The King's Daughter (38 page)

“Well?” Palmer asked in a gruff whisper as he hugged himself against the cold. “Where’s the best spot?”

“For range?”

“For accuracy, man. I need hardly point out that Sir Edward will no longer require the services of either of us should this mission fail.”

The young man took no offense at the warning. Though Sturridge had found Sir Edward’s order irregular—some would call it murder—Sydenham was now one of the Queen’s lieu tenants, and an order from him was an order Sturridge could not disobey. At seventeen, Sturridge’s life in a quiet country hamlet had been changed forever when he had won a coveted place in the elite corps of the Grenville Archers; four years after joining he was their captain. He saw the world and his place in it plainly: he took pride in his skill with the longbow, and he left it up to the lords and gentlemen to decide where that skill could best be used.

“So?” Palmer said. “Can you do it from here?”

Sturridge studied the dark, quiet street that led out from the prison and into the city. On the far side, a linkboy was lighting the way home for an inebriated gentleman, and the shadows cast by the lantern loomed up on the walls of the shuttered shops. Sturridge’s eye roamed across the flat roof of a haberdasher’s shop, and stopped at a spot nestled between the tops of two dormer windows. Gauging the range, he glanced between this point and the porter’s door in the arch of the gate, where the target would emerge from the prison. He was satisfied that the spot would ensure his arrow deadly accuracy. But he took time also to assure himself that the rooftop position would afford him safe cover come morning when the street would be busy. He would do his duty, but that didn’t mean he must act like a fool.

He pointed out the spot between the dormers to Palmer, and together they set about finding a way to reach the roof.

Inside Newgate, Isabel was afraid she might retch at the smell in the common felons’ ward. “But he
has
to be here! You said so yourself.” Though on the edge of desperation she could not bring herself to look up into Carlos’s face. Not after last night.

“Here, yes,” he said. “But probably dead.”

The brutality of his statement made her glance up despite herself. It was a mistake. All her shame at what had happened between them last night flooded back. They stood so close, forced together by the crush of the public noisily milling through the ward. Worse, his face was grim with the certainty of what he had just said. Even before they had left the inn he had tried to get her to stay behind while he searched Newgate alone, and even after she had refused and they’d prowled together through the upper stories here, he had still tried to get her to leave. Now she understood why. He did not expect to find her father alive.

She quickly looked away.

A man pushed past them, banging Carlos’s still-tender shoulder. Carlos gritted his teeth and muttered a curse. Isabel rubbed her temple. Her head was throbbing. She had found Newgate a more dreadful place than she could have imagined—overcrowded, vicious, verminous, with a smell even fouler than the reek of confinement in the other prisons. And she had so little time left….

The crowd parted with an ominous hush. A cart piled with bodies rattled through. Isabel saw that the corpses’ white faces were speckled with black. Carlos jerked her by the elbow out of the way, but the smell still hit her like a blow—the stench of decomposition. Her hand flew to her mouth as a wave of nausea threatened.

“Jail fever,” Carlos said. She caught the trace of fear in his voice. His face was pale.

The cart clattered out. The crowd surged back to life. Isabel took a deep breath to steady herself. She stared at the grilled door ahead. The carts had come from there. The door led down to the beggars’ ward. It was all that was left.

She had not consulted Newgate’s keeper—she would never again trust a jailer—so she had no proof that her father had been admitted. But they had searched all through the comfortable masters’ level and now through the noisome commons’ wards. They had even glimpsed the terrible press room where felons who refused to plead were crushed under massive stone weights to extract a plea, without which, under law, the Crown could not seize their property. The only place they had not searched was the beggars’ ward.

“We’ve got to go down there,” she said.

Carlos shook his head. “He had money. If he was not with the gentlemen, and not even in the commons, he is not anywhere here. We have made a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

“We should try Ludgate Jail.”

Isabel knew he was catching at straws. “You know Ludgate’s only for citizens of London. It doesn’t take prisoners from outside.”

“But the turnkey said it is so full here, they have sent some prisoners to other jails.”

“Only debtors.”

“The jailers can make mistakes. We should try Ludgate.”

“No.” She started toward the grilled door.

“Do not,” he said. “The fever. It is too dangerous. We must go.”

“Carlos, he’s down there. You know it.”

He looked at her hard. Under his scrutiny, Isabel felt warm blood stain her cheeks. But she held her head high, telling herself that what had passed between them last night was just another aberration of this deranged time they were living through. If she could just fulfill her promises—if she could save her father and help the rebellion and be reunited with Martin—then order would be restored, to the world and to her heart.

She walked to the door to the beggars’ ward. Carlos groaned and followed.

Sitting on the roof beside Sturridge, Palmer frowned up at the pale sun. It stood high in the sky. “Something’s gone wrong,” he said.

The archer eased his stiff back against the dormer window and flexed his cold fingers gripping his bow. They’d been waiting for hours on the snowy roof. “Maybe the transfer’s been canceled,” he said.

“Maybe,” Palmer growled. “Christ, the master’ll have my balls for breakfast.” He was getting to his feet, and once up he crouched to keep a low profile above the people milling in the street. He spoke quietly to the archer. “I’m going into Newgate to find out what’s happened. Stay here. There’s still a chance that Thornleigh will be brought out. If so, you know your orders.”

Sturridge nodded. He watched Palmer pick his way across the roof, then disappear down the ladder.

Underground, Isabel paid the cellarman for admittance. Another demanded money for a candle. Her cash had been horribly depleted by the expenses of London, but the candle was necessary, so she bought it. She made no inquiries of either cellarman, having learned to deal as little as possible with these quasi-official prisoners who policed their fellow inmates. Shielding the flame with her hand, she entered the ward with Carlos.

There were no visitors down here. There was only filth and misery. The air was so putrid Isabel could hardly take a breath without gagging, and even with her cloak she had to hug herself against the cold. Despite the gloom, she could see that the ward was full. Some prisoners shuffled about. Some huddled in corners. A group tended a puny fire, another gambled with stones and crusts of bread. But most lay on the floor, quiet and inert. It became clear to Isabel, with a slow swell of dread, that some were corpses.

Eyes furtively watched from the shadows as she and Carlos moved through the ward. She questioned prisoner after prisoner. No one knew Richard Thornleigh. No one cared. Some had no strength even to answer.

Shivering, she searched on. A rat scurried by. Isabel heard Carlos kick it, muttering a curse in Spanish. They passed under a crumbling arch and entered the most dismal section of the ward. Here lay the sickest, sprawled on the floor, their gaunt faces and wasted limbs speckled black. A man touched Carlos’s ankle and whispered an unintelligible plea. Carlos whipped out his sword. The man jerked back his hand, but Carlos still held the blade threateningly above him as if over a viper, his breathing harsh and shallow.

Isabel was surprised by his extreme reaction. Taking a step away from these weak wretches was all that was necessary. She realized, from the revulsion on his face, that he loathed disease. Feared it, even. It seemed extraordinary. A man who faced danger as a way of life, yet was frightened by sickness.

He grabbed her elbow. “This is useless. We must get out of here.” Sweat glinted on his forehead.

Useless? Was it? She was afraid to face the question. She had a foreboding that if she didn’t find her father here she would never find him at all. Never free him. Never catch him from falling. Just like her mother …

She pushed on.

“Enough!” Carlos said.

The finality in his voice made her turn. “Pardon?”

“This is madness. I am going.”

“Then go.”

He did not move. “And you?”

“Not until I find him.”

“Mujer loca!
You cannot stay down here alone.”

“It’s the money, isn’t it?” she snapped.

“What?”

“Your fee. You’re worried I haven’t enough left to pay you. Well, you needn’t be. My father has property in Antwerp. He will pay what we owe you as soon—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Or are you itching to go fight for the Queen?” she went on, knowing she was ranting, knowing she dared not face what was unfaceable. “That’s it, isn’t it! You—”

“Stop this!” He grabbed her arms. “You must come. This place—”

A laugh made them both turn. More like a cackle, it had come from a withered woman sitting against a wall. Isabel noticed her mad eyes. “Enough of that, now!” the woman said with a lascivious smile as though scolding two lovers. She sat among a knot of prisoners who looked small in the dim light. Isabel was startled to realize they were children. What were children doing in this dungeon?

She looked at Carlos and said as steadily as she could, “Go if you want. I cannot.” She pulled out of his grip and approached the children.

Most of them immediately scuttled away, leaving only the hag and one other form lying on the floor. Isabel came near. The hag continued staring into space and Isabel knew there was no hope of information from her. She looked down at the other form. It was completely covered with a red blanket. She dreaded that under it was another cadaver. But the form stirred under its cover, and Isabel saw beneath her candlelight that it wasn’t a blanket but a fine crimson brocade cloak. She bent down. “Pardon me,” she said. “I am looking for someone.”

There was no answer from the mound. Hesitantly, Isabel lowered the cloak enough to see who lay beneath it and was surprised to feel its lining of luxurious fur. She brought her candle closer and a small face emerged from under the sumptuous covering. A boy, no more than four years old. He looked up at her with sunken eyes. His hair was as matted as a bird’s nest, his face streaked with grime and sweat. Black spots mottled his nose and ears.

Isabel felt the tug of pity. “Are you all alone?” she asked.

The boy said nothing.

“Where is your mother?”

He only stared up at her. Fever clouded his eyes. Isabel wished there was some way she could help. If this child’s mother had died, what chance had he of surviving, sick and alone in this worst of hell-holes where every drop of water had its price? She fumbled with one hand at the purse at her belt, but, still holding the candle, she could not loosen the strings. Suddenly a hand relieved her of the candle. She looked up. It was Carlos. He was scowling down at her. But he had stayed.

She drew open the purse and dug into the last few coins and withdrew a shilling, then lifted the boy’s hot, listless hand, put the coin on the sweaty palm and closed the small fingers over it.

“Get away from him!” a high voice cried.

Isabel rose in surprise and found a girl glaring at her. Barefoot, ragged, filthy, the child appeared to be no more than seven or eight; the top of her head came only to Carlos’s waist. With a ferocity that belied her size, she forced her way between Carlos and Isabel and dropped to her knees beside the boy. “What she done to you, Robin?” she asked anxiously. “Did she—” She stopped as she caught sight of the coin, for the boy had opened his hand to show her. The girl’s mouth fell open in amazement. She looked up at Isabel with an expression of wonder, a wonder tinged with wariness.

“I only wanted to help,” Isabel said. “He looks so sick.”

“He’ll get better,” the girl replied stoutly. She tucked the furred cloak up under the boy’s chin. He was shivering horribly. “He’s me brother,” the girl added, as if this fact made his survival inevitable, a result of her will. And although it was a formidable will, Isabel thought, it could not save the boy. She looked down at the wasted boy, then at the girl, and knew she was not alone in refusing to face an unbearable reality. “Are you and your brother alone?” she asked.

Carlos groaned his impatience. Isabel ignored him. It seemed important to acknowledge this tenacious girl’s efforts. Important—crucial—not to give up. “Where is your mother?” she asked.

“Taproom,” the girl said.

“She has some money, then?”

“Money?” the girl asked, incredulous. “Nah. The men poke her, then buy her some ale. She’s there all day.” She explained this unemotionally while eyeing Isabel’s purse, as though she believed that answering the lady’s questions might bring another coin.

“I see,” Isabel murmured. “So you and your brother are on your own.”

The girl seemed to take this as a criticism of her abilities. “I got that cloak for him from the cellarman, didn’t I?” she said belligerently. The boy, Isabel saw, was now shivering so violently that the cloak was inching down his quaking body. “Traded everything I had for it,” the girl went on proudly. “It’ll do the trick, too, you’ll see. Robin’ll be as right as rain.”

But Isabel was no longer listening. She was staring at the boy. Wedged between his arm and his body was a wooden carving. A boat. She recognized the workmanship. She would know it anywhere. She’d had a toy exactly like it when she’d been this boy’s age.

She dropped to her knees to touch the boat. “Where did you get this?”

The boy was silent, shivering. “He don’t talk,” the girl said.

Isabel whirled around to her. “Who gave him the boat?”