Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  In seven days.

  "Would you lie with me?" Rachel asked. "What?"

  "Would you lie down with me?" Her voice sounded very weary, as if now that the trial had ended her strength of spirit had been all but overwhelmed by the evidence arrayed against her. "I think I might sleep, if you were to hold my hand."

  "Yes," he answered, and he eased down onto his back with his hand still gripping hers. She also reclined alongside the bars, so near to him that he felt the heat of her body even through the coarse and dirty sackcloth.

  The thunder spoke, closer still and more powerful. Rachel's hand squeezed his, almost to the point of pain. He said nothing, as the sound of his heartbeat made speech impossible.

  For a while the thunder was a raging young bully above Fount Royal, but at last it began to move away toward the sea and became aged and muttering in its decrease. The hands of the two prisoners remained bound together, even as sleep took them in different paths. Matthew awakened once, and listened in the quiet dark. His mind was groggy, but he thought he'd heard a sound that might have been a hushed sobbing.

  If the sound had been real or not, it was not repeated. He squeezed Rachel's hand. She gave an answering pressure.

  That was all.

  twenty

  MATTHEW EMERGED FROM SLEEP before the first rooster crowed. He found his hand still embracing Rachel's. When Matthew gently tried to work his hand free, Rachel's eyes opened and she sat up in the gray gloom with bits of straw in her hair.

  The morning of mixed blessings had arrived; his lashing and his freedom were both soon to be delivered. Rachel made no statement to him, but retreated to the other side of her cage for an illusion of privacy with her waste bucket. Matthew moved to the far side of his own cell and spent a moment splashing cold water upon his face, then he too reached for the necessary bucket. Such an arrangement had horrified him when he'd first entered the gaol, but now it was something to be done and over with as quickly as possible.

  He ate a piece of stale bread that he'd saved from last night, and then he sat on his bench, his head lowered, waiting for the sound of the door opening.

  It wasn't a long wait. Hannibal Green entered the gaol carrying a lantern. Behind him was the magistrate, bundled in coat and scarf, the bitter reek of liniment around him and his face more chalky now than gray, with dark purplish hollows beneath his swollen eyes. Woodward's ghastly appearance frightened Matthew more than the expectation of the lashes, and the magistrate moved with a slow, painful step.

  "It's time." Green unlocked Matthew's cell. "Out with you." Matthew stood up. He was afraid, but there was no use in delay. He walked out of the cell.

  "Matthew?" Rachel was standing at the bars. He gave her his full attention. "No matter what happens to me," she said quietly, the lantern's light reflecting in her amber eyes, "I wish to thank you for listening." He nodded. Green gave him a prod in the ribs to move him along. "Have courage," she said.

  "And you," he replied. He wanted to remember her in that moment; she was beautiful and proud, and there was nothing in her face that betrayed the fact she faced a hideous death. She lingered, staring into his eyes, and then she turned away and went back to her bench, where she eased down and shrouded herself in the sackcloth gown once more.

  "Move on!" Green rumbled.

  Woodward grasped Matthew's shoulder, in almost a paternal gesture, and led him out of the gaol. At the doorway, Matthew resisted the desire to look back again at Rachel, for even though he felt he was abandoning her, he knew as well that, once free, he could better work for her benefit.

  It occurred to him, as he walked out into the misty, meager light of morning, that he had accepted—to the best of his ability—the unfamiliar role of champion.

  Green closed the gaol's door. "Over there," he said, and he took hold of Matthew's left arm and pulled him rather roughly away from Woodward, directing him toward the pillory that stood in front of the gaolhouse.

  "Is there need for that, sir?" Woodward's voice, though still weak, was somewhat more able than the previous day.

  Green didn't bother to answer. As he was being led to be pilloried, Matthew saw that the novelty of a lashing had brought a dozen or so citizens out of their homes to be entertained. Among them were Seth Hazelton, whose grinning face was still swaddled by a dirty bandage, and Lucretia Vaughan, who had brought along a basket of breads and teacakes that she was in the process of selling to the assembly. Sitting in his carriage nearby was the master of Fount Royal himself, come to make sure justice was done, while Goode sat up front slowly whittling on a piece of wood.

  "Tear his back open, Green!" Hazelton urged. "Split it like he done split my face!"

  Green used a key from his ring to unlatch the top half of the pillory, which he then lifted up. "Take your shirt off," he told Matthew. As Matthew did Green's bidding, he saw with a sick jolt to his stomach that coiled around a hitching-post to his right was a braided leather whip perhaps two feet in length. It certainly was not as formidable as a bullwhip or a cat-o'-nine, but the braid could do considerable damage if delivered with any sort of srrength—and Green, at the moment, resembled nothing less than a fearsome, red-bearded Goliath.

  "In the pillory with you," the giant said. Matthew put his arms into the depressions meant for them and then laid his neck against the damp wood. Green closed the pillory and locked it, trapping Matthew's head and arms. Matthew now was bent into a crouch, his naked back offered to the whip. He couldn't move his head to follow Green, but he heard the noise of the braid as it slithered off the hitching-post.

  The whip cracked as Green tested it. Matthew flinched, the skin crawling across his spine. "Give it to 'im good!" Hazelton yelled. Matthew was unable to either lift or lower his head to any great degree. A feeling of dreadful helplessness swept over him. He clenched his hands into fists and squeezed his eyes shut.

  "One!" Green said, and by that Matthew knew the first strike was about to be made. Standing close by, the magistrate had to turn away and stare at the ground. He felt he might have to spew at any second.

  Matthew waited. Then he sensed rather than heard Green drawing back. The onlookers were silent. Matthew realized the whip was up and about to—

  Crack!

  —across his shoulders, a hot pain that grew hotter, a flame, an inferno that scorched his flesh and brought tears to his sealed eyes. He heard himself gasp with the shock of it, but he had enough presence of mind to open his mouth lest he bite into his tongue. After the whip had been withdrawn, the strip of skin it had bitten continued to burn hotter and hotter; it was the worst physical pain Matthew had ever experienced—and the second and third strikes were yet to fall.

  "Damn it, Green!" Hazelton bawled. "Show us some blood!"

  "Shut your mouth!" Green hollered back. "This ain't no ha'penny circus!"

  Again, Matthew waited with his eyes tightly closed. Again he sensed Green drawing back the whip, sensed the man putting his strength into the lash as it hissed down through the sodden air. "Two!" Green shouted.

  Crack! it came once more, exactly upon the same strip of blistered flesh.

  For an instant Matthew saw bright crimson and deepest ebony swirling in his mind like the colors of war flags, and then the truest, keenest, most savage pain under the sky of God gnawed into him. As this pain bloomed down his back and up his neck to the very top of his skull, he heard himself give an animal-ish groan but he was able to restrain the cry that fairly leapt from his throat.

  "Three!" Green announced.

  Here came the whip's hiss. Matthew felt tears on his cheeks. Oh God, he thought. Oh God oh God oh—

  Crack! This time the braid had struck a few inches lower than the first two lashes, but its bite was no less agonizing. Matthew trembled, his knees about to give way. So fierce was the pain that he feared his bladder might also empty itself, so he concentrated solely on damming the flow. Thankfully, it did not. He opened his eyes. And then he heard Green say something that he would remember with joy the
rest of his life: "Done, Mr. Bidwell!"

  "No!" It was Hazelton's angry snarl. "You held back, damn you! I seen you hold back!"

  "Watch that tongue, Seth, or by God I'll blister it!"

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Bidwell had stepped down from his carriage, and made his way to the pillory. "I think we've had violence enough for this morning." He leaned down to peer into Matthew's sweat-slick face. "Have you learned your lesson, clerk?"

  "Green held back!" the blacksmith insisted. "It ain't fair to go so easy on that boy, when he done scarred me for life!"

  "We agreed on the punishment, Mr. Hazelton," Bidwell reminded him. "I believe Mr. Green applied the lash with proper consideration. Wouldn't you say, Magistrate?"

  Woodward had seen the red welts that had risen across Matthew's shoulders. "I would."

  "I pronounce the punishment correctly administered and the young man free to go. Release him, Mr. Green."

  But Hazelton was so enraged he was nearly dancing a jig. "I ain't satisfied! You didn't draw no blood!"

  "I could remedy that," Green warned, as he coiled the braid and then went about unlocking the pillory.

  Hazelton took two strides forward and thrust his ugly face at Matthew. "You set foot on my land again, and I'll strop your hide myself! I won't hold back, neither!" He drew himself up again and cast a baleful stare at Bidwell. "Mark this as a black day for justice!" he said, and with that he stalked away in the direction of his home.

  The latch was opened. Matthew stood up from the pillory's embrace and had to bite his lip as a fresh wave of pain coursed through his shoulders. If Green had indeed held back, Matthew would have hated to be on the receiving end of a whip that the giant put his full power behind. He felt light-headed and stood for a moment with one hand grasping the pillory.

  "Are you all right?" Woodward was standing beside him.

  "Yes, sir. I shall be, I mean."

  "Come along!" Bidwell was wearing a smirk that was not very much disguised. "You look in need of some breakfast!"

  Matthew followed Bidwell to the carriage, with the magistrate walking at his side. The onlookers were going away to their daily business, the small excitement over. Suddenly a woman stepped in front of Matthew and said brightly, "My compliments!"

  It took Matthew a few seconds to register that Lucretia Vaughan was offering him a teacake from her basket. "Please take one!" she said. "They're freshly baked!" He felt numbed of mind and scorched of shoulders, but he didn't wish to offend her so he did accept a teacake.

  "The lashing wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked.

  "I'm gratified it's over."

  "Madam, we have breakfast to attend to!" Bidwell had already secured his seat in the carriage. "Would you let him pass, please?"

  She kept her eyes locked on Matthew's. "You will come to dinner on Thursday evening, will you not? I have made plans for it."

  "Dinner?" He frowned.

  "My mistake," Woodward said to the woman. "I neglected to inform him."

  "Oh? Then I shall make the invitation myself. Would you come to dinner on Thursday evening? At six o'clock?" She gave Woodward a brief, rather tight smile. "I would invite you also, Magistrate, but seeing as how you are so feeble I fear an evening out might only worsen your health." She turned her rapacious attention upon Matthew once more. He thought that the shine of her blue eyes was glassy enough to indicate fever. "May I count on your arrival?"

  "Well ... I thank you," he said, "but I—"

  "You will find my home very hospitable," she plowed on. "I do know how to set a table, and you might ask anyone as to the quality of my kitchen." She leaned her head forward, as if offering to share a secret. "Mr. Green is quite fond of my onion bread. He told me that the loaf I presented to him yesterday afternoon was the finest he'd ever set eyes on. The thing about onion bread," and here she lowered her voice so that Bidwell might not hear, "is that it is a great persuader. A meal of it, and mercy follows."

  What the woman was saying wasn't lost on Matthew. If indeed Green had held back in his delivery of the whip—which Matthew, in severe pain, found difficult to believe—it was likely due to Madam Vaughan's influence on his behalf. "I see," he said, though his view was not entirely clear.

  "Come along!" Bidwell said impatiently. "Madam, good day!"

  "Might you favor my home with your presence on Thursday evening?" Madam Vaughan was obviously not one to buckle before pressure, though she certainly knew how to apply it. "I can promise you will find it of interest."

  He surely didn't feel in need of dinner company at the moment, but by Thursday he knew the pain would be a bad memory. Besides that, the woman's manipulations intrigued him. Why had she desired to intercede in his punishment? He nodded. "Yes, I'll be there."

  "Excellent! Six o'clock, then. I shall send my husband to fetch you." She gave a quick curtsey and withdrew, after which Matthew pulled himself up into the carriage.

  Bidwell watched Matthew try to keep his shoulders from rubbing the seatback as the carriage creaked along Peace Street. Try as he might, Bidwell couldn't wipe the smirk of satisfaction off his face. "I hope you're cured of your malady!"

  Matthew had to bite at the offered hook. "What malady might that be?"

  "The sickness of sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong. You got off very lightly."

  "I suppose I did."

  "I know you did! I've seen Green whip a man before. He did hold back. If he hadn't, you'd be bleeding and blubbering right now." He shrugged. "But Green doesn't care much for Hazelton, so there you have it. Magistrate, might I hope you'll pass sentence today?"

  "Not today," came the hoarse reply. "I must study the records."

  Bidwell scowled. "I don't for the life of me see what you have to study!"

  "It's a matter of being fair," Woodward said.

  "Being fair?" Bidwell gave a harsh laugh. "Yes, this is why the world's in its current shape!"

  Matthew couldn't remain quiet. "Meaning what, sir?"

  "Meaning that some men mistake hesitation for fairness, and thus the Devil runs rampant over the heads of good Christians!" Bidwell's eyes had a rapier glint and dared Matthew to disagree. "This world will be burnt to a cinder in another fifty years, the way Evil is allowed to prosper! We'll be barricading our doors and windows against Satan's soldiers! But we'll be fair about it, won't we, and therefore we'll leave a battering ram on our doorsteps!"

  Matthew said, "You must have attended one of Preacher Jerusalem's speeches."

  "Pah!" Bidwell waved a hand at him in disgust. "What do you know of the world? Much less than you think! Well, here's a laugh on you, clerk: your theory about Alan Johnstone is just as crippled as he is! He came to the house last night and showed us his knee!"

  "He did?" Matthew looked to Woodward for confirmation.

  The magistrate nodded and scratched a fresh mosquito bite on his gray-grizzled chin. "I saw the knee at close quarters. It would be impossible for Johnstone to be the man who stole your gold coin."

  "Oh." Matthew's brow knitted. His pride had taken a blow, especially following Nicholas Paine's reasonable explanation of his career as a pirate-hunter and how he came to roll his tobacco in the Spanish fashion. Now Matthew felt himself adrift at sea. He said, "Well ..." but then he stopped, because there was nothing to be said.

  "If I were half as smart as you think yourself to be," Bidwell said, "I could build ships in my sleep!"

  Matthew didn't respond to this taunt, preferring instead to concentrate on keeping his injured shoulders from making contact with the seatback. At last Goode drew the carriage up in front of the mansion and Matthew was the first to step down. He then aided the magistrate, and in doing so discovered that Woodward was warm and clammy with fever. He also for the first time caught sight of the crusted wounds behind Woodward's left ear. "You've been bled."

  "Twice. My throat is still pained, but my breathing is somewhat better."

  "Ben's due to bleed him a third time this evening," Bidwell said as he
descended from the carriage. "Before then, might I suggest that the magistrate attend to his studying?"

  "I plan on it," Woodward said. "Matthew, Dr. Shields would have something to ease your discomfort. Do you wish to see him?"

  "Uh . . . beg pardon, suh," Goode spoke up from the driver's seat. "I have an ointment to cool the sting some, if he cares to use it."

  "That would be helpful." Matthew reasoned that a slave would indeed have an able remedy for a whip burn. "Thank you."

  "Yes suh. I'll fetch it to the house directly I barn the carriage. Or if you please you can ride along with me."

  "Goode, he doesn't care to visit the slave quarters!" Bidwell said sharply. "He'll wait for you in the house!"

  "One moment." Matthew's hackles had risen at the idea of Bidwell telling him what he cared to do or not to do. "I'll come along."

  "You don't want to go down there, boy! The place smells!"

  "I am not so fragrant myself," Matthew reminded him, and then he climbed back up into the carriage. "I would like a warm bath after breakfast. Is that possible?"

  "I'll arrange it for you," Bidwell agreed. "Do what you please, but if you go down there you'll regret it."

  "Thank you for your consideration. Magistrate, might I suggest you return to bed as soon as convenient? You do need your rest. All right, Goode, I'm ready."

  "Yes suh." Goode flicked the reins, said a quiet, "Giddup," and the team started off again.

  Peace Street continued past Bidwell's mansion to the stable and the slave quarters, which occupied the plot of land between Fount Royal and the tidewater swamp. It interested Matthew that Bidwell had referred to the quarters as being "down there" but in fact the street never varied in its elevation. The stable itself was of handsome construction and had been freshly whitewashed, but in contrast the ramshackle, unpainted houses of the servants had an impermanent quality.