Page 56 of Lord of Loyalty

Before she could utter a protest, the man had gone.

She slumped onto the bed, sick, dizzy, and battling not to give in to despair. If she could only keep her head, she might yet escape this place. She’d heard of the Bethlehem Hospital, knew it was operated by the same authority who ran the Bridewell House of Correction. She also knew that the lunatics housed in Bedlam were often paraded as a source of entertainment, like the animals in the Tower of London menagerie. If she could maintain her sanity—not easy to do under such circumstances—either Will would find her or she’d be spotted by someone who knew her, who would help get her out.

Having decided to behave exactly as one might expect an English gentlewoman of good family to behave, she politely thanked the drudge who brought her food. This consisted of a wooden platter bearing bread and cheese, and a large cup of a dark liquid that smelled like strong ale.

“Tell me, good mistress, am I not to be unshackled while I eat? It is most awkward, else.”

The servant looked at her dully. “I can’t do that. Only some gets unchained.”

“Why might I not be one of those?” She did her best not to sound belligerent.

“You’ve not been here above a day, and no one knows what you might do. There’d be trouble if you harmed yourself. The shackles will come off if you’re quiet—in time.”

The door thumped shut, and a key rattled in the lock. Isobel was left alone once more to contemplate her fate and try to stop listening to the noises of human suffering and confusion that continued to break out all around her.

She chewed on the bread and took a sip of ale. The bread was gritty and grey, and the ale bitter, but she’d expected no different. The cheese was palatable, a hard Suffolk cheese, full-bodied and salty, which made her drink more freely of the ale. Though the quality of the food was disappointing, it offered some comfort and familiarity. At least she was not to be left to starve in this new prison of hers.

When she’d cleared her plate, drowsiness crept over her. With a wash of horror, she realized her ale had not been as innocuous as she’d thought. Poppy juice again? Or some other soporific? Was it just for her at Hubert’s request, or did all the inmates receive this doctored ale, to keep them from making nuisances of themselves?

No! She must stay awake, alert, or she’d never get out—she’d be as helpless as when she was confined at Marston House. But it was too late now—she couldn’t help but give in. As she sank back on the bed and closed her eyes, someone stared in at her window and started laughing.

It was the last sound she heard before sleep took her.