The Lady's Slipper

by Deborah Swift

  Perhaps if she lay still he might think he had killed her. She closed her eyes, tried not to let her breath stir her. There was a pause. She strained to hear where he was. The sound of boot heels, then a hand gripped her wounded shoulder. She gasped in pain and opened her eyes. He was leaning over her; his breath had a peculiar rancid odour, the pupils of his eyes were like pinpricks.

  ‘I knew she had cursed me. Cursed me to live forever as if ants are eating me alive. You’re both alike,’ he said, ‘you won’t leave me be. But you feel warm. Not cold like her. And you’re bleeding.’ He stared at his hand before wiping it on his thigh. ‘Too much blood,’ he said. ‘Get up.’

  He tried to pull her to her feet. Alice froze as his free hand slid around the back of her neck. The other hand still held the knife at her throat.

  ‘Do you need some company? Shall we let the sea take her?’ He seemed to be addressing an invisible audience. He tightened his grip, then released her and stepped away. ‘What do you think, Widow Poulter?’

  Alice heard nothing–no reply, just the ominous tolling of the bell.

  He opened the bolt with one swift movement and dragged her up.

  The ship listed sharply to one side. Geoffrey struggled to cling onto her but she took her chance and twisted out of his grip. In a moment she was staggering out of the door and into the corridor. Her legs were limp as sackcloth and she put both hands out to the sides of the wooden walls to steady herself as she scrambled in a panic for the stairs.

  A vivid orange flash and a shot whistled past her to smatter in the bulkhead beyond. She let out a cry, for the crack made her ears ring.

  The air was thick with the acrid smoke of powder, yellow against the mist. She glanced behind to see him feeling his way towards her, the barrel of a gun still held out before him. My God, he was armed.

  She had one foot on the stairs but another flash followed by a deafening blast stopped her in her tracks as a hole exploded into splinters in the ceiling above her. She dropped to her knees under a shower of shrapnel, whimpering with shock, her head covered with her arms. She began to crawl up; she could see nothing but a dense cloud of smoke behind her in the dim corridor. Above her the sky was the colour of whey. Everything seemed to be happening very slowly, as if she was wading through mud.

  With horror she felt a tug on her skirts and looked down to see his hand clutching them. She snatched them away and leapt up, seizing the handrail with her good arm to haul herself above deck. She cast about for someone to help her but there was a pall over everything; she could see no one and hear nothing above the ship’s bell. The fog was still heavy and all spare men were up the rigging on lookout or baling below after the heavy seas of the night before.

  The hazy shape of Geoffrey’s head and shoulders appeared from the deck below. She ran to the side rail but he was still coming after her, moving unsteadily through the mist, his gun levelled at her chest.

  ‘Alice!’ Richard’s frantic voice came from somewhere behind them, at the same time as another voice yelled the all clear. The clang of the ship’s bell suddenly stopped.

  ‘Oh thank God. Here,’ she almost wept, ‘I’m over here.’ Her voice seemed small.

  ‘Where?’ Richard shouted.

  She heard Geoffrey swear under his breath as he stopped, fumbling to reload his pistol. She seized her chance and put the mizzen mast between her and Geoffrey, shrinking back behind its solid girth. Geoffrey spun round, took aim and fired–a shot that ricocheted off the edge of the mast and hissed into the white gloom beyond.

  Instantly a figure hurled itself out of the mist and grabbed Geoffrey around the neck. His head jerked back and he let out a soft puff of surprise. Richard’s fingers clamped over his as he tried to prise the pistol from Geoffrey’s grasp. Geoffrey twisted and squirmed to free himself. Taking a deep breath, he jabbed his elbow sharp into Richard’s stomach. Richard doubled over, coughing, but Geoffrey rounded to face him, his hand still caught in the other man’s grip.

  Geoffrey’s mouth dropped open, slack. ‘You!’ he said.

  He tottered back as if winded. Richard seized control of the pistol and threw it to one side.

  ‘Is it not enough but you will haunt me too?’ Geoffrey whispered.

  ‘Leave her be. Whatever ill I did to thee in the past, let it rest with me.’

  ‘I will never let it rest.’ Geoffrey withdrew his short sword from his belt. ‘Not whilst dogs like you still walk abroad, and my mother lies cold in the ground.’

  ‘Hold off, Geoffrey. Let’s talk like civilized men.’

  Geoffrey made a thrust towards him.

  ‘I will not fight thee. Put away thy sword.’ Richard backed away to join Alice.

  ‘Quaker coward,’ Geoffrey said. ‘What’s the matter, did you leave your farmer’s homespun at home?’

  Richard looked down. ‘This is thy son’s suit.’

  ‘My son’s suit? Stephen?’ Geoffrey faltered, bewildered.

  ‘He lent me it.’

  Geoffrey stared, and Alice saw the recognition dawn on his face. Then he seemed to make up his mind. He shook his head.

  Richard continued: ‘We owe him our thanks. It was he that loosed us from the gaol.’

  ‘You lie.’

  ‘He speaks true,’ Alice said.

  ‘Shut your filthy mouth, Wheeler’s whore.’

  ‘Stephen set all the Quakers free,’ Alice said.

  ‘Don’t you dare to speak my son’s name alongside those traitors.’ He made a lunge, stabbing the sword towards her.

  She screamed and leapt aside just as Richard threw himself at Geoffrey’s legs and floored him, scuffling to pinion his arms.

  Geoffrey thrashed but Richard pressed his arms flat to the deck. With a heave, Geoffrey landed a vicious kick to Richard’s stomach and rolled free.

  Richard floundered, clutching his belly. In the tussle the blade had slipped from Geoffrey’s grasp. Now it clattered to the ground and slid away on the tilting floor. Geoffrey snapped round to look. The sword glinted against the floorboards in a puddle of sea water.

  Both men threw themselves towards it.

  ‘Hey!’ There was a shout from above. Alice looked up. One of the sailors was clambering down the rigging. Distracted, Richard glanced briefly his way and Geoffrey grabbed the sword first by the top of the blade. As Richard reached for it, Geoffrey whipped it away from his stretching fingers. Immediately Geoffrey rammed the hilt up against his jaw with such force that the blade flew from his grip.

  Richard landed on his back, his hand feeling his chin. Alice felt sick.

  ‘Help him,’ said Alice.

  The sailor paused a moment, but hurried away into the fog. She watched as, disorientated, Richard pulled himself to kneeling. Geoffrey lunged for the sword and Richard grunted and twisted his body to dive for it. When his fingers closed around the hilt he staggered to upright.

  ‘An end to it,’ Richard said and, holding the blade aloft, ran to the side. He drew back his arm and hurled the sword as far as he could over the edge. He paused a moment, listening for its splash into the blank nothingness beyond.

  ‘Bastard.’ Geoffrey had started after him but then spotted the pistol lying where Richard had thrown it down. He bent to scoop it up. Before Richard could turn back from the rail, Geoffrey raised the butt of the gun and slugged it hard into the back of Richard’s head. Richard groaned, fell heavily against the side rails, slumped and lay still.

  A whimper escaped Alice’s mouth.

  ‘Oh God, Richard…’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I’ll finish him once and for all.’ He unhooked the powder horn from his belt and cocked the pistol to refill it with shot.

  ‘No!’ Alice flew at him, knocking the pistol out of his hand. The powder horn and shot rolled away on the floor into the slopping water. Geoffrey watched them roll for a moment, then turned quietly to face her.

  Unarmed, he approached a step at a time, holding out his arms towards her as if he would embrace he
r. She did not dare take her eyes away from him. She slowly began to back away. He sprang forward and she had no time to react; in one rapid movement he grappled her arms behind her.

  ‘Damn you, you bitch, I’ll have to finish you first,’ he whispered. She winced as his fingers sank into the flesh of her upper arm. He almost lifted her as he hauled her bodily across the deck.

  ‘Richard!’ she cried out, but he did not stir and she could see the back of his head oozed blood. ‘Please…’ She kicked desperately at Geoffrey’s legs, but he seemed impervious to her blows. There was an almost tangible animal frisson round him, like a stuck boar.

  ‘Help me,’ she shouted, but her voice faded weakly into the mist.

  ‘Quiet!’ Geoffrey pushed her up the stairs to the upper deck, his hand tight over her mouth.

  Stay calm, she told herself, and look for someone who can help you. Through the fog, the upper deck looked to be deserted. She could hear the voices of sailors below on the quarter deck, see vague silhouettes of figures moving against the white sail aloft as the ship heeled in the mist. There was a slight breeze now and they were letting out sail.

  But she was too exhausted to struggle so she let herself be carried towards the stern lantern, a blur of yellow light against the mist, tilting sideways with each heave of the sea. His hand was still over her mouth and was damp with her own blood. A swinging spar glanced Geoffrey a blow to the head. He staggered, and cursed it, but it seemed to cause him no pain, only made him seize her more tightly.

  The rigging groaned under the sudden fill of wind. The mist came and went in shreds of white. She was failing, the wound had sapped her strength. The stern dropped away and she saw the void loom fleetingly beneath. The wind blew in her nostrils, suffocating her. Geoffrey spun her round and pushed her harder. Her boots could get no grip and scraped as she slid against the boards, skidding backwards until she was wedged up against the rail, the brass housings digging into her waist.

  ‘Help me!’ she cried again, but her voice was faint as a seagull’s cry.

  She reached for the rail and caught hold, but it was grainy with salt water and her hand was too small to cling on. She felt it slide slowly out of her fingers. With sickening clarity she understood what he was trying to do.

  ‘Please, Geoffrey, no.’

  She dug in her nails but he was leaning on her harder now, trying to topple her over the edge. Below the wash rushed by in ragged stripes of white foam. Her back arched over empty air, both hands clutched at the neck of Geoffrey’s shirt. She felt the fabric bunch in her hands and her own nails bite into her palms. Geoffrey groaned as he struggled to free himself of her, pushing down on her shoulders.

  Suddenly he released his grip, feeling inside his pocket. She fought to regain her balance, clenching her fists round his shirt. Next moment, the quill knife was at her throat.

  ‘Let go,’ he said.

  The ship was moving faster now and the wind whistled at the back of her neck. With wide eyes she saw Geoffrey raise the knife above her throat. His other hand reached back and closed around one of her wrists. The ship rose up under them.

  ‘Stop!’

  Geoffrey turned, distracted.

  Behind him Richard held a rapier at arm’s length, the tip level with Geoffrey’s neck. His teeth were clenched, his expression stony.

  ‘Leave her be.’

  Geoffrey flailed his arm wildly, swiping the knife across Richard’s face. Alice lunged for freedom, but Geoffrey gripped her by the wrist.

  Richard dodged and parried the attack. The rapier slipped and sliced into Geoffrey’s forearm, but Geoffrey paid no heed to the gashes in his sleeve. He turned back to Alice, who had sunk to her knees and was twisting, trying to loosen his grasp on her wrist. He looked down on her. He had the eyes of a hound coming in for the kill. He raised the knife above her chest. She heard his rasping inhalation as his arm went up.

  Then he stood still, mouth hanging open, as if listening. The knife faltered in his hand. Alice saw a spot of crimson appear on his belly and slowly spread out like the red contours of a map.

  The knife dropped to the floor with a rattle, before the ship heeled once more and his falling weight nailed her to the deck.

  Over his shoulder she caught sight of Richard, swaying in the pale light. His face was flushed, his eyes blazing. In his hand he held the rapier; it hung loosely from his grasp, and from its tip droplets of blood dribbled onto his boot like ink. He looked down at it and then threw it away from him as if it were red-hot.

  Alice felt Geoffrey move on top of her, heard him groan, felt the sticky warmth of his blood seeping through her clothes.

  ‘Oh God help me. He’s alive,’ she said.

  Chapter 38

  Richard dragged Geoffrey roughly to one side and lifted Alice to her feet, holding her so tightly she could feel his heart thud against her ribs.

  ‘What the devil’s going on?’ One of the midshipmen appeared from below. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Richard Wheeler.’ He pointed at the figure on the ground with a trembling hand. ‘Help us. It’s Sir Geoffrey Fisk, he’s wounded. Get him to his cabin.’

  The man summoned two deckhands who carried Geoffrey, still groaning, to his chamber. Word soon spread and more curious crew came to his quarters to find out what was afoot. They stood there gawping, taking in Richard’s cut and bruised face, and Geoffrey who was breathing heavily, lying on his back on his bunk, the front of his shirt and his fine coat soaked with blood. The men hastened away.

  ‘Help me, Alice,’ Richard said, pressing his cuff onto Geoffrey’s chest. ‘Don’t just stand there. We must do something.’

  ‘I won’t go near him,’ Alice said. ‘Don’t ask me.’

  Geoffrey had ceased to thrash and now moaned and lay twitching like a beached fish. Richard pressed his shirt harder into Geoffrey’s stomach to stem the flow of blood. Geoffrey screamed and became distraught, heaving and lashing out until Richard was forced to move away.

  Before long the Master arrived to ascertain what had happened.

  ‘What the hell is all this? My men tell me there are shot holes in the tween-deck corridor.’

  Richard told him plainly they had duelled over the lady, and that Geoffrey had come off the worst in the fight.

  ‘Are you mad? We could not tell whence the shots came. For God’s sake, we thought the other vessel was firing at us. Thank God it was one of our own.’ He shook his head with an expression of blank disbelief. ‘Damned fool. You put their lives at risk as well as our own with your brawling. What were you thinking of?’

  He shouted over to the boy, who stood in the corner, white-faced, transfixed by the sight of Geoffrey’s sopping shirt. ‘Fetch the surgeon. Quick, now.’ The boy ran off.

  ‘Don’t say I did not warn you,’ the Master said. ‘Women and the sea are like Cain and Abel, they never meet without that some calamity occurs.’

  Richard had unaccountably turned his back to them all. The Master narrowed his eyes, tapped his fingers against his breeches, as if weighing Richard in the balance. Richard ignored him, opening all Geoffrey’s shutters to let in the light, and now his attention was seemingly focused on the view out of the window. Alice saw the back of his hair was matted with blood.

  The Master looked exasperated. ‘Our livelihoods depend on him,’ he said to Alice, indicating Geoffrey with a tilt of his head. He stepped towards Richard. ‘If he does not live, sir, then understand you will be responsible for the men’s wages, will you not?’

  Richard looked round, and nodded. His face was haggard, the face of a man grown old.

  ‘Then I will leave you to sort out this unholy mess. The surgeon will tell me his chances, and I hope they are better than they look.’

  Alice watched this conversation unfold before her as if it were a long way away. Her teeth were chattering as the cold air sluiced over her. She supposed she must be in shock. Her hands were blue, the heat had shrivelled inwards to her centre. On the wall of Geoffrey
’s cabin the sunburst display was missing a sword. She knew now where it lay–on the deck, cast aside, the tip dark with blood.

  She wanted to go to Richard, but she must pass by Geoffrey, and she dare not. She hated to see Geoffrey writhing on his bed like that, in his own blood, like an animal on a slaughterhouse floor. But what if he should find new strength, attack her again, reach out and grab for her throat? So she stayed shaking in the corner, not daring to pass him, one hand clutching her shoulder where the flesh-wound was throbbing its own aching rhythm. When the Master and his officers had left, Richard turned to her, in turmoil, his sleeve sodden with a mess of blood.

  Richard knelt and peeled Geoffrey’s wet coat open and then pressed the fabric of his shirt to staunch the wound again. He spoke into his ear.

  ‘Geoffrey. Geoffrey, can you hear me? The surgeon is coming. Hold on there.’

  The vessel hit a wave, and Geoffrey moaned and half opened his eyes. When he saw Richard, his eyes closed again to shut him out. Richard turned to Alice.

  ‘Have mercy. I will not let him die, Alice. We were friends once.’

  She nodded, but could not erase the image of Geoffrey’s face as he lunged towards her with the knife. She still felt the empty air behind her and the suck of the sea. Her legs trembled beneath her skirts. If she were to open her mouth she did not know if words would come.

  Richard saw her hesitation and stood up and made to hold her, his brown eyes desperate. His fingers dug into the back of her neck. ‘Oh God, Alice. He’s going to die.’ Then suddenly he pushed her away. ‘Don’t come near me. I am cursed with his family’s blood.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was thin and small.

  He whispered, ‘My men–they killed his mother, in the days of shaking. They tortured her. Raped her. Oh God, Alice, they made sport with her corpse…they had lost their senses somehow, God alone knows. But they cut off her fingers, wore her white hair in their helmets–as trophies…’