The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (31 page)

He led her to the bed and she sat beside him. A thin mattress covered the iron frame. Rand shouted that he wanted more time with her, then removed the contents of her basket—umble pie, an apple, a hunk of cheese, bread and butter pudding.

“I couldn't hide a file. Tom said I might be searched.” Elizabeth looked around the small cell. A stone table possessed a circular central hole, which served as a stove. In addition to a window covered with bars, a hanging iron lantern shed light upon the whitewashed brick ceiling and stone walls. A corner fireplace provided a smoky blaze and a flicker of warmth.

Now that she was finally close to Rand, she had difficulty meeting his gaze. It wasn't only shyness due to their many weeks of separation. It was shame.

Following her failure to bribe Skully, she should have confessed her guilt. Instead, she had rationalized—and validated—her actions. One, she could better serve Rand if she was free. Two, he might hang anyway and she'd only swing by his side. But she knew now that, save for the murder charge, he might very well have been pardoned.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“For what, Bess?”

“Whitney. If I had confessed—”

“Don't be ridiculous. If you had confessed, I would have disallowed your divulgence. I was there, remember? I could conjure up more details than your writer's mind could ever possibly conceive.”

“Not true,” she retorted, uncertain as to whether she should be reassured or irritated by the slur on her talent.

“We haven't much time.” Rand covered her hand with his, then positioned her skirt so the guards wouldn't detect this minor intimacy. “Has Billy informed you of our latest plan?”

“No,” she said, surprised. Did Billy believe she might betray Rand? “I think we can rule out a royal pardon,” she added sarcastically.

Rand grinned. “Rebellious to the end, the chapbooks will say. The only thing that makes better copy than a penitent highwayman is an arrogant one.” Lowering his voice even more, he said, “Billy slipped me a fine sharp knife, which I'll hide behind the buttons of my waistcoat. Before they put the prisoner in the cart, they usually remove his irons and bind his wrists with a cord. While heading for Tyburn, I'll force the blade against the cord. Once I leap from the cart, I may be able to lose myself in the crowd.”

“God's breath, Rand! They didn't remove your chains for the sentencing. The iron band about your waist possessed more tentacles than an octopus.”

His hand tightened in hers. “I don't want you to attend the execution, Bess. Stay at Middlethorpe. Should I fail to escape, or should I die on the gallows, Billy will contact you. Otherwise, we need a place to meet afterwards.”

Should I die.
He said it so casually, as if he were discussing a character in one of her novels.

“We could meet at the peel tower,” she said. “All the charges have been dropped against me, so after the”—she swallowed—“after the hanging, I can return to the White Hart. Aunt Lilith said Father spends most of his time at Wyndham Manor. The inn is run by a caretaker now. He won't bother me.”

“I'll come to you at the peel tower, or the inn, though I can't say when. If my escape from the cart is thwarted, we shall have to rely on the hangman. But even if we successfully bribe Master Hodges, my neck will be stretched. Once I'm resurrected, I don't know how long it will take to recover and—”

“What if you hang, Rand? I mean, really hang?”

“Tom and Billy have repeatedly informed Master Hodges that, should I fail to be resurrected, his life will be cut short. All the money in the world won't help Hodges if he's dead.”

“Are you absolutely certain you can trust Tom?”

“I don't trust anyone save you.”

Elizabeth winced. Was Rand being sarcastic? Or did his words mean that he was giving her a second chance, a chance to wipe out the betrayal against Ranulf, spawned by Lady Jane?

“Tom played Judas once,” she said. “He could do it again.”

“If he does, I'll be dead and unable to regret my mistake.”

“Stop treating death as a joke!”

One of the warders poked his head inside. “Time's up.”

Reluctantly, Elizabeth stood. She stared into Rand's mesmerizing blue eyes and longed to stroke his beard.

The guard yelled, “Hurry it along!”

“Midnight, Bess,” Rand whispered urgently. “Wait by your window, or at the peel tower, every night. Until I come for you.”

Fighting back tears, she stumbled from the cell into the hallway.

“You!” the guard called.

Heart in her throat, Elizabeth turned.

He held up her basket. “You forgot this.”

Forcing a smile, she retrieved the basket and hurried toward the entrance.

She was so upset she didn't look for Billy in the day room, but rather plunged outside into a vicious storm. Sleet slashed the courtyard. Mud exploded in angry bursts. Dropping her basket, Elizabeth sped down the prison steps. Suddenly she halted, as if stopped by an invisible wall. From the corner of her eye, she saw a tall man standing beneath a black umbrella.

Half a dozen lawmen immediately surrounded her.

“Damn,” Elizabeth breathed, waiting for the tall man to reach her. Water streamed from his umbrella, obscuring his face, but she'd stake her life on his identity.

“I knew you'd show,” Walter said.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Your walk. I've been watching from a side room every day, freezing my arse off. And while I must compliment you on a rather successful disguise, I have made it my business to study mannerisms. How could I ever forget yours when I run everything about you over and over in my mind?”

Sleet drummed upon the fabric of Walter's umbrella. Despite the frozen rain that slanted sideways and stung her eyes, Elizabeth saw his face spasm.

“Where did you hide? At your aunt's? At Wyndham Manor? Here in York, under my very nose? That seems most like you, my dear, and I both detest and admire you for it. Who would have thought that a woman could have such a lively, determined intellect?”

Raising her chin, she faced him defiantly. “You can't hold me against my will. You've dropped all charges. I'm free to go as I please.”

“You're free to do as
I
please. Charges can be reinstated.”

“That's absurd! Rand was already found guilty of Whitney's murder. You once told me that I couldn't have it both ways. Well, you can't either.”

“Charges can also be falsified.”

“I've talked to my barristers,” Elizabeth lied. “They told me the accomplice accusations would never hold up in court.”

“Perhaps. But I can charge you with stealing.”

“What have I stolen?”

“My pocket watch and my ruby ring. There are many who will swear they saw both items in your possession.”

Silently cursing Walter, Elizabeth took off her mob cap and wig, both impossibly soaked by the downpour. “Even I can figure out that you don't want me to hang,” she said, thinking she could be as brave as Rand. “Which means your threats are just bluster.”

Walter's eyes narrowed. “Why do you insist on goading me?” Handing his umbrella to a lawman, he reached out as if to touch her, then abruptly dropped his hand. “You've been a worthy adversary, Elizabeth, I will admit. For a woman you have a good mind, though you've driven me to distraction.”

“
You
pursued me from the very beginning. I merely wanted to be left alone.”

“Enough talk! You've been like a sickness with me, but not anymore.” Grabbing her arm, he dug his fingers into her flesh.

At that moment, Billy bounded down the steps. “What're ye doin'? Get yer hands off her, ye bloody bastard!”

Billy rushed toward them, but Walter nodded to his men, one of whom slammed Billy on the side of the head with his pistol. Knees collapsing, Billy fell face down in the mud.

“Turnbull threatened me and will be gaoled until after the execution,” Walter proclaimed, his voice triumphant. “That way I can make certain he doesn't ruin my plans. And you, my dear Elizabeth, are going to be caged again.”

Temper beyond control, she swung wildly, hitting Walter's nose. One of the lawmen pinned her flailing arms behind her. Sleet slashed her cheeks as she faced an enraged Walter.

“You're going to pay for this,” he said, dabbing at his bloody nose with his handkerchief.

“You don't frighten me
,
” she said with false bravado.

Squeezing her nape with his fingers, Walter propelled her across the exercise yard. “I want one thing from you, Elizabeth, and one thing only. I want you to witness your highwayman's execution. I want to savor your expression as you watch him hang. After that, I'll count it among my greatest joys if I never set eyes on you again.”

Behind the grimy panes of the inn's window, York Minster rose like a mountain, so close Elizabeth could barely see the top of its spire. In a few short hours, Rand would be executed.

Unable to sleep, she had watched the Minster's stones change from dove-gray to cream. Stained-glass windows sparkled in the sunrise.
Like a woman in the bloom of youth and just as short-lived,
she thought, as the bright colors abruptly faded.

Her fingers picked at the peeling paint on the window ledge. Whatever youth she had left was passing, her life was passing, and without Rand nothing remained except desolation and the threat of Walter. In truth, Walter was like the mistletoe that clung so prettily to a tree while sucking the life from it.

Slouched in a chair before the room's lone door, Grosley stretched his shanks. His mission was to make certain Elizabeth did not leave this nameless inn, located on some nameless side street. Turning her back to him, she tried for the hundredth time to reason her way through this present predicament. If he failed to escape from the death cart, Rand would expect the resurrection plan to proceed. But what if Walter had tortured Billy and learned details? Elizabeth knew all about torture from her research on
The Dreadful Secret of Good King Stephen.
The rack. The Iron Maiden. The Scavenger's Daughter. Billy might be tough, yet even hardened knights had sung like nightingales at the very sight of such torture devices.

Thumbscrews would be less elaborate but just as effective.

Fortunately,
she
had been spared any torture device. Walter didn't believe that a man would confide in a woman, and he was very nearly right. Hadn't Billy kept his silence? Rand, however, had always regarded her as an equal, which was one of the reasons she loved him.

Billy had disappeared a mere two days ago, so Rand might not remark upon his absence. Even when Billy had been free, Rand's plan had contained far too many flaws. Now it was doomed.

“Doomed,” she whispered.

A bolt slid back on the door. Dorothea minced into the room, her skirts swaying. She was followed by two servants, clothed in the Stafford livery, bearing a virtual cornucopia of food. Rather than the usual breakfast of bread, butter, and tea, Elizabeth inhaled the scent of ham, pastries, and sausages.

By way of greeting, Dorothea said, “You look simply dreadful, my dear. So thin. Lord Stafford sent for me. He says you haven't eaten in two days and he wants you strong so that you may attend the festivities.”

“Walter may think to keep me prisoner inside this flea-infested hovel,” Elizabeth said, glaring at her stepmother, “but nothing will induce me to watch Rand's execution. I won't give his lordship the satisfaction.”

“Yes, you will.”

The servants and Grosley withdrew. Dorothea eased herself onto the bed, then reached for a plate. Between bites of stewed tomatoes and ham, she mumbled, “I've been spending most of my time at Wyndham Manor. 'Tis a lovely place now, cozy and prosperous, so much more peaceful than the White Hart.” Lifting a silver lid, she inspected a rice pudding dotted with raisins.

“How is Father? Is it true that Horace Exe is running the White Hart when he has a reputation for cheeseparing?”

“The White Hart turns a small profit.” Dorothea stuck her finger into the pudding. “Your father and I have shut one door and opened a new one.” She licked her finger, made a
moue
of disgust, sliced a portion of ham, chewed it, then spit a piece of gristle into her napkin. “After the execution, you really should visit Wyndham Manor, Elizabeth. Perhaps you might rearrange your life.”

“Without my highwayman I have no life,” she stated. “Where, may I ask, is Billy Turnbull?”

Dorothea picked up a sausage and sucked it through her lips. “Lord Stafford plans to keep Turnbull occupied until after the hanging.”

Elizabeth peered out through the window again. With Billy gone, nobody would make certain Master Hodges followed instructions, and it was disastrous to rely on Tom.

The sunrise had faded completely, leaving the morning dun-colored, with a dreary feel to it. Perhaps it was only the time following dawn, where the sun seemed to hesitate before taking hold. Perhaps it was a harbinger of a forthcoming storm.

'Tis so hard to predict how the weather will unfold, or even our fates,
she thought, blinking back tears.

As if she had read Elizabeth's mind, Dorothea said, “I married your father, knowing full well his gambling problems, thinking I could change him. I couldn't, and you can't change your highwayman. I learned long ago that we always dig our own graves. You made your choice when you decided to fall in love, and please don't fool yourself, Elizabeth. Love is a conscious choice. Now you must suffer the natural consequences of your ill-fated decision.”

“But all I have ever wanted was to be left alone and live with Rand. Happily. Peacefully.”

“Is that what
he
wants? To live peacefully?”

“I don't know,” Elizabeth confessed, almost inaudibly.

Wiping her mouth with a linen napkin, Dorothea tossed it on the bed, then stood. “Lord Stafford has selected a gown he wants you to wear, a festive gown, not unlike the blue silk you wore at Shepherd's. Do as he says, Elizabeth. You must stop fighting, for you cannot win, and in the process you shall only be destroyed.”

As she swept through the doorway into the hall, Dorothea's last words seemed to echo.
You shall only be destroyed.

***

Walter led Elizabeth up the stairs of an inn situated along the execution route. He had bound her hands and held one end of the rope.

“This room has a perfect view of the Minster,” he said, “which will be the first stop on the thieving bastard's journey.”

Entering, he jerked her over to the window. Below, the streets were packed with bodies. Atop the surrounding roofs, spectators perched like brightly colored birds. Leaning from the windows, people laughed and waved and shouted to one another, enjoying the public holiday and the joyous atmosphere.

The Minster bells tolled. Through the inn walls, Elizabeth could feel their reverberations and the excitement of the city. She heard the noise increase as a contingent of peace officers came into view, followed by the City Marshall, the Under Sheriff, and a posse of constables.

“Look, Elizabeth!” Walter pressed against her back, his belly denting her tightly corseted waist. “Here he comes!”

The prison chaplain stood at the rear of the cart. Rand had been placed in front, forced to squat atop his own coffin. He was clothed in a coat of claret velvet, a white shirt fronted with lace, brown doeskin breeches, and high boots.

“My, doesn't he look the gentleman? Plain yet elegant,” Walter said sarcastically. “Listen to them cheer, Elizabeth. The crowd loves him, though not as much as you do.”

The cart inched past. Elizabeth prayed that Rand had managed to smuggle the knife inside his shirt, that even now he was severing the ropes around his wrists. Once they reached Tyburn, it would be too late.

A troop of soldiers followed the cart. Their coats were scarlet, like blood.

Walter continued pressing against her. Elizabeth struggled for breath, struggled for control, struggled to keep from screaming.

The procession stopped at York Minster. Rand stood up. His coat was more purple than the coats of the soldiers, the color of a bruise rather than blood. While the Minster bells continued tolling, a bellman intoned a prayer.

“All good people pray heartily unto God,” Stafford mouthed against Elizabeth's ear, “for this poor sinner who is now going to his death, for whom this great bell doth toll—”

“Stop it!” she cried, trying to maneuver away from him.

Walter laughed. “I've been to more executions than I can count, but I've never enjoyed myself as much as today.” He tapped the window pane. “Look at the young women throwing your lover nosegays and kisses. Don't they know they're making love to a corpse?”

Below, the spectators showered Rand with flowers, petals, ribbons, and confetti. He acknowledged their attention by raising his arms over his head. His manacles glinted in the feeble rays of the sun, and it took Elizabeth several moments to realize that Rand had not been allowed the customary rope. If he had smuggled a knife inside his shirt, it wouldn't do him any good.

“And now our little procession will be making its way toward Tadcaster and the gallows. Shall we follow?” When Elizabeth didn't respond, Stafford jerked her as he would a dog. “Come along, dearest. I've a carriage waiting, and a special place roped off for us at the site of the wooden mare.”

“I won't go.”

“Yes, you will.” Stafford yanked the rope.

“I won't watch.”

“Yes, you will.”

***

Walter's carriage lurched along, following a human stream. Elizabeth sat next to him, her voluminous skirts crushed against his thigh. She felt as if she were the one traveling to the gallows. She felt as if she were viewing somebody else's dream. She felt as if she would soon start screaming and never stop. She felt nothing at all.

“Almost there.” Walter squeezed her knee. “We're moving a bit slower than the death cart, but we haven't missed much.”

The carriage finally halted.

“A perfect view,” Walter exulted.

The gallows dominated the area. Grandstand seats, reserved for the wealthiest people, surrounded the scaffold on three sides. Constables and soldiers had formed a ring around it to force back the crowd, which undulated for what seemed like miles.

Rand was already on the gallows. A breeze ruffled his black hair and the lace at his throat. From the carriage window, Elizabeth looked at that handsome face, a face she loved with all her heart. She stared at the arms that would nevermore hold her and the hands that would nevermore caress her. She would never again hear the sound of his laughter nor see the flash of his teeth against the darkness of his beard. She and Janey had both betrayed the men they loved.

“God!” The sound was torn out of her before she even knew it. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she began to shake. “I killed Robert Whitney,” she whispered. “Rand only kept silent because of me, as you well know. Tell them to stop the hanging, my lord. I want to confess.”

“You're too late, Elizabeth. Nobody wants to hear.”

The minister opened his Bible and read several passages. Then, as he began the Fifty-First Psalm, the crowd joined in.

“Have mercy upon me, O God…” the hanging song began. “…Behold, I was shapen in inequity and in sin…”

Elizabeth's teeth chattered. “Stop them, I beg of you. You can do it. Stop the execution.”

“Join in, Elizabeth. Pray for your lover.”

She turned her face away. “I'll take his place. If the crowd wants to see someone hang, let it be me.”

“Watch, Elizabeth. You're not watching.”

She shook her head.

“The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit,” sang the crowd, “a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise…”

“I despise you,” Elizabeth hissed.

“I told you to watch.” Walter pushed her face against the window. When she turned her head aside, he grabbed her cheeks between his palms and forced her head straight.

“No!” She struggled wildly, her arms flailing, but Walter grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her head back until she thought her neck would snap.

“Look, damn you, look!”

Her eyes watered with pain. Through her tears, she saw Master Hodges tie the noose around Rand's neck, then fasten a handkerchief around Rand's forehead. One corner hung down. When Rand was ready, he would signal by grasping the corner and pulling the handkerchief over his face.

She stopped struggling and Walter released her. Mesmerized with horror, she couldn't look away. She couldn't even close her eyes.

As if moving through water, Rand's hand slowly drifted upward, toward the handkerchief.

Elizabeth began to scream. She screamed until she could no longer feel the pain which had imbedded itself like a spear point in her brain, until she could no longer hear Walter's curses or feel him shaking her and slapping her, until she could no longer see or hear or feel anything at all.

***

They were back at the inn before Walter successfully revived her.

As he splashed brandy on her face, then tried to force it down her throat, Elizabeth made an effort to maintain her state of darkness.

“Wake up, you little fool,” Walter muttered, kneeling beside her.

Elizabeth turned away from the sound of his voice. She wanted to shut out Walter. And reality. As long as nobody mentioned what had just happened, she wouldn't have to face the fact that Rand was dead.

Walter pressed his lips against her ear. “You should have seen it. My, but he was slow to die. I watched every jerk of the rope, every agonized contortion. But I shouldn't have to
tell
you. You should have seen it for yourself. Damn you and your woman's constitution. You managed to cheat me out of my ultimate revenge, Elizabeth, and I am not pleased.”

Opening her eyes, she rolled away from him. She must gather her wits about her and clear the numbness from her brain. But then she would have to face the truth.

Walter placed his hands beneath her armpits and pulled her to a sitting position. Thrusting his face in front of her, he said, “Not only did they hang him, but afterwards they covered his body with tallow and fat, dressed him in a tarred sheet weighted with iron bands, and hung him in chains. Then they returned him to the gallows, and there he shall remain until he falls into dust.”

As if to negate Walter's words, Elizabeth shook her tangled curls. “He never had a chance, did he?”

“What do you mean?”

“You conspired with Thomas Turnbull from the very start, didn't you? There was never any hope of resurrection, was there? You directed the entire scenario from beginning to end, even provided all the money Tom so generously donated to the cause. I'll wager Master Hodges was never even approached with a bribe.”