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Authors: Elizabeth C. Bunce
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away into the morning.
CHAPTER SIX
It was only a little different visiting the Keep as a free woman with a pass. I looked considerably more respectable than I had on my last visit, but the guards on duty still sneered at me, grabbed my basket and pawed through it, and made lewd comments as I pushed my way past them. I flinched from the stench and the roar of the other prisoners, banging on their barsor wooden doors as I climbed up through the prison’s ranked tiers to Queen’s Level, where Durrel’s cell was located. The royal prisons were divided into three levels of worsening conditions, having nothing to do with the severity of the prisoners’ crimes, and everything to do with their ability to pay for their lodging at His Majesty’s convenience. The cells on the highest floors were reserved fornobs and gentry with wealthy friends who could bring them bribe money. Accommodations were said to be relatively pleasant — emphasis on relative — a private cell with a window, furniture, books and wine if you could afford them. Folk with more modest means were kept down a level on the Mongery, three or four to a cell, with meat once or twice a week and maybe a clean chamber pot, if someone paidfor it. And deeper still was the Rathole, little more than sewers where Queen’s and Mongery prisoners were dumped once they’d exhausted their funds, left to rot in the sunless dungeon and kill each other over crumbs. How long a prisoner lasted on each level depended directly on his ability to keep up the bribes.
Queen’s Level seemed curiously empty today, as if the weekly bribes had comedue and the other prisoners had fallen short of their rents. At that thought, my belly tightened and I hastened down the narrow corridor, toward the cell I remembered. Trotting down the row of cells, darting glances from barred door to barred door, I spied a pocked, pale face against the tiny, grilled window of the cell across from Durrel’s. Bony fingers curled around the bars, and a muddy brown eyetracked me down the hall.
“Milord’s got a visitor, he does!” cried out a shrill voice from the cell. “She looks good enough to share!” I turned and made a rude gesture at him. A mistake; something foul flew toward me and splatted into my sleeve. I jumped, swearing, but it seemed to be rotten vegetables, and not . . . something worse. He was lucky I was in a good mood today.
I brushedmy fingers against Durrel’s cell door as his neighbor’s taunts continued. “Milord,” I called softly. “Are you still in there?”
I had to stand on tiptoe to see inside. Someone had cleared away the filthy rushes, but the smell of a chamber pot that had needed changing days ago made me gag, even from outside the cell. Durrel was folded up on the bed, staring at the ceiling, but at the soundof my voice, he propelled himself from the bed to the door.
“Celyn!” His voice, cracked and thin, was filled with so much hope and fear it hurt , like an ache in my throat. His fingers reached through the little window. I hesitated, but found my hand gripped in his. He held on so tightly I used the force of his grasp to pull myself closer to him.
“You look like hells,” slipped out ofmy mouth. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and his scraggly beard showed up every contour of his boyish face. In the daylight now, I could see how much weight he’d lost.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Oh, but I have a pass.” I flashed it at him.
“Do I want to know where you got that?” he said.
“I should be offended,” I said, forcing cheerinto my voice. “It’s completely legitimate!” As if anything from the hands of a Greenman could really be called legitimate. “It answers one question, though. I think we can credit Lord Raffin for our little rendezvous the other night.”
“Damn. I’m sorry, Celyn. I had no idea. What the hells is he thinking?”
“He’s thinking his friend is in trouble and nobody
CHAPTER SIX
It was only a little different visiting the Keep as a free woman with a pass. I looked considerably more respectable than I had on my last visit, but the guards on duty still sneered at me, grabbed my basket and pawed through it, and made lewd comments as I pushed my way past them. I flinched from the stench and the roar of the other prisoners, banging on their barsor wooden doors as I climbed up through the prison’s ranked tiers to Queen’s Level, where Durrel’s cell was located. The royal prisons were divided into three levels of worsening conditions, having nothing to do with the severity of the prisoners’ crimes, and everything to do with their ability to pay for their lodging at His Majesty’s convenience. The cells on the highest floors were reserved fornobs and gentry with wealthy friends who could bring them bribe money. Accommodations were said to be relatively pleasant — emphasis on relative — a private cell with a window, furniture, books and wine if you could afford them. Folk with more modest means were kept down a level on the Mongery, three or four to a cell, with meat once or twice a week and maybe a clean chamber pot, if someone paidfor it. And deeper still was the Rathole, little more than sewers where Queen’s and Mongery prisoners were dumped once they’d exhausted their funds, left to rot in the sunless dungeon and kill each other over crumbs. How long a prisoner lasted on each level depended directly on his ability to keep up the bribes.
Queen’s Level seemed curiously empty today, as if the weekly bribes had comedue and the other prisoners had fallen short of their rents. At that thought, my belly tightened and I hastened down the narrow corridor, toward the cell I remembered. Trotting down the row of cells, darting glances from barred door to barred door, I spied a pocked, pale face against the tiny, grilled window of the cell across from Durrel’s. Bony fingers curled around the bars, and a muddy brown eyetracked me down the hall.
“Milord’s got a visitor, he does!” cried out a shrill voice from the cell. “She looks good enough to share!” I turned and made a rude gesture at him. A mistake; something foul flew toward me and splatted into my sleeve. I jumped, swearing, but it seemed to be rotten vegetables, and not . . . something worse. He was lucky I was in a good mood today.
I brushedmy fingers against Durrel’s cell door as his neighbor’s taunts continued. “Milord,” I called softly. “Are you still in there?”
I had to stand on tiptoe to see inside. Someone had cleared away the filthy rushes, but the smell of a chamber pot that had needed changing days ago made me gag, even from outside the cell. Durrel was folded up on the bed, staring at the ceiling, but at the soundof my voice, he propelled himself from the bed to the door.
“Celyn!” His voice, cracked and thin, was filled with so much hope and fear it hurt , like an ache in my throat. His fingers reached through the little window. I hesitated, but found my hand gripped in his. He held on so tightly I used the force of his grasp to pull myself closer to him.
“You look like hells,” slipped out ofmy mouth. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and his scraggly beard showed up every contour of his boyish face. In the daylight now, I could see how much weight he’d lost.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Oh, but I have a pass.” I flashed it at him.
“Do I want to know where you got that?” he said.
“I should be offended,” I said, forcing cheerinto my voice. “It’s completely legitimate!” As if anything from the hands of a Greenman could really be called legitimate. “It answers one question, though. I think we can credit Lord Raffin for our little rendezvous the other night.”
“Damn. I’m sorry, Celyn. I had no idea. What the hells is he thinking?”
“He’s thinking his friend is in trouble and nobody
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