The Pirate and the Pagan

by Virginia Henley

  “Done! Fetch ’em in,” said Bludwart. “I’ll get my records clerk.”

  Mr. Blackthorn stepped forward. “It’s an outrage,” he thundered. “Bringing in more murderers to live off the fat of the land. When will they be executed, I ask you?”

  “Mr. Blackthorn, half my prisoners haven’t even been tried and sentenced since the magistrate took to his bed. Everything has to go by the book. I can’t hang ’em out of hand, you know. I’m here to uphold English justice, Mr. Blackthorn. Did ye never hear of the Magna Carta?”

  Oswald walked out into the cold rain. The women set up a protest of catcalls. “You pisspot, get us inside. Whoreson … Bastard … Pricklouse.”

  Summer shuddered as he walked a direct path to her. She knew the names they threw at Oswald were inadequate. She knew he was evil. He just looked at her. He walked down the line a short distance and began to unshackle women. He had selected five before he came back to unlock her chains.

  Summer looked at the other women and was surprised to see they had not been chosen for their attractions. One was a short fat woman, as broad as she was long, another looked no more than a little girl. One of the women was great with child and Summer’s heart constricted for her. The fourth woman was old, she had scraggly gray hair and no teeth. The fifth woman was not ugly, she was rather comely in fact, but nothing could hide the fact that she was tough, like a hardened criminal. As Oswald returned for Summer he smiled. He couldn’t help it, he was so damned pleased with himself.

  As the six drenched women filed into Bludwart’s office, Mr. Blackthorn’s mouth fell open. “That’s him … her! That’s the highwayman that robbed me! Do something, damn you!”

  “Mr. Blackthorn, we’ve arrested your dangerous criminal, what more do you want?”

  “I’ll tell you what I want, sirrah … I want him—her—it … I want it hanged!”

  Oswald wanted no interference with his private brand of justice. He stepped up to the irate citizen and said, “These women are all murderers. Be assured every last one of the creatures will be hanged. This is maximum security. Everything must go by the letter of the law. All names strictly recorded in the journal. Not one will ever slip through the cracks. Please accept our deepest thanks for your positive identification.”

  Bludwart scratched his lice-ridden head. “The only empty cell I ’ave is in the cellar and on nights like this the floor is ankle-deep in water.”

  “Plenty good enough for these dregs of humanity, Bludwart. Lock ’em up. I’ll need two wagons to take the rest over to Southampton, but I’ll be back tomorrow for that nice private room you promised me.”

  Summer’s eyes never left Oswald. He was out for revenge. He relished the very idea of it. He would take his pound of flesh, of that she had no doubt whatsoever.

  The women were taken down stone steps inside the fortresslike building to what could only be described as a dungeon. All six were locked in a cell which measured roughly four by ten feet.

  “Well, at least we have running water,” quipped Sidney, the hard-faced one.

  Summer had never seen anything like it. The stone walls dripped with water which formed a rivulet on the floor and emptied down a smelly drain. The cell was empty except for tallow candles in wall sconces, two heaps of moldy, damp straw, and a slop bucket in the corner. When the six women lay down, Summer knew their bodies would have to touch each other and she shuddered uncontrollably. She could smell their unwashed bodies, which surprised her, for the dungeon reeked heavily from rot, decay, moldering hay, and the open drain.

  They were all drenched through to the skin and they took off their gray worsted smocks and tied them to the prison bars to dry. Underneath they wore black cotton stockings and knickers. Most of them pulled the knickers up to cover their breasts with the tops now sitting just underneath their armpits. The only one who couldn’t do this was the fat woman called “Lardy,” and her breasts hung down over her fat belly in an obscene overabundance of quivering flesh. Summer averted her eyes. She made no attempt to remove her shirt and breeches, though they were plastered to her body. If she got pneumonia, then so be it, she thought stubbornly. “What’s yer name?” demanded Sidney.

  “Cat,” Summer said shortly.

  “You look like a bleedin’ cat,” Sidney said.

  “I know,” said Summer, turning the full impact of her green eyes upon her.

  “We call the old hag Granny and the little one is Gert. The one ‘avin the kid is Nellie.”

  Summer glanced at them one by one then murmured, “I’m pleased to meet you, ladies.”

  “La-de-dah, ye talk like we was in a bleedin’ drawing room,” said Sidney.

  “That’s ’cause she’s a lady,” said Lardy.

  “Oh, really? And ‘ow the bleedin’ hell do ye know I’m not a lady?”

  “Ye can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” said Lardy.

  “You should know.” Sidney laughed. “If you lay on that bleedin’ straw, you’d just look like a sow ready to farrow.”

  “Well, if I had a face as hard as yours, I’d give kids pennies to throw shit at me!”

  Sidney’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She walked over to Cat and felt the silk material of her shirt. “I like that black shirt … how’d ye like to make me a present of it?” It was not a request, it was an order.

  “In a pig’s arse,” said Cat, giving Sidney an aggressive shove against the wall. “The only present I’ll give you is a black eye; maybe two.”

  Sidney grinned. “He was right when he called you Lady Bitch, wasn’t he?”

  Cat smiled back, ready to call a truce. “I’m afraid he’s not finished with me yet. Look, we’re all in this together, so let’s not make it unbearable for each other. I think Nellie should sit down.”

  Lardy helped Nellie to the straw and sat beside her. Both women began to crack things between their thumbnails and Summer realized with horror they were fleas which had immediately jumped on them from the straw. Nellie’s face was ashen, her eyes were circled by black rings. She was skeleton thin except for her great belly and her swollen ankles. “It’s an outrage for a pregnant woman to be imprisoned. What will happen when she goes into labor?” asked Cat.

  They shrugged. The old woman said, “She’ll ’ave another unwanted kid, won’t she? An’ why am I in ’ere? I botched an abortion as kilt the slut, but she’s better off dead, don’t ye think?”

  Cat was almost ready to agree with her. “I don’t think Charles has the vaguest notion how abominably women are treated in these places,”

  “Charles who?” asked Sidney.

  “The King,” explained Cat. “When I get out of here, I’ll go to him immediately. I won’t rest until something is done about it.”

  “When you get out of here you’ll be on the end of a hempen rope,” said Sidney.

  “Do you know the King?” asked Gert, wide-eyed.

  “Yes, I was at Whitehall two days ago.” Granny and Lardy began to laugh.

  “La-de-dah,” mocked Sidney. “What did you do for your bleedin’ hobby, m’lady, stitch embroidery?”

  Cat looked off into the distance, remembering some of the unbelievable things that had happened to her. Then she smiled sadly at the women and said, “Actually I collected rubies.”

  Gert’s mouth gaped open and Granny made a gesture to indicate that Cat had lost her wits.

  “Do you think they’ll feed us?” asked Lardy wistfully.

  “Not tonight,” said Sidney. “In London at least we were entitled to a penny loaf and pump water. Here, God only knows.”

  Cat had bought stew at the inn so she wasn’t hungry, but how would she be able to face this misery when hunger was added to the other deprivations? One by one the women sat, crouched on the dank floor, their backs against the slimed walls. Cat was glad she was bone tired, for sleep would be a blessed relief from this living nightmare. She crossed her arms above her knees and laid her head down. The women quieted, the tallow candles guttered out, and she w
as about to drift off to a gentler place when she realized the cell had visitors. Rats! They climbed up the drain hole by the dozen. She screamed and they stood up on their hind legs in cheeky curiosity.

  “Put the piss bucket over the hole and go to sleep,” grumbled Sidney.

  Cat did the first thing Sidney advised, but she found it impossible to do the last. In the morning, when Cat tried to stand, every bone in her body ached. They were served wooden spoons and bowls containing thin gruel. When Granny found a cockroach in hers and ate it with relish, Cat could not bring herself to eat in spite of the fact that her common sense told her she would need food if she was to survive this ordeal. Cat gave her bowl to Nellie and Lardy looked deeply offended. “She’s eating for two,” Cat said lamely.

  Sidney looked at her with contempt. “You’ll never survive if you put others before yourself. They didn’t teach you much at Whitehall.”

  Cat gave her a sad half smile. “Believe me, the rules there are precisely the same as here.” Cat could bear the hunger, what she could not bear was being unclean. “Won’t they let us wash?” she asked.

  “A few layers of dirt’ll keep you warm.” Lardy laughed. “A few layers of fat, ye mean,” said Sidney.

  Cat realized sadly that the women’s gibes, oaths, and shameless talk offered them the only means of defense against a savage, pitiless world that cared nothing whether they lived or died. Cat gathered up the empty bowls and spoons and shoved them through the small hole in the wall through which they’d been served. She kept one of the wooden spoons, and when the other women were busy putting on their damp gray smocks, she showed Sidney. “If we could wedge this against the stones in that small opening they push the food through, it might split in half.”

  Sidney eyed her with approval. “It might make us a couple of pig stickers at that, but don’t expect help from me if you have any half-assed ideas of escaping.”

  Cat alternated sitting and standing all day long. Her mind escaped to her beautiful Cornwall where her baby was. Her thoughts were pleasant as she pictured how he must be growing. Her mind’s eye saw Mrs. Bishop bathing him and feeding him and she laughed out loud when she thought of Mrs. Bishop’s will coming up against Mr. Burke’s. She rode Ebony along the sands and pictured Ruark riding down to meet her, because he could not bear to have her out of his sight too long. She sighed and dozed a little. It was easier for her to sleep in the daylight.

  Supper was watered-down cabbage soup and this time Cat forced herself to swallow the vile stuff. She knew as soon as it began to grow dark that Oswald would come for her.

  He threw open the cell door and looked at the women one by one. Cat stepped toward him and said, “Nellie is near her labor time … she shouldn’t be here like this.”

  “She shouldn’t have got knocked up, should she? Don’t waste your pity on her, Lady Bitch, save it for yourself. Come with me.”

  Sidney threw him a threatening glance, and he challenged, “Do you have something to say, maggot face?”

  She curled her lip and said, “Suck my duck till it quacks!”

  He smashed her across the bridge of her nose and they all heard the bone crack. Though she fell to her knees, she didn’t let out so much as a whimper. He took Cat’s arm viciously and shoved her out the cell door. He took her up two flights of steps and through a part of the prison which housed men. She never even heard the whistles and bawdy compliments thrown her way, for Oswald filled her head. He opened a door to a room with a fire where Bludwart had just brought a trayful of hot food. “Will ye need any help with ’er?” Bludwart leered.

  “None at all, thank you. Women only need be treated like horses.”

  “Ye mean ye ride em?” he said, licking his lips.

  “No, Bludwart, I mean no such thing. You break them. You let them know who’s master, then they will obey any command at the slightest touch of the whip.”

  Fear ate at her belly as she heard his words and the threat in the tone of voice. Cat probably had as much spirit as any woman alive. Oh, how she had enjoyed defying Ruark. Even with that flaring, uncontrolled temper of his, she had goaded him to madness and she had dared do that she realized suddenly because he loved her. It was a game; the game of love. Without love a woman had no rights. She tried to keep her lips from trembling as Bludwart closed the door and left her alone with her enemy.

  “There’s no need to fear me, if you obey me. I follow the letter of the law. I can do nothing to you except what is laid down in prison regulations.” Her eyes were liquid with apprehension.

  “Take off your clothes,” he ordered. She closed her eyes, wondering how she would get through such an ordeal. She opened them quickly as he took hold of her breast.

  “I have found nothing gets obedience so quickly as a good tit twist,” he said, viciously twisting her soft, pliant breast.

  She gasped and moaned softly as he let go of her.

  “From now on when I give you an order you say ‘Yes, Sergeant-Major,’ do you understand?” he repeated.

  “Yes, Sergeant-Major.” She seethed inwardly, awaiting an opportunity to defy him.

  “Very good. It’s in the prison regulations that I may conduct a strip search. Take off your clothes.”

  “Go to hell!”

  Both hands reached for her breasts this time and she whispered, “Yes, Sergeant-Major.” She removed her boots, then slowly took off her black shirt and pants. Her left breast was marred by blue finger bruises. Her lids lowered over hate-filled eyes as she watched his face. He was power mad.

  He smiled. “I’m going to enjoy our visits. I’m stationed at Southampton, so I’ll be able to come every week. Next week you’ll know the routine. If you forget, I’ll have to touch you up with the whip. Now you may serve me my dinner while you are still naked and then you may get dressed.”

  She wanted to spit on him and spit on his food. She had grown used to standing up to men and fighting back. But real fear of this man made her cautious. She must think before she acted … must swallow her insults before she uttered them, at least until she was no longer naked.

  She felt such a sweeping sense of relief when she had her clothes back on it almost made her giddy. Her chin went up in defiance. “Are you finished with me, Sergeant-Major?” She made his rank sound pitiful.

  “Not quite.” Then his words sent a chill up her back and into her very brain. “This highway robbery isn’t your first offense. A thief always gets burned on the thumb, branded, so that if you return a second time, it’s automatically a hanging matter. Show me your thumb,” he ordered. When she hesitated, he grabbed her hand.

  “Just as I feared, We have neglected you shamefully, Lady Bitch.” He got up, selected a long metal rod from a holder, and inserted it into the fire.

  “No!” she cried.

  He had no mercy for her whatsoever. He grabbed her by the hair on her head and forced her down before the fire. He straddled her and let her bear his full weight. Then he pressed the glowing iron brand into the soft flesh of her thumb. Cat screamed and fainted. He picked her up and carried her back down to the cellar. He opened the cell door and threw her in a heap among the other women.

  They saw and smelled her burned flesh, then each woman dropped her eyes to her thumb to examine her own brand. Mercifully Cat stayed unconscious for almost two hours, but by morning she was crying and fevered.

  Lord Ruark Helford was a happy man. He had just watched Mrs. Bishop give Ryan his morning bath, then he had enjoyed a substantial breakfast served by Mr. Burke. He was filled with anticipation. It excited him, excited his blood. Soon, he told himself, soon. After breakfast he climbed up on Helford Hall’s widow’s walk among the chimneys and sailboat weathervanes. As he looked out to sea a crease formed between his brows. Why hadn’t she arrived yet? What was the delay? He couldn’t wait for his beauteous wife to come sweeping in like a tropical storm demanding their son. This time he would keep her. What an idiotic fool he’d been to ever let her get further away than kissing distance. A
smile curved his mouth. He should lock her in their bedchamber and keep her abed for a month. His manhood stirred and began to fill and he called into the sea wind like a lovesick youth, “Summer … hurry!”

  As the day wore on the warm expectant feeling grew into one of anxiety. What the hell would he do if she didn’t arrive by tomorrow? He was neglecting his duty shamefully, a thing that rankled a man as hidebound as Helford. He’d promised to fight the Dutch in this last all-out offensive, and though his ships were privately owned and not part of the navy, he was committed to Charles, his monarch and his friend.

  Two days back when he arrived home, he had found the Golden Goddess sitting at anchor, newly arrived back from Madagascar. When its valuable cargo had been unloaded, he’d sent it straight off into the Channel to look for Dutchmen, promising to sail the Pagan Goddess in its wake. Summer wouldn’t recognize Spencer. He had filled out and was bronzed by the fierce sun. Ruark had shown him his nephew Ryan and told him Summer was on her way from London. He omitted to tell him that he had stolen his son. A pang of guilt touched his conscience. Perhaps he shouldn’t have sent him off to war. Perhaps he should have insisted Spencer stay in Cornwall until Summer had had a chance to see that he had grown into a man, but upon reflection he knew he would have had to lock him up to keep him from sailing with the Golden Goddess.

  That night Ruark Helford’s bed was cold and lonely. Doubt assailed him on all sides. It was a thing with which he’d rarely grappled. Why was she dallying in London? If she was playing house with George Digby, he’d throttle her. He knew Digby meant nothing to her, but he wasn’t sure about the title of countess. Most women would sell their souls to become an earl’s wife. No, he knew her better than that. She was Ruark Helford’s woman and she knew it. They only had to be in the same room for the sparks to fly and ignite into a firestorm. He wouldn’t put it past her, however, to let him cool his heels here in Cornwall while he ate his heart out wondering how many kisses she’d allowed the King to steal. No, dammit, she may be heartless enough to keep herself from her husband, but not from her baby; he was her whole life.