Strangely, this meeting of the Friends did not bring him any lasting consolation; his thoughts were all with Alice. He chewed the facts of her trial over and over, denouncing the jurors in his head and wondering how such a travesty could have come about. He could not bear to think about the morrow, when Alice would be taken away to have the life squeezed out of her, never to return. He paced back and forth in his cell in frustration, trying to think what to do. It challenged all his convictions that such a thing could happen to an innocent woman. Yet in himself, he was sure that a higher power did exist. Had he not been stricken with it himself?
Those few left at the morning meeting at Lingfell Hall would be remembering them, he was sure, but then he knew what they did not–that no provisions would reach them, and that visitors were only received if they could grease Paucett’s palm with coin, something the Quakers, with their meagre and honest lifestyles, seldom would think to do.
Richard continued to move restlessly about the cell.
‘Sit thee still, Richard,’ said Ned Armitage. ‘Thou art driving us all to the end of our patience, with thy constant shuffling.’
‘I cannot help it. I cannot think how to help her.’
‘Perhaps it is a lesson to thee to accept it, as we must accept our own fates, which are just as surely coming,’ said Ned.
‘I cannot accept it. But I will sit, if my walking offends you all.’ He sat down heavily against the wall. ‘But I just wish I could do something.’
‘Being a friend and a comfort, that is not so little,’ said Ned. ‘Better to help her accept it than to rail against it, so she might have peace in her last moments.’
Richard sat quietly then, seeming to take in his words; it was only his restless drumming fingers that betrayed he was still churned up, the anger boiling in his chest.
It was whilst he was sitting like this that he heard the clang of the gates at the end of the corridor being unlocked, and approaching footsteps. He peered through the barred window and could just see young Bubb, the silhouette of his halo of curly hair, and behind that, the broader, bulkier outline of Paucett’s sleeve as he followed him, and the scuffing sound of his heavy boots, which he hardly bothered to lift off the ground. He could also hear another sound, the tapping of heels behind them. It must be Dorothy. When they got to his door, he saw Paucett’s doughy, moon-shaped face loom in the window. ‘Here it is, sir,’ he said to the person behind him. ‘A visitor,’ he leered through the hatch.
Paucett moved away, and a gentleman in a white powdered wig and three-feathered hat approached.
‘Mr Wheeler,’ said the man, in a formal tone.
Richard did not recognize the man but he recognized the voice. He withdrew slightly from the window.
‘Sam,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Or is it Stephen?’
He looked different, not just the clothes, but different in the face, clearer, more open. He held up his finger to his lips indicating Richard should be quiet, then turned to Paucett and said in a loud voice, ‘You may leave us. I have some business to relay to Mr Wheeler concerning the ill they have done my father, and my father’s rights to compensation.’
Paucett’s mumbling voice replied, ‘You will find me by the first gate, sir, when you wish to go up.’
Stephen watched Paucett go. As soon as he was out of earshot, he put his face back up to the opening and said, ‘Richard, I did thee wrong. But I want to make amends.’ Seeing Richard’s face, unmoved and silent, he continued. ‘I have been to the Hall this morning and seen Isaac buried properly, the way a good man deserves. And I have asked Dorothy to try and get good lawyers for thy defence—’
‘What about thy father?’ said Richard.
‘He knows nothing of this. I am here out of friendship, and because thou art the first genuine friend I have ever had that liked me for myself, and not because I was my father’s son.’
‘Thou hast deceived us all, Sam.’ Richard shook his head. ‘We thought thou wast a man touched by the Spirit.’ Richard remembered the scenes of terror in the barn and his voice took on a crisp tone. ‘Why art thou here?’
Stephen cast his eyes downward, then looked up, his face twisted with pain. ‘I cannot pretend to be a holy person, indeed thou knowest I am not. But I want to be Sam Fielding, I want to be the person thou thoughtest I was…’ He paused, his voice breaking. ‘Just tell me something I can do. I can try and get thee out of here, bribe the judge, stand up for thee against my father…’ His words trailed away.
Richard looked at the impassioned young man standing before him. How naïve he was, how little he knew of the world, and their way of life, to even suggest he should bribe the judge. For the first time, he really saw Stephen, his youth, his inexperience, and realized that he himself had been guilty of ascribing to him a self-possession that had never been there. But here was this young man, eager to help–a sudden hope sprang up in his heart.
He grabbed hold of the bars of the window. ‘There is something thou canst do,’ he said, ‘but not for me. For Alice. My fate is as yet uncertain, but she is to hang tomorrow.’
Stephen looked hesitant then, but Richard pushed on. ‘She is innocent, Sam. She is lodged in that cell over there.’ He pointed, and watched as Stephen looked over to the iron door behind him.
‘Thou must find a way to help her.’ Seeing him still unconvinced, he said, ‘Please, Sam. There is nobody else. I can do nothing, but I cannot bear to think of it, such a waste…’ Richard felt a lump come into his throat and he swallowed hard to compose himself. ‘Please say thou wilt try?’
Stephen’s eyes betrayed his uncertainty. ‘But she is already condemned–I might not be able to do anything.’
‘As long as thou hast tried–then that is all anyone can do.’ Richard looked into Stephen’s worried face and saw the weight of responsibility settle there in the crease between his eyebrows. ‘Thou art a true friend, Sam, I know that.’ He extended his hand, rough and calloused with blisters, and Stephen held out his smooth dry palm. Richard squeezed it hard.
‘Paucett,’ Stephen called imperiously. ‘I have had enough of this stinking pit. Take me aloft.’
Chapter 34
At nightfall Lancaster seemed to be suspended over the estuary like a bright string of beads, all the house lights twinkling, the cabins on the ships with their windows ablaze with candles, casting long fluctuating stripes of gold onto the surface of the river. Here by the wharf waited the traders and schooners, ready to sail on the late tide, their gangplanks still lowered, their bellies still being filled with barrels of saltpetre, woollen goods, leather hides and pallets of slate.
From the top of the hill Stephen could see the ships’ masts on the northern shore–a swaying forest, for the sheets were still furled, and the ropes and moorings made the familiar creaking and clanking sound as they stretched and moved with the water’s swell. There was a stiff easterly breeze, which would mean a good fast turn-about. Already he could see a small rowdy group of hands gathered near the jetty by the Flying Fish tavern, presumably hoping to be taken on as crew by those vessels lacking the full complement. He saw the flaring of their pipes as they sat on the moorings and smoked, and he heard their laughter and rowdy voices as a group of girls paraded past intent on their age-old trade.
Stephen could make out his father’s ship, towards the end of the moorings where the water was deeper. He knew both his father’s ships well; this one was the Fair Louise, a flute of Dutch design. His father had added a figurehead with yellow hair and a bright blue drape only half covering the round breasts that jutted forth, their strawberry nipples exposed to the breaking waves. Around her neck hung a necklace of white-painted wood, carved in to shells. His father’s other ship was the Anne-Marie. The names of his father’s ships made him uncomfortable–he had a feeling they were named for his whores, and his thoughts turned sadly to his mother, from whom he had heard nothing more since the day she departed. He assumed she was settled somewhere in Ireland, and hoped that Hetherington was treatin
g her well.
He watched for a moment as the crew scurried back and forth loading the Fair Louise with fleeces from the upland herds, cloth, barrels of liquor and crates of provisions. His father was to sail for New England tonight, which was fortunate as he would be well out of the way if, God forbid, anything should go amiss.
Stephen had still flatly refused to sail, and his father had become so overwrought, so lacking in reason, particularly since the assizes, that Stephen had been unable to bear another quarrel with him. Stephen felt nerves jangle in the pit of his stomach. He took a deep breath and exhaled audibly before he reined in his horse and turned its muzzle back towards the town.
The convolution of narrow streets with their overhanging windows was like a black labyrinth, the shanty houses leaning up against the castle walls as if huddling there for warmth. Here were doorways that could hide footpads or other ne’er-do-wells, and Stephen had a quantity of money in his pouch, taken from his father’s desk drawer.
But he rode on, safe, or rather somewhat nervous, in the knowledge that he was armed. He had taken his pair of flintlock pistols, a present from his father on his sixteenth birthday, from their case in the gunroom, enjoying the look and feel of the inlaid brass mounts chased with spiralling fern-like designs, and the solid weight of the barrels in his hand. He had begun to prime them from his powder horn when he had heard his father’s horse returning, so he had slunk silently downstairs and out through the kitchen entrance to the stables. What his father did not know was that he had no intention of returning to Fisk Manor. Dorothy had told him he could stay at the Hall.
Now he was glad he had the pistols loaded and ready, stiff in his gun belt. He also had a small sword slung over his back and a needle-dagger in his sleeve. A voluminous dark blue cloak rested across the pommel of his saddle, a garment so hideously old-fashioned his mother had long since ceased to wear it and had abandoned it in her closet, but he knew he might have need of it in the hours to come.
He had sent word ahead, and when he arrived at the small market square the closed sedan chair awaited him, a fine black lacquerwork affair with gold lines around the window. One of the liveried attendants opened the door and seemed to notice nothing out of the ordinary as they handed him into the compartment. He gave his orders and the contraption lurched into motion. Inside, he removed his sword and laid it by his feet underneath the cloak. He took off the gun belt carefully, for he was aware that movement from within might cause the men to stagger or fall. The two pistols he pushed down inside his wide-topped leather boots, folding lace cuffs over them. He was wearing his most costly outfit, of watered mulberry silk, with tan doeskin gauntlets and a neat wig under a large wide-brimmed hat. In his bag he carried a scroll he had penned that afternoon, pressed with his father’s seal, and a purse with a large quantity of coinage.
His stomach was fluttering now as he watched the windows of the houses pass by, the hanging wooden signs of the butcher, the tailor, the mercer, and then the huge stones of the castle walls. Outside the prison gates he was set down and he handed one of the attendants a card with his father’s name printed thereon, and a half-crown, and sent him to the small door. A moment later he felt himself hoisted up, and heard the large gate creak laboriously open and then close behind him.
He stepped out and told the attendants to wait for his return.
‘Ah, Paucett,’ he said, waving his glove at him as the lumpen figure of the gaoler approached. ‘My father bade me return with this writ. I am to deliver it to that dog Wheeler. My father fears he cannot put trust in his serving men, these days.’
Paucett looked at him appraisingly. ‘You were here earlier,’ he said. ‘I thought the face was familiar.’
‘Stephen Fisk, Sir Geoffrey Fisk’s son.’
Paucett blew out through his teeth, his cheeks puffing out like bladders. ‘Night visits are most unusual, sir. It’s quite against the regulations to let visitors have access to the cells.’
Stephen waited, guessing what might come next.
‘That is, unless…unless a small consideration might be made for the privilege, sir?’
It was evening when Richard heard the barred gate opening and footsteps outside his door. He saw the yellow light from the rushlight in the corridor creep in through the bars, followed by Paucett’s face. ‘Five minutes, that’s all.’ Paucett’s lips opened, but then he gave a short grunt, a look of surprise in his soft-boiled eyes. Richard made out a gloved hand holding the barrel of a pistol to Paucett’s neck.
‘If either of you try anything, I will blow your brains out.’ Richard recognized Sam’s voice, although he could not see clearly what was going on. Even now, Richard could not bring himself to think of him as Stephen Fisk.
‘Sam?’ called Richard.
Paucett tried to twist around and at the same time Richard saw Sam’s lace-cuffed hand come out armed with the scroll-ended butt of the pistol.
‘No!’ shouted Richard, his head close up to the window.
A dull thump as the pistol butt bit hard into Paucett’s skull.
‘There’s no other way,’ came the reply, at the same time as another plaintive voice from Richard’s cell shouted, ‘What’s happening?’ Richard’s cell-mates were jostling behind him, unable to see because Richard’s head obscured the window.
‘It’s Sam Fielding—’ said Richard, but did not finish his sentence for Paucett let out a groan and his eyes rolled upwards in his head before the thud as his body hit the ground outside, the keys at his waist jangling against the wet flagstones. Richard looked past him into the corridor to see Bubb frozen to the spot, staring open-mouthed at Paucett. Paucett was face-down like a whale, heaving slightly as if he would get up but had forgotten how. Then he lay still.
‘If you move an inch I’ll blow you to bits,’ said Stephen, his voice quavering, cocking his pistol and taking aim at Bubb’s chest.
Bubb held his hands up, his eyes darting from side to side searching for a means of escape, but the corridor was a dead end; they all knew the only way out was the way they had come in.
‘Sam…Stephen.’ Richard tried to get Stephen’s attention, but Stephen was too occupied with holding Bubb at bay. Richard banged on the door with his fist, calling again in frustration.
‘Stephen! Not like this—’
‘Just let me do what I must,’ Stephen shouted in the direction of Richard’s door, and wielded the heavy pistol with renewed determination. Bubb turned pale under his freckles.
‘Get the keys.’ Stephen pointed with his other hand to the iron ring, half visible under the expanse of Paucett’s grubby shirt.
Bubb held his hands above his head and crept towards Paucett’s great carcass. He tried to pull at the ring by the jagged keys but they were buried under the mound of flesh.
‘I can’t reach them, sir,’ he whined.
‘If you do not, I will blow you both to kingdom come,’ Stephen said.
Bubb struggled to roll Paucett over onto his back.
‘I’m sorry, Richard, it was the only way,’ Stephen said, glancing sideways again at the door.
Bubb had extricated the keys and was sidling along the corridor.
‘Look out! He’s going to—’ Alice’s voice rang out a warning from the other side of the corridor, just as Bubb dodged past him towards the stairs. Stephen put out his foot and Bubb fell headlong, cracking his cheek on the ground. Instantly Stephen leaned down and pushed the barrel of the gun up to his temple.
‘Open the door,’ he said grimly, gesturing at where Richard was looking out. The key grated in the lock and the door opened. Richard pushed his way out into the corridor, followed by his curious and bemused companions, who looked in horror at Paucett’s motionless body. Ned Armitage bent over him to look more closely, feeling for a pulse in his neck.
‘By God’s grace, he’s only stunned,’ he said to Stephen, clapping him reassuringly on the back.
‘The other door,’ said Richard impatiently, ‘open this one.’ He had ta
ken hold of Bubb by the arm. ‘Alice is in there, we have to get her out.’
Stephen brought his pistol up to Bubb’s temple who wordlessly handed over the bunch of keys. When Alice’s door swung open she faltered a moment on the threshold, looking at the crowd of men jostling in the corridor, but then she stepped out to join them.
‘Help me!’ shouted Richard to his friends. ‘I have had an idea.’ He was dragging Paucett by the feet into Alice’s cell. Between them they hauled his dead weight inside. Stephen pushed Bubb in after him and locked the door, turning the key with a satisfying clunk.
‘In mercy’s name, sir, don’t leave me in here with him.’ Bubb’s face at the window was white. ‘He’ll do for me.’ He kicked at the door, wailing. ‘Please, I’ll do anything, just don’t leave me here with him.’
‘What on earth—?’ Richard turned back to see Stephen was stripping off his boots and breeches.
‘Get undressed,’ Stephen said, ‘give me thy clothes.’
A few minutes later and Richard was dressed in the mulberry silk. The silk suit was a little too tight but Richard certainly carried the outfit well, even the wig and feathered hat suited him. Stephen felt instantly at ease in Richard’s worsted breeches and smoke-stained shirt.
‘Take this purse, and this…’ Stephen offered Richard one of the pistols.
Richard shook his head.
‘There are guards by the front gate, thou mayst have need of them.’
‘No. I vowed I would never take up arms again.’
‘For God’s sake, man, thou needst not shoot them, just wave them about, like I did,’ said Stephen. ‘Hasten thee, or she will hang tomorrow.’
The Lady's Slipper Page 33
