by Celia Rees
“C’mon.”
Once the last of the marchers had passed, the taller man prodded him on.
“Wait a minute.” Tom’s head fell forward. “I don’t feel so well.”
“We ain’t got time for the vapours.” He pushed Tom harder.
Tom lurched, retching, as if he was about to spew.
Both men instinctively took a step back. By then, the pistol was in Tom’s hand.
The two men looked at each other, as if sizing up whether to rush him.
“I wouldn’t advise it. Two barrels, see?” Tom pulled back the hammers. “One each. Walk in front of me.”
There was an outhouse across the way. Tom directed them towards it. “Open the door.”
The small shed smelt like it had once housed a pig.
“Inside, both of you.”
Tom dropped the outside bar on them and ran.
“Keep going up and you won’t go far wrong.” Johnny Lockhart’s words rang in Tom’s head as he took worn and narrow steps two at a time.
Every now and then, he stopped to rest, hands on knees, and to listen, but there was no hue and cry. His captors must still have been in the pigsty. Tom slowed his pace. He was leaving the crowded houses and crooked alleys. A turn to the right took him to a street he recognized. Bravey’s Inn was just up ahead.
Johnny Lockhart was sitting by the window, anxiously scanning the street.
“Glad to see you safe.” Lockhart put a brotherly arm round his shoulder.
“Indeed!” Lord Charles stood to welcome him. “Bravey! A jug of your very special punch over here.”
“We don’t serve soldiers.”
“Since when?” Johnny Lockhart demanded. “That’s Douro’s regiment. This man and others like him were wounded in the late wars. Is this any way to treat men who have served loyally?”
“We don’t want a row.” Lord Charles put a placating hand on Johnny’s arm. “Nonsense, Bravey,” he called to the landlord. “You’ve served him before.” He turned to Tom. “Perhaps remove the jacket?”
Tom looked down. He’d forgotten he was still wearing it. He felt a surge of sympathy for the man whose coat he wore. He was a soldier, after all. Why should he take it off? He kept it on.
He was glad of the punch, hot and very strong. The fumes were enough to make you light-headed. Tom drank deep.
“Now, tell us all.”
Lord Charles and Johnny Lockhart listened carefully to what he had discovered about the recruiting of the Sneachieslanders and others to the Revolutionary Guard.
“They are being mustered at a place called Cox’s Yard.”
“Cox’s Yard?” Johnny Lockhart frowned. “I know it. Down by the docks. A big place. Room for hundreds. What then?”
“They are to wait for a signal. It’ll be tonight.”
“Well done, my boy.” Lord Charles clapped him on the shoulder. “More punch?”
“Not at the moment.” Tom looked round in some discomfort. “I need…” He didn’t quite know the word for it.
“The jakes.” Johnny Lockhart grinned. “Out back.”
Tom found the outhouse with some relief.
“Now it’s our turn, soldier boy.” Strong hands seized Tom by the shoulders. “See how you like this.”
Tom felt a sharp blow to the side of his head. He was hauled away, half stunned, legs buckling. Up steps and down steps, passed off as a drunk as he dangled between the two men like a string-cut puppet. They halted at one of the fountains and pushed his head under until he was nearly drowning, before dragging him out and pushing his head under again.
Scroven laughed. “That ought to wake him up a bit.”
Tom shook the water from his eyes, his head clearing.
He was marched on across the square and down a side alley. The men stopped in front of a low, iron-studded door. Laury took out a big bunch of keys and unlocked it. Steep stone steps led down into darkness.
Scroven pushed him and Tom fell forward. He was picked up at the bottom and dragged along a stone passageway lit with flickering torches set in sconces, barred cells on either side. Tom caught glimpses of ragged, skeletal bodies chained to walls. The stench had him gagging: clogged drains, rotten rushes, human excrement added to the onion stink of his captors’ sweat.
“Gipping like a maid, are we?” Scroven jeered. “You ain’t had anything to puke about yet.”
An iron door creaked open and Pigtail threw him through it. Tom landed in a heap of filth and looked up at the tall, spare, black-clad figure of S’death.
“Chain ’im up.”
Iron manacles snapped round Tom’s wrists and ankles and round his neck.
He was in a proper torture chamber; chains hung on the walls and from the ceiling. A brazier glowed in the corner, presided over by a big man, his upper face obscured by a leather flap with two rough eye holes cut into it. He wore a greasy jerkin and a thick apron over his breeches, the various pockets filled with hammers and pliers. Sweat gleamed on his bald head and the thick rolls of fat on his neck as he stirred and adjusted the various irons protruding from the coals.
S’death stepped forward. “Meet my man, Gregory.”
The man looked up and grinned, revealing a gaping hole where his teeth should have been.
“He don’t talk. Tongue ripped out for a previous transgression but he’s learnt the error of his ways. Ent that right, Gregory?”
The big man grunted and nodded his head.
S’death went over to the brazier and selected an iron with his gloved hand. The letter “R” at the tip glowed deep ruby red as he brought it close to Tom, then closer. Tom could feel the heat on his cheek. He flinched away but his head was held fast by the iron clasped round his neck.
“We have other instruments—other irons in the fire, shall we say.”
Gregory grinned his black grin and S’death snickered slightly at his own joke.
“Even the humble poker has its uses. Gregory is inventive. Ain’t that so, Gregory? And he do love his work.”
The big man gave a leering laugh and nodded vigorously.
“You can’t imagine what he’d do with it.”
S’death smiled as Tom struggled against his fetters—he could imagine it only too well.
Struggling was futile but Tom couldn’t help it. It was an automatic response.
“Or maybe you can. Eyes for a start, and other tender parts.”
S’death returned the branding iron to the brazier and selected a long, smooth iron instead. Tiny red and gold sparks ran up and down the shaft as he walked round Tom, feinting towards him, like a fencer.
“So, where to begin? Why don’t we start by you telling me everything you know. Then maybe we won’t need to use any of these things.”
Gregory’s face fell at the prospect.
“Ne’er mind, Gregory. There’ll be others. Dungeons are filling by the minute. We’ll soon have more than even you can handle.”
S’death waved the iron under Tom’s nose, the cherry-pink tip so close he could smell singeing.
“I don’t know anything!”
“No! Don’t know ain’t good enough. We know you been spying. And who for. What we don’t know is what you been telling ’em. Gregory, gimme the branding iron again. It should be good and hot.”
“Enough.” Pigtail came into the chamber. “He ain’t to be damaged.”
“Who says?”
“Orders.” Pigtail showed him a paper.
“Whose orders?”
“My orders.” Johnny Lockhart stepped into the room, a pair of pistols trained upon them, with more in his belt. “Release him.”
Gregory released Tom’s manacles, whimpering his reluctance.
“Hurry up, or I’ll blow your head off!” Lockhart demanded.
“No hard feelings, young fellow.” Pigtail hauled Tom to his feet. “We’ll meet again later,” he whispered in a gust of foul breath. “We’ve got something very special in mind for you.”
Once Tom was free
, Johnny slammed the cell door on them and locked it.
“Very special,” Pigtail was shouting. “An honour, you might say!”
The accompanying laughter echoing after them suggested that it would be anything but.
THERE WAS NO SIGN OF TOM. No word from Isaac and Amos, who’d been sent out to search for him. No sign of them, either. Annie was worried but Augusta could delay no longer. Zenobia was outside.
“What are you doing in there?” She rapped on the door. “We will be late.”
“Carry on searching,” Augusta whispered to Annie. “If there is any news, find a way to let me know.”
Augusta took a deep breath as Annie opened the door. Zenobia was waiting, resplendent in a plumed headdress. Her gown of blood-red silk was low-cut across her creamy bosom; she wore rubies of the exact same shade round her neck and dangling from her ears.
“Let me see…” She circled Augusta. “Hmm, not too bad. You’ll never have my presence, of course. Oh.” She shied away with a mew of disgust. “What’s that ugly thing on your wrist? Take it off immediately.”
Augusta looked at the silver band with its black stone. She turned it. “I can’t—it won’t come off.”
“We’ll be late, my lady,” one of her women whispered.
“Leave it, then. It is the Duke’s wish that we should enter together.”
Zenobia took Augusta’s arm. Her women fell in behind them like a guard.
The doors of the ballroom opened before them and the crowd parted as they entered, making a long corridor for them to pass. Zenobia nodded from side to side, flicking her closed fan towards this one or that one as if dispensing blessings. Augusta held her head high as she ran the gauntlet of looks, glances and whispered comments.
The Duke was sitting on his gilt throne, high on his podium. Douro stood on one side of him and Rogue on the other.
Zenobia smiled up at Douro. Whatever happens this evening, her look seemed to say, you will be mine. She lowered her gaze, veiling the stark challenge in her dark eyes as she bowed to the Duke. The ostrich feathers in her headdress dipped and bobbed as she dropped into a low curtsy, tugging Augusta down with her.
“Tonight we have a double celebration,” the Duke announced.
At a clap of his hands, phalanxes of footmen came out from left and right, each bearing trays carrying coupes of champagne. At another signal from the Duke, Douro and Rogue stepped down from their places. Douro splendid in scarlet and swathed with gold braid, spurs clicking on the marble; Rogue all in black. Douro took Augusta’s hand in his sweaty, flaccid grip. Rogue moved to Zenobia’s side.
Augusta heard the hissed intake of her breath. Whatever she’d been expecting, this wasn’t it.
“The Duke is always full of surprises,” Rogue whispered as the couples turned to face the assembly.
“We are here to celebrate the betrothal of my beloved son, Arthur Augustus Adrian Wellesley, Marquis of Douro to the Lady Augusta Geraldine Almeida.”
Douro’s grip tightened and he tugged her forward.
“And my dear friend’s son, Alexander Augustus Percy, Duke of Northangerland to Lady Zenobia Ellrington. So, raise your glasses. A toast to the happy couples!”
Glasses were dutifully raised; the toast made.
“To the happy couples!”
The orchestra struck up and Douro took Augusta into his arms. He was careful to hold her well away from him. As the couples turned and turned about each other, Augusta glimpsed Zenobia scowling and Rogue smiling. The deeper her scowl, the wider his smile. He was the only one enjoying this the least bit.
Douro leant towards her, whispering into her ear. “You are my lady now and I will expect you to behave as such. No more escapades, no more running wild. You will stay here, by my side. You will have little choice in that. All you have will be mine. You have been given your head for too long. It’s time you were curbed. Since you cannot discipline yourself, I will do it for you. From now on, who you speak to, who your friends are, what you do, every moment of your day, I will decide. Once we are married you will do your duty. You can be sure I’ll do mine. I’ll take pleasure in it.”
“I loathe you.”
“That will only add to it.” He laughed as he pressed her closer.
She had been wondering how things could get any worse. They just had. Well, she’d see about that.
“I have great plans,” he went on as he steered her round, “and you could be part of it. The Duke, my father, can’t rule for ever. When he dies, or decides to abdicate, whichever is the sooner, I will take over. I will make a new kingdom, Angria.”
Angria? Augusta hid her grimace in his shoulder. The name was worse than Verdopolis.
“Whose idea was that?”
“Mine, of course. What think you of it?”
Augusta didn’t reply; she concentrated on following his lead, jammed to him in a rigid embrace. He guided her through and around the other dancers with all the natural grace of clockwork. Augusta smothered a shudder. If his dancing was anything to go by, it didn’t augur well for their marriage.
“You can be part of it, at my side as my dutiful and obedient queen. Or…”
“Or what?”
“You will be banished to the furthest castle on the furthest estate, where you will sigh out the rest of your life. There will be no escape. It is your choice. Now, if you will excuse me.”
He released her with a bow and was soon in the arms of Mina Laury, his faithful, long-suffering mistress. Augusta didn’t expect that would change.
Augusta did not lack for partners long; she was whisked from one young lord to another. She excused herself and stood watching the dancers; the Sneachiesland lairds in their swirling kilts and black and silver jackets cut quite a dash among the young officers.
A footman glided up to her with a note on a silver salver. It was from Annie: No sign yet.
“What is that? A billet-doux?” Zenobia was suddenly next to her, peering over her shoulder.
“Nothing.” Augusta tucked the note into her reticule.
Zenobia watched the dancers, glowering as Douro and Mina Laury swept past in each other’s arms. “Happy now?”
“Not at all. I don’t want to marry.”
Zenobia looked at her. “Not ever?”
“Not ever. You’ve come off better. You and Rogue are made for each other.”
“Speak of the devil…”
The devil, indeed.
“Would either of you ladies?…” Rogue started. Zenobia turned her back with an exaggerated shiver. “Augusta?” He held his hand out to her. “Shall we join the dance?”
Rogue led her on to the floor.
“It’s not quite what anyone wants, to be sure,” he said as he took her into his arms. “Zenobia least of all. She hasn’t ceased scowling since the Duke’s announcement.” Zenobia was leaning against a column, glaring at them. “But the Duke wills it and his will be done. He rules here with absolute authority. What was Douro whispering to you about? His great plans, no doubt. They will come to nothing. You have my word on that.”
Rogue danced well, without Douro’s stiffness. Although he held her more tightly than she would have liked, she’d had worse partners. He was a good height and at least his hands were dry. He had none of Douro’s girlish prettiness. His skin was swarthy, slightly pitted; his looks less than perfect. The scar on his left cheek, the ruggedness of his strong features, gave his countenance interest. His eyes were large and deep-set, a blue so dark as to be almost black, with no difference in shade between iris and pupil.
His hold on her tightened. “Look at me like that and I’d think you really would like to marry me.”
“I was merely thinking I’ve never seen eyes like yours. They are almost black.”
“Black eyes, black heart. Is that what you think?”
Augusta didn’t answer.
“That’s enough dancing.” He released her from his arms but did not let go of her hand. “Come. There’s food, I hear. I’m rave
nous.”
He led her to the adjoining room. A long table was set out with all kinds of food. The centrepiece was a swan carved from ice, heaped about with lobsters and oysters. There were huge hams and pies. Mousses of various kinds, a salmon and capons in aspic. At the other end of the table was a model of Glass Town made from spun sugar, wobbling castles of jellies and blancmange, and silver dishes piled high with peaches and grapes, pineapples from the Duke’s hothouses. Men and women grazed along the table, piling their plates high.
“Larks’ tongues.” Rogue seized a tiny triangle of toast from a silver salver. He crammed one into his mouth and then another. “My favourite.”
“There you have it,” Augusta said. “I could never marry a man who enjoyed larks’ tongues.”
“I like the birds, too,” he said. “All songbirds, in fact. The innards make them especially tasty.” He looked over the table. “None here. Pity. The bones make them too fiddly, I dare say. I can tempt you to something, surely. An ice, perhaps, with strawberries?” He nodded towards silver dishes sweating on a mountain of crushed ice.
“No.” Augusta shook her head. “I find I’ve no appetite.”
“Now, why would that be?” Rogue looked down at her. “Must be the excitement of your engagement. Bound to make any girl feel a little giddy.”
“I’m not any girl.” Augusta turned away from him. “And I don’t feel the least bit giddy.”
“No?” He took her chin between his fingers and turned her face to him. “You look pale to me, a little down in the mouth. Perhaps you’re finding it all a little… overwhelming. Perhaps you need cheering? Lord Charles! Just the man! And Johnny Lockhart! They have your young friend with them.” His tone was light, playful, but his expression was anything but. He looked surprised, annoyed, very put out. “I must leave you…”
“What’s the hurry?” Johnny Lockhart stopped him.
“Urgent business elsewhere,” Rogue muttered.
“Really? Perhaps you’d like to explain to Lady Augusta how her friend Tom ended up in your dungeons?”
“Dungeons!”
So that’s where Tom had been. There was a cut on his lip, bruising to the side of his face. She turned to Rogue, hardly able to contain her fury. She felt like striking him.