The Silver Swan (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 2) by Deryn Lake

Author:Deryn Lake [Lake, Deryn]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2015-04-19T16:00:00+00:00

12

‘She’s gone,’ said the Mother Superior. ‘She and the Princess’s Gentleman. They were traitors — they rescued prisoners of the Emperor — they got what they deserved.’

Hyacinth went cold.

‘She’s not...?’

The woman of God looked at him as unsmilingly as only a zealous Christian could. She had long ago forgotten what charity meant, knowing His way and His laws and caring nothing who might be crushed while divine rights were executed. She was a merciless machine devoted to dogma and she looked at him narrow-eyed and tight-mouthed as she said, ‘Dead? No. They’re both in prison. But you can pray for their souls in there.’

Hyacinth turned away, his riding boots sounding overloud on the stone floor.

‘Then I shall go to them.’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘As you wish.’ She had already lost what little interest she had in him. ‘Let God’s will be done.’

The walls of the room were formless, the drums of Hyacinth’s ears were at bursting point; again a thousand voices called out for Prionnsa Tearlach; a brave young figure floated free the standard.

‘It has, madam,’ he said, turning in the doorway. ‘Princess Clementina is on her way to Rome and to marriage. And by King James she will bear a son who will come to reclaim his father’s throne. He will be the pride of Scotland — of all of us.’

The nun’s habit was black against the snow-driven window. She had taken hold of the crucifix from round her neck and was bearing it aloft.

‘Begone,’ she said, ‘back to whatever monster of Hell spawned you.’

‘God have mercy on your pitiless soul,’ he said in reply. Then he turned and walked, without once looking back, from the house of the brides of Christ.

*

‘God damn it,’ said the prisoner in a reedy voice, ‘but I do swear that this pox hole is ruining me prinkum-prankum, so it is.’

He stood, for the simple reason that his legs were shackled to the wall, and any other position would have been impossible for him, with his back against the damp-running stones, his arms behind him, his head lolling to give his neck what rest it could. He was in the cage that passed for the communal dungeon lying beneath the fortress of Innsbruck.

‘Shut your woman’s mouth, dandyprat,’ growled a voice from beside him, for though he had spoken in English the meaning of the words was clear enough.

‘Don’t speak your lingo, damme.’

For reply a lump of human dung was flung at him, staining the prisoner’s once exquisite turquoise satin breeches. With an amazing suddeness his arm shot out from behind him and a fist like a flint crunched into his assailant’s guts, causing him to groan and slump, winded, upon the stinking floor. Without seeming to pause for breath the prisoner resumed his original stance.

And that was how Matthew Banister found him, peering in the light of the gaoler’s candle, his handkerchief pressed to his nostrils to stave off the stench of human waste.

‘Chateaudeau,’ he called out in French, ‘I’ve come to see you. My name is O’Toole.

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