The cell was grey. Gray stone, single grey blanket, grey walls and door, grey straw on the floor. Gray light coming in through the tiny opening. There was a bucket in the corner which contained grey water. He was thirsty, but could not bring himself to drink it. Instead, he tried to clean up the dried blood which stuck to him and made his skin itch. The pain in his head made it hard to concentrate.
There was a tiny aperture in the door of his cell, through which the gaolers could check on him. It was closed, but if he stood at the right angle, he could see a tiny sliver of the passageway outside. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of shackled prisoners being walked along it.He had no way to measure the passing of time. It had not been full dark and no-one had brought him food so it must still be the same day. It felt as if years had passed since he was shoved into the cell. Keeping control of his sanity was becoming more and more difficult.
The distant screams of inmates proved that not everyone was successful.
He heard steps outside, and rushed to the aperture, hoping for anything to break the monotony. He caught a glimpse of a woman stumbling past. She was naked to the waist and her back was raw and bloody. The gaoler with her grabbed her elbow and said "Next time you cause trouble, it will be thirty lashes."
For one awful second, he thought it was Clara, until he realised this woman was a different size. The thought of Clara in here made him feel ill. Thank God she was on her way to London. Clara would not be able to resist causing trouble.
The light dimmed. His door opened with a rattle of keys and a dish of gruel was shoved in. He ate it with his hands. His arm started to throb again. There was no honey to put on it.
In the darkness, the smell of the prison was stronger. Despair, dampness, human waste. He heard rats moving around and moved to the door to see if there was anything more entertaining outside.
There was a faint light, and two voices of the night gaolers. Occasionally, one walked up and down the cell block, but mostly they stayed in the little ante room and played cards.
The light flared brighter, and he heard a female voice. It sounded familiar. No, it couldn't be. He pressed his ear to the door and heard Clara say "Gentlemen, I was hoping to visit a prisoner."
The voice was hers, but the tone was different. She now had a country accent, and she sounded as if she were flirting. She laughed at something one of the gaolers said, sounding so like Isabelle that his head swam.
"Why, the notorious red-headed one, of course. I want to share a cup of wine with him."
It was killing him that he could not hear their answer. He desperately wanted to see Clara again, but wanted her far away and safe. His palms sweated as he flattened them against the cold door.
Clara's laugh. "What a pity. Perhaps I should have a drink with your two handsome gentlemen instead?"
A masculine laugh. A clink of glass, more laughter. He needed Clara to go away. He was a peer of the realm, he couldn't be tried like a common criminal. Once they realised who he was, they'd release him. But she had no such protection.
Laughter. Voices. Clara flirting. He didn't know she could flirt. She was arguing about how much of her wine they had drunk. She mustn't get drunk, she would give herself away.
A groan. Hurrying steps. Silence. Then the door of his cell opened. Clara stood there. "Robert?" she whispered.
Of course, he could see her as clear as day, but he was in total darkness to her. He blinked when he looked at her. Her hair was loose down her back, and her dress was scandalous. Nipped in at the waist to show her curves, and with a top so small her breasts were in danger of falling out.
"Did any of them touch you?" he demanded. Surely no man could avoid grabbing that bounty.
She made a disgusted noise, and moved into his cell. Once inside, she closed the door and lit a candle. He blinked in the bright light. "Quick, strip off your clothes and put these on." He had obeyed before he looked at what she had for him. It was a dress.
"Are you mad?" He couldn't possibly pass for a woman.
"Put it on." Her tone left no room for argument. He obeyed reluctantly.
"What happened to the guards?"
"A bad case of the runs. They must have drunk too much wine." She was laughing, damn her.
The dress went over his shoulders but stopped at his shins. He looked like a fool. She hauled him down, slapped a wig on his head and pulled out a box of paint. She rubbed paint on with a practised hand. Muttering about stubble, she put extra on his chin and cheeks, then finished by sticking two large warts on his nose and chin.
She grabbed his discarded clothes, stuffed straw into them and arranged them on his bed. From the doorway, it might look like a sleeping man.
She handed him a walking stick. "You're 60 years old. Bend your knees and hunch over so that the skirt falls to the ground. You can use the stick to help you balance. And don't talk." Then she led him out of the cell, locking it behind her.
She led the way out of the cell block, past the guards' room. She dropped the ring of keys on the floor and walked on towards the main gate. Robert lumbered along beside her, forced to take small steps with his knees bent. He was glad of the stick.
The guard at the main gate was alert and eager for a flirtation. He smiled at Clara, and she smiled back, somehow revealing her cleavage as she did so. Robert ground his teeth. "Any luck?" the guard asked her.
