Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (32 page)

Chapter Forty-Six

Tom woke up in the dark. At least, he hoped it was dark and that nothing had gone wrong with his eyes. He could see nothing but blackness and hear nothing but his own breath. He lay on his side with his hands bound behind his back. His whole body felt cramped. He tried to stretch his legs and found them still tied together at the ankles.

He lay still, cheek pressed against the stone floor. The stones were cold, but Tom didn’t feel particularly chilled. Maybe he’d grown numb. How long had he been lying here? His head throbbed faintly and his mouth felt like it had been stuffed with unwashed wool. Now that he was awake, the pain in his right shoulder -- the one taking the weight of his trunk -- began to spread across his back. Senselessness had its advantages.

Dread weighted him down as well. He could do nothing to amend his state, tied up in the dark alone. He would lie here on this cold floor, helpless, until half past eight in the morning, when Barrow and Steadfast would come to smuggle him up to his own cockloft and hang him from the rafters. Would they drug him again first? Would they untie him before or after he choked to death?

He was possessed by a sudden desperate need to get up, stand up on his two feet. He straightened his legs as much as he could and rolled onto his belly, which relieved the strain in his shoulders. But he couldn’t lie here facedown like a fish. He strained against the ropes, groaning and  grunting, and managed to elbow himself up and onto his arse. He felt more like a man this way, but with nothing to support his back, he couldn’t hold the position for very long.

He thought he heard a sound, almost like a voice. An echo? He listened, breathing silently through his mouth, but didn’t hear it again.

What time could it be? The sun set well after eight these days and it was fully dark, at least down here. He probably had hours to wait and that would be better done in the oblivion of sleep. He’d have to lie down again, but at least he could change shoulders. He twisted, tilted, and dropped himself onto his left side with three loud grunts, overlapped by a short shriek.

“Who’s there?” Two voices shouted the same question at the same time: his and another, higher-pitched. He recognized the other one, except it couldn’t be.

“Trumpet?”

“Tom?”

“Trumpet? Truly?”

“It’s me. And you — Tom? Am I dreaming?”

“No. It’s me. I’m here too.” Tom’s tortured muscles relaxed into shaky laughter, rising from his belly. Tears sprang into his eyes. Now there was one slender, precious chance he might not die in the morning. And even if he did, he wouldn’t be spending the night alone.

“Trumpet,” he murmured, more to God than to her. He couldn’t think of anyone he would rather be with on his last night.

“Tom, thank God. Where are you?” He heard a scuffle and her voice moved farther away.

“Here,” he said.

“Where’s here?”

The irritation in her tone made him grin against the stone floor. A tear drop welled and fell. He blinked and snuffled, then mustered a matching crispness. “How would I know? It’s pitch dark. Where I am is here.”

She growled, that kittenish growl that always made him want to provoke her more. “Then meet me in the middle. Move toward my voice.”

“I would love to, my dear old chum, but I seem to be suffering the incommodity of having both my hands and feet tied together.”

“What!” More scuffling, faster this time. “Ouch! Curse this darkness!” Another burst of scuffling and he felt Trumpet’s feet kick into his back.

“That would be me,” he said.

“Oh, good. Because I was afraid there were more people bound hand and foot in our little cellar and we would be overcrowded.” She knelt behind him and ran her hands along his side, down his arms to the knots, back again to find the knots at his ankles. She patted her way back up to his head where she touched his hair and his face. He felt her firm body against his shoulders and her warm breath on his neck as she leaned forward and pressed her cheek against his. “Ah, Tom. What have they done to you?”

A gasping sob burst from his chest; he couldn’t help it. More tears rolled onto the stones. She held him for a long moment, rocking him gently, then kissed him on the cheek and sat up. She found the knots behind his back again and started working at them. “Who did this?”

“Steadfast and John Barrow. I couldn’t fight them both and Barrow cheated. He’s the murderer, Trumpet, and the seditioner. I got a letter from Francis Bacon -- I picked it up on my way back from the inn -- and then I saw the knot, in Barrow’s chambers. I knew at that moment and he saw that I knew. He also saw me reading the letter, as I came into the yard. Stupid!”

“You couldn’t know he was watching you.”

“Everybody’s always watching everybody in that college. Barrow wanted the letter. He told Steadfast to take it from me. We started to fight but Barrow tripped me and I hit my head on a table. Once I was down, they tied me up.” He tilted his head, wishing he could see her face. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know. I fell asleep sometime after dark.” She shifted behind him. He felt her breath on his wrists, then her lips against the back of his hand. The feathery touch gave him a lusty twinge that surprised him.
Trumpet?

She growled, worrying the knot with her teeth. “Curse this knot! Where’s your knife?”

“They took it. Don’t you have one? What are you doing in here anyway?”

“I’m a hostage, I think. I got bored, waiting around the inn for what, I didn’t know, so Catalina and I snuck into the service yard to question the laundresses. They saw Mr. Barrow climbing in a window on the east range the morning your tutor was hanged. We have witnesses to add to your knot.”

“Good,” Tom said. “He’s probably untied the knot by now. At least he won’t get away with that murder.” He didn’t know how to tell her he wouldn’t be around for the trial. “And good work, by the way.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“How did you persuade them to talk to you? I asked them if they’d seen anyone in the yard. They shook their heads and ran away like frightened mice.”

“I offered them jobs at the castle. The Eggerley woman can’t reach them there. I sent them off with Catalina to gather their things and then went to have a look at the lane myself, to make sure their story was plausible. That’s when she caught me.”

“Margaret?”

“Who else?” Trumpet bent to tug at the knot with her teeth again. “I need a nail or something. It would help if I could see what I’m doing.”

“You’ll get it,” Tom said. “Just keep at it.” He wanted her to keep talking. He loved the sound of her voice; funny how he’d never noticed that before. It was quick and fluent, with a feminine resonance not in the least bit girlish. “What happened to Catalina?”

“I don’t know.” She sounded worried. “I hope she got away, but Eggerley would have no reason to treat her gently. She doesn’t think I’m me, Tom.”

“I know.” He’d remembered the argument in his chambers.

“How could you possibly know?”

That crisp irritation again. It should annoy him, but he loved it. Trumpet would address her executioners in that very same tone.

He said, “They were fighting in my rooms when I got back. Margaret got a letter from Lady North asking when you might be able to come for a visit.”

“That explains it,” Trumpet said. “Curse that meddling Lady North! Now the Eggerley thinks you and I are cozeners of some kind and that we came here to discover her secrets — the embezzling, one supposes — and steal from her. She was absolutely furious, Tom! Shaking me and calling me names. She didn’t exactly explain her plans, but I believe she expects you to pay for my release.” She laughed suddenly, a trill of happiness that ran an echoing thrill up Tom’s spine. “At least we know our villains are not conspiring with one another. How ridiculous of them to toss us both into the same prison!”

“Absurd.” Tom couldn’t quite muster an answering laugh. “What will Catalina do, assuming she got away?”

“I hope she did. She probably did; she’s a wily one. I hope she took the laundresses back to the Cap and Bells. She won’t know where I am…” Trumpet fell silent. Her strong fingers continued to tug at Tom’s bonds. “Christopher Marlowe is still there. She might find him and tell him. But what could he do?”

“I don’t know. I doubt he’d go to the sheriff, not so soon. You have been known to act impulsively.”

“I have not!” She clucked her tongue and Tom grinned against the stones. “I always have reasons,” she said. “Good ones.”

“Reasons undetectable to others.” Tom couldn’t think of anything Marlowe could or would likely do before half past eight in the morning, but it heartened him to think of that capable ally knowing something was amiss. Trumpet would be saved, at least.

“Aha!” she cried. “I’ve got one strand out. That’ll loosen the rest. Won’t be long now.”

“I’ll be glad to have my arms back.” Tom flexed his legs and wriggled his back.

“Hold still! I’ll lose my place.” She tugged away in silence for a moment, then asked, “Why did they put you in here? What’s their plan? Will they write to Mr. Bacon for ransom?”

“I don’t think that occurred to them,” Tom said. “I doubt Mr. Barrow has the patience in any event. He sees things coming to a head — all his great plans, his ‘full Reformation.’ He can’t risk me writing any more letters. He put me here to keep me out of sight until tomorrow morning around half past eight.”

“What happens at half past eight?”

“Everyone leaves the college to go hear the sermon at Great St. Andrew’s. Like they did the morning Mr. Leeds was murdered, remember?”

“Tom, you don’t--”

“Half past eight.” He talked right over her. Now that he’d started, he needed to get it all out. “Then Barrow and Steadfast will come to take me up to my room and hang me, like Barrow did to Mr. Leeds. I’m hoping they’ll give me another dose of that drug, whatever it is. It’s wonderfully potent. I won’t feel a thing.”

“Never,” Trumpet said. She let go the knot and gripped his shoulders, leaning across his body to speak directly into his face. “Do you hear me? Never! Not while I breathe.”

He almost kissed her. “You’re going to hide when they come for me, Lady Alice. I won’t have your death weighting down my soul.”

“My death is mine to spend!” She shook him and growled at him, then sat back behind him with a slap on his shoulders. “You will not hang, Thomas Clarady. Not tomorrow morning anyway.” She tugged viciously at his bonds, talking rapidly while she worked. “I will untie these cursed ropes and then I will slap some sense into you. They can’t take both of us, you pribbling, dog-hearted, tickle-brained pignut! We have time to plan a defense. I had an hour or more in here before it got dark. The door is solid — too solid even to shake, although you might have better luck — and there’s one little window, too high for me, but together we can shift some of these great, stupid barrels. We’ll climb up there and cry for help. We can break the blasted barrels and make weapons.” She was practically shouting by now. “You will not hang, Thomas Clarady. Do you hear me? I will not allow it!”

Tom loved her in that moment; loved her absolutely. Boy, woman, antagonist, friend — all rolled together in one small frame. The memory of every other woman he’d ever known vanished as if they’d never existed. He loved Trumpet’s courage, her strength, her infinite, unflagging vitality. Her plan had potential, no question, though he thought it far more likely that Steadfast would knock her senseless in one blow and that Barrow smite Tom with a mallet as he came off the stairs.

But they could try, certainly. They should try. They could shuffle around in the dark for a while, pushing vainly at full barrels weighing upwards of five hundred pounds. He would help her until she finally admitted they needed a bit of rest. Then he would gather her into his lap and hold her until morning while they listened to the chapel bell count off the hours. He would tell her that he loved her at the very last moment, as the door swung open to admit his executioners.

Trumpet got the knots undone and helped him stagger to his feet. She waited in friendly silence, letting him use her shoulders for support while he groaned and stretched, shaking the pinching tingles from his limbs. Once he could stand on his own two feet again, he pulled her against his chest and buried his nose in her hair. She smelt of roses and woman sweat. “Thank you.”

She patted him on the back. “You’d do the same for me.”

And then they did indeed stumble around in the dark, pushing at barrels, pulling at staves, cursing in creative competition with one another. The work revived Tom, banishing the last traces of the drug he been forced to drink.

They kept it up for the better part of an hour. Trumpet hated things that refused to move on her command. Tom reminded her that carters, especially those hired to deliver barrels of drink, were chosen for their size. And none of them were girls. She growled at him and kept on pushing.

They managed to crack open a rundlet of Rhenish, which they tilted it on its side so it wouldn’t run out too fast. They took turns while it lasted, drinking themselves giggly.

“They’ll have to wash me before they string me up,” Tom said. “How could they explain my smelling like a dram shop?”

“I’ll kill them first.” Trumpet’s tone held conviction, but a round of hiccups spoiled the effect.