Friday, January 31
Awdrey and Mildred were given an upstairs room with bare stone walls and a shuttered window that had been barricaded with thick planks on the outside. Only chinks of light entered, falling in golden coins on the bed and the floorboards. An old straw mattress and two blankets were thrown on the bed, as well as two folded linen sheets. Otherwise there was nothing in the room except a pail that served as a chamber pot.
Since arriving here on Wednesday night, Awdrey had done little but lie still beside Mildred and talk to her, wishing the child would cease questioning her and, at the same time, feeling grateful for her incessant prattling. She cried when she thought about Annie, and felt a deep dread of being told of her death. She was angry and sad when she thought about her husband, but when she thought about him hard enough, she was proud. She had no doubt whatsoever that his was a path of integrity and righteousness, and that he would prevail. It just took a lot of effort to see him at this deeper level, fighting for what he believed was right. It required her to put herself and her daughters to one side, and even her husband himself, and consider the paucity of options.
The smell of the bed was not good. The straw reeked of urine and the blankets of sweat. The floorboards were old and rough, and damp in places. Mildred received a splinter in her foot, which was impossible to remove with no tweezers and so little light. There was no fireplace, so the blankets were constantly employed, even though they stank. Bread, cheese, and an old apple had been their only sustenance yesterday, and the water had been rank. The worst aspect of the chamber, however, was the awareness that no one but her enemies knew she was here. She could see gray skies and open fields through the tiny gaps between the shutters and the barricades, and knew they were somewhere near a village north of London—she had gleaned that much from the long journey to get here—but that was all. When the clock in the parish church across the fields had chimed ten o’clock a few minutes earlier, it had sounded as if it was about a mile away.
“Mam, how long must we stay here?” asked Mildred, lying on her side.
Awdrey pulled the blanket up around them. “I don’t know; it might be a few days, maybe longer.”
“Will anyone come to take us home?”
She could not reply. The thought was too painful. She distracted herself by sinking down into the memories that she knew were safe: the day she realized she knew how to read, her wedding day, the day Annie was born after a long and difficult labor.
“I’m cold,” whined Mildred.
Awdrey heard footsteps on the landing outside the door and low voices. She strained to understand them but could barely pick up a word. The bolts of the door were shot open. She shivered and felt even colder, even more alone.
“Have you been given food?” asked Greystoke as he entered.
Awdrey did not even look at him, but Mildred sat up. “Look, Mam. It’s that man.”
Awdrey opened her eyes. A woman was standing in the doorway behind Greystoke—one of the women who had seized her beside the cart two days earlier. Both figures appeared in silhouette. She let her head rest on the mattress.
“Not as proud as when we first met, are you?” sneered Greystoke. “Do you remember that? When you did not wish to be seen with me in the street?”
Awdrey did not answer.
“Perhaps that old man you call a husband is regretting his carelessness.”
She felt a bitter sting, remembering it was her decision to leave Cecil House. The usher had told her the message had come from Thomas—saying that her husband was in great danger and needed to see her before he left London. She had asked for one of the ushers in the hall to accompany her.
“Losing a pretty wife like you would be a mistake.”
“Curse you, from your guts to your soul,” said Awdrey, unable to lie still and listen to another word. She sat up. “No good is in you. You are nothing but deceit; you have no substance.”
Greystoke shrugged. “I have substance, and you will know that soon enough. I will leave you so violated that you can never be a whole wife to your husband again. Every time he touches you, you will remember. Every time you desire him, and reach for him, you will hesitate, fearing that he is mindful of your being filled with another man’s seed. I will make you the adulterer.”
“In what devil’s name do you use such loathsome words? You repugnant whoreson! My husband told me you love the works of Dante. Well, let me tell you there is a special circle of Hell reserved for men like you—one where Dante and Virgil never dared set foot. It is set aside for men who are selfish, cowardly, cruel, deceiving monsters. There, men like you are forced to drink nothing but the blood of their victims and are made to eat the rancid flesh of the helpless on whom they have turned their backs.”
As Awdrey shouted at him, Greystoke walked over to the bed and reached down with his left hand to her neck, feeling her hands grasp his wrist as he dug his thumb deep into the flesh. Mildred started crying. With his right hand, Greystoke held Awdrey’s thigh through her dress. “Tomorrow. Despite the stench in here, I will have you. You have until this time tomorrow to save your precious marriage.”
“What do you want me to do?” she gasped as he removed his hands. Mildred was still crying, holding on to the top of her dress.
“Tell me where that document is.”
Awdrey looked at the woman beside the door. She could see now that her hair was dark, and that she was uncomfortable with Greystoke’s insinuations.
“You could bring it all to an end most quickly,” Sarah pleaded, over the top of Mildred’s cries. “Why don’t you? Please!”
Awdrey put an arm around Mildred and pulled her close. She kissed her head, soothing her. “You are wasting your time,” she said, not looking at them. “I know nothing more than you do. My husband said it was beneath a floor in St. John’s College, Oxford. You know that. And that is all I know.”
Greystoke stopped at the door and looked at her. “I am not going to waste time now,” he replied coldly. “You heard me. Ten o’clock tomorrow.”