The King's Daughter

by Barbara Kyle

  There was shouting all around as prisoners nearby, jolted from sleep, scampered to their feet and gathered close to watch the fight.

  “Who’s the big one?”

  “The Spaniard.”

  “Kill him!”

  The kicked man, on his back, was trying to get up while still clutching his bloody, broken nose. Carlos kicked him savagely in the side of the head. There was a snap from his neck. The man’s arms and legs flopped out. Then he lay still. He was dead.

  The prisoners booed Carlos.

  Carlos ignored them. He swiped away the blood trickling from the gash in his eyebrow and swung around to locate Thornleigh. Thornleigh was still grappling with the bearded man at the wall. The two of them staggered out a few steps into the ward, clutching one another as if in a grim parody of an embrace. They stumbled against a tattered curtain, ripping it down. The bearded man finally pulled away and jabbed a fist into Thornleigh’s belly. Thornleigh doubled over and stumbled backward. The bearded man twisted around, ready to attack Carlos.

  But Carlos had snatched up the bludgeon. Swinging it around over his head, he smashed it against the bearded man’s temple. The force of it knocked the man sideways. He collapsed and lay groaning on the ground. The prisoners booed and shouted and stamped. Carlos and Thornleigh now stood in the center of a hostile ring.

  “Get the poxy Spaniard!” someone yelled. Three or four men lifted their fists, readying to advance on him. Carlos swung the bludgeon in threatening circles overhead. The prisoners crept back.

  A bell clanged. The turnkey’s alarm bell. Several prisoners scurried away. The remaining ones parted as Mosse himself came stomping through, followed by the turnkey swinging his bell, then four other turnkeys with chains slung over their shoulders. All carried daggers or truncheons.

  Mosse scowled at the man moaning on the ground, then at the dead man. He glared at Carlos and Thornleigh. “Troublemakers,” he growled. “Clap the irons on ‘em and throw ‘em in the Hole.”

  11

  The Hol

  Carlos watched a rat sniff its way down the stone stairs of the Hole. It stopped on the final dripping step, nose twitching, as if uncertain whether it was worth proceeding. Madre de Dios, Carlos thought, the stench down here is too bad even for a rat.

  He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, and he leaned forward, away from the icy stone chilling his spine. His head throbbed from the blows of the night before. After the fight, he and Thornleigh and the surviving priest-killer had been chained to the walls here. They were the only inmates. Now, he thought, it must be dawn.

  He lowered his head to stretch his neck. Every muscle was stiff. His buttocks felt frozen on the damp earth floor. His bladder was uncomfortably full. There was no window, no warmth, no light except what seeped through the grilled trapdoor at the top of the stairs from a feeble rushlight up there; the rat was a mere shadow among shadows. Carlos extended one arm and then the other to stretch his back, rattling the arm’s-length chains connecting his wrist irons to the wall. Thornleigh, who was hunkered beside him, groaned in his sleep.

  The rat scurried across to the opposite wall where the priest-killer lay. He was dead. Mosse had chained him up unconscious and he had died in the night. Carlos knew it because he hadn’t heard the sound of the man’s breathing in hours. He peered at the corpse through the gloom. He could barely make out the shape of the rat near the dead man’s outstretched hand. Then he caught the sound of it nibbling. On a finger? He shivered. He hated rats. That’s why he had stayed awake.

  And to think of a way out.

  He glanced at Thornleigh’s slumped form. Strange, he thought—the man he’d been hired to kill had saved his life. The priest-killers would certainly have finished him if Thornleigh hadn’t intervened. But in the few words the two of them had exchanged here before Thornleigh had fallen into his fitful sleep, Carlos had not expressed any thanks. Nothing to be grateful for, he thought grimly, flinching at the stab of pain as he eased his bad knee. No pardon. No hundred pounds. No freedom. And with Mosse holding him responsible for the murder in the fight, his next encounter would surely be with the hangman.

  He punched the air in fury and winced as the chain snapped taut and the cuff’s iron edge scraped skin off his wrist. There had to be some way out! Last night, after agreeing to the visitor’s offer, he had tasted hope, and now he would scrape off every shred of skin before he’d let them haul him to the gallows.

  He heaved a sigh of disgust at his forced bravado. Some way out? He knew it was next to impossible.

  He forced that thought—too close to panic—to the back of his mind. He fumbled to unfasten his codpiece, then urinated, sending the stream as far as possible, steaming in the cold air. But a rivulet snaked back around his left boot. He clenched his teeth at the indignity.

  There was a clang above. Then footsteps. The trapdoor creaked open. Torchlight pooled over the stairs. Carlos fumbled to retie his codpiece. Someone was coming down.

  “Careful. Steps’re a mite slippery.”

  It was Mosse, sounding uncharacteristically helpful. And someone was following him down. A woman. She flinched at the smell. Her clothes were rich. A lady. Carlos wondered: What’s a lady doing here?

  Mosse stopped on the bottom step. “There he is,” he said, holding out his torch toward Thornleigh, who groaned in his sleep, oblivious, and tried to curl up more tightly on the cold floor. The woman shoved back her hood for a better look. Catching sight of Thornleigh, her hand flew to her mouth. Carlos saw that she was young, dark-haired. Pretty.

  “A rough sight, I grant you,” Mosse said. “But rules is rules, mistress. And the Hole for brawling’s one of ‘em. But I’ll wake him for you. Give you your money’s worth at least.” He started forward.

  The girl snatched his sleeve. “No. Not yet.”

  Mosse shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Standing on the stair, they’d kept their voices low, and Thornleigh slept on, though he squirmed in restlessness. Mosse and the girl ignored Carlos completely.

  “Jailer,” the girl said in a sudden, fierce whisper, “I want him set free.”

  Mosse laughed lightly.

  “No, listen,” she said. “I’ve brought more money. Plenty of money.” She pulled out a purse, tugged open its drawstring, and held it up to him. “It’s all yours.”

  A lady sure enough, with all that cash, Carlos thought. And green as a willow sapling. Who else would trust this bastardo jailer.

  Mosse took the purse. He was not laughing now. “Let’s see,” he said. He moved to a dusty table in the opposite corner, not far from the dead priest-killer, not even glancing at the corpse. Some chains lay on the table and Mosse shoved them to one side and dumped the purse’s coins out to count them. Again, Thornleigh shifted miserably in the confines of his chains.

  “Jewels, too,” the girl whispered eagerly, following Mosse to the table. She loosened her cloak at the throat and showed him a sparkling necklace, then held up her hands to display several rings. “You can have everything. Just let him go. Please.”

  Mosse was admiring the girl’s throat. And her shape. So was Carlos. Imagine having a girl like that begging for your life, he thought. What was she to Thornleigh, anyway? Awfully young to be his wife.

  “Please!” she said again.

  Mosse looked up the stairs as if making a calculation, then back at the girl. “I’d need something more besides.”

  “More? But this is all I—” She stopped herself. “Yes, of course. I could get you more. I’ll bring it later. All right?”

  “Not more coin,” Mosse said, very quietly. He tossed the empty purse down on the scattered money. “Something softer.” He fingered the fur at the edge of her hood. “You.”

  The girl froze.

  “Wha'?” Thornleigh mumbled. His head jerked restlessly on the floor, though his eyes were closed.

  Mosse glanced back up the stairs again. “And then,” he said, smiling at the girl, “I’ll let him go,
free as you and me. Now that’s an offer more than fair, considering my position, and considering your father’s crime.”

  So, Carlos thought, Thornleigh’s daughter.

  “Is it a bargain?” Mosse asked.

  The girl only stared at him, aghast.

  Mosse’s eyes narrowed in anger at the insult of her response. “All right, then, visit’s over,” he snapped, grabbing her elbow. “Come on, it’s back home with you.” He started to hustle her to the steps. But his angry voice had woken Thornleigh. He lifted his head slightly, blinking as if disoriented. The girl looked over her shoulder at her father and stopped. “No, please!” she said to Mosse. “Wait!”

  Mosse eyed her with a small smile and brought his torch closer to her face. “Reconsidering, are we?”

  The girl gnawed her lower lip.

  Thornleigh was struggling to sit up. With his back against the wall he stared at the girl. “Isabel,” he said suddenly, blinking in confusion. “What … what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, God,” she breathed in misery.

  “Well?” Mosse said.

  She closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said, the word a whisper. She made a move toward the steps.

  Mosse laid his hand on her shoulder. “Not upstairs. Here.”

  She turned to him in horror. “No!”

  He set his face sternly, adamant.

  The girl groaned. “Not here,” she pleaded. “Haven’t you a room of your own?”

  “That I have, mistress.” He added with a withering look, “And in it my wife lies snoring a-bed.”

  “But … I can’t!”

  Thornleigh jolted up straight. “Isabel!” Forgetting his chains, he lurched halfway to standing. But the chains jerked him back and he slipped on the slimy earth and sprawled on his back, his fettered arms splayed apart like a crucified man.

  The girl looked frantically between her father and Mosse. “I can’t!” she said to Mosse. “Not here. Not—”

  “Then he stays,” Mosse said firmly. He waited a moment. “Look,” he said, tugging a ring of keys from his belt and holding it up. “Here’s your father’s freedom.” He shook the keys enticingly. “Take it or leave it.”

  At the sight of the keys, Carlos felt every nerve tighten. Was there some way …?

  Thornleigh had struggled halfway up again and sat against the wall. “Go away!” he cried to the girl. He flailed his hands. “Get out of here!”

  Mosse took no notice of him. “Make up your mind,” he said to the girl with another glance up the stairs. “I haven’t got all day.”

  She gave a sort of whimper. Her face contorted and she twisted away from Thornleigh, her back to him and Carlos. But she made no move to leave.

  Mosse lifted the keys to her ear and rattled them. “I’ll even let you unlock his irons yourself, after,” he said. “Well?”

  Carlos tore his eyes from the keys to catch the almost imperceptible nod of the girl’s head.

  Victorious, Mosse tossed the keys on the table. He shoved his torch into the wall bracket. He came close to the girl and tugged off her cloak. It fell in the icy mud. He grasped her shoulders and turned her to him and buried his face in her neck.

  Thornleigh gasped. “No!” he cried.

  The girl stood rigid, unmoving. Mosse ripped loose the lacing of her bodice. He tugged down the velvet fabric, and the thin chemise beneath, uncovering her breasts. Carlos swallowed. She had beautiful full breasts. Mosse grabbed them.

  “I’ll kill you, Mosse!” Thornleigh screamed. “I’ll kill you!”

  Mosse kneaded the girl’s breasts, then bent and sucked noisily at her nipple. He ignored Thornleigh’s continuing bellows of rage. But they were all the girl appeared aware of. Her eyes were tightly closed, and she held up a hand between her face and Thornleigh as if to hide behind it. All her concentration seemed focused on trying to block out her father’s ranting voice.

  Mosse fumbled under her skirts and shoved his hand up between her legs. She winced. He wrenched her around to make her face the table, then pushed her over it so that she bent forward at the waist. Her head hit the table and she groaned as if she’d been punched. Mosse hiked up her skirts and threw them up over her back, baring her buttocks. Her body was in profile to Carlos, her ear on the table, her face turned away, but the torchlight above her gleamed golden on the skin of her buttocks and thighs. Carlos felt himself swell and harden.

  Mosse prodded the girl’s legs apart, making her stumble for balance. He yanked his codpiece to one side, exposing his erect penis. He took hold of her hips and plowed into her. She gasped, her head jerking up. Thornleigh roared, “Merciful Jesus, no!” The girl’s head thudded back down, her other cheek on the table this time, her face toward Carlos. Her eyes were wide open now. Blazing blue eyes, all-seeing as a stark and cloudless sky.

  Mosse pulled out of her and grunted in disgust, “Cunt’s dry as a nun.” He spat on his hand, then smeared the spittle between the girl’s thighs. The girl’s hand clenched the edge of the table by her face. Thornleigh howled.

  Suddenly, the girl straightened and twisted around and faced Mosse, her skirts tumbling down. White-faced, with her chin trembling, she stood rigid. Then, stiffly, she lifted her skirts again, uncovering herself to Mosse. Her eyes shot pure hatred at him, but her gaze did not waver from his face. Carlos held his breath. She was forcing Mosse to look her in the eye.

  Anger flickered across Mosse’s face at her defiance. He pushed her back against the table edge and prodded her legs apart, making her tilt backwards on her elbows. Still, her eyes fixed him. He shoved himself at her with a leer that said he was waiting for her to break. But she did not turn away. And Mosse’s lust was stronger than his will to outface her. Finally, about to enter her, under her unflinching gaze, he closed his eyes.

  He rammed into her. Her hands shot out along the table, knocking coins to the ground, and the keys. Thornleigh strained at his chains until his wrists were bloody.

  Mosse pumped and grunted. Thornleigh raged like a madman. Mosse squealed at his climax. The girl made no sound.

  Then, Mosse was finished. Still inside the girl, he stood panting, wiping sweat from his forehead. Thornleigh slumped against the wall. He rolled his head back and forth along it, moaning.

  Carlos’s eyes slid from the girl to the keys on the floor, then back up to the girl. He wanted the keys, but the girl had amazed him. He thought he had seen every kind of sexual contract that women dealt in, from the tears of raped virgins, sobbing at the theft, to the lewd invitations of camp whores, aggressive in a buyer’s market. And he’d had women who negotiated every arrangement between those extremes in the give-and-take of lust. But the carnal bargain this girl had made was something he had never seen: she had done it for her father’s sake. And, in a bizarre way, by forcing Mosse to avoid her eyes, she had beaten him.

  Mosse pulled out of her. Carlos saw a trickle of blood darken the inside of her thigh. She’s a virgin, he thought. Or was.

  The girl straightened up from the table, forcing down her skirts. She tugged up her bodice to cover her breasts. She picked up her cloak from the mud and drew it tightly around her. She turned and faced Mosse, summoning up what dignity she could. But Carlos saw that she was shaking. And when she lifted a hand to push her hair back from her face, her hand merely skimmed near her hair, like someone not quite in control. “Now,” she said, “unlock his chains.” Despite the quaver in her voice, the command was firm.

  Mosse was refastening his codpiece. He glanced up the stairs and smiled. Carlos thought he heard footsteps beyond the open trapdoor. “Like I said, unlock him yourself,” Mosse said with a nod to the keys on the ground.

  Carlos was astonished. The bastardo wasn’t really keeping his bargain, was he?

  The girl snatched up the keys and stumbled forward between Carlos and Thornleigh. The hem of her skirt swished over Carlos’s boot. He drew up his knees. She knelt down and reached out for Thornleigh’s wrist cuff. She fumbled through the keys. “It’s
the small one, with the string on it,” Mosse said helpfully. He was busy shoving the coins on the table back inside the purse.

  As Mosse spoke, the footsteps above became the heavy clomp of boots. They reached the top of the stairs. A torch flared at the open trapdoor. The girl was just unlocking Thornleigh’s cuffs when three men marched down the steps—a turnkey and two guards. The girl looked around in surprise and stood. Carlos saw that she had abandoned the keys.

  “Ah,” Mosse said with great satisfaction, “right on time. I do insist that my men stick to the rules, mistress.” Looking at the turnkey, he jerked his head toward Thornleigh. “Take him.” The turnkey motioned to the two guards. The guards approached Thornleigh and finished unlocking his chains.

  “No!” the girl cried. But the guards were pulling her father up from the floor. They shoved him through the room. Thornleigh lurched from their grasp and lunged murderously at Mosse. Mosse jumped back. The guards seized Thornleigh again and manhandled him toward the steps.

  The girl ran after them. “No!” The guards ignored her and pushed Thornleigh on. The girl screamed at Mosse, “You promised I could set him free!”

  Mosse was picking up coins that had fallen under the table. “And so you did,” he said. “And now he’s free to visit London town. He’s been transferred there by order of the sheriff. That’s what he gets for bashing in the brains of a lord.” He tugged tight the drawstrings of the purse and called up to Thornleigh, who was struggling between the guards on the middle of the stairs, “And you won’t find any London prison a bed of roses like my jail.”

  As the guards pushed Thornleigh up the final step, Thornleigh wrenched back his head. “Get away, Isabel!” he cried. “Out of England! Take your mother and get—”

  A guard kicked his leg, and the turnkey ordered, “Shut your gob.” They forced Thornleigh out of the Hole. “Go, Isabel!” Thornleigh’s muffled voice called down one last time. Their boots scuffled along the corridor. Then, there was silence.

  Carlos’s eyes darted back to the keys. They were still attached to Thornleigh’s chains left on the ground. They lay so near him. He knew he could reach them. But any movement would draw Mosse’s attention. He forced himself to sit still.