Page 83 of The Pirate and the Pagan
The guard called down, “He says you don’t even need to take off your clothes.”
“No!” cried Summer.
“He’ll settle for a French,” shouted the guard.
Summer put her hands on her hips angrily and looked up at Lord Howard. “You don’t seem to understand English very well. Let me put it more succinctly—piss off!”
Lord Howard waved and shrugged his disappointment.
“What on earth is a French?” whispered Summer.
Lil pantomimed licking ice cream and Summer shuddered with horror. It propelled her, however, to get someone in authority and demand to know where they were keeping her brother. After an interminable wait while records were checked she finally learned that he was imprisoned in the old section. The guard also explained that to go over there she would have to pay a guard to protect her, as it was very rough. It was rapidly turning into the nightmare she had feared as they were lighted down a dark stone tunnel which she feared would lead to the bowels of hell. When she saw where they were keeping him, however, it was not the large cell, which stank of urine and excrement, that upset her, but the cell’s inhabitants. An iron grille separated the men from the women and she saw her brother immediately. His face was a mass of bruises. He also sported a black eye and split, swollen lip. He came toward her with anger blazing in his eyes. “Cat, what in the name of hellfire are you doing in this hole? I forbid you ever to come here again. Lil, for Christ’s sake, surely you have enough brains if she doesn’t. You should have used a go-between.”
“Did the guards do that to your face Spider?”
“No. I had to beat the shit out of a couple of the prisoners.” She looked about and saw battered and bleeding men. Some lay naked in the corners on stinking heaps of straw.
“Why? Did they think you had money?” she asked innocently.
He did not disabuse her of her ideas. Not for the world would he tell her that he must guard against rape every hour of the day and night. “I suppose so, Cat. Did you bring money?” he asked hopefully. She nodded and immediately he bargained with the turnkey to be taken to the affluent side of the prison.
Summer could not keep her eyes from straying into the women’s cell. They were filthy drabs. The pregnant ones with swollen bellies were the most pathetic. Some wore rags; other were less fortunate and lay naked covered by dirt and suppurating sores. Their faces were hopeless, their eyes empty.
The cell door was unlocked and Spencer was permitted to accompany them. Halfway down the passage Summer felt the nausea grip her and she vomited her heart up. Spider held her until the spasm passed. “’Fore God, you must promise me you’ll not come again, love. Did you tell Ruark what Oswald did?”
“Don’t ever speak that man’s name to me again. He did nothing to prevent Oswald from shipping you here.”
“Nay, he knew nothing of it. Oswald learned Ruark was coming to Falmouth jail and had to get rid of me before Ruark arrived. Cat, he’d never do a bastardly thing like that. He’s your husband, for Christ’s sake.”
“Not for long, I hope. I’m going to the King. I’ll have you out of here as soon as I possibly can. I swear it!”
“Come along of me, missus, while I tally up what’s owin’,” said the turnkey. Reluctantly Summer left her brother in the common cell, which was patrolled from the catwalk. When she protested at the ridiculous rates she was being charged for the week Spider had been incarcerated in such a hellhole, the guard growled, “We ain’t runnin’ a bleedin’ charity, ye know.” They even charged for him to use the piss stone twice a day and as an afterthought added on another ten shillings for her “puking.”
She paid twenty pounds for him to have a private cell with water to bathe and shave and all his meals brought in. She said that she would be back again next week if he had not been released.
The moment she arrived back at the fashionable house in Cock-spur Street Summer ordered a bath. She bade the servant take away every stitch of her clothing to be washed then proceeded to scour her body and hair to rid herself of the odor of the place which seemed to cling to her.
A message was brought to the house from Edward Progers that if Lady Helford would come to the privy garden at Whitehall tomorrow night between the hours of eleven and midnight, there was every chance that His Majesty would see her.
Summer conjured a mental picture of Whitehall. It was a sprawling red-brick mass in the old Tudor style. Its hallways and apartments opened one into another like a vast honeycomb. She knew where the kitchens were because at high tide they sometimes flooded and could be seen from the river. Ah yes, now she remembered. To get into the privy garden you had to go through a gateway into the Stone Gallery. She wished he had agreed to see her tonight, but she supposed she was extremely fortunate to be seen at all.
Actually Charles had granted a private meeting to his friend Ruark Helford tonight and he’d set aside an hour for their business. “The Dutch have outfitted two war fleets. They intend to make war on our ships in America off the coast of New Amsterdam and our East India Company ships will be attacked off the Guinea coast of Africa. Michael de Ruyter is in charge of the Guinea Fleet. He’s a genius at sea, Sire, make no mistake about it,” warned Helford.
“Weil, forewarned is forearmed. We are at war, even though it’s still being fought in distant ports. I’ll try my best to double the fleet and I think we’d better be about building ships on a greater scale. We are bound to suffer losses.” Charles had few illusions. “Bloody Parliament controls the purse strings. Christ, Ru, it’s like walking a tightrope dealing with the tightfisted bastards. In open confrontation they win every time, so I have to outwit them or deceive them. Ah well, that’s not your problem.” Charles took off his periwig and scratched his head. He glanced at Ruark’s clubbed-back hair. “Are you wearing one of these?” he asked.
Ruark laughed and shook his head. “I hate the damned things. I wear my own hair, Sire.”
“They’re all the rage at the French court, so my sister says, and my hair is getting as gray as a badger’s arse these days, but it feels wonderful to take the damned thing off and scratch my head.”
“Sire, through a comedy of errors at my headquarters in Falmouth, my wife’s young brother, Lord St. Catherine, was arrested and shipped to Newgate. I’d like your permission to get him released.”
“Arrested for smuggling?” Charles laughed. “No doubt working for that reprobate brother of yours. Speak to Shaftsbury, he’ll write you out a release for the young devil.”
“Thank you, Sire, Lady Helford will be relieved.”
“You are a lucky dog, Helford. My wife thinks a bedchamber is for displaying pious pictures of saints and books of devotion. She sleeps with holy water at the head of the bed.”
Ruark grinned. “For what you are about to receive, may the lord make you truly thankful. Amen!”
