Fire Raven (20 page)

Kat unbraided her hair as she walked over to inspect the clothing Ellie had left. The servant had lugged up pails of hot water the evening before so Kat might bathe. She soaked and scrubbed for two hours until she was satisfied she was rid of most of the filth. There was no help for her skin, though. Kat paused to examine the myriad of cuts and bruises on her face and hands in the pier glass. She looked a sight, like a maid beaten by her master for insubordination.

She turned her attention to the gown and kirtle. Fashioned from coarse brown homespun, the cloth was clean and neatly mended, but fit only for a tiring woman. The petticoats and undergarments were not much better. Yellowed with age, they had the texture of sand. Kat shuddered at the thought of drawing such harsh material over her raw, tender skin.

As she brushed out her hair, Kat reminded herself “criminals” could not be choosy. Hence, the bread and water to break her fast. She might as well get today over with, she mused with a sigh, donning the clothes and a pair of worn leather shoes Ellie had left behind. She then devoured the remainder of the dry bread and drank the brackish water, finishing just as the door opened again.

Ellie motioned her to follow. Kat handed the servant the empty cup in passing, and Ellie nodded her approval. They went down a curving staircase in silence. Kat had the opportunity to examine Lawrence Hall more closely than she had the night before.

Portraits graced the walls in every direction — the earl’s noble ancestors, she presumed. A variety of swords and ancient weapons, ranging from maces to battle axes, also lined the stairwell. Kat supposed they belonged to Lawrence; if so, he obviously valued them. Unfortunately, all of the weapons had been placed too high for her to reach.

Kat realized her thoughts must be revealed on her face. Too late, she tore her gaze from the display of arms and found Lawrence himself keenly observing her from the base of the stairs.

“Wise of me to place my prized collection out of reach of mischievous children, don’t you agree?” he said by way of greeting.

“Most wise, milord,” Kat coolly agreed, joining the earl as Ellie melted into the shadows. Kat forced herself to accept Lawrence’s proffered arm as he turned to the door. He was elegantly garbed in dark blue velvet. His brocade doublet and trunk hose bore a gold and silver thread design. His matching stockings sported embroidered clocks.

“We are going out, Hemgart,” Lawrence informed a more modestly attired servant standing sentinel by the doors. The butler merely nodded. Kat sensed Hemgart staring at her and stared at him in turn. He quickly averted his gaze.

“My coach awaits you, mistress.” Lawrence indicated the direction with his ivory-handled cane. He did not seem to fear Kat might bolt. To her surprise, there were no other servants waiting outside to assure the earl’s safety. For a moment she toyed with the idea of toppling the old man down the steep steps and sprinting off down the street. She suspected it would be futile; Lawrence confirmed as much a short time later.

“I confess I am impressed. You passed the test, m’dear,” Lawrence said, once they were in his coach and their journey underway. “Had you tried to assault my person within or without Lawrence Hall, I instructed my staff that you were to be cut down where you stood. You obviously value your neck, mistress.”

“I know not what you mean, sir,” Kat stiffly said.

“Come now,” he chided her, “we both know you might have easily overpowered this old man. Perhaps gone free for a time, until the price on your pretty head was sufficient to stir interest among your own kind. In my experience, criminals are a faithless lot who will betray one another without a great strain of conscience.”

“Then ’tis most fortunate for you I do have a conscience,” Kat snapped back, struggling to keep her temper in check. “Despite your repeated accusations, milord, I am not the criminal you claim.”

“Such remains to be seen, mistress. Ah, here we are.” Lawrence leaned forward to rap his cane on the wall of the coach, signaling his driver to stop.

Kat glanced out the window and saw a mighty stone structure rising ominously into the haze over the city.

“What place is this?” she demanded. Her mouth went dry and her heart pounded at the sight of the dismal fortress.

From the other seat, Lawrence regarded her coldly. “I vow y’know it well enough by now, mistress,” he said. “’Tis Newgate Prison, the only proper residence for baseborn criminals such as yourself.”

Chapter Eleven

“N
AY
!”

Kat’s cry was drowned out by other sounds — screams and wretched moans issued from a passing cart designed with high, barred sides. It was crammed full of unfortunates also destined for Newgate.

She felt a stinging blow to her cheek and cradled the burning flesh in her palm. She glowered at the earl through shock-filled eyes.

“I’ll tolerate no hysterics, mistress,” Lawrence said, waving his cane at her in a threatening fashion. “I vowed you would be dealt with honestly, and this is the only sort of honesty your kind understands. Lest you think to escape now, rest assured my driver stands just outside the door to waylay you, if need be.”

Outraged, Kat stared at the earl. But she was more infuriated by her own naivety. She had taken Lawrence at his word. He implied she would be treated fairly if she cooperated. She had done nothing to incur his wrath. She should have shoved the old man down the mansion steps when she’d had a chance!

Kat expected no fair trial. Henry Lawrence was going to abandon her to rot in Newgate, a fitting end to an endless nightmare.

Instead of uselessly railing at the man who had deceived her, Kat steeled herself for what was to come. Lawrence looked surprised by her composure and muttered grudgingly, “You’ve backbone, m’dear, I’ll grant you that.”

The door to the coach swung open, admitting the sights and smells of more human misery. As Kat stepped down from the coach, she was greeted by a pail of waste flung down from a window above. The excretion missed the ditch by a country mile, splattering her skirts instead. She choked at the smell and clapped a hand over her nose and mouth.

“Demmed unpleasant business,” Lawrence said mildly, descending from the coach beside her. “We must accept the just dues of our crimes, however.”

“My sole ‘crime,’ milord, was trusting you,” Kat said, her voice muffled by her hand. She vowed never to be so culpable again.

Lawrence did not immediately reply. Instead he fastidiously tugged on a pair of white gloves — a sight so incongruous in a prison yard that Kat stared at him in shocked fascination.

“I confess I am somewhat discomfited by this place,” he said at last. “’Tis not my usual daily fare.”

“By your composure, milord, I vowed you did this quite regularly,” Kat retorted, removing her hand from her mouth so he might hear her clearly this time.

“Nonsense.” Lawrence appeared genuinely offended. “I simply do this for queen and country’s sake. A pity, m’dear, that Sir Walsingham no longer presides as secretary of state. There was no deceiving the good man; I know he would have been interested in your case.”

“Why?”

He waved aside her ignorance. “Come now, mistress. You and I both know Walsingham’s reputation. He managed to extract confessions from the canniest of criminals. ’Tis regrettable he is gone. Walsingham’s expertise with the rack will not soon be forgotten.” Kat shivered as the earl’s musings continued:

“It cannot be denied, Walsingham had a true calling for the
peine forte et dure
. With the careful placement of a single stone, he oft persuaded guilty papists to a different confession before they died.”

Lawrence sighed, as if he missed the greater glory of days gone by. “Now, of course, criminals are merely hanged as a matter of course.”

“Milord, please listen — ”

But Lawrence was not listening. He glanced back at the coach, where his driver was shouting and waving in order to attract the earl’s attention.

“Milord! ’Tis ’er Majesty!”

Kat turned to look, too, when the noise in the streets increased in a sudden din of confusion and discord. Everyone shouted and pointed in the same direction. She and Lawrence both strained to see what induced the frenzied outburst. Proceeding down Newgate towards the prison came a gilded carriage, drawn by four milky white horses and guarded by a brace of Tudor soldiers.

“The Virgin Queen! ’Tis ol’ Bessie ’erself!” someone cried.

“Quick, lads, move the cart.” One of the prison guards shouted the order at his fellow jailers. The cart full of wailing wretches was swiftly pushed out of view behind a low stone wall in the prison ward.

Kat stood rigidly at Lawrence’s side, unaware that the earl had already made a leg for the passing queen. Her nerves quivered with a variety of emotions: fear and outrage, unwilling fascination. She neglected to make her obeisance when the royal coach passed. She was too caught up in her own predicament to concern herself with etiquette.

One of the queen’s guards mistook Kat’s mien for rebellion. He hurried in her direction, aiming his pikestaff for her knees. Before he dashed her to the earth, however, the coach stopped so abruptly it rocked back on its wheels.

Kat glimpsed several pale ovals framed by the open windows of the royal coach — women’s faces. A moment later she heard a scream.

“Sweet Jesu! Kat!”

The cry was followed by the descent of a figure from the coach. The young woman nearly tripped over her train of black taffeta, as she dashed across the prison yard. The hood of her black cloak fell back, unfurling a cloud of burnished copper curls. She cried hysterically all the way. Her sobbing speech was incomprehensible until she reached Kat and the earl. There was silence in the prison yard as everyone stared wide-eyed at the unfolding drama.

“Dearest Kat.” Gasping for breath, the young woman moved as if to fling herself into Kat’s arms. “Heaven’s mercy, we thought you were dead.”

Kat swiftly stepped back from the stranger. She saw a flash of hurt in the redhead’s gray-green eyes.

“I know you not,” she said, forcing aside a faint sense of recognition. It stirred in the fogged depths of her mind, frightening her more than the woman’s intensity.

“Indeed, young lady, you must be mistaken,” Lawrence interposed, addressing the well-dressed maiden more kindly than he ever did Kat. “This woman is a baseborn criminal, and I have brought her to Newgate in order that she may confess her crimes against the realm.”

“Nay,” the redhead protested. She sounded indignant and gave her bright curls a fierce shake. “There is some terrible mistake, milord. Her name is Katherine Alanna Tanner, and she is my sister, presumed lost at sea.”

A
T THE SHOCKING DECLARATION
, a stunned silence fell over Henry Lawrence. Meanwhile, Kat met the desperate gaze of the woman claiming to be her sister. There was such intense pain and hope in those gray-green eyes, Kat was forced to look away. She felt guilty for not being able to confirm the fantastic tale.

Kat could offer neither reassurance nor denial of the other woman’s claim, though she knew Lawrence bristled at the notion she had any relatives at all, much less one so well-bred and obviously favored by the queen.

A rustling of taffeta was heard across the yard, along with a murmur of voices. Kat turned with the others and saw the queen herself descending from the coach. Flushed with embarrassment, Kat remembered her manners and quickly knelt. The woman claiming to be her kin observed Kat from the corner of her teary eye, as she, too, made her obeisance to the approaching monarch.

“Damme.” Lawrence swore under his breath. He had not yet risen from his earlier leg and felt his joints aching from his hips to his toes. Still, he gritted his teeth and held his position as Elizabeth Tudor approached. The queen moved briskly indeed for one dragging several yards of bejeweled velvet. Two young girls chasing her train fell over themselves trying to keep pace. A moment later, she arrived.

“You may rise.” The regal voice matched the sharp, dark eyes and pointed face framed by a fan-shaped ivory ruff. As the earl and his prisoner came to their feet, Elizabeth turned and addressed the lady clad in mourning. “Mistress Tanner,” she said a trifle sternly, “I trust there is suitable cause for this scene?”