by Angus Wells
She turned to Wyme as Nathanial lifted him onto the crutches. “What shall happen to him, ’sieur?”
Wyme halted, looking at her, and smiled. “Why, my dear,” he said, “having been found guilty of murder, he must be hanged.”
39 Gambler’s Luck
Flysse could hardly believe what had happened. She had known Arcole took risks in his clandestine mapmaking, but she had never thought it might come to this—to sentence of death. She wept as he was taken out and locked in the tack room, and wept as she returned to their chamber. She latched the door and flung herself on the bed, her mind racing. It seemed that all their dreams of freedom were shattered and she must stand helplessly by as her husband was hung. She thought she could not bear that, especially not now, when they had mended their love.
She could not, and so she would not: there had to be something she could do. She dried her eyes and willed herself to think calmly, and as the sun rose pale in a hard blue sky, she knew what she would do. It should be dangerous, but she could not leave Arcole to his fate.
As Dido prepared the mistress’s breakfast tray, and those servants not engaged in their duties ate, Flysse approached Nathanial.
“What shall happen now?”
Nathanial wiped crumbs from his chin and shrugged. “Why, he’ll be hung, of course. In the town square, most likely.” He smiled speculatively. “I expect we’ll get time off to watch.”
“When?” Flysse asked, thinking that she’d like to strike him.
Nathanial glanced at Fredrik, who said, “When the gallows is ready.”
Flysse gulped, blinking tears away. “When shall that be?”
Fredrik drank tea, studying her quizzically, then turned to Nathanial. “How long d’you think?”
“For God’s sake!” Dido turned angry eyes on the two men. “Must you torment the poor girl? Surely she’s suffered enough.”
They had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed then, and Fredrik said, “Well, there’s not been a hanging in a long time, and the old gallows was dismantled. I suppose the master’ll order a new scaffold built, and that’ll take a day or two.”
“It’s Saturday today,” Nathanial said, “an’ the master won’t ask the carpenters to work Sunday, so I’d reckon it’ll be Monday.”
Fredrik nodded in silent confirmation; Flysse swallowed and took the tray Dido proffered. There might be enough time. She prayed there be enough.
When she returned to the kitchen, she asked Dido if she might visit Arcole. The cook hesitated, then patted Flysse’s hand and said, “Well, I suppose he is your husband. But not long, eh? Just a quick visit, and then it’s back to your duties.”
Flysse blurted out her thanks and hurried away.
The tack room was located at the rear of the stables. There were no windows, and the door was padlocked from the outside. The floor was hard dirt and the room smelled of ancient leather and horses. Fredrik grudgingly allowed she might spend a few moments with her husband and locked her in, promising to return in a while.
Arcole was disheveled, but his smile was bright as he took her in his arms.
“You’ve not suffered? Has Wyme said anything to you?”
“Only sour looks, and I’ve not seen the master.”
“I shall miss you,” he said, and sighed.
“Listen”—Flysse drew back so that she could see his face—“Fredrik says you’ll be hung on Monday. He thinks the master will order the gallows started today, but tomorrow’s Sunday …”
Arcole laughed. “And a God-fearing man like Wyme wouldn’t hang anyone on Sunday, eh? Shall he allow me to attend services?”
She thought he put on a brave face, but there was no time for bravado now. She motioned him to silence, saying, “I’ll have a chance to speak with Davyd in church.”
“Bid him farewell for me,” Arcole said, “and tell him I’m sorry our plans end this way.”
Flysse said, “Perhaps they don’t. Listen …”
• • •
Their conversation was necessarily brief. Before long, Fredrik came to unlock the door and advise Flysse she’d best return to her duties, and she must hug Arcole and turn away, praying all go well. It seemed to her that a clock ticked in her head, marking out the moments left them.
It was almost impossible to attend to her tasks. She was unusually clumsy, earning reprimands from Celinda and even Dido, though the cook’s were gentler than the mistress’s, and she showed Flysse a degree of rough sympathy.
Around the mid-part of the morning, Wyme ordered his carriage be readied. “He’ll be goin’ to order the gallows started,” Nathanial declared, then fell silent under Flysse’s scowl.
“You’d best say a special prayer for him tomorrow,” Dido said.
Flysse nodded, thinking that she most definitely would, albeit not the kind Dido had in mind. That night she could barely sleep, and when the servants assembled for their walk to the church, she was the first ready.
As they crossed the square to the church, she saw that Nathanial’s guess had been correct. A platform was already built, and timber lay about its sides, long beams that would support a man dangling from the shorter cross-piece. Flysse stared at the half-finished construction and shuddered, then grit her teeth and walked straight-backed into the church.
Davyd found her as usual, and she thought at first he must have heard the grim news, for his face was pale and drawn, reminding her of his expression aboard the Pride of the Lord.
“You’ve heard?” she asked.
He shook his head impatiently, speaking in an urgent whisper before she could amplify. “Flysse, we must go soon. My dreams are worse, and I think the demons are coming fast. I think they’ll be here before long.” He broke off, frowing. “Where’s Arcole?”
“Locked in, and sentenced to death.”
“What?” Davyd gaped at her, and she gestured him to be cautious, telling him what had happened.
“No,” he muttered when she was done. “Not now. God, not now!”
Flysse said, “We must get him out. Tonight!”
Davyd was silent for a moment, as if digesting this news. Then he nodded and asked, “What kind of lock is on the door?”
As best she could remember, Flysse described the padlock.
“I can pick that,” he said confidently, “and I’ve all the stuff we need.”
“We must still get past the walls,” she whispered back. “How can we get past the guards?”
Davyd grinned and said, “I think I know of a way. It won’t be pleasant, but I doubt anyone will look for us there. You know how many folk have come to Grostheim these past weeks? Well, there are tents set up for them, and the governor ordered trenches dug to carry off their waste. They go under the walls …”
“If it’s the only way,” Flysse murmured. “But it must be tonight.”
“Yes.” Davyd nodded. “I’ll come tonight, with all our stuff.”
“I’ll await you,” Flysse said. “And God help us.”
Davyd took her hand. “I’ll not let Arcole down,” he said, “nor you.”
Flysse sat at the kitchen table, stonily ignoring Nathanial’s attempts at flattery. Arcole was imprisoned across the yard, but still the dark-haired servant paid her unseemly court, and no matter how often she told him she was wed, still he pressed her.
“I am married,” she said, “Arcole lives, and I am still his wife.”
“But when …” Nathanial pantomimed hanging.
“He is not yet dead,” Flysse said.
“But shall be soon.” Nathanial was undeterred. “And besides, you’d had a falling-out, no?”
“We argued.” Flysse nodded wearily. “And settled all our differences. Can you not understand? I love Arcole.”
“No point to loving a dead man.” Nathanial would not be put off. “A woman like you, you’ll want a man. And I’m likely to take Benjamyn’s place now.”
“Please, Nathanial,” Flysse said, “do you leave me be? My husband is alive, and
even is he …” She shook her head, unwilling to say the words. “Then I should be in mourning.”
“But after that,” said Nathanial.
Flysse started as a bell rang, thankful for the interruption. Even the emptying of madame’s chamber pot should be preferable to hearing out Nathanial’s ceaseless cajolements. But it was not Celinda: the governor rang from his study.
“Likely in his cups again.” Nathanial rose, winking. “Has he left a glass or two, we can share it after I’ve got him settled, eh?”
Flysse offered no response, only watched as he quit the kitchen.
Then gasped as Davyd came in.
“God!” She rose swiftly, eyes darting to the door that had only just closed on Nathanial. “Davyd, you startled me.”
He motioned her to silence. “No time,” he whispered. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, thinking that he seemed fevered, his green eyes burning. She saw he wore a knife on his belt.
“You’ve the maps Arcole drew?” The way he glanced around made Flysse think of hunted animals. “Where are they?”
“In our room,” she said, pointing at the relevant door. It seemed her feet were rooted now that the moment had come. Davyd’s strength surprised her as he drew her forward. “Show me,” he urged. “And quick!”
She moved ahead and he set a hand against her back, pushing her. She prayed that Wyme keep Nathanial occupied; did he not, then perhaps the servant would think she had been summoned to madame. She felt her heart beat wild against her ribs.
They found the room, and Flysse took the maps from their hiding place.
Davyd said, “I’ve left our gear in the stables. Now bring me to Arcole.”
He unlatched the window and thrust it open, peering out a moment before climbing through. Flysse followed, encumbered by her skirts and petticoats. She thought it should be hard to flee in the dirndl.
They crossed the yard. Flysse noticed the night was moonless. It seemed unnaturally quiet, or perhaps only their footsteps sounded loud. Inside the stable, three bulky packs stood by the door.
“There.” Flysse pointed to where Arcole was imprisoned.
“Wait here.” Davyd halted her as she moved to accompany him. “Does anyone approach, call out. But softly, eh?”
She nodded and took a vantage point beside the door. Davyd faded into the shadows.
The lock was of a model he had picked before, and it took only moments to trip its tumblers, even with unsteady hands. He eased the door open, not wanting creaking hinges to give the alarm. The tiny chamber stank, but Arcole greeted him with a smile.
“Well met, Davyd.”
Davyd marveled at the man’s calm: he could only nod and whisper, “Yes.”
“You’ve brought everything?” Arcole emerged from the makeshift cell as if his liberation were no surprise at all.
Davyd repeated, “Yes.”
“Excellent.” Arcole grasped his shoulder. “Done well.”
“We’ve a ways yet to go.” Davyd endeavored to match Arcole’s insouciance, then shuddered as his dreams flared bright inside his mind. “And tonight we’ll have a diversion; I’d stake my life on it.”
“You do,” said Arcole as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
They reached the door and Flysse flung herself into her husband’s arms. Arcole gently disentangled himself, kissed her once. “I’m hardly fit to be embraced,” he murmured. Then grinned: “So, shall we be gone?”
Davyd bent to the packs, tugging two cloaks loose. Beneath, all was wrapped in oilskin. “These will hide your uniforms,” he said. “All well, we’ll look like refugees seeking a place to sleep.”
He was gratified by Arcole’s smile of approval. As they donned the cloaks, he eased his head around the door—and jerked it back.
“Someone comes!”
Arcole beckoned him away. “Fredrik, damn him. He must have heard something. Wait; and silently, eh?”
Davyd and Flysse moved back into the shadows. Arcole lowered his pack, taking station where the door should hide him. As Fredrik came in, he stepped forward, his left hand dropping onto the groom’s shoulder. He spun the startled man around, and struck him once on the jaw. Fredrik made a whoofing sound, like one of his beloved horses, and fell unconscious. Arcole dragged him to the tack room and locked the door.
“So I’ve not forgotten how.” He rubbed his knuckles. “Now, shall we depart?”
He shouldered his pack and motioned that Davyd lead the way.
Wyme’s mansion stood silent as they climbed the fence, and no one witnessed their furtive departure. Farther into the city, the streets were crowded. Flysse clutched Arcole’s hand.
“We’re no more than three newcomers,” he whispered, “just as Davyd said. Three poor lost souls seeking a bed for the night. God knows, I at least look the part.”
Flysse forced a smile and drew a little closer, then gasped as Davyd halted abruptly, waving them back.
“A patrol!”
He turned, bringing them into an alley. It was littered with bodies, and as they picked their way along, folk grumbled sleepily that there was no room left. The patrol marched briskly by as they reached the farther end, where the alleyway gave onto a wider thoroughfare, its sidewalks lined with wagons.
“Down here,” Davyd said.
Then a line of fire, like a sparkling rocket, arched across the sky and cannon boomed from atop the walls.
Flysse screamed and Davyd shouted, both sounds lost in the roar of cannon fire. Arcole gestured that Davyd lead the way, and they began to run down a street thrown into sudden chaos. People emerged from the wagons, some in nightgowns, most of the men clutching weapons, all yelling. They gaped, milling like nervous cattle, as more flames soared overhead. Arcole looked to where one fiery line ended on a rooftop and shouted, “Fire arrows!” Neither Flysse nor Davyd heard him, for the artillery along the walls kept up a relentless din, and between the cannon’s booming there was the rattle of musketry. A handful of the flaming arrows had fired roofs, and here and there folk flung up ladders, passing buckets from hand to hand to douse the flames. A column of red-coated Militiamen came pounding down the street, cursing the refugees who impeded their progress, the sergeant waving his saber and threatening to use it on any who got in his way. Davyd beckoned his companions, falling into step behind the soldiers. The column cleared them a way and they ran to the end of the street, where he led them off at an angle, shouldering through the crowd there.
A man grabbed at him, demanding to know what transpired and where they went. Davyd evaded his grasp and the man turned to snatch at Flysse. Arcole knocked his hand away and bellowed, “Demons! God preserve us, the demons are come!”
The cry was instantly taken up, adding to the tumult, and the street became a seething mass of panicked folk. Davyd ducked between two houses, leading them clear of the chaos.
They paused to snatch a breath. The sky over Grostheim blossomed red, the screaming of the inhabitants vying with the thunder of the cannon and the crackling of musket fire for supremacy.
“We’ve our diversion, by God,” Arcole chuckled. “Even do they notice our absence, they’ll not come looking for us in a hurry.”
Flysse stared at him, alarmed by his expression. It was one of … glee was the only word she could think of, as if he took pleasure in the city’s panic, as if he saw impending destruction as a personal revenge.
“We’ve yet to get past the walls,” Davyd said, then shuddered as he added, “and past the demons.”
“We shall,” Arcole declared confidently. “Have faith.”
Davyd nodded and attempted an unconvincing grin. “This way, then.”
They climbed a fence and hurried across a yard, into a second, where a large dog barked madly; along a path littered with garbage to an avenue they crossed into another alley. Folk poured from buildings, joining the refugees in the streets, and though all were armed, they were disorganized, standing in knots or shuffling back and forth, uncertai
n what to do, so that they only jammed the thoroughfares and hindered the Militiamen running for the walls. Arcole added to the confusion by repeating his warning of demons as he went by, but, save for that, the passage of three more panic-stricken refugees went unnoticed.
The crash of cannon fire grew louder, and the air heavy with powder smoke. Flysse saw the walls loom, red-lit, above. She could see the soldiers there, manning the artillery pieces or leaning out to discharge their muskets. She could not see what they fired at, but she thought she could hear an unearthly yammering from beyond the walls, as if hell’s own hounds bayed at Grostheim’s gates. Then a more pungent odor intruded on her nostrils, and she winced at the stench.
“Here.” Davyd pointed, and grimaced. “It’s the only way.”
They stood in the shadow of a warehouse. Its bulk formed one side of a rough square, more large buildings the other two, and the wall itself the fourth. Between lay a patch of open ground—likely the only open space in all the city now—bisected by a trench lined with makeshift canvas screens. The trench ran to the wall and disappeared beneath.
Flysse hesitated. “I’m not sure I can.”
“You must!” Arcole hung an arm about her shoulders, urging her forward. “We’ve come too far—there’s no turning back now.”
Davyd was already moving, crouched over, across the open space. Arcole pushed Flysse on. Her eyes began to water and she could not help but struggle.
“As Davyd says,” Arcole shouted into her ear, “it’s the only way.”
She shook her head helplessly and he took her hand, dragging her forcibly after him. “You will,” he said. “God, Flysse, do you hesitate now, I’ll—” He halted, turning to face her. “I’ll go back to Wyme and give myself up. I’ll hang because you don’t want to dirty your feet!”
It was unfair, but all he could think of to persuade her. Save, perhaps, knocking her out and hauling her through, and he was not sure she would survive that, nor even certain it was possible. He was by no means sure he could bring himself to strike her, no matter the reason.
She looked at him through tear-blurred eyes and forced a small smile. “I’d not see you hang, husband. So—lead on.”
