.
In the back of his mind he heard the laughter, felt its touch, and knew that it meant to torment him beyond his endurance. There was no defence against it. He’d tried to block it out, tried to focus his thoughts deep within himself, to turn himself away. But the laughter would just increase and he couldn’t keep his mind from the sordid, putrid evil that stalked his mind. He’d even found his knees, and humbled himself to the Lord, begged for salvation, for help, for redemption, for his soul; the laughter in his mind had cackled and gurgled and hiccupped with glee at his efforts.
Then they’d given him a plate of food. The bread was so stale he’d had to gnaw at it like a rodent, and the cheese, if it was cheese, was harder than a stone. But they did give him a small, blunt knife on the plate. He’d sharpened it on the stone floor until, even in the gloom, the new exposed sharpened edge glinted and then he’d set it at the veins under the manacles. He couldn’t get the angle right: the clasps were in the way and there was little room to slide the knife in, and even less room to twist it into the skin.
Jack let out a desperate breath of relief as he felt the blade slice into his flesh. It was the deep cut he knew he needed to make. It was then he realised the laughter had stopped; there was just a sense of anticipation. On the verge of ripping the knife through the veins, he stopped. “Go on,” he heard the words clearly, “finish it.”
Jack felt the tears on his face, they ran down his cheek and dripped onto his wrist, the sting of salt more of a jolt to his senses than the knife blade buried in his flesh. This was what it wanted: for him to bleed out and take his soul. This wasn’t an end, it was a beginning. He flung the knife across the room into it’s face and heard the howl of anger from it as he did, exploding and reverberating around the inside of his head. Pressing his fingers over the hole he’d torn in his wrist, he sought to stop the flow of blood. Crying freely, he knew the only way to outwit the creature in the corner was to survive. To keep himself from Hell he needed to live.
†
Catherine didn’t know what to do, she’d agonised over what to do for days. Jack was in London, but helpless and locked up in Marshalsea. He owed a hundred pounds. A hundred bloody pounds; she couldn’t get hold of that amount of money.
Everyone knew how debtor’s prison worked: if he didn’t get help from outside soon he’d die, starve to death. Pulling the small bag out of her pocket, she looked again at the contents: five angels, a crested ring that she knew had belonged to his brother, and a large jewelled cross, not at all of the current fashion but the metal was gold so it would probably fetch a good price.
She needed to get this to Jack, but how? No one watched her closely anymore but that said, Catherine had never set foot outside of the house since Robert had brought her there. Ronan would soon notice her missing and Marshalsea was on the other side of London, too far for her to make the journey there and back without being missed.
Catherine wrestled with the problem for another hour before finalising what she admitted to herself was indeed a poor plan. She would set out for Marshalsea as soon as the house went to bed. That would give her enough time to make it across the city without being missed. She was sorry but she’d need to use some of Jack’s money to get her across London. She didn’t know the way, and a woman alone at night was not going to stand a good chance of arriving where she needed to be.
She’d ask Walt: the boy was kind and he seemed to know a lot of people; maybe he would know someone who could take her and bring her back. If she got back early enough in the morning then all well and good, and she would not have been missed, and, if she was missed, she’d say she had decided to go for a walk and had got herself lost. It was poor, but it was all she could come up with.
Walt was indeed helpful. She told him of a sick relative and her desire to visit. His brother Garth worked at the Black Swan, an inn a few streets away, and the boy soon confirmed that he would be willing to take her and bring her back for the extortionate sum of two angels. Catherine agreed, and three days later she was on her way to meet Garth as soon as the house slept.
†
“Put your arm over my shoulders,” the voice told him. “Listen to me. Do it…right I’ve got you, now on three we stand. One…two…three…there we go now you’re up.”
Jack obeyed; he didn’t know why he didn’t know anything anymore. His arm over the man’s shoulder, his helper grasped his wrist firmly and he stood albeit unsteadily.
“Good, now walk with me,” the voice spoke again.
The journey was short, thankfully short. Jack didn’t know how far he could walk but he guessed it wasn’t far.
“Is this the one then?” Ross asked.
“My God. What have you done to him?” Catherine blurted. It was Jack, or at least what was left of him. He was filthy: his hair, skin and clothing all blackened with dirt; his left arm seemed covered in dried and cracking blood; the manacles at his wrists seemed to drag him towards the floor with their weight. His eyes were open, just, but unfocussed and his stare was a distant one. It was not likely, Catherine thought, that he would be able to stand on his own.
“So, you know him then,” Ross sounded pleased, “lucky bastard he is an’ all. Right then, Mistress, we’ll take you to see Master Kettering and he can sort out what’s to do next.”
“Where are you taking him? Jack, can you hear me, Jack?” Catherine moved across the room to the door where two men stood with the filthy form of Jack hanging between them.
“He’ll be fine, Mistress. Now you go and see Master Kettering and maybe he will be in a better room soon,” Ross chuckled.
“Please, please don’t put him back,” Catherine touched the skin on his face. “He’s frozen and soaked. You’ll not put him back. Here take this.” She pushed a shilling into Ross’s hand. “Surely that will buy him some minutes by the fire while I see your master?”
Ross smiled and inclined his head towards the men holding Jack. “Lads, come in here and you can all get warm by the fire while I take Mistress here to see Master Kettering.”
Ross ushered Catherine into Kettering’s room.
“Looks like your man has led you a merry dance. We have him down as a Jack Kilpatrick, but it sounds as if you know him by another name,” Kettering looked up from his paperwork.
“Indeed, Sir, but it is of little matter. We have found him, and I have brought with me some of his belongings, which I am sure will ease his time here,” Catherine pulled the purse out from her pocket.
“Good, come on then, I do not have all morning,” Kettering snapped holding his hand out across the desk. Catherine handed over three angels, the ring, and the cross.
Kettering slid the angels to one side. “They will keep him well and fed, and these,” Kettering examined both items with a practiced eye, “will bring you ten pounds off his debt. Will there be more to come?”
>
“Indeed Sir. His family are wealthy and live in the North. As soon as I can get word to them they will, I am sure, pay for his release.” Catherine had practiced the lie, hoping it would buy Jack a little more time. Kettering would know they would have to wait a while for a message to make it north and for help to come all the way back down to London.
“Whereabouts do they hail from?” Kettering asked.
“Newcastle, Sir. They are in the shipping business,” Catherine continued to lie.
“And you?” Kettering asked peering at her closely.
“His wife, Sir,” she replied and added a quick curtsey.
“You’ve not made yourself a good choice, have you? Been married long?” He asked harshly.
“Two months, Sir, not so very long.” Catherine could not believe the lies she was telling.
“Nothing on the way, I hope, for your sake?” Kettering asked, reaching for a pen.
Catherine blushed.
Kettering looked her over, “Can you write?”
“Aye, Sir, I can,”
“Good, well, fill this in; name here, address here, and leave these parts blank. I will fill those in for you.” Kettering indicated where with the end of the quill.
Catherine gave the address of Garth’s inn, which she knew, and quoted her name as Catherine Kilpatrick.
“Right then, all done. Ross here will see you out.”
“Can I not see him for a moment please?” Catherine pleaded.
“Oh, very well. Ross, give her a moment with him and put him up on the second floor in Caltrice’s old room. The lad’s wife has bought him a better room.”
“Will do, sir,” Ross nodded, then to Catherine, “Mistress, follow me.”
They had indeed not taken Jack back, but that said he wasn’t faring much better. His clothes were still soaked and stuck to his icy skin, and he was laid on his side holding his knees and shivering uncontrollably. Catherine knelt on the floor in front of him, but his eyes did not focus on her.
“Jack, can you hear me, Jack?” Catherine put her hand out and laid it on his arm. There was no spark of recognition. Wherever Jack was, he was alone there. Catherine dropped the cloak from her shoulders and wrapped it around him, enclosing him within the black folds. “If you can hear me, Jack, I’ll be back, I don’t know how, or when, but I will get back to you.”
“Come on, lassie, he can’t hear you anyway,” Ross opened the door for her.
Catherine made it back to Fitzwarren’s house. Nobody had noticed she had not been there that morning; she’d never made to venture out and so no-one had even thought to look for her. Jack had been bought some time, but she wondered if it had come too late. Another ninety pounds she needed. There was nothing for it, she was just going to have to steal it somehow. Catherine looked with new eyes at the Fitzwarren household. There must be something she could get hold of that she could sell for Jack.
Chapter Seven
†
William didn’t know how he’d got in or even how long he had been there.
“You wanted to see me?” The voice came from behind his chair and William couldn’t see the speaker. “So, do you have news?”
“I wondered when you’d come,” William chuckled. “I think perhaps we can both help each other.”
“Help each other?” The voice sounded incredulous.
“Come round here where I can see you, damn you,” William barked.
The speaker moved soundlessly to stand in front of William. “Well?” was the only word Richard spoke.
“I know you want to find the man you call your brother, and I can help you. In return though I want something from you.”
“Firstly, let’s get something quite clear, he is my brother, and he is your son. Let’s not trifle with the facts,” Richard’s voice bore a hard edge. “We already had a bargain. You tell me where he is and I will spare your neck my knife.”
“Aye, I do remember. However, Robert’s wings need a clip and I thought that maybe you would like…”
Richard cut him off. “So he’s not just making my life hell, he’s started to make yours a little uncomfortable as well, has he?”
William scowled.
“You sit alone too long old man. If you think I’ll ever help you then you have made a sorry mistake,” Richard was shaking his head.
“Well then you’ll never find him, will you?” William smiled unpleasantly, his gnarled hands gripping the chair arms fiercely.
“Are you really so stupid?” Richard’s voice was incredulous. “If I wish for you to tell me then you most assuredly…”
There was a light knock at the door and a woman’s voice spoke, “My Lord, I have your firewood.”
William smiled triumphantly. ”Come in, come in, girl.”
Richard moved into the shadows at the back of the room as the door opened.
“Put it over there girl and be off with you,” William snapped.
Richard watched as she filled the wood box next to the fire. Her job done, she turned to William. “Will that be all, My Lord?”
“Yes, yes. Get out,” William waved her away.
Rising from a rapid curtsey, her eyes met those of the man who had come to stand behind William’s chair, her mouth open in silent surprise.
“Get out, I said. Go on,” William ordered pointing towards the door,
“You’re dead!” was all Catherine could manage.
“Well actually, no I’m not,” Richard found himself smiling, “And it seems that you too are safe and well.”
“What are you talking about? I’ll shout for Edwin,” William threatened trying to turn to face the man behind him.
“You’ll shout for no-one tonight,” Richard told him, and he ran his knife he ran down the front of William’s shirt, the blade clicking menacingly off the buttons. “Who’s outside the door?” the question was directed at Catherine.
“No-one yet, they don’t come up here until after supper, then someone always sleeps in the hall outside,” Catherine supplied, then, “I’ve found Jack, he needs help.”
Richard put his fingers to his lips. He was standing behind William and only Catherine saw the silencing gesture.
“Right let us not waste the visit, my father owes me plenty,” Richard began swiftly and efficiently to open drawers, cupboards, boxes and taking things out he deposited them on a desk top. “Find something to put that lot in Catherine.” Then turning to William, “Those are trinkets, where is the rest?”
William just stared at him defiantly from his chair.
“I told you I would have my way,” Richard pulled the knife from his belt once more. “Once you showed me no mercy, why should I show you any?”
Richard pulled the gag from William’s mouth.
“Tell me or I am going to cut your thumbs off. And believe me, that’s not a threat.” Richard took a vicious hold on his wrist and laid the blade across the base of the thumb on William’s right hand; blood welled from the small cut.
“The box, the box, in the candle box, in the coffer,” Richard released his hold and William dragged his hand away; there was fear in his eyes.
“Aye, old man that is what you have done to others your whole life. How does it feel to be afraid?” Richard’s face was close to his fathers. William didn’t reply, he just turned his head away from the steady malicious gaze.
“It’s locked.” Catherine said, trying to lift the lid.
“The key?” Richard demanded.
“I can’t, it’s round my neck,” William whimpered.
Richard’s hand ripped open the shirt front and, sure enough, there was a key on a chain. He neatly flipped it over William’s head and tossed it to Catherine, never taking his eyes from his father.
Trembling, she managed to open the lock and lift the lid of the oak coffer, propping it against the wall behind, The candle box inside did not contain candles but neatly tied bags of coins, four of them. She lifted them out and dropped them with the pile on the desk.
“Anything else?” Richard called over his shoulder.
“Just letters,” Catherine answered, shuffling through them to see if there was anything else of value.
“Just letters,” Richard repeated smiling, “take them as well.” From the look of horror on William’s face, Richard knew he had won. “Lock it back up, and give me the key.”
She did and Richard put it back around his father’s neck, “we wouldn’t like Robert to think anything is missing now would we?” Richard was smiling still. “I’ll take this as a down payment on my inheritance.” Richard was laughing now. “Remember old man, your safety depends on your silence, so don’t shout for help.”
“Come with me,” he held his hand out to Catherine.
“I can’t,” she blurted.
“Well, after helping rob the house, I hardly think you can stop here,” Richard laughed.
“Your horse is in the stable,” Catherine suddenly remembered the Arab.
“Corracha?” Richard sounded shocked.
“The same, I helped put him in there, that’s how I found…” Richard’s look silenced her.
He held out his hand again, “Trust me.”
They fled down the stairs. At the bottom he motioned her to be still and he disappeared. Her heart in her mouth, she waited. The house was quiet: the servants rarely came into the main hall during the evening and even if they did they would expect to see her there anyway filling the fire boxes as she did every night.
Catherine was about to take a step to look for him when he came back and took her hand again. With a finger to her lips, he bid her be quiet. The hold on her hand was hard and firm as he guided her out of the back of the house and through the gate which now stood open and led out into the street. He took her a little way along the road and stopped outside a shoe-makers. The shop was shut and the doorway dark.
“Wait here, there’s about to be some noise.” With that he was gone.
Noise there was indeed. Catherine realised he was getting Corracha from the stables. The horse was stamping and neighing as he led him out. Then she heard Walt’s voice shouting. Catherine nearly ran back to stop him from being foolish but then she heard the horses hoof-beats as Richard set him to leave the stable yard, Walt safe and in pointless pursuit.