Page 55 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Thirty-One

When Isobel regained consciousness, the first thing that struck her was that she was still alive. But light and fresh air were in short supply, and she couldn’t move. There was a riot of sound surrounding her, too, which resembled nothing more than the moaning of miserable souls in Hell.

Mayhap she was dead after all, poisoned by the poppy juice she so abhorred. Although aware of having committed no sin, her soul had gone straight to the depths. Yet the pains in her body felt more like corporeal torment than anything else.

She tested her fingers, toes, arms, legs. All worked, though their movement was restricted, and accompanied by a clanking noise. Looking down, she registered—to her horror—that she was shackled to a narrow bed. Where was this gloomy cell? In a prison? A hospital? The madhouse? What had Hubert done, what lies had he told, to have her admitted to such an institution? Why not just kill her—unless this was her punishment for foiling his plans.

Head pulsing with pain, she slid carefully off the bed, her chains just long enough to let her peer through the bars of her cell door. A woman was hobbling past at that moment, dressed only in her under-shift, and continually plucking at her sleeves.

“What is this place?”

At the sound of Isobel’s voice, the crone stopped, stared at her for a moment, then let out a high-pitched cackle before continuing on her way.

Isobel rattled at the bars in frustration, but they were solid. If only she could see beyond her door—but it was so dark. She could just make out that she was in a large building, which admitted no daylight and smelled of unwashed humanity and tallow candles. There were other cell doors opposite her own, some open with the beds empty, others tight shut.

A movement caught her eye, and she saw a young woman—clad like the crone in naught but an ankle-length shift of unbleached linen—following the same route.

Isobel banged her manacles against the bars to get the woman’s attention. “Who are you? What are we doing here?”

The girl wandered past, slack-jawed and staring at her feet—as if Isobel didn’t exist.

No one else appeared although the cacophony of misery continued. She refused to return to the grim, grey discomfort of her bed—there must be someone in charge, someone who would talk to her. If she and the other women were inmates of an institution, a warden or a keeper would be by soon enough, to bring food and water, or to empty the slops. She hoped.

Struggling to make sense of it all, Isobel remembered both the women who’d gone past had worn coifs, tied tightly under their chins. Not a single lock of hair had been visible, and the coifs were skull-tight. Heart sinking, she raised a manacled hand to her head. Aye, she, too, wore a coif of coarse unfinished material. Not her own, then, for those were all of embroidered lawn. Fighting the rising tide of panic, she wrenched the cap off, shuddering as cool air met her scalp.

No hair. A soft stubble only—shorn more closely than a sheep. Merciful heavens! Her long, raven-dark hair was gone—without it, she was a fright, an outcast, no longer herself. In her shift and regulation cap, she was faceless, characterless, nameless—just like every other poor soul that moaned out their days in these ranks of tiny cells.

This was not to be borne. She wasn’t ill—except for the headache and her understandable confusion. Hubert had manufactured her illness, her so-called brain fever, just as he’d done before. But now she knew his methods. Now, she would fight to the very last drop of her blood to defy him. There must be someone in authority, someone who would listen and release her. She had money at home—would her keeper accept the promise of a bribe?

The sound of hobnailed shoes reached her ears, footsteps drawing closer. Here was someone not shuffling along in bare feet like the women she’d seen. Hope kindling anew, she yelled out as the man passed her door.

“Sir, good sir. Pray, grant me a moment of your time.”

As he stopped and saw her, he gave a mirthless grin. “Awake at last, are we? I hope you’re not thinking of making any trouble.”

“Nay. Why would I? I simply wish to know where I am.”

“In a hospital—of sorts. The Bethlehem Hospital. Here you’ll be cared for you until you’re better, and your family is ready to take you home.”

The man didn’t seem unkind, just matter-of-fact. Though his clothing was simple, it was cut from good cloth, and he had a large loop of keys suspended from his belt. He must be someone in authority, and therefore her best chance of escape.

She made sure he was looking directly into her eyes as she said, “I assure you, I’m not ill, sir. I was given too great a dose of poppy juice.”

He shrugged. “They all say they’re not ill. ’Tis one of the problems with sickness of the brain—the sufferer himself doesn’t realize there’s anything awry. I’ve observed this time after time. ’Tis usually the family or loved ones who notice when lunacy has struck. That’s why our ladies and gentlemen have been committed here by thoughtful relations. You mustn’t worry—your keep has been paid for a month in advance. You shan’t go hungry.”

He turned to leave, but Isobel clung to the bars of her door. “Wait, I beg you. Believe me—I’m not insane. I’ve been deliberately drugged by a greedy relation who wants to get his hands on my fortune. He has no scruples whatsoever—I know it was he who brought me here.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Aye, Mistress. I understand. There’s naught to concern you—all that is needed will be provided. You’ll be cared for much better in this place than you could be at home—we’re used to your kind.”

Panic clutched tightly at her stomach, but she couldn’t give in to hysteria. She must remain calm, collected, as sane as possible. Just because she now looked like a lunatic didn’t mean she intended to act like one.

“What must I do to make you believe me? You keep records, I assume. I know the man who committed me is Hubert Pike. Or possibly a Master Flinders—or even Goodwife Quill. I swear on my life, they abducted me. Send to the house of Sir William Cavendish on Giles Street, and you’ll find out all you need to know and be rewarded for your trouble. If my word is not enough, perhaps the word of a gentleman such as Sir William will be.”

The warder pushed his hat farther back and scratched his head. “I wish I could say I’d heard of Sir William Cavendish, but I haven’t. Is he a wealthy fellow?”

She nodded vigorously, then wished she hadn’t. Her head still thumped as if being beaten by a blacksmith’s hammer. “Wealthy and well-connected. He’d see you were rewarded for helping me. Will you send for him?”

“Are you hungry, Mistress? You’ll feel better for bread and ale. Then, perchance, we can talk more of this William Cavendish.”