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The countryside granted little shelter from the torrent and they soon fell to grim hush. Even Llanedwyn village was soundless as they rode through, rivulets teeming the cobbles and half-boards shoved in front of doors to repel the onslaught of water. Lights flickered within the lower storey of the inn as they rode on past, stride never faltering, through into the countryside beyond where the clouds shed their burden in relentless bursts.
A few scattered houses began to emerge from the dark, and after they clattered over a stone bridge, the road became cobbled, Cogran town rising ahead. All shutters were bolted tight against the howling gale, neither man nor beast roaming the rain-lashed streets.
They made for the main square and the old unused courthouse with its jutting upper storey, timber-framed and sagging, the prison occupying the ground floor.
Anger coursed, that a woman, a lady, should be placed here. As a rule, the magistrate held such prisoners within his own residence, so he knew some fount of malevolence had poured whispers into ears this night.
In haste, they tied their horses to the columns of the porch and then hammered on the prison door with their fists, enough to wake the dead, until at long last a slat behind a square iron grille slid back.
A bloodshot eye peered out. “Wot?”
“The Duke of Aberdare demands you open this door.” Rhys brought his own eye to the grille. “As does the Earl of Llanedwyn.” That title holding more clout in these parts.
A grumble. “Show me your seal. I’m no gully so I’m not.”
Rhys breathed deep, jammed his sodden glove to his teeth, ripped it off and stabbed out his finger with its silver signet ring. “Etched with the dragon of Llanedwyn. Now get this bloody door open.”
The grating of bolts accompanied further grumbles, but before the lackwit could open more than an inch, Rhys thrust it wide and prowled into a stone-walled room with table, lantern, a pewter jug and a small truckle bed in the corner.
“Where is she?” snapped Rhys as from the corner of his eye, he noted Hugh stride for a darkened archway that doubtless led to the cells.
The jailer, a short, sweaty man with a stained coat and black tooth, shrugged. “No one here but me. Oh, and cup-shot Aled in the cells for the night. Wouldn’t mind some female company though.” And he grinned.
Rhys stalked forward, seized the man by his neckcloth and slammed him against the wall. “A woman was brought here by the magistrate. So I repeat…” He bared his teeth and shoved his face close. “Where is she?”
A faint burbling was discharged, so Rhys slackened his grip. A touch.
“N-no-one here, Guv. Promise…”
“He’s right,” Hugh called from the dark, so Rhys allowed the man to breathe. “No one down there but a passed-out sot.”
Hugh joined him and peered at the jailer. “However, there was…” He opened his fingers to show his palm. “This…”
A grey button with scallop edge lay upon it, and Rhys retightened his grip, slamming the jailer against the stone wall once more for Isabelle had been wearing her grey dress last night, the one with a plethora of small buttons at the cuff. He’d admired the shape as he’d kissed her pulse.
“Where is she?” he growled, fingers clenching around the jailer’s throat, who turned wide-eyed to Rhys’ companion as though in appeal.
Little did the lackwit know that those blithe looks hid another side as Hugh examined his nails and cocked his head. “I’d tell him, if I were you. This rain is too loud for anyone to hear you scream when…” Hugh leaned close and whispered into the jailer’s ear.
The man whimpered. Hugh drew back.
“T-they took her, like…” The jailer closed his eyes. “S-she was only here half-hour when the magistrate returned to have her moved on.”
“Where, damn it?”
“T-to the clink at Trebigh. For sentencing on the morrow at the courthouse.”
Rhys cursed. Everything about this stank of malice. Trebigh was another few miles to the east, but if this was another wild goose chase… “If you’re lying…”
“No!” His gaze flickered to Hugh. “No, no…” He swallowed. “I’m not lying. Swear on my mam’s grave, I will.”
It would have to do, so Rhys thrust the jailer aside and they strode out into the dark.
Fortune favoured them as the rain had lessened to a Scotch mist but as they travelled the bleak east road, the wind tore at their greatcoats and howled in their ears.
Flint fought on, a stalwart gelding who kept his head down as though butting all evils from their path – though there was naught he could do with a fallen tree that blocked their way, so they diverted across a field until Trebigh appeared from the mist like a galleon of the dead.
He’d not set foot in this town for some while but recalled its labyrinth of streets with tightly huddled houses.
