She smiled and nodded, then closed her eyes for a moment as even that movement sent a spasm of pain down her neck to her shoulders, which were pulled back in an unnatural position.
He picked up the flask, but instead of coming directly across to her as he usually did, he looked at the door and then approached her from the side, so that anyone looking in at the grille would see his broad back which concealed her from view.
“I was thinking last night,” he said in a soft voice, “if you’ll allow me the liberty to touch you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he wrapped his left arm round her waist, and as he held the flask to her lips with his right, he lifted her off the floor. The pressure on her shoulders eased immediately and she gave an involuntary moan of relief.
“No one can see what I’m doing,” he whispered in her ear, “I can give you as much drink as you want. If I take a minute or two each time, it might help you a little? If anyone opens the grille I can let you down and move back, and they’ll not know a thing.”
She flexed and pointed her feet, closing her eyes tightly against the pain it caused, trying to ease the stiffness in the muscles.
“You’re a good man, Ned,” she said. “Thank God for you.” Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them back, not wanting to embarrass him, not wanting to show weakness even to this gentle man, knowing that once she allowed a crack to appear in her defences the whole structure would collapse. She had to stay strong.
“’Tis barbarous to treat you like this. I was going to ask to be relieved of duty yesterday, because I can’t bear to see you suffer, but –”
“No!” she interrupted. “Please don’t do that. You’re helping me more than you know. It would be a lot worse without you.”
“That’s what I thought. So I didn’t ask. But it pains me to see you hurting so.”
“Many people are treated a lot worse, Ned. I’m a traitor, as they see it.”
“Why don’t you tell them what you know? I’m sure they’d let you go if you did.”
“If you were me, Ned, would you betray the people you loved more than anything, knowing they’d be killed if you did?”
He let her down again, very gently, and she took a deep breath, bracing for the pain, which came as soon as her legs took her weight again.
“No,” he said, standing back. “I wouldn’t. But others are turning evidence, and they’re men, and made to stand pain. No one would blame you, I’m sure.”
“I would blame myself, and that’s what matters to me.”
“You’re very brave, Beth, traitor or no.”
He went over to the hook where the rope was secured and untied it. Then he played out a few inches of the rope, releasing a little of the pressure on her arms and allowing her to bend her legs slightly.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’m sorry I can’t do more. If the sergeant comes in and says anything, I can tell him the rope must have stretched and I hadn’t noticed. But if I loosen it any more…“
“You’ll be flogged and I’ll be in a much worse position, and neither of us wants that,” she finished for him. “I understand. Don’t feel guilty, Ned.”
He sighed, corked the flask, moved to the corner, and the long day began.
Beth was endeavouring to take her mind off the pain she was in by reciting poetry to herself. Currently she was trying to remember a poem by Dryden, which she had learned at her father’s knee, but which now was all too appropriate:
Feed a flame within, which so torments me
That it both pains my heart, and yet contains me:
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die than once remove it.
Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,
But they fall silently, like rain on roses.
No, that wasn’t quite right… what was it? She frowned, trying to remember.
But they fall silently, like dew on roses. That was it! She smiled to herself.
The door opened, and Richard walked in.
Ned instantly shot to attention, and saluted. Richard didn’t even favour him with a glance; instead he looked at his sister and laughed, a sound of pure delight. Beth could not remember the last time she had heard Richard laugh, and would have given a great deal never to hear him again. A wave of despair washed over her; and then she summoned every ounce of strength she possessed, lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” he said brightly. “Prison life doesn’t suit you, it seems. You have let yourself go.”
“Whereas the military life clearly does suit you, Richard,” she replied coolly. “You have put on weight. If you are not careful you will soon have jowls, like Edward.”
It was not true. He looked in the prime of health and fitness, but the barb hit home and he frowned. He turned and looked at Ned, who was still standing to attention.
“Out,” he said curtly, gesturing to the open door with his head.
“I have been ordered to stand watch, sir, until six of the clock. I cannot desert my post,” Ned replied stiffly.
Richard looked at him and the young man flinched, but didn’t move.
“And who ordered you?” he said.
“My sergeant, sir,”
“Well, Private…”
“Miller, sir,” Ned supplied.
“Well, Private Miller, the Duke of Newcastle has ordered me to have a chat with my sister. And I am ordering you to get out. Is that clear? If your sergeant has anything to say about that, he can come to me.”
Ned blushed, clearly aware that this man was a captain, but also aware that if he was her brother, as he said, he didn’t seem to have a congenial relationship with her.
“I…” he began.
“I will be alright, Private Miller,” Beth said. “Do as my brother says.”
Ned glanced from her to Richard, undecided.
Richard had had enough. He grabbed the young soldier by the shoulder, turned him toward the door and propelled him out of it with such force that Ned hit the wall on the other side of the corridor. Then he slammed the door closed and turned back to his sister.
“So, Newcastle has sent you, has he?” she said. “Well, you can save yourself some time. Tell him I have nothing to say, either to him or to you.”
Richard smiled again, and walked over to stand in front of her.
“I don’t have anything else to do with the rest of my morning,” he said pleasantly. “And I’ve been looking forward to our chat all night. It would be a shame to cut it short. His Grace has sent me to try to make you see sense. He seems to think a little brotherly persuasion might make you change your mind. What do you say?”
“And did you tell His Grace what your idea of brotherly persuasion is?” she asked.
Richard gritted his teeth.
“You mean to hold that one mistake against me for the rest of my life,” he snarled.
“Not at all,” she replied calmly. “I am sure you’ve done far worse than that.” Just in time she stopped herself from mentioning Martha and Ann. It was a small thing, revealing that she knew about them, but it was small things that betrayed people. “You enjoy brutalising people, don’t you? Particularly when they can’t hit back.”
His expression told her she’d hit home and she braced herself, preparing for his reaction, but to her surprise, instead of hitting her he glanced at the door and then leaned in to her until his face was close to her ear.
“Where is it?” he said urgently in a low voice.
“Where is what?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.
“The money,” he said. “I went to see Cox, and he told me you’d withdrawn it all. Tell me where it is and I’ll get it, put it somewhere safe. Then you can tell Cumberland any old rot about Sir Anthony. He’s soft on you, you know that. He’ll believe you and no doubt he’l
l let you go. There’s a five thousand pound reward for information. You could live reasonably for years on that. We’ll both be rich.”
She stared at him in shock. Had he forgotten that he was already rich? His marriage to Anne Redburn had left him immensely wealthy. She had expected him to try to beat her to obtain information, not to attempt to talk her into it.
“We can even split the dowry, if you like,” he added, misunderstanding her silence. “What do you say? You must see that it makes sense. Anthony never gave a damn about you, you know. He only married you to cover up the fact that he prefers boys. He’s probably in France now, where they don’t give a damn if you fuck boys or not.”
To his surprise, she laughed, a genuine laugh of true amusement.
“You must be mad if you think I’d trust you for one second with that money,” she said.
“It belongs to me by right,” he said sullenly. “You know father would have changed his will if he’d had time.”
“You’re right, he would,” she agreed.
“Well then, you must see –”
“He would have changed it to make sure that when he died he didn’t put me in the position of being dependent on you in any way at all. If he’d known that his will would make me have to choose between marrying someone I despised or being swived by my own brother, he’d turn in his grave.”
His hand shot out and closed round her throat, squeezing.
“You fucking bitch,” he spat. “You tell me where the money is, and where that traitorous bastard’s hiding, or I’ll cut you in pieces.”
She made a rasping sound in her throat, and he eased the pressure a little.
“If you’re so desperate to know where the money is, I’ll tell you,” she croaked. She tried to speak again, but coughed instead.
Richard went to the corner and picking up the flask, took the stopper out and held it to her lips. She drank and swallowed, then cleared her throat.
“Where is it?” he asked eagerly.
“Some of it’s in the bellies of the army,” she said. “Some of it’s probably rusting away on Drumossie Moor. And some of it was used to skewer redcoats like you. And some of it will probably be hidden, though I don’t know where, waiting for the next rising.”
“What?” he said, unable to believe what she was telling him.
“It’s gone, Richard. But don’t worry, every penny was well spent.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, his colour rising.
“That’s up to you. But it’s true. Father might not have approved of the cause, but I’m sure he’d rather I spent the money on that than let you have it. You were always a great disappointment to him, Richard. He just hoped you’d grow up one day. But you never have, have you? You’ll always be that spoilt brat crying for his mummy.”
She was goading him, looking for the muscle ticking in his cheek which would tell her he was losing control. She needed him to lose control, because when he did he would kill her, which was what she wanted.
Even so she was unprepared for the blow when it came. She saw his fingers curl and expected him to hit her in the face, but instead he drove his fist into her stomach with such force that he lifted her off the ground. Her legs collapsed under her as her body automatically tried to double over against the pain, and all her weight was taken on her shoulders, which rotated backwards, tearing the tendons in the process.
The pain was more excruciating than anything she had ever known, or imagined possible. She tried to scream, but the blow had driven all the air from her lungs and all that came out was a guttural moan.
He stepped back, watching with satisfaction as she fought for breath, her face contorted with agony, tears streaming down her cheeks. Finally she managed to drag in a sip of air, then another. And then by a superhuman effort she got her feet under her and stood again.
“Tell me who he is,” Richard said. He had believed her about the money, then. “What does he look like? You must have seen him without the paint. You must know his name. Who is he?”
Chest heaving, she glared at him.
“When you go back to Newcastle,” she said, her voice hoarse as she fought the pain, “please thank him for his consideration in sending you here. It has fortified me more than anything else could have done. If I was in any danger of forgetting how much I hated the murdering redcoat bastards Cumberland has the nerve to call an army, you have reminded me. Tell the duke he will rot in hell before I ever say anything he will want to hear.”
He moved forward and kicked her in the shin, smiling as her legs gave way and her whole body weight was taken by her arms. This time she did scream, and he laughed.
“Who is he?” he said again.
She stood again and looked at him, her blue eyes dark with hatred and pain.
“Burn in hell, Richard,” she said.
“I probably will,” he agreed pleasantly. “But between now and then, I intend to enjoy myself.” He looked at the rope binding her arms and then up at the beam. Then he walked over to the hook in the wall and untied the rope. The release of pressure was so sudden and unexpected that she almost fell forward on her face, but managed to drop to her knees and save herself.
“You know, they’re not doing this right,” he said conversationally, wrapping the end of the rope around his fist. “It’s called the strappado. You should know about it, it was a favourite of the Inquisition. They were Catholics too, like you. Here, let me show you.”
He pulled hard on the rope, lifting her until her feet were completely off the ground. Her shoulders rotated and she felt one of them pop as it dislocated, and she screamed, a long, ear-rending cry of pure agony, not caring whether he was getting pleasure from it or not. No one could bear this level of pain silently.
He secured the rope again and then walked back to stand in front of her, watching as her screams died to moans. Her face and neck were rigid with pain, her eyes closed tight. He reached up and gripped her chin hard.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. His expression was flat and hard, but his eyes were dancing with arousal. She glanced down and saw the unmistakable bulge in his breeches, and felt the bile rise in her throat. As brutal as he’d been the night he’d tried to rape her, he had still attempted to restrain himself at first, and had been remorseful later.
But the man standing in front of her now no longer had the capacity for remorse, or for any decent human emotions at all. He probably would kill her, given time, if Newcastle had told him he could; but he was no longer the brother she had known, who could be goaded into losing control and killing her quickly. In spite of herself a shiver of fear ran through her, and recognising it, he smiled.
“Good. We’re getting somewhere,” he said. “Because this is only the first stage. There are two more variations of the strappado that I’d be delighted to show you, and then I’m sure I can think of a few more. I don’t think it’ll come to that, though, do you?”
He paused, obviously expecting her to plead with him to stop. She remained silent.
“Tell me his name, his real name,” he said, “and I’ll let you down and call the surgeon to you.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat had been strained with the screaming, and she whispered something he couldn’t hear. She closed her mouth again and convulsed. He stepped in closer, his face right under hers now, looking up at her.
“What did you say?” he asked.
Her mouth twisted in the rictus of a grin, and then she opened it and released a stream of foul-smelling yellow bile, which hit him in the face and splashed onto his immaculate uniform.
He jumped back, cursing, and she laughed derisively. Then he punched her in the stomach again, twice. The first blow was agonising, and her legs jerked upwards automatically. But when he hit her the second time she felt the impact, but strangely no pain. She knew he was shouting something at her, yet his voice seemed to be coming from a very long way away, and it was joined a mome
nt later by another voice.
Ned.
She tried to speak, to tell him that she was alright, that this was what she wanted, to die, and that he should stay outside, but then the blackness took her, and she sank willingly into it.
* * *
Whitehall
The Duke of Newcastle was sitting in his office trying to deal with some of the mass of paperwork he had to face every day. He had thought that after the rebellion was over he would have less to do; but dealing with countless hundreds of prisoners, trying to discover who might turn evidence, arranging for witnesses to be brought from the far corners of the country to testify against those going to trial, and arranging transportation to the Colonies for those who were not was a time-consuming business.
He sat back, rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers and sighed. It was going to be a long day.
A tentative knock came on the door, and then it opened and Benjamin’s head popped through.
“You have a visitor, Your Grace,” Benjamin said.
Newcastle frowned.
“Does he have an appointment?” he asked.
“No, Your Grace, but it’s the keeper of Newgate and he says he has information about a prisoner you will want to hear.”
Newcastle would have given a great deal never to hear about any prisoner again, ever, but there was a slim chance it might be important.
“Show him in. Five minutes only,” he said.
The keeper came in and stood by the door, nervously turning his hat round and round in his hands.
“Well, Mr Jones, what information have you got that you think worth disturbing me for?” Newcastle said, his head still bent over a paper, using a tone that rendered the keeper even more nervous, if that were possible.
“I…it’s about Miss Cunningham, Your Grace,” Mr Jones stammered.
Newcastle stopped reading and looked up.
“What about Miss Cunningham?”
“Well, Your Grace, one of the women sharing her cell, Isobel Henderson, she comes to me this morning, and she says that she feels really bad, but that she thinks I ought to know something important about –”
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 34