The Price of Hannah Blake

by Donway, Walter

  She jerked up her head. What had happened? The room was dark; she barely could discern the window. She jumped up, then stopped, silent, listening. Nothing.

  Up the stairs, through the cellar door. She could unlock the front door from inside. She reached the edge of the woods in a few minutes. There was no moon, but the beach seemed bright. Should she shed her clothes here, swim from this prison with nothing but the letter opener that hung around her neck? She dreaded being naked in the sea at night with all the silent, questing creatures, the waving, brushing fingers of the deep. She would try it with her clothes, just two light cotton garments, almost no protection—but something. Besides, they would make her less visible as she crossed the white sand. Once swimming, she could drop them if they hindered her.

  Why wait? Each moment she stood here increased her risk if a search had begun. They would come here immediately. She glanced both ways and could see 20 yards—dimly. All right. She dropped to her knees, then onto her elbows, and staying low she crawled across the sand. She waited to hear a yell, a challenge, but heard only the swishing surf ahead.

  At the water, she hesitated; her heart was hammering at her chest. There was fear in her belly. She raised her head; she could see farther over the water than along the beach. Still, it was dark; that was good. Direction was not a problem, the direction was out—out there. She breathed deeply several times, then slipped into the shallow water, propelling herself forward with her hands on the bottom until she no longer could reach it. Then she began a deliberately slow, easy breast stroke, head lifted, gazing at the darkness ahead. There should be no problem until she reached the net. And there was no hurry. It would be dark for longer than she could swim, she thought, and she needed endurance, not speed—she had no idea how far she was going. Small waves lapped her; they would cover any disturbance made by her slow, careful progress.

  How far was the net? It would seem longer than she expected because of the fear, the dark and cold, and because she moved carefully. She noticed the chill, now, Goosebumps, her nipples stiffening. She had swum many hours in these waters, building strength, toughness. She couldn’t let herself think she would get nowhere: swim, find nothing, feel the exhaustion and cold numbing her engine, until she… That is what she should not think! She should not think that somewhere out there, far out, was a box, weighted, sunk to the bottom.

  Wait! Maybe this was it… Her hands closed on the thick slimy strands. She fought to breathe slowly. Rest a moment.

  “Quiet, I guess.”

  Her fists froze on the net. She wanted to cry out in fear, deny it. She sank below the surface, moved down hand over hand on the net. Now she saw the lights on the other side of the fence, but close. If they fell on her as she loomed there, a white shape in the black... She struggled deeper. Now the lights swept over her. Did they pause?

  Stop, hang straight, present a smaller object for the light to catch. But she had to breathe! Her heart was going wild and it sucked away her endurance. Move on! On God, let them move on! She couldn’t stay down longer, couldn’t. She let herself float up, slowly, holding the net so she didn’t pop above the surface. She tilted back her head, let her face break the surface. She couldn’t gasp, but she needed air! Slowly, a deep breath.

  “They never try it. Been a year, more.”

  “Foolishness. And what are they naked for?”

  “They say that it’s… well, who knows, with royal folks?”

  “That would be right.”

  She breathed again. Every moment she was here, at the surface, she was in terrible danger. If the lights shifted, passed over her pale face…

  “Stay here a bit?”

  No, no, no!

  “Captain said keep moving. I guess we ought.”

  The light receded. Sound of the oars. She clutched the net, feeling limp, no more energy. She had to move! Only to the net so far! How much farther did she have to go? Continue out, seek a ship? She, tiny in the water, the great ships surging through the night? Or try to swim around the end of the wall, trace it back to shore, but on the outside—free? The thought filled her with relief. She would know where she was going!

  But first get over the net! Out of the water, two feet or more, and over. She tried to peer through the dark to the boats. The lights seemed close, but were they? No light reached the water around her. She seized the net with both hands, set a foot in it. Pulled herself. Go silently, but quickly—over and down and out of sight. She heaved herself up, got her belly on the net, slid forward. She couldn’t flash her legs into the air. She held tight with both hands, rolled her whole body over sideways, catching herself with one ankle on the top to slow herself, and lowered herself into the water. She let herself submerged, go as deep as she could, then kicked off from the net at an angle. She didn’t come up till she was dizzy with the need to breathe, and her head broke water far from where she went over the net.

  Now, she began to swim steadily, angling to the right where she expected to intersect the end of the wall. She kept going, wondering at her strength, hoping; but the chill was creeping up her body. She would kick, stoke, and seem hardly to move. How much did she have left?

  The bow of the boat almost struck her, just missing her head, but the side shoved her shoulder. It happened too suddenly; they had showed no lights, now. She cried out in terror before she caught herself.

  “Hey!” a rough voice yelled, and she felt fingers close in her hair. The man had thrown himself half over the boat’s gunwale, reaching far out. It happened so fast! Now, Hannah cried, “No!” She kicked at the water; her foot struck the boat, she shoved against it and the grip broke.

  She dived, and, at the same time, her hand seized the letter opener, tearing the loop from around her neck. Something hit her hard in the back, raking down her body. It caught in the waistband of her trousers, dragging her back and up. She thrashed to kick the trousers off, and felt them slip—but not enough! She was pulled by the empty leg. She flailed to cast it off and felt herself naked below the waist, but a hand had seized her ankle. So strong, pulling her, another hand now on the leg; she was coming out of the water. She bent at the waist, bringing her head above the surface. “Got her with the boathook!”

  Right over her was a grinning face. The hands now gripped her blouse, lifting her. She brought the letter opener in a long arc from behind her and drove it into the man’s cheek. He screamed. She jerked it back, ready to stab again. “The bitch knifed me! Grab her! My face!”

  Another head loomed above her, an oar lifted and crashed down on the arm that held the letter opener. She dropped it, yelling in pain.

  They had her over the gunwale of the boat, her naked legs kicking out over the water. The blouse had come off, but they now held her by the hair, the arms, a leg. Her face hit a seat, then the side of the boat, and then she was on the bottom. She lay naked, face down, still crying out “No! Stop!” And then she began to weep.

  She stopped struggling. She heard a voice say, “Look at my face! Look what she did!”

  “We’ll look back at the guard house. Let’s go.”

  Two heavy boots came down on her bare buttocks, and she heard the oars creak. She felt the feet press down on her buttocks with the rhythm of the oars, as the man braced himself to pull on them.

  She realized she felt deathly cold in the night air.

  Chapter 30

  “What You Cannot Bear…”

  They had put her in a stout wooden chair, her arms tied behind it, ankles to the legs. She was still naked, but they had thrown a white sheet over her, from the front, draping her up to the shoulders. She was back in the mansion, but a part she didn’t recognized, or in a building near it. Within the walls, the mansion dominated, but other buildings, some large and multi-storied, were ranged around it.

  When the boat had bumped the wharf, men had vaulted out, tying it, and Hannah had been lifted from the bottom. During the brief trip, they had bound her hands behind her. Now, one took her under the arms, his hands reaching
to close over either breast, and the other stood between her legs, holding one on either side so she was spread. It was an awkward way to carry her, but she knew that wasn’t the point.

  She expected them to start on her immediately and fought the terror, her mind racing forward to the awful images, the pain. But they carried her along the wharf to shore and laid her in a good-sized cart. Some of the men climbed in around her and one went forward to mount a seat behind the horse. Immediately, they jolted off in the direction of the mansion. Hannah had not seen most of the road, which led along the inside of the wall. In a few minutes, they halted before a small structure built against the wall.

  Again, they picked her up, laughing, and carried her inside. It must be a guardhouse; four others sat just inside, wearing the duke’s colors and on the wall was a rack of rifles. One of the men with Hannah ordered, “Go tell them we caught one. Now, hurry.”

  The others examined Hannah, grinning, as she was set on her feet and stood naked, arms pulled behind her so her breasts lifted. Her nipples were rigid from the cold, the skin of her hands wrinkled, her hair clammy and bedraggled. No one had dried her. “The cell,” said the man who gave orders.

  She had been tossed on a cot that had no sheets or blankets, but her hands were untied. She lay on her side, legs drawn up, staring ahead, shivering although it was an August night. After awhile, a guard came and stood staring at her through the cell’s bars. She saw he was young, perhaps no older than she. Unless he was married, he may never have seen a naked young woman.

  He stared so long that finally she asked, “What?”

  For a moment, he did not reply, lowering his gaze. He said awkwardly, without looking up, “You’re so pretty, so pretty.”

  She said nothing. She was still shivering.

  He said, “We aren’t supposed to talk to them.” Hannah thought he must mean the men and women in the mansion. He was staring at her, again. He said, wonderingly, “You’re just a girl.”

  Hannah held his gaze. She said, “Why don’t you give me a blanket, I’m cold.”

  The young man looked around. “I’m not supposed to.”

  “The duke has asked for me, for tonight. If I’m sick, he will be very angry.”

  The boy turned and walked away. He returned carrying a gray blanket. He said, “I can put it through the bars. Take it.”

  Hannah rose and came forward. His eyes were devouring her legs, her bush, her breasts. She took the end of the blanket and pulled it through the bars. She smiled, said, “Thank you,” and walked to the bunk. She was sure that her arse was being devoured by the eyes. She turned and looked at him once, briefly, rewarding him with a final glimpse at her, then curled up on cot, the rough, itchy blanket over her. It was heaven. She closed her eyes. She didn’t hear him leave; she supposed he was still looking at her.

  Now, sitting up on the hard chair, she tried to relax her muscles, letting her neck loll back, and drew a long, slow breath. She had been here for a couple hours. When they had come into the cell, she had awoken. There were three of them standing over her. Would it begin, now? One said, “Get up.” It sounded neutral. She swung her feet to the floor and rose, holding the blanket around her. One said, “Leave the blanket.”

  Hannah shrugged and tossed it down. “Tie her, again. You saw what she did to Albert.” They secured her hands behind her, one took each biceps, and they walked her out the guardhouse, across the grounds, and here. She had seen no one else; it was very early, chilly with dew. In this room, they had tied her to the chair and one said, “All right, that’s all.”

  One of the guards was the young man. Hannah said, “Toss a blanket over me. I’m still cold.”

  “Leave her,” said another. “They didn’t say a blanket.”

  “But she’s naked,” said the young man. She shouldn’t be cold, she could get sick. They might blame us.”

  “They’re all naked,” said another.

  “Still…”

  “From there, then,” said another, pointing at a closet. The young man hurried over, rummaged for a moment, and returned with the sheet. He said, “This is all.” He raised the sheet, cast one more longing look at Hannah’s nakedness, and draped the sheet over her, putting its ends over her bare shoulders, arranging it so it would not slip. While he was close to her, Hannah whispered, “Thank you, you’re wonderful.”

  The young man quickly straightened up, staring down at her. The others had not heard. He nodded brusquely, turned. They left together, shutting the door.

  Another hour passed and Hannah stretched, as well as she could, sighing. Soon, the others would be at breakfast. She was hungry, very hungry. Tonight the duke and countess would walk into a room where she was waiting, probably naked, probably bound. The whole exhausting struggled to escape—the fear, the long flight in the dark, chill water, the wild terror of capture—and she was here. If she hadn’t tried to escape, she would have slept last night in her bed and soon she would get breakfast. And nothing would be different. Except, now, she was the girl who tried to escape, stabbed a guard. What more excuse for the countess to give the duke for punishing her?

  She heard a sound at the door. Maria walked in, dressed as ever in black tights, and closed the door. She stood across the room studying Hannah; her face expressionless. Finally, she walked over and stood before the chair. Hannah looked up at her.

  “They allowed me to come,” said Maria. “I told them I must prepare you for the duke, although there is nothing I can do. I told you what you must do to have hope, but now I think it will be bad, very bad. The duke will not care; he will be amused that you escaped, attacked the guard. But the countess will use it.”

  “I know.”

  Maria took the sheet and gently lifted it off. She looked down at Hannah’s body. “You haven’t been injured?”

  “No.”

  “You should wash. I will do your hair, perfume you. I will give you a robe and underclothes.”

  “Underclothes?” Hannah had not worn or seen them since she arrived, here.

  “Yes, he requested it. You will see. From France, very beautiful, like nothing you ever have imagined Black and very small.”

  “I’m starving, Maria.”

  “I can tell them you must eat to be ready, to look your best. They don’t care.” Maria bent toward Hannah, lowering her voice. “But, Hannah, it will very bad. You are not to be returned to the troupe; what happens to you no longer matters to them. It is not that the duke cannot do whatever he fancies, with members of the troupe, but usually he has limits. But with you…”

  Hannah felt ice in her belly and something in her chest seemed to cave in, crushing her heart; it was hard to breathe. She whispered, “Maria, jut cover me again, a little while?” Tied, naked, she felt helpless, now, already. Maria raised the sheet and draped it over her.

  “I am afraid, so afraid, for you,” said Maria in a low voice, bending close again. “I prayed to die, when they had me. I screamed and pleaded with them only to end it. I became nothing, hanging there. No pride, no hope except to die. It will be the same for you. You will feel what you cannot bear but cannot escape.”

  She straightened up and slipped a hand inside her clothes. She drew out a cord with a loop at both ends. She held it up, stretched between her strong hands, and looked down at Hannah. “Do you want this, now?”

  Hannah frowned up, bewildered. “What is it.”

  “It will be quick. It will not hurt much and you will have escaped them.” It was a garrote.

  Realizing, Hannah said, “No! No! Don’t do that!”

  Maria was silent for a long moment, and then said, sadly, voice soft, “Think, Hannah! Think not of now, but later. And after.”

  Hannah was shaking her head. And then, with a thought, said, “If you did they would kill you. They would do to you what they would have done to me.”

  Maria shook her head. “I would have enough time before they found you.” Hannah was staring up. Maria said, “There is no more for me, here.”
She shook her head. “I thought that there was—some life, the students, what I could do for them. But you are the bravest. A young woman like you, to struggle for love, here...” She nodded, “Yes, I know. I have seen, guessed.

  “And then to dare the sea at night, the cold, a lonely and awful death, and to fight. And now you are here, still strong. And to you we will do our worst, the very worst. No, there is nothing for me.”

  She held Hannah’s gaze. “We have to be quick. Decide—and be sure.”

  Hannah shook her head. “No. Can I get breakfast,’ Maria?”

  Maria lowered her gaze, sighed; she slipped the garrote beneath her clothes. “Yes,” she said. “I will untie you. I have clothes for you. But don’t try to escape. This building is locked and guarded.” She stepped behind Hannah and Hannah felt the knots on her wrists being tugged. Behind her, Maria murmured. “Tonight. I will kneel beside my bed. All night. I will not sleep. I will pray for you, Hannah.”

  Chapter 31

  “I Am Randy For The Girl!”

  Hannah had not imagined such rooms existed, not anywhere. She had read of castles and palaces of sultans, daydreamed what they must be like. Rooms bigger than the pub’s great room, or maybe the church, with gold everywhere, walls glittering, shooting rays of light everywhere—but then the details became fuzzy.

  But this room! Yes, gold—the doorknobs, wash basin, chandelier, lamps, even part of the bed frame. But the long walls were scarlet and of a texture so sensuous that in the soft lighting the whole room seemed some embracing royal cloak around her. On the floor was a carpet larger than seemed possible, all in yellows, blues, blacks that were intense—scenes of horsemen, women in gowns, buildings that seemed made of gold and inlaid with rubies. She could look at this room, its vast four-poster bed, its chairs and tables and bureaus for a week and not notice everything.

  No, she could not keep herself from looking, even as the long, shuddering quivers of fear ran from her belly and up her stretched torso to leave the sick feeling inside her chest—could not but look although her eyes kept darting in panic to the closed door. She, too, was an ornament of this room. She hung by her arms from a bar, attached, in turn, to ropes that ran to hooks in the great ceiling beams. Her toes, only her bent toes, reached the glorious carpet and took a little of her weight. With her arms apart, pulled toward either end of the three-foot bar, the strain hit her shoulders. The skin of over her ribs was made taut by the weight and the skin of her armpits and underarms were stretched and pale in the room’s light.