“What is this? Is this what you drank, Simon?” James retrieved the elixir bottle from the floor where it had fallen, holding it up for Simon to explain. “Tell me what it is, so I might understand what in damnation you were attempting here!”
“It is of no matter, James, I—” Simon swung his legs over the mattress, testing them; they were rubber. The room again spun, and Simon fell through the cool, dark chasm of nothingness.
CHAPTER 17
Gaelan scoured the half-empty courtroom, searching the noisy crowd in the heated haze. Two weeks, and finally the travesty of a trial would be over. It would be but the start, Gaelan knew, of an uncharted journey into purgatory. Tremayne, leaning against a wall, glowered at the jury, his arms folded as he stood guard lest anyone might come forward to plead on his behalf.
None but one man might do him some good before the black cap appeared upon the judge’s wig. Bell was invulnerable to Lyle Tremayne, but nowhere to be seen. And why should he be? Sophie Bell was dead, and, from what he’d heard, by poisoning. Gaelan would not have been surprised to see Bell himself standing in the dock shouting, “Murderer!”
Again, and again, Gaelan replayed it in his mind, recounting each step taken to create the elixir. He’d made no obvious mistake, yet Sophie Bell was dead. What slight askew turn of his pestle or half second too long in the crucible might have turned this healing elixir into a deadly poison? Or had Bell corrupted the elixir some way? Had he failed to follow the directions? There was no way to know.
Gaelan glanced up toward Sally Mills, handkerchief in her hand, dabbing at tears as she stood in the front row of the gallery. He’d fought her silly notion of speaking for him at trial until finally she agreed to hold her silence. Tremayne would destroy her in a trice, and that inn had been part of her family for generations. He could not allow it.
Tremayne stepped up to the dock, his hand on a Bible. Gaelan forced himself to stay calm, hands clamped on the railing, biting his lip through the blackguard’s lies until he tasted the salt of his own blood.
“The man deals in the black arts, was what my sweet Lil said to me as she lay dying from one of Erceldoune’s special potions. Poisoned her, he did. Told her it was going to make her better. Well if dead is better, I suppose it’s what he did.” Tremayne laughed, a low growl. “He should be burnt, but we’re too civilized for that nowadays. Well, I suppose the hangman’s noose is just as effective!”
Able to stomach no more, Gaelan leapt from his chair. Two hands took hold of his arms, shoving him down hard onto the wooden bench.
“Perjurer!” he cried before his lawyer stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.
“You do yourself no favors, Mr. Erceldoune,” he whispered. “Hush now, else—”
Every muscle in Gaelan’s body twisted and clenched; he felt like a trussed pig. He glared at Tremayne as the man passed but inches away, walking from the dock back to his post near the door. The jury was dismissed, only to return a moment later, faces set and sour.
“Stand, Gaelan Erceldoune,” pronounced the judge, the black silk cap fluttering on his head.
Gaelan stood coiled and silent. He would accord Tremayne no sort of victory, never let him witness the panic that pulsed through his veins.
“Mr. Gaelan Erceldoune, apothecary of Smithfield in London, you shall be returned to Newgate Prison, where you were last confined, and from there you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and thereafter your body buried within the precincts of the prison. May the Lord—”
The hangman’s knot would secure around his neck, and he would stand unafraid, unbowed, like his father. Would the gallows surgeon be apathetic, declaring him dead the moment he’d lost consciousness, or would he be clever and wait for a death that would never come? Gaelan prayed for the former. Onto a barrow he’d be thrown for transport to the prison graveyard. Night would fall, and he would make his escape into the woods, running hard, not stopping until he’d reached the shore—a corpse misplaced or stolen, one among the many. Who would notice?
But luck had not been with him of late. What if his body refused to surrender as he dangled, the heavy, coarse rope slicing, burning into his neck as he struggled for air, praying for a death that refused to take him? Led from the courtroom through the mob of spectators, Gaelan could not purge from his mind the vision of such a spectacle, nor its aftermath.
A clang of iron gates echoed behind Gaelan with ominous finality, the world receding with every shuffle of his bound feet. Deeper and deeper within the old fortress walls he trudged, turnkeys at each elbow, through a labyrinth of passageways and yards, gates and gratings, until they descended to his cell. Finally, he was alone.
A stingy ray of bleak light filtered through a single filthy barred window. Dimmer and dimmer it grew, until gray day turned to black night. Rats skittered through the straw, keeping him vigilant. They awaited his sleep with waning patience, for then they would feast—he would provide a better meal than spiders and cockroaches. But he would resist as long as he could.
The darkness mingled with his exhaustion to conjure menacing phantoms of straw and insects, yet he refused to submit. Concentrate, Gaelan! Do not fall to sleep!
A fixed point might settle his nerves. Imagining Stella Polaris, his mind’s eye drew from it, the outline of the Starry Plough, neighboring groups of stars and their constellations. The entire night sky unfolded in the confines of his small cell. Reciting their familiar names aloud in Greek, then Latin, soothed him, but the sedate music of the languages became a lullaby, blotting out the yells of the condemned and the turnkeys, propelling him to float further and further from wakefulness. . . .
The morning light woke Gaelan to yet another day of despair. He scratched at his itching skin; the rats and insects had dined well. But the lesions had already faded to nothing but irritated prickles. The cell gate opened, and a guard hauled him from his pallet, thrusting Gaelan down a long row of cells and into the prison courtyard.
“Fresh air time, Erceldoune. Treasure it whilst you might. For in less than a week, you shall meet your Maker!”
The yard was nearly empty; the few prisoners huddled along an immense stone wall with battlements one hundred feet high.
“What are you doing here on this side of Newgate?”
Gaelan was startled by a small, wiry man standing at his shoulder. The man’s face was vaguely familiar.
“Man like you, educated and all—an apothecary, I’ve heard tell—Smithfield, isn’t it? Likely have some money set aside; so why are you here with the rabble when you might acquire for yourself a nice spot on the other side of our little village?”
A second man approached, and now he recognized them both: Tremayne’s men. This one could barely speak for his raucous coughing; disease ate away at his arm.
“Aww, I see you remember us. Lovely. Well, word from our . . . boss . . . has it that you’re some sort of magical healer, Erceldoune! So heal me!”
More men approached, and Gaelan searched the yard for guards—anyone who might forestall the likely outcome of this “welcome.” There were no routes of escape, and no way to fight off the growing gang, which seemed to increase magically as men appeared from every corner, pulling closer and closer.
“I was talkin’ to you, healer!” the prisoner persisted. The circle of men drew tighter still.
“What would you have me say? Had I my herbs, I would do my best to cure you, or at the very least give you laudanum to diminish your pain.” He was unconvincing.
“Well, apothecary, you will soon enough pray that you had some for yourself!” A knife’s blade flashed in the periphery of Gaelan’s vision, trained on his left flank.
Ah, so that’s what they’ve in mind—beat the executioner to the draw, here and now. Why take chances on a reprieve? The first blow was to his lower back—he was ready for it—but the second drove him hard into an iron grate. He licked away the pungent taste of salt and metal as blood poured from his lip. He moved to stand, but the blade of a rusty
knife came down hard, slicing through his abdomen again and again, until there was nothing but silence and the stillness of unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 18
Gaelan awoke slowly. Night had come again. No, not night, he realized as coarse buckram bit into his face from brow to cheek. He’d been blindfolded!
The attack flooded back to him in vivid detail. But how long had he been . . . here? Was he back in his cell, or had he entered some new circle of hell? He moved, trying to sit upright, yanked back by the sharp pressure of metal around his neck and wrists. Why had he been chained to a wall? And when?
This is not my cell. The smell was different, mustier, more oppressive; the rank stink of congealed blood and vomit pervaded his nostrils. Then there was the complete silence: no shouting, no clanging of cell doors. No sight, no sound, no idea where the bloody hell he . . .
A man’s voice fractured the silence. Close by . . . just above him. Gaelan jumped, and the irons pulled tighter. How long had the man been there, waiting?
“Mr. Erceldoune, you are awake. Welcome to Bethlem Royal Hospital.”
Gaelan drew a sharp breath as the coarse band prickled at the tender skin of his temples. He knew of this place and shunned it, as did all Londoners. “Bedlam! What the devil am I doing in Bedlam—and shackled?”
“Better question: how in the blazes did you manage to survive so expert a knifing? Pierced straight through to kidney, spleen, stomach, liver. By rights, you should be quite dead, bled to death in the prison courtyard. And here you are but three days hence awake, coherent, and with barely a scratch upon you as evidence of injury. Might you enlighten me on how that might possibly be?”
The amiable even-temperedness of his visitor’s voice unnerved Gaelan more than the shackles. A chill shuddered down his spine. “Why am I here?”
The pungent stink of his captor’s breath drew nearer yet, beneath the suffocating aroma of his sweet, spicy cologne. The man’s breath tickled the shell of Gaelan’s ear through the blindfold. “A man who is able to sustain such severe injury yet, paradoxically, not be injured presents to society quite a danger, you must agree—as a medical practitioner yourself, that is?”
A line of cold sweat shivered down Gaelan’s back as he struggled not to be sick. Bedlam was run by the worst sort of sadists, preying on the mentally unfit and impoverished; he’d heard the stories. “Who are you?” he demanded, unable to hide the tremble in his voice.
“I, sir, am Dr. Francis Handley, physician, anatomist, and qualified mad doctor. You have been given over to me, Mr. Erceldoune, so that I might study the phenomenon of your . . . unusual . . . physiology. It is a keen interest of mine to study rare species, of man in particular, just as Mr. Darwin examines the adaptability of his Galapagos finches. Your healing abilities are, to say the least, extraordinary, and I must wonder whether you are a harbinger of our own human future.”
Gaelan struggled as futilely with his bonds as with his terror. What in God’s nature did this madman have in store? “Am I not to hang, then? What of that scheme?” Beads of perspiration trickled from beneath the blindfold and down his face; his reserves were running thin as his imagination played out the terrible possibilities, not one a good outcome. He yanked again on the shackles, more instinct than hope.
“I am afraid, Mr. Erceldoune, that pulling on your binds will only serve to tighten them; they are designed that way, and it is quite an effective deterrent. So it is in your best interest not to struggle thus.
“No, you shall not hang, and for that you have me to thank. You ought to be grateful to have been spared that circus. And what a waste that would be! Besides, I suspect the noose would do little other than make you uncomfortable.”
Gaelan spoke through gritted teeth, fighting to maintain the semblance of defiance. “I’ve no bloody idea what you mean!”
“I will explain, though I wager you know more than you say. That attack would have killed any man of ordinary constitution within hours, minutes! Yet the physician at Newgate witnessed quite an extraordinary marvel as you lay in the sick ward. It was he brought you to my attention, knowing of my interest in Mr. Darwin’s work. And so here we are.”
Gaelan tried to muster disdain, but fear and exhaustion muddled his thoughts. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate. Abandon all hope, indeed.
“Please, then, would you remove the blindfold, at least? I wish to view my surroundings—I grow dizzy and disorientated without the ability to see. . . . I need . . .” The sound of his own pathetic voice made him nauseous. But Gaelan could not get his bearings, clutching at the solid metal of his manacles as if they were a lifeline. He tried to calm himself, evening his breathing in the hope it would steady him, if only a little.
“Ah, yes. That could well be the sedating medicines we have fed to you. They can render one . . . slightly out of kilter, Mr. Erceldoune. They shall wear off in due course and, if you stay calm, will not be used again.”
“The blindfold?”
“I’ve some questions for you.” Wood scraped on wood, and Gaelan sensed Handley even closer by. “First, the obvious: how did you do it?”
“Apparently, my attackers were not as effective as they’d hoped.”
Handley laughed heartily. “By Jove! Apparently is a good word for it. Appearances can be deceptive, can they not? And by the way, trying to be clever is not the way to earn the removal of that blindfold, which you so ardently desire.”
Gaelan sucked moisture from his cheeks, trying to wet his parched tongue. “Then I shall tell you in all seriousness,” he croaked, “I haven’t a notion at all. Perhaps it is the water of Newgate’s cisterns—or the food. Perhaps better clues lie there.” Just the exertion of talking sapped Gaelan’s remaining strength.
“Still too clever an answer, I am afraid. Is it possible, then, that you truly not know your abilities? Highly doubtful, yet . . . Perhaps it was fortuity spared your life? Again, you do not strike me a lucky sort of fellow. But you are an apothecary, a gifted apothecary, I hear tell. Have you some skill in alchemy as well, I wonder? And then, perchance, have you conjured in your laboratory the most elusive secret of life eternal? It is quite the shame your workroom was destroyed by fire, your library as well, I assume, since none of your possessions were found. Well, I say, it is of no matter; we shall know soon enough, and if indeed it was chance spared your life, we shall then not keep you a moment longer from the waiting arms of death the law has prescribed for you.”
Without warning, the rough bandages were ripped away, and Gaelan was staring into a candle flame held so close that it singed the raw skin of his face. He squeezed his eyes tight against the brightness.
“I want to see them, Mr. Erceldoune; do open them for me.” Handley’s voice coiled around him. “We shall begin our study tonight, after you’ve had something to eat. You must be quite famished.”
Gaelan was left alone in the cell.
At least the blindfold was gone, but it took only a moment to wish it was not. The oily-slick stone walls dripped foul moisture, and insects of several varieties—all well-fed and swift—darted from straw to wall and back again. But his surroundings were the least of his worries.
A tray was thrust beneath the bars. Maggots basked in the thin gruel. Revolting. Let them have at it. They were soon joined by a small host of creeping things. Gaelan kicked the tray away and tried to dispel the image.
The cell doors banged open; Handley had returned, a large leather pouch in his hand. “So, Mr. Erceldoune. Shall we become partners in this grand scientific adventure?” he asked, scrupulously avoiding the dinner tray as he pulled a chair before Gaelan.
Handley withdrew a scalprum of gleaming metal from the pouch. “A small cut, Mr. Erceldoune, on your forearm. That is all—a simple experiment. You shall barely feel it for the sharpness of the blade, though you should prepare yourself, for I shall go quite deep, but I promise to be swift and precise. And then . . . then, Mr. Erceldoune, we shall observe.”
Gaelan withdrew his arms
within the confines of his shackles as far as he could, feeling the irons tear at the skin of his wrists, but it was better than being touched by this lunatic.
Handley nodded, and two turnkeys appeared from the gloom beyond the cell. “Surely, sir, you are not disquieted by this small blade, and I was rather hoping for your cooperation. But if not—”
The men stood on either side of him, hauling his arms out into the open. Gaelan felt the tear of sinew as they twisted his wrists forward, exposing them to Handley’s blade.
Handley took firm hold of Gaelan’s arm as the blade slid easily through skin and vessels, stopping only when it hit bone. The scalprum was removed, and blood flowed in a claret river.
Gaelan watched, transfixed, as tender skin closed around the wound, and the bleeding stopped. Not in a long while had Gaelan observed the process of his skin knitting, tissue healing. “I—” He wanted to say . . . something. But the dim light further faded until awareness fled him and darkness enveloped him.
Awareness returned with a slap on the back and raucous laughter!
“Jolly well done, Mr. Erceldoune. Jolly well done!”
How long had he been asleep? The wrist and hand were now washed free of blood, an expanse of pale skin amid the griminess of his right arm, with nary a mark upon it.
He shivered. So now Handley knew. Two hundred years Gaelan had managed to elude discovery, and here he sat, powerless, in the hands of a lunatic doctor bent on “studying” his anatomy. No reprieve, no chance of escape, even into the arms of death. Gaelan cursed the ouroboros book, his father, and the goddess Airmid for burdening him with this curse.
“Who knows I am here? Besides you.” What of the men who attacked him: the gaolers and turnkeys, the doctors? What of his execution?
“To all but me and the physician who treated your injuries at Newgate—and the two guards you’ve just met—Gaelan Erceldoune died of wounds suffered during an unfortunate attack by a notorious gang. And henceforth you shall be known only as ‘the patient,’ a man with no name but to me.”
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