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‘Sometimes the same day, sometimes the next, rarely longer. But perhaps you have a good defence? It has been known for the court to be lenient, especially if you denounce other traitors. Imprisonment and not death.’
Lisette thought about that and the idea of being cooped up as she was now for years and years would be unbearable. She would not want to live under those circumstances, especially if she had to betray Jay and his good friends to do it. She could not, would not, do that. She would defend herself, there was no one to speak for her, and if that did no good, which was most likely the case, then she would try to be brave.
Their supper done, everyone began to settle down for the night. There was only a scattering of straw for bedding and not enough of that. The prisoners simply lay down wherever there was space enough. Lisette went to the corner, which she had somehow come to think of as her own, and sat down with her back propped against the wall. She was weary to the point of exhaustion, but the wall was hard and rough, the floor likewise and both were damp. Her fingers and toes were numb with cold and she could not stop shivering. Michel’s coat was little more than a rag, its lace in tatters; it did nothing to warm her. She shut her eyes against the feeble light from a single oil lamp at the entrance to the cell and prepared to wait for the dawn.
The rest of the inmates settled down too, but they were not silent. Some, unable to sleep, talked in low tones, some shouted out in their sleep, some wept, others snored. Gradually those sounds faded from consciousness and she dozed.
She was running through a summer meadow, bright with daises, buttercups and dandelions, and she was hand in hand with Jay. Edward and Anne skipped beside them, picking the flowers as they went. Above them the sun warmed their backs. They were all laughing. On the far side of the field a carriage was waiting and they all climbed in And were driven down a country lane, past hedges full of may blossom. The scent filled her nostrils. And there was Falsham Hall ahead of them, outlined against a cobalt sky, its windows gleaming, its front door open in welcome.
‘Home at last,’ Jay said.
‘Home,’ the children said.
‘Home,’ Lisette echoed and felt unbelievably happy.
‘Giradet! Giradet!’ The sound of the name penetrated her sleep. She opened her eyes and, for a moment, did not know where she was; the dream was still with her, enveloping her in its rosy glow. Then it all came back and she knew exactly where she was and why. The stench and the cold seemed to have penetrated right through her flesh to the bone and she could not move.
‘Giradet! Michel Giradet!’ She heard the name again and realised it was the turnkey who stood by the open gate. ‘You are wanted.’
His raucous voice roused everyone else and they began noisily to protest at being woken. Christiane, who was lying beside her, whispered, ‘You had better go.’
Lisette forced herself to her knees and then to her feet and hobbled over to the gate as the blood began to flow through her cramped limbs again; the pain was excruciating. ‘What do you want of me?’ She remembered just in time to lower the timbre of her voice.
‘I don’t want anything of you, aristo, others do. You are to go for interrogation.’
‘Interrogation?’
‘Yes. Come with me.’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the cell so that he could lock the gate again.
She limped after him past the other cells to the stone stairs. Who wanted to interrogate Michel? What were they expecting to learn from him? Would they see through her disguise? Did they already know it was she and not her brother, locked in the dungeons? If that were so, then what they wanted from her would undoubtedly be the names. Mr Wentworth must have gone to the Embassy and been given that blank piece of paper. Would they torture her? How long could she hold out? Had Jay and the others left? Were they safely on their way to Calais with Michel? If all her tears had not already been shed and if she had not felt dried up, wrinkled like a stored apple, she would have wept afresh at the thought that she was now entirely alone.
At the bottom of the stairs she was handed over to a new guard and the turnkey returned to his station and the pot of ale and pie that were waiting for him.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked her new escort as they climbed two flights of stairs.
‘You will see.’
At the upper level she was ushered along several corridors. Her legs were working properly now and she looked around her, wondering whether to make a bolt for it. If she died in the attempt, would that not be a better end than the guillotine?
The guard, as if reading her mind, grabbed her arm and held it in a painful grip until they stopped outside a door. He opened it and pushed her inside in front to him.
