The Marlowe Conspiracy (37 page)

“There...” he said tugging the iron on Will's right hand. “Not too tight, I hope? Don't want to cut off the old circulation. I mean there's no point in adding to the pain, is there? That's my motto.”

Will lay there petrified and kept his eyes on Topcliffe. When he was finished with the irons, Topcliffe plonked himself back down onto the stool and waved the pipe beneath Will's nose.

“Pipe?” he offered pleasantly.

Will didn't answer. Topcliffe nodded and took a long drag of tobacco.

“Not one for words, ay?” He coughed and gestured his pipe disdainfully around the room. “Of course, I don't blame you. It's a horrid place this. But we do what we must. A job's a job.”

Will looked aslant at him and frowned. Topcliffe smiled back – a large, beaming smile as if he'd known Will all his life. He leant forward.

“That old bible-basher stepped out for a break... Don't worry, though, we'll wait for him.”

Will couldn’t find the strength to answer. He just stared up at the chandelier. A strained silence drew between the two men. Topcliffe squirmed on his stool and glanced nervously about the room.

“Do you think we'll have rain this week?” he said feebly. “I haven't been out in the garden for ages...”

Will turned his head away and closed his eyes.

SCENE FOURTEEN

Prison Corridor.

S
ilent and tense with foreboding, Kit and Audrey followed the guard along corridors of cells towards the front office. At the end of every corridor, they encountered an iron gate and stopped while the guard unlocked it. Kit noted the guard used the same key each time: one with symmetrical jagged teeth, third down on the right of the key ring.

As they continued onwards, Kit made sure he walked near the key ring at all times. His eyes scoured his surroundings: they passed other guards, strange doors, and flights of stairs leading to floors above, but he saw no way down to the dungeons.

Finally, they passed a wide flight of stairs and approached the main entrance gate. Audrey wrung her hands anxiously. On the other side of the gate, prison wardens, guards, and off-duty sentries sipped drinks and chatted around the front desk. Kit moved closer to the guard and waited for him to unlock the gate. This time, the guard fumbled at the keys and struggled to find the right one. Kit glanced at Audrey. He turned his head and peered through the gloom behind them. He took a double look – at the far end of the corridor a stocky man in priestly robes ambled away from him. The figure was unmistakable: Baines.

Eventually, the guard unlocked the gate and propped it open for Kit and Audrey to pass through. With edgy steps, Audrey swished her dress into the room beyond, but Kit was slow to follow. His shoulders drew tight. He flexed his hands. Slowly, while feigning indifference, he moved forward to follow in Audrey’s path. About half way through the gate, just as he passed the guard, he leapt into action.

Snatched the guard's key ring.

Ripped it from his raggedy belt. Grabbed the guard and rammed him through the gate. Wholly astonished, the guard reeled across the room and tumbled in a heap by the desk.

Everyone in the room jumped up. Before they could act, Kit clanged the gate shut, plucked the correct key from the ring, stabbed it into the lock, heard it click, and secured the gate quickly. He peeped over the heads of guards rushing toward him. Audrey stood a few yards beyond.

“Go!” he yelled. “Get you out of here!”

Startled, she looked at him briefly, then swiveled and hurried for the door. No one stopped her. Instead, every man on the other side dashed for the gate and clanked the iron bars noisily. Oaths colored the dank prison air. A host of keys fought to penetrate and reopen the lock.

Kit, meanwhile, raced off down the corridor after Baines. Hands closed into fists, arms trembling, blood flushing in his face, he clenched the keys and sprinted far away. It was too dark to see easily. He nearly tripped. Ahead, Baines had now disappeared from view.

At the nearest corner, Kit dithered whether to go right or left: either way the corridors were empty. Far behind him, iron crashed into stone as the gate reopened.

He cut left and flew down a corridor of narrow walls. His heart pulsed loudly in his ears. His feet pounded. His legs pumped. His chest throbbed with energy. He veered left again around the next corner and found Baines just steps away.

Baines saw him coming, turned, and raised his hands in readiness for the impact. Too late.

Kit launched forward.

Tackled Baines and bowled him over. Baines’s robes flapped around him as they both thudded to the floor and skidded into the wall.

Baines spun over first and pressed his knee into Kit's chest. Winded, Kit reached up, threw him to the side, and sprung to his feet.

Before he could kick Baines in the head, Baines recovered and unleashed a chain of punches at Kit's head and stomach. Kit staggered away, desperately searching for some advantage. His eyes widened as he spied the gold cross hanging from a long, thick chain around Baines’s neck.

The next time Baines swung at him, he ducked, grabbed out, wrapped his fingers around the chain. As hard as he could, he yanked down on the cross, pulled Baines to the left, and smacked his forehead into the wall. His legs buckled and he slumped down, knocked-out cold.

Without wasting time, Kit stalked over to Baines’s motionless body and gripped his ankles. A faded wooden door stood a few paces down the corridor. Kit dragged the body up to it and tried the handle.

A storage room. Cracked pails, rags, and tangled mops lay strewn about inside. Vinegary fumes hung in the air. For a moment, he paused and listened: distant yells echoed throughout the prison but no footfalls came in his direction. He hauled Baines’s body into the room, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.

SCENE FIFTEEN

Torture Chamber.

W
ill remained outstretched on the rack and waited for the torture to commence.

At his side, Topcliffe hadn't moved from the stool – indeed, the most Topcliffe had done was reload his pipe with tobacco. He jabbered on relentlessly and filled Will's head with quips and tales and opinions on the government. He recounted his favorite cock-fight of all time, but Will could barely concentrate.

As the time passed, Topcliffe began to fidget on the stool, growing steadily bored. His voice swirled around Will's head.

“...and we have a good jest down here sometimes, we do. We’re like a big family. For instance, last week the lads started playing around. Before I knew it they’d strapped me up where you are now, just for fun! They put the irons on me and everything. Hurt like hell, it did!” His chest shuddered as he chuckled to himself.

Will fidgeted and rattled the irons. Topcliffe slowly lurched into a sigh.

“Oh, we can't wait forever.” He put his hands on his knees and raised himself to his feet. “It's not fair to you.”

Will blinked.

“No,” he croaked, his voice weak with fear. “I don't mind.”

“I’m sorry, lad, what did you say?”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

“You sure?”

“Really. I don't mind.”

“Ah, that’s nice of you to say, that is, but I know you can't want to be here any longer than necessary.” He laid his pipe neatly on the stool, then stretched his legs and wandered over to the rack's wheel. Before he touched it he rubbed his pudgy hands together to warm them. “Baines is meant to write down your confession, but I'll remember it well enough.”

Will’s face paled with fear. His stomach convulsed and he yanked frantically at the irons. The chains slapped against the winches. Topcliffe grabbed handle ‘number one’ gently and turned it to take up the slack of the chains. He stopped and bent his head near Will.

“Oh, by the way, if you can, try not to scream too much. My ear's a little sore recently.”

The chains straightened and stretched Will taut. He gritted his teeth and waited for the pain. He waited... and waited... nothing happened...

Seconds later, the wheel squealed and turned again. The chains pulled harder. Too hard. Irons gnawed into his hands and bit into his feet. He twisted frantically as pain surged through his limbs.

SCENE SIXTEEN

Storage Room.

W
hile Baines was still unconscious, Kit stripped him of the priestly robes. He needed a disguise. He pulled the robes over his own head and grimaced at the acrid fumes of Baines’s body odor. The robe, made of thin velvet, fitted him well on the arms but fell short in length – the hem dropped only to his shinbones. Next, he looped Baines’s gold chain over his shoulders and the cross swung down to touch the top of his stomach. Lastly, he found a solid, leather-bound bible tucked within Baines’s belt and took it to add to his disguise. While he changed, he observed Baines carefully for signs of consciousness. He would soon awaken. Kit hurried, finished dressing, then reached around to the back of his robe and flicked the hood up to obscure his face.

He dragged Baines’s body near to a freestanding shelf, found a rag, and stuffed it in his mouth. With some knotted rope left in the bottom of a pail, he tied Baines’s wrists, coiled the rope around the shelf, and made sure he couldn’t escape.

Now ready to leave, Kit checked that the hood drooped low over his face. His breath turned shallow. Nervously, he touched the cross to stop it from swinging and he gripped the bible harder in his sweaty palms. He pried the door ajar and looked out through the crack. No one around.

Stealthily, he swept out of the room, closed the door, and quick-stepped away.

His heart seized with panic. Two guards rounded a corner and jogged toward him. It was just like Calais – only their swords were already drawn. He nearly broke his stride as they moved closer and closer. Their faces appeared out of the murk. He watched them slow down suspiciously as they passed him. Thankfully, they chose not to stop and continued and dashed off down the corridor.