Pirates of the Caribbean:The Spanish Prisoner (Book 2 King's Messenger Series)

Naught But a Humble Friar

The roiling mob swept me along, pulling me sideways and scraping my back across the rough wall behind me. Unable to free my arms, I blinked helplessly through the sweat that ran down my face and stung my eyes. My only thought was survival. Any attempt to turn forward in that swaying mass would risk a fatal stumble, and a hundred rough boots and knees would make short work of me.

Balance was impossible. With each lurch forward, the press of people jostled me closer to the floor. I could see how this would end, and fear was followed by a sense of inevitability. My fatigue had a voice, and it was urging me to let go, to just give in. I couldn't keep fighting. It was too much. I was no King's Messenger. Hector was right – I was only a daft baggage.

His old insult, long forgiven, suddenly jolted my pride and anger. I would never bow to that scornful judgement – I would prove him wrong if it took my last breath! Neither the Bitters nor the Teagues had ever produced a daughter who was a daft baggage, and I was damned if I would be the first.

Thrashing and kicking, I managed to stay upright. Close by, a nasty stairwell made a dark hole in the granite, and the surging flow of rioters was dragging me in that direction. I kept close to the wall, gritting my teeth and wrenching anonymous hands out of my hair. The granite wall rubbed across places where my skin was already raw.

As I came abreast of the stairs, the pressure of the swelling crowd popped me into the stairwell like a cork from a champagne bottle. Gasping, I tripped and sat down hard on the lower steps.

The stairs were nearly empty. Everyone seemed to be on the ground floor, caught up in the mob. For a moment I remained where I was, elbows propped upon a higher step, until a small stampede of perhaps forty well-shod, stockinged legs rushed down the steps and nearly ran over me as they joined the people below.

I jumped to my feet and sprinted up to the next floor.

At the top of the stairs, I stopped and held my breath, listening. I drew my scimitar and held it with both hands as I stepped carefully through the dark wards. But they were evidently not in use, and most cells were locked. At the end of one passage, light spilled through an open door. I came up to it stealthily, trying to stay in the shadows. There was silence. I leaned through the door; the cell was deserted.

Still in the passage, I again felt the peculiar crunch underfoot and glanced down. My stomach heaved. In the light from the cell, I could see what I had been walking on all this time.

"Crawlers!" The passage was alive with them. I jumped onto the relatively cleaner floor in the cell, stamping my boots to shake off the lice, shuddering with disgust.

Before surveying the cell, I forced myself to take a few calming breaths.

It was undoubtedly a rich man's cell, reserved for a Lord or merchant who could pay the gaolers for amenities such as fine furniture and windows to let in fresher air. A table was laid for ten or twelve guests, but the chairs had been toppled and victuals discarded, likely by the men who had rushed down the steps.

I discerned a change in the noise of the mob outside; the rioting horde must be moving towards the main entrance. There would be violent attacks up and down the street on that side; it would be safer to try another way out.

I stared at the cutlery; small knives were always handy. I collected four, and used a fork to pry a good-sized nail from the floor. My uncle had taught me very well indeed.

Through the cell's window I glimpsed a narrow side yard and beyond it, a spiked outer wall twenty feet high. Getting over the wall looked quite arduous, perhaps impossible. As I debated whether to look further, I noticed the faint odour of smoke. Had someone started a fire in the prison? The yard and the wall began to look quite attractive.