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LYING ATOP A filthy mattress, with his wrists and ankles trussed tightly to the four corners of a bedframe, Drake was akin to a double wishbone ready to snap for a foolish child’s wish.
At first, he supposed it was a bad dream brought on by too much drink. But when he lifted a throbbing head and saw where he had been deposited—inside an underground hellhole that let in scant daylight from the floorboards above—he knew it was a nightmare. The addition of a coffin-sized crate conferred a dubious distinction to the windowless chamber. Wherever he was must be on the slum side of Winchester, someplace near the south wall and, by his nose, not far from the river. His clothes and possessions were noticeably absent. Duped in the worst way known to man, he let a woman get him blinding drunk so she could rob him blind.
The cathedral bells rang prime. By his reckoning, he’d lost six hours.
He tugged at the ropes. The knots tightened. He yelped for help, but a rag stuffed in his mouth and a gag wrapped tightly around the rag muffled his cries. His only answer was the far-off bark of a dog.
On the bed lay a dudgeon, dried blood encrusted on the blade. He shifted his body over and pinned the shank beneath his sweating backside. By moving his torso up and down against the shaft, he worked it slowly upward. The blade, honed sharp, nicked a bit of skin every now and then, small sacrifices against a greater good. After an exhausting effort, the dudgeon arrived at his armpit.
The bells rang tierce.
His head pounded. Sweat soaked the mattress. Acid burned the back of his mouth. He lay motionless for a spell, breathing steadily, until the nausea subsided and the ache in his head diminished to a dull throb. He stretched his fingers, impotently reaching for liberty and itchy hemp chafing raw the insides of his wrists. Further shifting of weight and nudging of muscle brought the dudgeon within reach of his fingertips.
Sexte rang.
Gnawing hunger replaced nausea. Flies buzzed somewhere in the room. The heat was oppressive. Saturated hair curled into his eyes. Quivering fingertips—weakened from wine, the soporific Tilda must have slipped into his goblet, appalling thirst, and the exhaustion that threatened to overtake him—touched the wooden grip. Freeing the bindings of the one wrist took forever. The rest were soon dispatched. He sat up, lifting a knee and encasing his face within a shaky hand.
Nones rang.
The door was barred on the outside. After several shoulder-wrenching shoves, Drake sank against the chill wall, collapsing into a heap of weariness. Having reached the limits of endurance, he studied his hand—turned palm up in his lap—and thought it the most magnificent object in God’s creation. Yet he was incapable of flexing a single finger.
He willed his head to lift and gazed blearily at a booted foot sticking out from behind the wooden crate. The foot was connected to a body. The body was neatly tucked between the wall and the crate. The corpse lay face up in a pool of blood. The locks of the dead man’s sandy hair were soaked darkest red. One of his eyes was stuck gruesomely open. Green flies were everywhere. Maggots had come for their share. The dead man’s throat was slit from ear to ear. Blood encrusted the gash and the sides of his neck. His fingers—frozen into position—clawed grotesquely for reprieve. He was as stiff as the door that Drake had tried to ram open.
Blinking in disbelief, Drake stared at the peaceful calm of a man gone to his Maker. The image was too horrifying to be real. He contemplated his hand. The dudgeon lay in the folds of his palm. On the blade, the dried blood of the corpse had intermixed with his blood. One by one his fingers closed over the haft.
Footsteps descended the stairs. A commanding voice shouted brusque orders. A battering ram demolished the door. Sheriff Clarendon and two of his sergeants stepped through the splintered opening.
Drake craned his head upward. He was too exhausted to say a word, and since there was no escaping his predicament, words would have been useless.
In his hand, he clutched the dudgeon used to kill the man lying at his feet, Winchester’s top sergeant—Drogo Atwell—town bully and childhood playmate.
