NaGeira (10 page)

“What’s the matter?” called a man on a stone platform enclosed with iron railings. I had not seen this dark elevation which overlooked the many-headed torment below. There was a heavy, iron-studded door behind this guard, and chains and whips at his feet.

“Nothing,” answered my guard. “A young prisoner from the master’s side. She wandered away. Nothing serious.”

“The master’s side!” called the man with a laugh. “Don’t she know when she has it good?”

A great moan came up from the heaving mass below his feet. The man picked up a whip and lashed it in the air.

“Better get her out of here before she stirs them all up,” said the man.

“I better had,” the guard mumbled. His hand slipped from my shoulder and held me like a vise above my elbow. We began ascending the staircase, the serving woman first with the lantern, then myself and the guard. With each step I felt all the fight draining from me. A rank vapour rose from the dungeon below and I noticed more rats scurrying about our feet, their whiskers busy as they sniffed the air. A sickly feeling swelled in my stomach like seafoam and I tried to swallow it down.

It occurred to me suddenly that my home was likely to remain within the thick and unmovable walls of this prison for a long time to come. I realized too that the smirk of the guard upstairs and his laughter were not as contemptibly stupid as I thought. They knew what I did not yet know, that the idea of escape was so futile, it was comical.

I was no longer the warrior savage with the lioness’s heart. I was a thirteen-year-old girl locked within a vast, stinking maze of a prison. What is more, I had blown away any trust I had on a pointless and ill-conceived rebellion. I would not easily be trusted again.

H
ave you heard of limbo before, young girl?” Mr. Jarvis asked. It was evening now and the candle flame leapt as it burned, sending a honeyed hue all over the craters of his forehead. He had not stopped scratching with his quill since I entered his office, and gave me only a sidelong glance as he asked me this question. I was standing in exactly the same place as I had been that morning—at the end of the long table—only this time I was flanked on one side by the serving woman and on the other by the prison guard, Gilbert, who had pursued me all the way from my cell to the vile dungeon below. The presence of both these people was oddly comforting as I struggled for an answer.

“I have heard the word only one time, sir,” I said.

My voice was very meek and it seemed to please Mr. Jarvis. He leant back in his creaking chair and turned towards me. The hint of a smile played upon his lips.

“Are you a penitent then, girl? Have you seen the error of your ways?”

He laid down his quill.

In reality, I felt far more fear than penitence. Penitence required free will; I remember that from the schoolroom. But I nodded and breathed, “Yes.”

Mr. Jarvis sighed, apparently satisfied. “Penitence, yes penitence,” he whispered back to me with a mild, longing smile. Then he tapped the desk nervously with his fingers. “You have put me into a very awkward position, young lady.” He took a sharp breath. “Your mother’s pleas, and your stepfather’s great mercy and forbearance have seen to it that you have received the very best a young woman of your character and crimes could hope for.” He paused, his pale eyes flickering in the candle. “Tyburn gallows are in constant use. Witchery and seduction keep the city’s rope makers and carpenters fully employed.” His speech was faster now, his mood agitated. “Yet you,” he continued, raising his voice, “you were brought here, given your own room, good food, a straw bed. Yes, you were brought here because your mother and stepfather believed there was hope for you.” He stared at me with indignant eyes, as though realizing for the first time the gravity of my great crime.

I hoped he might remain silent for a while. His own words had provoked him to anger just as a gust of wind might tease a flame to the delirious joys of destruction. I watched him shift in his chair, helpless to stall the change coming over him, powerless to prevent him fanning his own flames.

“Do you know what you stumbled across when you ran down that staircase?” he asked in a voice calmer than I expected.

“No sir,” I whispered.

“That place we call limbo,” Mr. Jarvis said, his expression struggling between bitterness and mirth. “Limbo, child.” His mouth turned down at the corners but his eyes formed an odd, teary smile. “You might think this place is merely a prison.” He held my gaze. “Do you think that, girl?”

The question carried such weight, and he seemed so intent to hear my reply, that I hesitated. The serving woman coughed slightly and I took this as a warning to hurry. As there were only two possible answers, I took a chance.

“Yes,” I said.

His lips twitched. “You think yes,” he replied hoarsely. “You think this is just a prison?” Mr. Jarvis cast his gaze around the walls and ceiling. Then his lips and eyes for once synchronized and broke together into a crooked smile. “Well, you are wrong.”

I relaxed a little, knowing this was the answer he had wanted from me.

“Newgate is modelled after the plan of the Almighty,” he continued. “There is comfort for the loved and for the sorrowful, reward and succour for those who grieve. There are chains, whips, and torments for those without remorse. And,” he paused for a moment before whispering, “there is another place. A place for the Jew who circumcises Christians. A place for the pagan who desecrates the altar. A place for the whore who infects royal blood.” Mr. Jarvis’s lips had become wet, and he dabbed them with his handkerchief. “We have done our best here, young woman, to copy the Divine Plan. We could not devise a hell to match the one all men fear, but limbo is our best attempt. It is quite within my power to send you there.”

My knees buckled instantly and I must have been lost for a while. Everything was dim and swirling as though viewed through a fast-flowing stream, and I had the vague idea of scuffing furniture and strong hands about my arms and shoulders. I was on the floor looking up. The pale ceiling swished and circled like an ocean wave, crashing. I was hauled onto feet which could neither feel nor grip the floor, and finally lowered into a chair.

When the pieces of my world reunited into one whole and the room tipped into balance, I found myself looking up at Mr. Jarvis. The governor now stood with his hands behind his back, staring down at me in panicky displeasure. When he saw I was coming to myself again, he stooped forward. From such close quarters I could see his pale eyes were dotted with red.

“I didn’t say I was going to send you there,” he said, exasperated. “I just said it was quite within my power to do so.” The guard and the serving woman were on either side of me again, but I remained on the chair. Mr. Jarvis was breathing heavily. “I know every ploy, young woman, and if I suspect a trick in your fainting spell, it will be the worse for you.”

The unnatural privilege of sitting made me nervous, so when the governor nodded to Gilbert and Gilbert’s hand came under my elbow, I was relieved to stand. “It was no trick, I assure you, sir. I am ashamed of my fall.”

The governor looked at Gilbert as though for confirmation of this. Apparently satisfied, he backed off somewhat awkwardly, regaining his chair without taking his eyes from me.

“You cannot return to your comfortable cell though,” he said after a deep breath, “not without appropriate punishment and conclusive proof of your remorse. You must stare ungodliness in the
face and tell your keepers here that you recognize and renounce the works of Satan.” He looked first at Gilbert, then at the serving woman. Finally, his eyes came to rest upon me. “What is the most evil profession in the world, girl?”

I thought back over his previous speech. “A Jew, sir. A Jew who circumcises Christians.”

Mr. Jarvis shook his head as though I were a mosquito trying to land in his ear. “That’s not a profession.”

“A whore, then, sir. A whore who tries to infect the royal blood.”

Mr. Jarvis frowned deeply. “I mean a profession of men, not of women.”

“A priest who defiles his own altar.”

“No!” Mr. Jarvis snaps, springing from his seat in sudden anger. “The theatre, young woman, the theatre! That is the most ungodly profession of them all. The theatre is a place of debauchery and sin, a place where people dance and strut upon the stage.” He cut a rapid two-step caper to make the point. He looked ridiculous enough, but was far too furious to laugh at. “A place where men dress as women and profess their love to other men. It is a place of false oaths and unwholesome stories, a place where commonality drink, fight, and fornicate. It is the theatre that spreads London’s plagues and gives rise to the city’s moral torpor.”

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”

The governor looked at me, suspicious.

“What would you say, young woman, if I told you of a play recently confiscated, a play depicting rebellion and the assassination of a king?”

“I’d say it was a good thing—”

“What?” he yelled before I had a chance to finish.

“—that it was confiscated!” I stressed quickly. “A good thing you stopped it from being performed.” My heart was thumping. However irrational it was, the governor’s fury could lead me to the hell I had stumbled into when I tried to escape. I knew I would be dancing on live embers until I was safely away from him.

“This play went further than the spilling of royal blood,” he continued, rubbing his hands together. His voice was hushed now and a knotted vein stood out on his temple. Each word he spoke was like a log to a fire, teasing out an anger that was always fresh, always renewing. “In place of Christian worship there was pagan barbarity. Its characters sought advice not from respectable members of the clergy, but from a coven of witches. What do you think of that? What do you think of the fact that such a spectacle might have played out to the masses a stone’s throw from the centre of this great Christian country?”

His lip trembled as he looked up at me.

“I think it a great scandal, sir.”

“A scandal, you say, yes!” His pale eyes came alive in the candle flame. “But worse than a scandal! An outrage! This play is an insult to our dear Sovereign Queen and Defender of the Faith!”

“Indeed, sir,” I agreed. “An outrage to our dear Queen.”

The more his passion rose, the more the governor seemed to forget who I was. He was willing me to concur, visibly comforted when I did.

“And where, I might ask, if you were the governor of Newgate prison, where would you place the villain who had scribbled such a treason and planned for its public performance?”

“In limbo, of course.”

“Of course!” he exclaimed, holding his fists in front of his chest and shaking them in triumph. “In limbo, of course. You have said it!” He grinned broadly at me, his eyes filling with tears. “How correct you are!”

Then his mood changed again. His lips became pursed and he stooped over his desk, shuffling letters. “But I am not permitted. Can you believe that?” He glanced up, sniffed, then sat down. “He has influential friends in the city—debauched and disreputable courtiers who frequent the playhouses, and keep the company of such vermin. My hand has been stayed.”

“It is a great pity,” I said, my confidence growing.

I could hardly blame myself for a little hubris. A few minutes ago I was being threatened with limbo. Now I felt like the governor’s closest confidante. I could feel the confusion of my companions who guarded me.

“My whip is fastened,” Mr. Jarvis added mournfully. He gazed into the candle flame bobbing on his desk. “My claws are pulled. But,” he said brightening, “I can use his presence to reclaim another.”

“A good idea, sir.” I said.

The governor looked up at me and smiled. “I don’t know whether the devil prompts you to such subtle and persuasive answers, young woman. But I mean to find you out.” He gazed at me with the same mild expression for some moments, then continued. “I told you I would make you stare ungodliness in the face and renounce the works of Satan. I need to know there is hope for you, that you are young enough to be purged of the evil that infected you in Ireland.”

“What are you going to do with me?” I asked. My legs began to
tremble again and I felt Gilbert move in closer, preparing to catch my fall.

“I cannot send the playwright to limbo. He is in the least comfortable quarters on the master’s side; that is all I’ve dared to do to him. But I could make things less comfortable for him by sending you to share his cell.”

He watched me keenly, anticipation lighting up his face.

I was not sure what to feel and had an idea that lack of protest would disappoint him. So I tried to look worried. And sure enough, he smiled and leaned back slowly.

“You will be in a pit of a different kind,” he said, clasping his hands over his stomach. “No chains, no whips, no living carpet of rats. Just another mind, like yours, infected with witchery and corruption.” He gazed at me a moment longer. “If you can withstand the horrors of his imagination, I will send a satisfactory report to your parents and you might be permitted to remain on the master’s side. If he infects you with his wickedness, you may indeed be sent to limbo.” He nodded to the guard. “Take her to the playwright’s cell.”

Y
ou haven’t been out all day, have you?” The question comes from nowhere, burning its way through my sleep like a comet. I open my eyes to see a young girl staring down at me. My dream—and it was a pleasant dream, full of warm, safe forests carpeted with pine needles, whispering leaves, and the scent of tree bark and wildflowers—fizzles away into nothing.

The girl is holding a candle in front of her face. Her hair is golden, her eyes green. There was a time when I used to see such a creature gazing at me from the mirror of my parents’ house in the Pale.

I know this must be Emma Rose.

“That’s curious, isn’t it?” she continues, while I push myself up from the mattress. I see there is a smaller child next to her. “Everyone else has been frantic.” Emma tilts her head to one side. “What do you think about that, Mary? You and I, Mother and Father, the whole settlement, have been running around, searching
and calling, driving ourselves mad while this old woman sleeps in her clothes on her stinking bed.”