A growl came from the other side of the splintery door. “Dammit Langston, you’re still drunk. That’s the wrong key.”

Tears burned in the back of my throat. “I miss you, Jean. God be with you, beloved husband, wherever you are.”

A rogue thought burst to the forefront of my mind. The ancient rosary that the priest had gifted to me. Was it clutched in Jean’s hand in death somewhere on enemy English soil? Had his murderer stolen it and, being a heretic Protestant, desecrated it? Or, had his murderer been a Catholic and kept it for their own family? Had it even made the journey with him across the Strait? How I wish I had it now.

Without thought or preparation, I sank to my knees, eyes shut, despite the stabbing pain in my leg. All my worry about not remembering the sacred prayers of the rosary, the cornerstone of the faith of my mother, was for naught.

I imagined the beads in my hand, lending comfort and a divine peace to those forsaken and forgotten. Like me. The Apostle’s Creed rolled off my tongue, as sweet as honey.

I believe in God the Father, Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth ...

“Damn it to hell, give me those keys. I’ll open the door.” One of the mystery voices oomphed, as though they’d been hit in the stomach. Keys jangled and I listened as the iron bolt slid out of the lock.

“Ow, Lyde.” The other voice grumbled. “It makes no sense to make such a fuss over a stupid wench so early in the morning. I would much rather be sleeping.”

“Sleeping it off, you mean.”

I clutched my belly and smiled as my baby kicked my hands. The door slammed open, and I heard men’s boots stomp into my dank cell. Rats squeaked and skittered back into the pile of rotten straw.

And in Jesus Christ his only begotten Son our Lord...

“On your feet, traitorous wretch.”

I opened my eyes. Fear didn’t consume me as I feared it would. Despite my smiling at him, the shorter of my two captors drew back his booted foot.

If he kicks the baby, the baby will die. I squeezed my eyes closed and curled around my stomach. An instant later, the whoosh of his swinging foot blew my hair. The squeak of the rat he stomped shrieked in my ears. On a normal day, I would cry over the rat. Today, I said a mental prayer of thanks.

Who was conceived of the Holy Ghost and born of the Virgin Mary...

I allowed them to pull me to my feet. “Now, the time has come to take your medicine. Walk now; walk faster!”

The clanking of their swords didn’t deter my spirit. I smiled despite of everything that had transpired. Even when the tips of their swords touched my back, the troublesome niggle of fear did not return. No matter the cost, no matter the way I came to meet Our Lord, I’d stayed true to my faith and didn’t marry a man for station or riches. I’d found love with Jean. We’d created a baby that I felt kicking within my belly. I could meet my Savior with a clean conscience and, with a little luck, Jean would be there waiting for me.

A woman’s howl from an unseen cell made me shiver. I remembered the woman, chained to the wall with her hands clasped in “the fiddle.” Perhaps it was her who made the noise? It spoke of agony, torment, and loneliness. Fear and hopelessness resonated in the long monotone cry, as well. What was her transgression?

Suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried.

“There now, that way.” The hallway branched. Down the lighted path were more cells and windows. Down the other—only darkness.

I turned and looked at the bigger of the two men. His sword touched my neck. Nothing on his chiseled, shadowed face bespoke friendliness.

“Which way, sir?”

He held the sword steady at my neck. His meaning was clear. He could dispatch me in a moment. I was completely at his mercy. Finally, he moved the tip of his blade and pointed into the darkness.

“There’s no light?”

“Down the stairs.”

“To the torture chamber,” the drunker of the pair added.

I chewed the inside of my cheek and nodded. The screams of those stuck in torment in their cells that lined the lighted hall echoed behind me as I glanced into the darkness.

I sucked in a deep breath and allowed my gaze to meet that of the taller guard. His face softened a scooch. “Careful, mind you. They be mighty steep.”

“Thank you.” My voice was a whisper. The wall was chilly and damp as I felt for a hand rail, but found none. I took one step, then another, careful to keep one hand on the wall and the other on my protruding stomach—my first steps on the walk no one ever returned from. Surprisingly, no more swords poked me as we descended the gloomy staircase, and no harsh voices rushed me.

When we reached the bottom, darkness shrouded us completely. The larger of my captors banged on the door in sharp succession.

Almost instantly, the door scraped open. A wart-faced man wearing a deranged smile stood to greet us.

“Aye, Lady Bridget. Welcome to His Majesty’s torture chamber of Dover Castle.”

He descended into hell...

Behind him, sobs and whimpers from various contraptions filled the dimly lit room, stuffy with putrid odors and the faint scent of rotting death. A sorrowful excuse for a human hung in chains from the wall and moaned a low, guttural moan while another person who looked to be closer to death than life whimpered from the rack. From the ceiling hung a cage that looked like something a bird might live in, only this cage held a human. A woman with long, stringy hair and empty eyes.

Her legs hung over the side and a pained look contorted her sallow face. A fat man with a handful of feathers stood below her cage. He looked at me, then up at her bare foot. A sadistic grin spread his thin lips wide. He raised his handful of feathers and brushed them along the bottom of her bare foot. She groaned as she jerked to get away, as though the touch to the bottom of her foot was painful, only then did I see that she was tied. Upon closer inspection, the bottom of her foot looked like raw meat.

My stomach turned to think of how long she’d been there, forced to endure tickle torture. What could her crime be?

†††

“You go sit there.” One of the men gestured to a wooden chair at the far end of the room. “Since you’re on trial, that’s where you will stay until told to do otherwise.”

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...

I dragged my stiff leg behind me as I walked the length of the room. Jeers rose up from the crowd on either side of me. Men, all men. Someone threw a carrot at me, but it missed. The tomato, however, splattered against my shoulder.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.

Please, do your will today, Father.

†††

“Do you know why you’re here, young lady?” A severe judge stared down at me from beneath a fiercely powered wig as I took my seat.

“Treason!” The word echoed about the room as it was shouted over and over again by men who came to watch me suffer. “High Treason to the Crown!”

I looked up at the unsmiling judge. “I believe I am here because some believe I have committed treason.”

“You have committed treason. Now tell me. How did you escape from His Majesty’s castle?”

I glanced out at the sea of faces that glared back at me. Not one look of hope, not one look of sympathy. Hungry wolves, all of them. Only through my torment would they be fulfilled, but only temporarily. Once my suffering and humiliation were over, they would become miserable yet again.

Lady Rochford flickered to my mind, her smiling face on the day of her execution as she smiled down at me. It was all so clear now. She had been searching for any ounce of kindness, any friend amid a surfeit of foe. Something deep inside me wished she were here today, staring up at me, as I was on trial for the very crime that cost her the most precious of all things: her life. Treason.

“Answer, damn you!”