Page 18 of Petteril’s Prison

Desperately, he hurled his coat at the blanket and leapt as far across the room as he could get before his jailer could get to the spyhole.

The bolts were drawn back without noticeable hesitation. His captor opened the door and entered, pistol first. Since he was caught on his feet, instead of asleep as he had meant to pretend, Piers resorted to the alternative plan. He lurched determinedly across the floor, as though trying to walk off the effects of his drugged beer. He unfocused his eyes, peering in the vague direction of his jailer as he went.

The man was a couple of inches shorter than him. He wore the familiar brown trousers and dirty white shirt, but inevitably, his face could have belonged to anyone. Till one noted the bat ear and the mole and the short, thick neck.

Jailer number two. Did that mean there were only two of them? Plus, possibly, the female? Did it matter, when he meant to be out of here before nightfall?

Oh yes. He would not let them get away with this. This could not be allowed to happen again, not to him or to anyone else.

“Stop.” His captor held the pistol steadily aimed at his chest. “Sit down.”

Piers, already breathing too quickly from his exertions, tried to make it appear to be from temper. He threw himself on the blanket and regarded his jailer with sullen loathing.

The man grinned and set his tray on the floor. “No point in trying to walk it off, my lord. That don’t work. Just drain your cup. Sleep’s your best way through the next twenty-four hours and then you’ll be free. Or dead.”

Twenty-four hours? Oh no. One hour and then April... Please God, let her be well, let the child be well...

“Drink the rest,” his captor said, frowning in annoyance at the remains of the beer in his cup. Piers snatched it up and took a mouthful, glaring at the man with unfocused defiance, which only seemed to amuse him further. “And the rest.”

Piers ignored him.

The man adjusted his aim, pointing the pistol at Piers’s foot. “Could send your little wife a toe, maybe. Just by way of encouragement.”

As had already been explained to him, they didn’t even need to keep him alive. April would pay—if she was alive. She is, she is. More to the point, an injured foot would make it much harder to get out of that damned window.

Piers drank his beer. Or at least, he slopped some when he snatched the cup up again, and he let more trickle out of his mouth and into his hand as he wiped his mouth. There was still a mouthful left, but it seemed to be enough for his tormentor, who smirked and gave him a fresh cup and yet another piece of dry bread. It got harder and staler each time. But at least there was no mould.

He bit into it and began to chew. “What’s your name?” he mumbled.

“You don’t care about that.”

“True,” Piers said. “Just trying to work out why you picked on me. Do you hate me?”

“Don’t know you from Adam, mate.”

Only by the faintest flicker of his eye, did the man betray his annoyance with himself. Clearly, he shouldn’t have admitted even that much. Which meant Piers was inclined to believe him. Then it was jailer number one who knew him? Or just knew of him? It was jailer number one whom he suspected of occasional lapses into educated diction.

With the window almost ready to break out of, Piers needed to learn as much as he could now.

“I hope you’re getting your fair share of my ransom.”

“Don’t you worry about that.”

“Half, is it?”

The man glared at him and stood up, backing off to the tray which he all but stood on. For the first time, Piers felt he had something approaching the upper hand, for however short a time. If he could stay awake long enough with so much laudanum inside him.

“What d’you care?” the man snarled. “Eat up, shut up, and sleep. And pray someone coughs up the readies to let you live.”

Piers had no reply to that. Pray someone coughs up. Someone. Before, it had been April they expected to pay—had something happened to her? Surely not, not without him knowing...

For a few minutes, he felt as if he couldn’t move, although the bolts shot behind his jailer and the footsteps faded. Fear—or the laudanum—held him immobile. Forcing himself, he finished the bread, which was incredibly difficult when it was so hard and dry. But he dared not allow himself more of the beer to wash it down.

He stumbled to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and marched around the room for five circuits. But he could afford to wait no longer. The light under the shutters had almost disappeared.

He put on his coat. He was going to look damned odd running through the streets of London in his coat and drawers with his legs bare. It was more than possible no hackney would take him up. He might even get arrested by the watch. But one way or another, with or without breeches, he was going home.

He leapt for the sill, sucking in a sharp breath when he grasped several shards of glass. Ignoring the pain, he hauled himself up onto the sill in his usual way, wiped his bloody fingertips on his coat, and unhooked the shutters. He grasped what was left of the central cross of wood that had once held the panes of glass in place, and pulled it hard enough to splinter it. It came out in bits that could be laid across the sill. Although he doubted there was any point in secrecy now. He would be out of the building and flown before they even suspected he wasn’t sound asleep...