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Authors: Highland Fling
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until her knees buckled and the world went black again.
The next time she opened her eyes, he was carrying her in his arms and they were passing through an arched stone entrance into what she feared must be Bridewell Prison.
“If ye’ve come to your senses, ye can walk,” her captor said sternly, dumping her unceremoniously onto her feet again and steadying her with a bruising grip when she swayed precariously.
The stench assailed her nostrils, and she wrinkled her nose distastefully and pressed her lips tightly together.
“Aye, it stinks, don’t it?” he said. “Hard to think it were once a royal palace. Given to the city, it were, some two hundred years ago, for a workhouse and correctional institution.” He grinned as he carefully pronounced the last two words, adding, “Ye’ll be corrected here, right enough. Been here afore, wench?”
“No, of course I have not.”
“Don’t rightly see how there be any ’o’ course’ about it,” he said, pushing her ahead of him. “Most pickpockets, nightwalkers, vagrants, strumpets, and other idle folk as get took up for their ill lives ends up here, not ter mention such like incorrigible and disobedient servants as finds theirselves committed by Justices of the Peace. Look there.” He pointed to a crowded, open yard, its iron-barred gate held ajar by a burly jailor carrying a ring of huge keys. “That’s where ye’ll spend what time ye got left on this earth, a-beating hemp or being beaten yerself.” He leered at her as he added, “Mebbe the judge’ll be payin’ some lucky watchman fourpence to give ye a good whipping afore he orders ye locked up.”
Maggie could see that the yard, open to public view, was filled mostly with women, some in tatters, others in shabby but brocaded gowns. There was one man in a pillory at the rear of the yard, and a few others scattered amidst the women, but it was the women who held her attention. Some were clearly hardened criminals, others almost children. A guard with a stick threatened a young one who paused in her work to look at Maggie, and the girl hastily wielded her mallet again. Maggie shivered.
“See the whipping post yonder, wench? If his worship don’t order ye stripped naked and whipped immediate—which is what pleases the spectators most, o’ course—like as not it’ll be done there in the yard on the day afore ye’re hanged.” With these cheerful words, he shoved her ahead of him, through a pair of open double doors, into a large and overcrowded chamber.
Maggie stopped, swaying, when the blackness threatened to overcome her again. The noise and the smell were overpowering, and the fear that had begun with her arrest now seemed to rob her of the ability to think about anything else. Never in her life had she felt so terrifyingly alone. The courtroom was nothing like the only other such chamber she had set foot in, and if the magistrate sitting behind the high bench reminded her at all of his counterpart in Inverness, it was only because they wore the same black robes, full-bottomed powdered wig, and wire-rimmed spectacles. Nothing else was the same, for this man was thin and harsh-looking. He glared down at the man presently before him.
“As a vagrant in this city, you are condemned to be whipped on your bare back until the blood runs down to your heels. If I see you here again, I will order a hundred lashes.” The gavel crashed down, the defendant’s legs buckled, and two grim-faced jailors dragged the poor victim away.
Maggie began to tremble and could not stop. If the horrid judge ordered her whipped on her bare back, the messages she carried would certainly be discovered. The watchman pushed her again, and she stumbled up the aisle between the rows of pews set out for spectators. A man near the aisle on one of the forward benches, who was drawing, glanced up at the one being dragged from the courtroom, then sketched again rapidly, as if he would catch the entire scene on paper. The thought
The next time she opened her eyes, he was carrying her in his arms and they were passing through an arched stone entrance into what she feared must be Bridewell Prison.
“If ye’ve come to your senses, ye can walk,” her captor said sternly, dumping her unceremoniously onto her feet again and steadying her with a bruising grip when she swayed precariously.
The stench assailed her nostrils, and she wrinkled her nose distastefully and pressed her lips tightly together.
“Aye, it stinks, don’t it?” he said. “Hard to think it were once a royal palace. Given to the city, it were, some two hundred years ago, for a workhouse and correctional institution.” He grinned as he carefully pronounced the last two words, adding, “Ye’ll be corrected here, right enough. Been here afore, wench?”
“No, of course I have not.”
“Don’t rightly see how there be any ’o’ course’ about it,” he said, pushing her ahead of him. “Most pickpockets, nightwalkers, vagrants, strumpets, and other idle folk as get took up for their ill lives ends up here, not ter mention such like incorrigible and disobedient servants as finds theirselves committed by Justices of the Peace. Look there.” He pointed to a crowded, open yard, its iron-barred gate held ajar by a burly jailor carrying a ring of huge keys. “That’s where ye’ll spend what time ye got left on this earth, a-beating hemp or being beaten yerself.” He leered at her as he added, “Mebbe the judge’ll be payin’ some lucky watchman fourpence to give ye a good whipping afore he orders ye locked up.”
Maggie could see that the yard, open to public view, was filled mostly with women, some in tatters, others in shabby but brocaded gowns. There was one man in a pillory at the rear of the yard, and a few others scattered amidst the women, but it was the women who held her attention. Some were clearly hardened criminals, others almost children. A guard with a stick threatened a young one who paused in her work to look at Maggie, and the girl hastily wielded her mallet again. Maggie shivered.
“See the whipping post yonder, wench? If his worship don’t order ye stripped naked and whipped immediate—which is what pleases the spectators most, o’ course—like as not it’ll be done there in the yard on the day afore ye’re hanged.” With these cheerful words, he shoved her ahead of him, through a pair of open double doors, into a large and overcrowded chamber.
Maggie stopped, swaying, when the blackness threatened to overcome her again. The noise and the smell were overpowering, and the fear that had begun with her arrest now seemed to rob her of the ability to think about anything else. Never in her life had she felt so terrifyingly alone. The courtroom was nothing like the only other such chamber she had set foot in, and if the magistrate sitting behind the high bench reminded her at all of his counterpart in Inverness, it was only because they wore the same black robes, full-bottomed powdered wig, and wire-rimmed spectacles. Nothing else was the same, for this man was thin and harsh-looking. He glared down at the man presently before him.
“As a vagrant in this city, you are condemned to be whipped on your bare back until the blood runs down to your heels. If I see you here again, I will order a hundred lashes.” The gavel crashed down, the defendant’s legs buckled, and two grim-faced jailors dragged the poor victim away.
Maggie began to tremble and could not stop. If the horrid judge ordered her whipped on her bare back, the messages she carried would certainly be discovered. The watchman pushed her again, and she stumbled up the aisle between the rows of pews set out for spectators. A man near the aisle on one of the forward benches, who was drawing, glanced up at the one being dragged from the courtroom, then sketched again rapidly, as if he would catch the entire scene on paper. The thought
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