The Archer's Daughter (15 page)

Nearly a full day had passed when the Gatehouse finally came into view. The streets were quiet, and an early morning dew settled over them as Jack clopped down the stone-paved street. Wallace slept out of sight in the rear of the wagon as a cloaked Owen guided the worn horse to the stables behind the tavern. He hoped like hell that Ben would still be inside from the night before — they were late.

“Wallace, we are here.” Owen relinquished the horse and cart to the stable boy, paying him generously to refresh the horse.

Wallace sat up, rubbing the chill from his arms. “We did not die… ’tis a good day.”

Owen chuckled. “A good day, indeed.”

The men entered the Gatehouse with caution, first checking for guards or eavesdroppers. A fire crackled in the corner fireplace, freshly fed. Several women worked quietly about the common areas, and Owen slipped through the various rooms unnoticed with Wallace closely behind. In a back room, Owen found Ben snoring with arms folded neatly on the table and head resting on the makeshift pillow. A barely clad woman slept soundly beside him, using his burly shoulder as a prop. Owen sat across from his friend and cleared his throat.

Ben snorted, snapping to attention. After focusing on his surroundings for a brief moment, his dark eyes settled on Owen, and a crooked smile formed amid deep-set wrinkles. “My Lord.” Ben nodded, a burp escaping from within. He scratched at his eyes. “You are late.”

“My apologies, Ben. It took me longer to procure a wagon than I thought it would. Hawkhurst is a long ride.” Owen motioned for Wallace to sit.

Ben’s gaze narrowed as he studied Owen’s face before averting his eyes to Wallace. “Why in hell did ye go to Hawkhurst for a wagon? Ye could have easily stolen one in Cheapside.”

Owen laughed. “Ahh, but I needed this man.” He clasped Wallace on the shoulder. “He fits the role perfectly, does he not?”

Ben nodded. “Yes, yes,” he confirmed.

“This is Wallace MacKenzie. He is family to Cate.”

Ben leaned over the table and eyed the Scotsman warily. “Wallace… how are ye with dead bodies?”

Do as you
are told, Cate.

Follow the plan, Cate.

She repeated the words until she could no longer understand her own mumbling.

People will visit you
.

She no longer had a sense for time of day, but Cate couldn’t remember anyone having visited her since Owen left her side… which seemed like a lifetime ago.

Owen.

She dreamed of his face in between incessant nightmares. With each passing moment, his features faded into obscurity. Cate blamed it on her body slowly shutting down — dying. Her insides hurt with every small movement. How she prayed for God to take her, but it seemed even the good Lord had forsaken her in the depths of her earthly hell. How she was still alive — she couldn’t fathom the reason why.

Keys rattled against the cell door, signaling entry of a guard or the gaoler. Cate couldn’t imagine another lifeless body being stuffed inside the small cell she and the others were confined to. Several persistent moaners had ceased to vocalize their pain, so perhaps they were finally doing a sweep for the dead.

Or, food?

For a brief instant, Cate had hope. It quickly diminished as men shuffled in the cell, each checking the prisoners for signs of life. There would be no food today. Her food source had slowly tapered off, and Cate guessed the reason being her execution loomed closer than she had first thought.

“This one,” a man mumbled nearby. “And this one.” Men swept the rows of women, toeing bodies with the tips of their boots, seeking signs of life.

Other men unlocked the shackles and dragged the bodies from the cell.

The gaoler paced the small pathway between rows of prisoners, making marks on his parchment. He stopped near Cate. “These four are scheduled for tomorrow’s execution. Make sure the servant woman has the needed supplies for the morning.” The man slapped his book closed and tucked it under his arm. “Hurry up.” He spoke to his men, seeing to the bodies as they were dragged through the door and into the hall.

The door groaned shut, and all was dark once more.

Tomorrow.

Her time had come. A wave of relief washed over her, slowing the pounding of her heart.

At last.

She prayed for death to claim her, but it didn’t come. Instead, she was plagued with a restless sleep, driven by the girl to her right, whose breathing was shallow and uneven. Cate guessed she wouldn’t live much longer. A sickness had taken root deep within the chest of the girl, and Cate could only imagine what a relief it would be to finally succumb to it. How she wished she and the girl could trade places.

After a restless sleep, slivers of morning streaked through the tiny slit opening that served as the window for the cell. Cate’s heart shuddered in her chest. The sun gave promise of a bright day. She would stand at the gallows with the sun warming her face and rise above — if she could stand at all. Her legs had grown weak during her imprisonment, although she had attempted to keep her limbs from stiffening. The metal rings of her chains had worn her skin raw about the ankles and wrists, but she did her best to keep from going mad.

The door was unlocked, and light from lanterns flooded the depths of the stone room. Cate clamped her eyes shut and turned from the intrusion. She blinked away the watery tears clouding her vision as her eyes adjusted to the brightness. Two entered the cell — the gaoler, and a tall, willowy woman.

She stood at an impressive height for an older woman; tall and imposing, with sandy locks pulled back neatly at the nape. Streaks of silver wove through the plated tresses, giving way to the woman’s age. Wafts of herbs and milled soap filled Cate’s nostrils as the woman walked by, her skirts swishing with each step.

“’Tis these four, Nel,” the gaoler told the woman, stopping in front of Cate and her surrounding cell mates. “I was thinking this one.” The gaoler toed the foot of the dying girl to Cate’s right.

“Aye, she will do quite nicely. We will have to change the hair and dress.” The woman spoke with an Irish lilt, and the smooth sing-song tone of her voice was oddly comforting to Cate, as if it was a soothing distant memory.

“I trust you will see to that?”

“I will call for you when I am ready for your assistance.” The woman knelt in front of the first prisoner and placed a small satchel to her side. After several moments of attending to the woman, she moved on to the next.

Cate didn’t see the need for the prior inspection ritual when they were set to die anyhow. This woman was different than the usual one who checked for signs of life before executions, but Cate supposed they were all the same. Paid to do a job and not ask questions.

Cate was the last to be appraised. “Let me be,” she told the woman, retreating when touched.

“Cate, my name is Nel,” the Irishwoman whispered. “I have been sent to help you.”

“I need no help in dying.”

“You are to be hanged at midday. I am here to make sure that does not happen.” The woman gave Cate’s leg a reassuring pat.

“I gave up on hope a long while ago,” Cate croaked, her throat dry and sore. “There is no need.”

“Hush now,” Nel cooed. “Let me see to you.”

Cate watched her every move but allowed Nel to see to her wounds and continue with her inspection. The woman lightly touched every raw wound, fresh gash, and even the black beneath her cracked fingernails, as if she were making a list of her ailments in her mind.

Nel revealed a pair of shears from her satchel. Methodically and with purpose, she maneuvered with the agility of a barn cat around Cate, snipping the long locks of dark hair as close to Cate’s nape as she could. When satisfied with the results, Nel then scooped up the piles and tucked them into her satchel.

A better fit for the noose. A peculiar way to
help
.

Nel stood, stretching her back. “Goaler,” she called.

The man entered the cell — alone. “Did you find a match?”

“Aye, this one will do. She is on death’s threshold as it is.” Nel spoke quietly, pointing to the still woman beside Cate.

The gaoler pulled a set of keys from his side and removed the shackles from the sickly woman. Next, he moved on to Cate, unchaining her as well.

The actions of the pair left Cate in a state of bewilderment. What in hell was happening? In what seemed like a drowning sea of tattered rags, chains, and limbs, Cate’s soiled clothes were peeled from her body and replaced with those of the woman next to her.

Before Cate could protest, the gaoler had his arms around her torso, dragging her from where she had been pinned a prisoner for so long. Her body screamed in agony but no sound left her lips. Cate was now where her neighbor had lain dying in silence. For what purpose, she did not know.

The cold grip of metal was clasped around her once again and the weight pushed against her like a crushing ocean wave.

“We’ve taken too much time. You must give it to her now.” The gaoler’s voice had softened. There was a hitch in his voice… a heightened plight.

Nel gathered her satchel. Briefly, she scanned her surroundings, as if making sure she was not being watched. Then, the woman thrust her hand into the satchel, swished it around, and pulled a small vial from its depths. Nel knelt beside Cate, and, taking Cate’s hand in hers, she gave it a gentle squeeze before wrapping Cate’s fingers around the vial. “Please, Cate. Listen to my words. He loves you. You must do this. If not for yourself, for him. This is the only way you will have your freedom. This is tincture of opium. You must take it before the guards come for you, or there will not be enough time.”

Cate attempted to push Nel from her, but the effort only made the washerwoman clasp her hand tighter.

“He said you would be stubborn. Drink it, and you will be free. If not, you will surely die, and I believe in my heart that is not what you truly desire. The laudanum will cause you to fall into a deep sleep. Take too little, and you will be discovered. Take too much, and… well, I believe I have accurately measured the dosage. Please consider it. You do not have much time to decide.”

“We must go now,” the gaoler said to Nel. He waved her forward.

Again, Nel clutched Cate’s fingers in one last farewell clasp. “Please consider.”

The words echoed through Cate long after the washerwoman had left the cell.

Owen paced the
threshold of his father’s office… waiting. He knew not if the gaoler had been successful with the plan, or if Cate was even still alive, for that matter. Placing such devout trust in others had proven to be of the utmost difficulty. Somewhere along this torrid journey he had crossed the line between honor and duty, and he could no longer define on which border of that line he stood.

He ran his palm over his forehead, wiping away the sweat. “Are you nearly ready, Father? The crowd has already started to gather.”

Lord Lancaster placed his quill beside a stack of parchment papers and stood. Carefully, he folded the stack in thirds before tucking them inside his fur-lined robe.

Owen found himself rolling his eyes at his father’s royal appearance for the execution. He’d spared no expense for the event. “No stays of execution today, hmm?”

“Let us be off. I want to personally oversee the loading of the prisoners. I will not allow for any wrongdoings, especially with His Royal Majesty in attendance.”

“I did not know the execution of mere rebels warranted such an audience.” Owen held the door open long enough for his father to pass through then followed to the courtyard in silence. The heavy air hit him in the chest as if a heavy sack of grain. Breathing became a burdened task once loaded in the carriage and on the way to Newgate.

They made quick time on the streets, facing no obstructions. Owen’s thoughts were focused elsewhere. He hoped Ben had rounded up enough ruffians to cause a disturbance large enough to warrant a response from the guards, and prayed wholeheartedly that Wallace and his wagon had come through the gate with no opposition. So many factors played throughout his thoughts that Owen hadn’t even realized the imposing prison was in front of him. The gaoler and several guards met them by the front gate, ready to escort Lord Lancaster and Owen to the prison cells.

They stopped briefly on several floors, gathering specific criminals. Owen focused on his breathing and remaining calm while his father read from the paper detailing which prisoners were to be gathered. Once on the women’s floor, Owen allowed the gaoler to take the lead. The men exchanged a very brief unsettling glance, and Owen assumed that neither of them knew what to expect once the cell door was opened.

Hollow eyes looked through him as Owen made his way into the depths of the overcrowded cell. The marked prisoners were matched with the corresponding execution orders, and their irons were removed. The gaoler’s men started in the back of the cell, working their way to the front, dragging those scheduled for execution from the cell. Owen’s pulse raced ever faster as they worked ever closer to where he’d last seen Cate.

“If this is too much for you, my son, you are more than welcome to wait outside.” Lord Lancaster placed a hand on Owen’s arm.

“All is well.” Owen recoiled under his father’s touch. He needed to stay focused and erase all hints of emotion. His concern for Cate must stay hidden, or she would pay the price with her life. One wrong flinch, and his plan would be for naught. “I grow tired of this wait. We must head to Tyburn. The King is waiting.”

Lord Lancaster seemed to accept the lie and continued on with his observations. Reading from his list, he shuffled along the thin passageway, matching markings to his parchment, and happily continuing on with his work. Lord Lancaster made light conversation with his guards, inquiring about prisoners on various floors and if the execution wagons were nearly full as he called out names.

Such disregard for life. The lives of these people had no meaning to his father. And to think, Owen would have ended up just like the man had he never met Cate.

“Catherine Archer.”

The calling of the name cut him to the core.

“Rebel. Treason. Hanged by the neck until death”
Lord Lancaster’s words seemed so final.

“I want this one front and center.”

“She’s barely living, Captain,” said a guard.

“If she is breathing, she is well enough to hang. Remove her irons and drag her to the gallows for all I care.”

The gaoler approached with the key to unlock the chains.

Lord Lancaster continued on. “I shall not be made a fool, especially by a bitch like that one. When we reach the gallows, see to it she is stripped of all her dignity, for all to witness. I will not be a mockery for these insolent fools.”

Owen held his breath, finding himself biting the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out at the guards dragging the lifeless body toward the cell door. His heart raced, its frantic beating echoing in his ears. A trickle of sweat dripped from Owen’s top lip, and he quickly wiped it away.

The gaoler moved on to the next, and last, of the prisoners. While Lord Lancaster read out the name and accused crime — thievery — the gaoler knelt to remove the shackles. A carefully placed boot was shuffled over a small glass vial, accompanied by a muffled
pop
. The gaoler then shuffled his feet, spreading the tiny shards among the putrid dirt and refuse of the cell floor. The man cleared his throat. “Erm, Captain… this one has expired. Her heart does not beat. She is dead.”

Lord Lancaster sighed his exasperation. “Are you certain?”

“Quite.” The gaoler rose to an impressive height, taking charge of the situation. He addressed his men, barking orders. He pointed to a pair of men. “Get this one down to the undertaker’s death cart and pay the man his fee. And for all that is good and holy, try to keep the body in one piece. The sheriff will hear about it, and the fine will come from both your pockets. You know how the undertaker feels about missing limbs.”

Lord Lancaster folded his parchments and tucked them beneath his robes. “Well then, we are finished here. Let us be off.” He clapped his hands together, pressing his palms tightly in front of him while swiftly heading toward the single cell exit.

Owen followed the others back into the main hall of the prison, giving the gaoler a swift nod while passing through the main door. All had gone as planned, and Ben Murtaugh would be delivering a hefty sum of coin to the gaoler as soon as Owen could give Ben word.

As the men ascended the stairs to the main floor hall, the guards were finishing up with the undertaker just outside the back doors. The cart was piled high with those lucky enough to die before suffering the painful death waiting for them at the gallows. Owen had seen more than his fair share of executions. Guilty or innocent, no one deserved the spectacle of writhing in pain until death claimed her last breath. Owen much preferred to use his blade. Swift and clean… done.

Owen stepped into the awaiting carriage before his father and settled into his seat. Briefly, he glanced out the side window, searching the distance for the rider he’d paid to deliver important news to his father. Within a few minutes, they would be off and the moment passed. He needn’t fret for long, for as soon as Lord Lancaster closed the carriage door, the guardsman rider approached at full speed. Owen released a quiet sigh of relief.

“Captain, Captain! Wait!” The rider dismounted in a flurry and rushed to the side of the carriage, gave a slight bow, and sucked in a calming breath.

“What is it?” Lord Lancaster asked in a huff.

“Rebels, sir. Near the forest edge. They threaten to disrupt the execution, and the tower is asking for the viscount’s guidance to force them back from the city.”

Visibly upset by the news, Lord Lancaster scowled. “Owen, would you please see to this little uprising and make sure it is extinguished before His Majesty hears of it?”

Owen pursed his lips. “I have full intentions of seeing this execution through with you, Father. Send Harrison. He is more than capable of handling this situation, and I am quite sure he will see it done post haste.”

The Captain paused then nodded in agreement. “Very well. Send word to Harrison and give him free rein to extinguish this in any way he sees fit.” He turned his attentions to the carriage driver. “Carry on,” he instructed.

Victorious. Owen wished he could laugh and clasp Ben in celebration. Little did Harrison know just what awaited him in the forest. With any luck, it was Death himself.

The carriage ride to the gallows was one taken in silence. Owen stared not at his father, but out the window as daily life continued on, his thoughts consumed by anger and death. How he could not wait to leave this wretched place behind. Soon he would be free of London and its wicked ways — and of his father.

And that thought made him smile.

A large crowd had gathered around the gallows of Tyburn, and prisoners were already being strung up in neat little rows to die in show form. Nooses hung loose around their necks, and the prisoners balanced precariously on the accompanying tip stools. As if competing with the autumnal harvest festivities, solicitors peddled food and ale to the ever-growing curious crowd, collecting coin where they could.

Owen spotted the staggered seating near the hangman’s platform as his carriage came to a halt. Many nobles were already in attendance, but King Richard was surprisingly absent.

Intriguing.

The carriage door was opened, and Owen waited for his father to exit before stepping out. The bright morning sun flooded his vision, and he quickly placed his hand along his brow to lessen the sting. The prisoner-laden wagons arrived within moments, turning the crowd into a jeering mob.

The barred wagon doors were unlocked and flung open, allowing a wave of bodies to be pulled from within its depths. Boney fingers clutched to the sides, unwilling to face their deaths at the sight of those already awaiting the hangman at the gallows. Weakened and sickly, the fight ended quickly. Those who could walk were marched through the throng of spectators — some attacked, some pushed to the ground — and those who couldn’t stand were carried by the arms to the platform.

Owen’s pace hastened as he made his way to his chair at the platform seating. He chose a seat in the back, not wanting someone to see the pain wrenching his face. Watching what was about to unfold would haunt him for the rest of his days. Women and children were strung up alongside the sick and the old, and what crushed his heart the most was that deep within him, he knew the majority of these people were innocent of the charged crimes.

And he at the root of said charges.

There were no amount of confessions he could attend that would atone for the sins he’d made during his time in service. But there was one he could rectify, and he would ask for forgiveness for the rest of his days for those he could not help.

And then in a moment’s time, there she was. The sun’s rays reflected along matted waves, making the dark hair unmistakable.

The ache in his heart was undeniable.

“Lord Lancaster.”

Owen broke the hypnotic stare of the gallows and turned toward the voice. A guard approached and bent low to speak in the captain’s ear.

“Yes, what is it?” Lord Lancaster answered.

The man seemed hesitant to break the news to the Captain, but did so as duty required. “There are three who are… bereft of life. One of them is the woman rebel leader, the one you asked to be made an example of. What shall you have me do?”

Lord Lancaster scowled as he turned toward the guard. “String them up first and hang them according to the law. I
will
see them hanged — dead or alive. String them up however you must.”

The guard nodded, and rushed from the seating area.

Owen watched as the man fought his way through the crowd to the hangman. He motioned ceremoniously toward his father and then toward the prisoners. The orders were given.

“Thomas Miller, Abigail Miller, and Catherine Archer, you are sentenced to execution where you will be hanged by the neck until dead and thereafter to be taken hence to the prison in which you were last confined where your body shall be buried within the precincts of the prison. May the Lord God have mercy on your soul.” The hangman repeated the words, as if he’d stated them a thousand times over.

Nooses were placed around the necks of the three unmoving bodies. Several guards struggled to keep the prisoners upright as the crowd booed their discontent, but after a few tense moments, the tipping stools were kicked loose, and the execution completed.

Three bodies swayed slightly with the breeze as the crowd cheered, begging for more to drop. Her light blue kirtle that once rivaled the color of the morning sky now hung in filthy tatters. Her once long locks — now hacked short — tangled with the twisting rope keeping her neck bent in unnatural angles.

No life. Only death.

The hangman called out the sentencing to the crowd once again, and this time an entire row of ten dropped. The gasping and gurgling of the prisoners was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Owen twisted in his seat, unable to watch.

“Father,” Owen began, waiting for confirmation that he had the Captain’s full attention. When his father leaned closer, Owen continued. “It is done. I am done. I know about the charters issued by the King. I saw this through, but I can do this no longer.”

Lord Lancaster shifted in his seat.

“The charters were not issued by King Richard, were they? They were issued by
you
. Death sentences, every one of them. You never intended to keep Richard’s end of the bargain and the rebel leaders found out about the ruse, did they not? They planned on seeking an audience with His Majesty, and you could not allow that to happen.” The clipped accusation flowed from his heart like fresh wine. Bold, robust, and full-bodied.