said aloud, staring up into the gaoler’s bleary white face, red-lined and greasy. I could see fat lice walking about his hair in the light of the flame. His eyes wandered, drunk.
Out stretched a hand. ‘Shilling.’
‘If you let us take him upstairs.’
‘Two shilling.’
I was about to argue, but then he belched in my face a cloud that stank of pig fat and vomit, foul beyond description. I gave him the money. Then he put a big iron key into the lock, and as the door opened I saw bright green eyes lit up by the light of the torch. The rest of his face twitched. He wriggled and squirmed away from the gaoler as far as his chains would allow. Eyes shone out brightly from above a large angular nose. The stubbly head stilled, motionless above quivering body. As he becalmed, his eyes stopped flitting and fixed on us. Watching us, wide-eyed and alert, his head craned slowly forward. Then the gaoler elbowed him in the head so hard you could hear the crack.
Dowling erupted, pushing the gaoler hard against the wall with both hands. ‘God have mercy, you drivelling rogue!’
The gaoler dropped the torch on the floor so that all I could see was the stone flags, but I could hear the sound of two men breathing heavily and the sound of a man being struck solidly in the guts. Then I heard the sound of a man losing his gutsand smelt it too. The torch rose, held now by Dowling, who stood over the lumpen figure of the gaoler kneeling on the floor, his head touching the stones.
‘Unlock that chain,’ Dowling commanded. I wondered if the gaoler would plead incapacitation. Wisely he did not. Instead he staggered to his feet, reached clumsily for his key and did as he was told. Dowling took the prisoner by the arm, then wound his thick, burly right arm around the man’s chest and sort of carried him back up the stairs and out of the hold. I followed as close as I could. The gaoler made a wheezing noise that might have been a plea for his torch but Dowling ignored him. So the butcher that could read and write had a short wick. I followed him to an empty cell, one with light and space and even a table and chair.
‘This must be where they put the King when he doesn’t pay his debts,’ I remarked. It was supposed to be a joke, but none laughed. Dowling’s face was set grim.
‘That was a foolish thing for me to do,’ he said in a whisper. ‘They will take their revenge upon him when we are gone.’
True, I supposed, but if he was to be hung, probably drawn and quartered too, then all was pretty much lost anyway. I didn’t share the thought with Dowling, who was busy propping up our man on a chair. Then he was gone, his footsteps ringing out down the corridor. Soon he was back with a bowl of thin mutton soup and a hunk of bread. The prisoner licked his lips and drew his shredded jacket about his narrow shoulders. His breathing steadied and the shaking diminished.
‘What is his name, do we know?’ I asked.
‘Richard Joyce,’ the man himself answered, his voice calm and melodious, the least likely voice you would have imagined from his appearance.
‘Well, Mr Joyce. Is it true that you killed Anne Giles?’ I asked. ‘She was my cousin, you know.’ Not that it mattered, but I hoped that he might be shamed into confessing. Murderers and thieves had a habit of denying their crimes and I didn’t want to spend all day listening to fantastic stories or tales of incredible hardship.
‘No,’ he replied before picking up the bowl with two hands and sipping quietly.
We waited, Dowling patiently, me less so, but every time I cleared my throat to speak he put a hand on my shoulder. When Joyce had finished eating, Dowling sat himself on the second chair, leaving me to perch on a small three-legged stool.
‘Tell us something about yourself, Joyce.’ Dowling leant back as if he was planning to spend all morning there. Straw moved in a dark corner of the room and there were sounds of rustling. Rats.
Joyce sat back and met
Out stretched a hand. ‘Shilling.’
‘If you let us take him upstairs.’
‘Two shilling.’
I was about to argue, but then he belched in my face a cloud that stank of pig fat and vomit, foul beyond description. I gave him the money. Then he put a big iron key into the lock, and as the door opened I saw bright green eyes lit up by the light of the torch. The rest of his face twitched. He wriggled and squirmed away from the gaoler as far as his chains would allow. Eyes shone out brightly from above a large angular nose. The stubbly head stilled, motionless above quivering body. As he becalmed, his eyes stopped flitting and fixed on us. Watching us, wide-eyed and alert, his head craned slowly forward. Then the gaoler elbowed him in the head so hard you could hear the crack.
Dowling erupted, pushing the gaoler hard against the wall with both hands. ‘God have mercy, you drivelling rogue!’
The gaoler dropped the torch on the floor so that all I could see was the stone flags, but I could hear the sound of two men breathing heavily and the sound of a man being struck solidly in the guts. Then I heard the sound of a man losing his gutsand smelt it too. The torch rose, held now by Dowling, who stood over the lumpen figure of the gaoler kneeling on the floor, his head touching the stones.
‘Unlock that chain,’ Dowling commanded. I wondered if the gaoler would plead incapacitation. Wisely he did not. Instead he staggered to his feet, reached clumsily for his key and did as he was told. Dowling took the prisoner by the arm, then wound his thick, burly right arm around the man’s chest and sort of carried him back up the stairs and out of the hold. I followed as close as I could. The gaoler made a wheezing noise that might have been a plea for his torch but Dowling ignored him. So the butcher that could read and write had a short wick. I followed him to an empty cell, one with light and space and even a table and chair.
‘This must be where they put the King when he doesn’t pay his debts,’ I remarked. It was supposed to be a joke, but none laughed. Dowling’s face was set grim.
‘That was a foolish thing for me to do,’ he said in a whisper. ‘They will take their revenge upon him when we are gone.’
True, I supposed, but if he was to be hung, probably drawn and quartered too, then all was pretty much lost anyway. I didn’t share the thought with Dowling, who was busy propping up our man on a chair. Then he was gone, his footsteps ringing out down the corridor. Soon he was back with a bowl of thin mutton soup and a hunk of bread. The prisoner licked his lips and drew his shredded jacket about his narrow shoulders. His breathing steadied and the shaking diminished.
‘What is his name, do we know?’ I asked.
‘Richard Joyce,’ the man himself answered, his voice calm and melodious, the least likely voice you would have imagined from his appearance.
‘Well, Mr Joyce. Is it true that you killed Anne Giles?’ I asked. ‘She was my cousin, you know.’ Not that it mattered, but I hoped that he might be shamed into confessing. Murderers and thieves had a habit of denying their crimes and I didn’t want to spend all day listening to fantastic stories or tales of incredible hardship.
‘No,’ he replied before picking up the bowl with two hands and sipping quietly.
We waited, Dowling patiently, me less so, but every time I cleared my throat to speak he put a hand on my shoulder. When Joyce had finished eating, Dowling sat himself on the second chair, leaving me to perch on a small three-legged stool.
‘Tell us something about yourself, Joyce.’ Dowling leant back as if he was planning to spend all morning there. Straw moved in a dark corner of the room and there were sounds of rustling. Rats.
Joyce sat back and met
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