“I do not think I shall be tonight. It is Miguel’s regular evening at his club, and Senhor Vasconcelos departed for some business in Braga this very morning.”
“Are you certain it is only they who are involved? What of Pereira, your father-in-law’s lapdog?”
She was silent, staring at her toes in the grass. She did not dare mention to him that their own father could also be connected to the business! “I do not know, Ruy,” she confessed at length. “But I must try! If you had only heard—”
“Hush,” Ruy whispered, holding up a hand. He gestured toward the wall and Amália leaned close. Their eyes met. “Is that what you heard before?” he asked softly.
Amália, straining her ears to hear the laments echoing from below, nodded. “He sounds English, does he not?”
Ruy narrowed his eyes as he listened, his expression broken for the miserable soul buried within the ruins of the old halls. “Yes, poor devil. Is he crying out a woman’s name?”
“That is the same as I have heard before,” she agreed. “A wife, perhaps?”
“Or a harlot,” he grumbled. Ruy snaked his fingers through his hair, hissing in frustration. “Oh, dash it all, Amália! I wish to heaven you had not told me of this, but for the sake of men who have fought and bled beside me, I cannot leave one of their countrymen to rot.” He wrinkled his face, then bit out a low growl. “See here, I’ve a number of friends among the English—some of the best soldiers who ever wore a uniform. Find out who he is, if you can. Perhaps I may then learn something more of him through my own means.”
She caught his hands in relief. “Oh, thank you, Ruy!”
He scowled. “You may not thank me when your husband learns of this.”
Allwasstillness.
Complete, utter dead air.
He crouched on the low bunk, his head leaning into his grimy hands and his sharp elbows digging into his atrophied thighs. If he pressed hard enough, perhaps he could deafen himself and blot out the screaming silence—that roaring nothingness! —which kept him from sleep.
There had been another, a companion to his idleness, for but a few days. It had been perhaps a week ago that the fellow had been thrust into his cell, wasting from hunger, disease, or both, and apparently reviled by whatever power held them. His tongue had been cut out long years before by some enemy, and he was already at death’s threshold, but his angelic companionship had come to ease a precious handful of hours.
He never did learn who the old man was. He also was English, and his name started with the letter B, but that was the limit of his knowledge. Before any further letters could be spelled out and guessed, the poor fellow had fallen into a merciful sleep. The man was never again strong enough to attempt communication.
He had never felt more helpless than those two days when he watched his only companion die. He had longed to nourish and care for the old man, but his leg shackle would not permit him to even cross the room. He tried kicking his own food plate near, but the old man was too weak to feed himself. Then, three days ago, the old man simply did not awaken.
It took another full day for anyone to claim the body. He stared at it for hours, sick at heart for his own uselessness and baffled at the purpose of it all. Then, in one flashing, sinking moment, he understood. The man’s identity and history were not important—had never been. The whole purpose of placing them together had been to make him watch another die, when he himself was powerless to stop it. Like every other torment Vasconcelos and Pereira had devised—solitude, restraint, the sack over his head and the near drownings, this too had been carefully fashioned to twist his mind.
All the while, his captors had continued their questions, coming now at all hours of the day and night. Never did they inflict enough harm to take his life, nor even permanently scar his body. Instead, they terrorized him, spun lies about his family and made daily threats against all he held dear and could not save. They seemed intent on weakening him, making him despise his own life yet never granting him the peace of death. To what end? He had no means of securing the information they claimed was his. The futility of all he bore at their hands sank him even deeper into his despondency.
A noise from without drew his attention. Footsteps, soft and alone, stopped outside the door to his chamber. Another visitation from Pereira? He shivered, shrinking his tall frame, but otherwise remained still as he waited.
The door did not open as he expected. He stilled, his breath almost dead in his breast as he waited for what was to come. Instead of the clanking of a key, however, he thought he heard a harsh whisper. His ears sharpened and his eyes focused on the door.
“Someone is there?” came the muted words again. “Please answer, I am a friend!”
He stood. The speaker, whispering though she was, clearly was a woman, and a Portuguese speaker. What interest could such a person have in him? Nevertheless, his heart began to beat as it had not done in months.
“I am here,” he responded haltingly.
A loud sigh of relief shuddered from the unknown speaker, followed by; “What is your name? You are English, yes?”
He hesitated. Was he being tested, in yet another twisted effort to confuse his mind and break his heart and will? His mouth opened, but his teeth chattered in fear and he closed it once more.
“Please, Senhor, I wish to help! How is it you came here?”
He stared at the door, only faintly realising that he strained at the shackle round his leg. “I was attacked and taken by force from England,” he answered at last.
“You did know for what purpose?” the voice came again. “You have done some crime?”
“Indeed, I have not!” he shot back with indignation. “It was my fortune—and my sister’s—that my attackers desired.”
The speaker was silent a moment, considering. “Your sister,” came the exotic tones again, “she is safe?”
