Judith Ivory (34 page)

“This way, doctor.”

The doctor followed Edward Claybourne down a narrow, steep run of stairs. At places, as he descended, the stone walls all but touched his shoulders. He was broader than Claybourne, heavier. And younger, though not by many years.

Light closed off slowly from above. The walls rose higher and higher. Dutifully, Angus Townsend followed Claybourne’s swinging lantern, though he could probably have found his own way down these stairs in the dark. He had been down them several dozen times, most recently just three days ago. Usually, he came to this prison to sign death certificates. But occasionally, as now, Claybourne relied on him for his actual medical ability. And always, Claybourne relied on him for his silence. That was understood, part of the happy little bundle of coins at the end of each visit. You do what you’re told and say nothing. Angus was good at saying nothing and was relatively good at appearing to do what he was told: These were the cardinal rules by which he survived a difficult marriage to a woman he
no longer even liked. He did what he was told. He said nothing. And he took on extra work, including prison work, if it would keep him away from home.

“How is the wife?” Claybourne chatted.

“The same. And your man? How’s he?” Three days ago, Townsend had removed a steel ball from the belly of one of Claybourne’s “special prisoners.”

“Well. Too well, probably. You’ll see. He’s got the constitution of an ox.”

Keys clanked and jangled at the cell door. Then the light of their lantern opened up the little room to them in a flood. The prisoner, on a cot, raised his arms against the glare. His wrists were bound together.

“Well, at least he’s conscious. That’s an improvement.” The doctor set his bag on a little table. He looked about the room. It was as he’d remembered it. Cleaner than the usual cells of this prison. Austere. One table. One cot. One blanket. No windows. No light.

“If I weren’t so interested in moving him, I wouldn’t bother you again,” Claybourne began. “But he’s developed a slight fever.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Here, help me move him onto his back. Careful!” The prisoner struck out with his bound hands at the English minister.

Claybourne leaped back. Then laughed. “Not quite so quick as usual, eh, La Chasse? Can’t even reach an old man. But you are lucky. You are going to live. The one ball that might have killed you just pushed your intestines aside—like a marble dropped into a bowl of spaghetti.” He chuckled. “So—” the old man was very cheerful about the whole thing, “since you’re awake, we’ll summon a little extra protection, hm?” He yelled over his shoulder toward the cell door, “Guards!” To the doctor, “Please be a little wary. He can be a lamb, or he can be a regular handful. You never know quite what he’s going to do.”

A regular handful. Townsend contemplated this as he laid out his instruments. The man on the cot, he noted, was already perspiring heavily. The muscles of his arms jerked; involuntary spasms. And all this from the effort of one swing. The doctor shook his head. Only a man dead and cold could have been less dangerous.

Nonetheless, three guards tromped into the room. They brought two more lanterns. The cell virtually blazed with light and long shadows. The prisoner turned his face against the wall.

Claybourne spoke to the guards. “We’ll get these bandages off. You hold his arms. You, his legs.”

There was no resistance. The man’s arms were pulled up and back and held firm by one man. A guard at the other end leaned on his legs. Ridiculous precautions. The prisoner’s trousers were already ripped up one leg to his waist, allowing access to the dressings on his thigh and belly. And the old hands of his chief tormentor began to yank and fumble with the bandages.

The doctor brought a lantern closer to the prisoner’s face. The man flinched. And the doctor let out a surprised exclamation. The prisoner was gagged! Tightly, into the bite of his mouth! It was absurd, but more and more, Townsend was beginning to feel party to torture, not healing. What man could possibly merit such treatment as this—wounded as he was, then bound and gagged in a dark cell?

The doctor reached down to turn the man’s face. “Let me see your eyes, son.” But the man jerked his head away.

“Hold his head.” Claybourne gestured to the third guard standing by the door.

He came forward and grabbed the man by the hair, pulling his head straight back until the veins and cartilage in his throat were in sharp relief.

“He’s not cooperative, Angus,” remarked the old minister.

“He might be more so if he were treated less like a wild beast.”

The old minister stopped fumbling with the bandages long enough to look at the doctor. “I can see you disapprove. But let me make the situation clear. This man has caused me more trouble than any dozen have in my last thirty years.
No
precaution I’ve taken has not been worth the trouble.”

“But the gag. Is that really—”

“Necessary? Yes. I didn’t order it until yesterday. Hopefully, my last mistake with him. He talks a smooth story. And one very foolish guard believed his promises of money and protection. Pah! Fool. The guard has paid for his stupidity. He is in a similar cell at this very moment.” The minister gave Townsend a meaningful look. “There is no excuse anyone could offer me to explain the escape of this man. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Yes, Angus Townsend was beginning to understand quite well. The minister’s usual businesslike detachment was missing in the case of this prisoner. Terribly missing. And the old minister was a terrible enemy to have—especially at such close range and liberty.

Townsend took off his glasses and cleaned them on the tail of his coat. “I need to examine his eyes,” he said.

Room was made for him to come closer. The man’s rough-bearded face was forced around.

It was not a face Townsend had been prepared for. He had seen it while the man had been unconscious, of course. But awake, the man’s face took Townsend aback. It was intelligent. Full of knowledge of the situation. And full of unconcealed hostility. What normally made men meek, made this man angry. A shame, Townsend thought. This was probably not the best attitude under the circumstances.

The doctor touched the long red wound that ran down one bearded cheek. Someone else had seen to some stitches there. It was healing all right. But it would mar an otherwise strikingly handsome face. Fine bones. Unusual coloring. Townsend had been too busy trying to keep the man alive to notice such details the night they had brought him in. Who was this man? he wondered.

The doctor contented himself with examining the man’s eyes, the nodes of his neck—trying to ignore the fact that Claybourne was simultaneously carrying on a sadistically joyous and one-sided conversation with a man held down for him by three guards.

“We take no chances with you, eh, La Chasse?” He gave a cheerful pat to the wound on the man’s thigh as he took the last of the bandages off. “My marksmen were so good at making it appear a fatal shooting, it almost was. But then, we had to have it close. Needless to say, I am delighted you’ve lived.” The old fingers started to undo the heavy bandages at the man’s gut. “Unfortunately for you no one else is too delighted. You’re dead, you know, to the rest of the world.” The prisoner wasn’t paying attention. The doctor could tell that the area of the second injury was very tender. The prisoner had begun to sweat again. A tenseness pervaded his body that said he fully expected an intentionally painful time of it.

The old man made no attempt to disappoint him. The prisoner flinched through the minister’s words, hardly aware of them. “A lovely hero’s burial. Very touching. I myself spoke movingly at the funeral. You became too dangerous for conventional charges and trial, my dear man. Even if I could find a law you’d broken, you were above the law in most people’s eyes. But not beyond my reach.”

As Claybourne began opening the prisoner’s shirt, the doctor was reminded of one of the reasons this
man had survived. He was a sturdy, strongly built man, in what would have been excellent condition before this disaster befell him.

“A superb creature.” The old man’s voice reaffirmed the doctor’s thoughts. His old hands ran over the man’s chest. “I’m so glad I’ve been able to preserve you—in a sense. By the way, did I tell you? You have a son. I’m told he looks just like you. Not that you’ll ever see him.”

The prisoner closed his eyes. As if he might will himself away from all the pain Claybourne kept heaping on him.

“Has he been getting any sleep?” the doctor interrupted. He moved Claybourne aside and opened the last sticky bandage at the main wound.

“I don’t know. I don’t think—”

The doctor looked at Claybourne. “Haven’t you been giving him the sedative I left?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I am out to save his life, not make it comfortable for him.”

“You have to give him the sedative. If he doesn’t sleep, he’ll get weaker.”

“As it is, I can hardly contain him, he’s so damn strong. He’s bound, you know, because he knocked a guard unconscious the first night after his surgery.”

“Well, if he were sedated, he couldn’t do that, could he?” Townsend finished with wiping the wound and went over to his bag to get clean bandages. “He’s in considerable pain.”

“Good—”

“It’s not for your gratification I mention it.” He brought the bandages over. “Look. The muscles of his belly twitch involuntarily at the merest touch. He is in a sweat from just what little we are doing to him now.
You’re going to have to listen to me, Claybourne. He can’t sleep like this. You have to give him a sedative, or he won’t last thirty-six hours. And the fever will take him into unconsciousness long before that—”

Claybourne didn’t like this. He frowned.

“Remove the gag,” the doctor instructed. “I want to hear him breathe. Also, if you are really interested in his living, he needs a cup of water down him, one way or another, every hour or so—to help his body cope with the fever. His limbs should be free to move. This would improve his circulation. And he needs extra blankets and clean, warm clothes—”

Claybourne laughed. “You know, he is a prisoner of the Crown, not visiting royalty. A prisoner, Townsend.”

The doctor shrugged. “You will have to decide whether he is more your prisoner or my patient.”

Townsend waited to be stopped as he took his scissors and cut the gag off the man’s face. He didn’t know how much good his boldness would do the man—or himself for that matter—but something bold needed to be done.

The prisoner’s eyes had opened to watch him. They shifted to Claybourne, then back to him. Again, the doctor had the impression of intelligence.

“I speak some French. Would you prefer that?” Townsend asked the man.

Claybourne intervened quickly. “He would be a fairly poor spy if he didn’t speak good English, wouldn’t he? I want to know exactly what is said between you.”

“Here, does it hurt here?” The doctor pushed and released his abdomen, checking for loose blood in the cavity. The man wet his lips, tried to speak, then shook his head
no.
“Would someone get him some water?” Back to the man on the cot, “Have you moved your bowels since the surgery?”

The prisoner’s mouth almost seemed to smile. Again he shook his head to indicate
no.

“Well, you will. There is rumbling in your belly, which is a very good sign. Your organs have decided, despite the insult, to resume. I want to know when. All right?”

The smile materialized fully for a moment. The man had a very fine set of teeth. Straight. Very white. They reflected a lifetime of good food, good health. He nodded.

“Now—” water arrived; the man took a drink, “tell me about your head. Does it ache?”

He indicated it did.

“Where? How? Is your vision all right?”

And another small shock. The raspy voice that answered was educated. One didn’t miss the accent; very upper-class, very English. “It’s fine.” He closed his eyes, opened them. “But I can’t tell you where—” he swallowed, “where my head aches. My belly feels—feels like there’s an axe in it—”

“I know. I’m going to leave you some laudanum.”

The man shook his head. He didn’t want it. “It would take a quart—Get me opium. A pure finger.” His voice went lower, to a tone that alarmed for its sincerity: “Or hemlock. I don’t care which. I want out of here,” he said hoarsely. “Get me something that will take me away—”

The room swam. But Claybourne was a bloody genius at keeping a man conscious, Adrien had discovered. The cot was set at a slight angle. Adrien’s head was an inch or two lower than his feet. It gave him a headache, but it kept the blood flowing to his brain. Claybourne wanted him in pain, and he wanted him awake to feel it.

The pain was not the worst thing, however. Adrien
had never known such a sense of isolation as he felt in this place. To be one against a multitude of guards, examiners, doctors, tormentors…To be struck, poked at, moved about, talked over like a dumb animal…No friends, not an ally in sight. Never had he been so utterly alone.

And now, if Claybourne’s taunt was true, even Adrien’s outside world, his outside hope, had been closed off to him. Did everyone really believe him dead? No lawyers trying to free him? No friends complaining of his treatment? Was there no one even looking for him?

Adrien closed his eyes and turned his face toward the wall. He didn’t doubt that this was true. And the knowledge registered like a blow; another loss. It was getting hard to keep score, there were so many now.

The ungodly pain. The narrow cell. The dark, damp silences—broken only by the sounds of his imprisonment. The rattle of keys. Boots that stomped in and out of his cell. Loud, manhandling confrontations—always so profoundly one-sided…

But at the top of any list of losses was the one Adrien tried not to think about too much. It was too painful. Still, in his dreams, he sometimes heard the sound of Christina’s voice. And, if he wasn’t careful, he would find himself remembering her softness and warmth, which would only serve to make his present circumstances all the more harsh and unbearable. How he missed her. How often he turned in his sleep, in his pain, feeling for her in the dark. Part of him was dazed by her absence; she had become so much a part of his life, he could barely comprehend being on this hard, cold cot without her.