Page 58 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Thirty-Three

Will reined in at the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem, breathless, but hopeful. He was cursing himself inwardly for not having looked here sooner, because the more he thought about it, the more logical it was that Pike would secrete Isobel in such a place.

The hospital, it seemed, was used to visitors. He was met by the principal keeper, a well-fed gentleman by the name of Cartwright, and his wife, who told him anyone might view the inmates for a fee.

He ground his teeth. If Pike had made a spectacle of Isobel, he’d slice him into quarters, then throw the pieces in the Thames. It was disgusting that the insane should be exhibited for the amusement of visitors—but he couldn’t let his feelings show. He needed the Cartwrights on his side.

He asked after Isobel, describing her minutely and wishing—as he had time and again—that he’d held on to the locket which contained her portrait, instead of returning it to her.

Cartwright exchanged glances with his wife. “A young lady, sir? Alas—we have several of those. Whatever mixture of the humors promotes madness, it can occur in persons of any age.”

“Do you keep the women separate from the men?”

“Nay. ’Tis thought best to keep life as normal as possible. The women seem happier to be in the company of men.”

As Will followed the couple through the massive locked and bolted door, he wondered what could be considered “normal” about being kept in such a place. If Pike had wanted Isobel safely locked away, he couldn’t have chosen a better prison for her.

A female servant came running up and spoke to Master Cartwright. He bowed to Will. “My wife must take charge of you, sir. Another visitor has just arrived.”

“I’ll let you in, sir, so you can look in the cells. It’s quite safe. The inmates are only allowed out for exercise, which they take on the sward on fine days. The dangerous ones are shackled, the harmless ones not, but their doors are locked—for the most part. Not just to keep the patients secure, you understand, but because some of the visitors are most unsavory—if you take my meaning. They have been known to abuse, or even to try to abduct some of our patients.”

“If I find the woman I’m looking for,” Will said grimly, “it will be because she’s already been abducted, and placed here under false pretenses.”

Goodwife Cartwright blanched. “Not with our knowledge, good sir, oh, no, indeed. We keep full records of all admissions.”

“Then mayhap, Goodwife, you might go and fetch those records. I’ll pay you a half-angel for a look at them—I’m certain I’d recognize the false admission document if I saw it.”

The woman’s eyes glowed as he showed her the coin. “I shall be back straightway, sir. Now, you will understand that I must relieve you of your sword before you enter, and bolt the door behind you.”

Will nodded his acquiescence, but couldn’t escape a quiver of unease as he heard the bolt pushed to.

The hospital reminded him of a parish church, with a high roof and arches to support its span. But whereas a church would have had great glass windows, this building was more akin to a barn. What little light there was came from slots and wind-eyes high above. At ground level, the space was lit by rushlights and hanging lanterns.

Either side of the central aisle stood what could best be described as cells—too small to be considered chambers—each with their own door and slatted window. There was at least a score of these. The building resonated with noise—low murmurs, weeping, tuneless humming, and even the occasional laugh.

He wasted no time, but set to, peering through the slats into the cells—but the light was so weak, he could barely make out faces. Some of the inmates were sleeping—mere humps beneath their coverings, while others sat rocking on their beds with their blankets pulled over their heads. The few lunatics who were currently wandering freely up and down the aisle had noticed him and were starting to congregate.

How was he to find Isobel this way? He’d need every door unlocked so he could take a proper look, since both men and women were dressed only in shifts and shirts, and had their heads either shaved or covered by coifs.

The manic stares of the people surrounding him were unsettling. Clearing his throat, he summoned the voice he used for issuing commands in the field, loud enough to carry to the far corners of the room.

“Isobel. Isobel Marston. ’Tis I, Will Cavendish. If you’re here, answer me, I pray.”

For a second, the whole room fell silent. Then one of the women nearest Will exclaimed, “I’m Isobel.”

“Nay, fool,” responded an elderly man with no teeth. “You’re the Queen of France—you told me so. You can’t be her and this Isobel the man is calling for.”

There was a clattering from one of the closed doors, and Will turned his head to see a middle-aged woman running a wooden platter along the bars. “I think I might have been called Isobel once,” she said, in a quavering voice.

“Nay, I am Isobel!” This came from the adjacent cell.

Will rolled his eyes as the whole hall erupted into shouts and screams as the poor wretches in the cells and the aisle, both male and female, claimed to be the woman he was seeking. Whether it was simply that they were deranged, or they were still sane enough to see a chance to escape from their captivity, he couldn’t tell. Had their response not been so pitiful, it might have been amusing.

“Silence! Be still!” He’d have the keepers back in minutes, and they’d eject him for certain for disrupting the residents thus.

The racket ceased, followed by a few mutters of complaint. There was one last thing he could try, while he waited for Goody Cartwright to return with the records. Lowering his voice this time, he called, “It is I, Orpheus, come in search of my wife, Eurydice.” And as he looked about him, at the empty stares and miserable confusion of his audience, he felt as if he had descended into Hades, searching among the damned souls for his Eurydice.

The hubbub began again, with everybody speaking at once.