One window let in a glum light and, having no closure apart from thick iron bars, also let in the bitter cold. A hole at the base of one wall supplied a drain but was also the entrance for rats, mice and cockroaches that wandered the perimeters, sniffing for food. Several straw pallets lined the walls but they were not sufficient for the number of inmates enclosed there, and although the ground was damp stone, and although her clothes were already soaked from the rain, Tyballis was offered no other bed. Those who occupied the pallets and who fiercely claimed the only blankets would neither move nor share. It was a small room, and the excess prisoners, a few men and two women, lay sprawled or squatted morose across the floor. Tyballis sighed and sank down, sitting curled where she found space. She had been here before to visit Borin, and knew the rules, though his size and reputation had always found him a bed. Tuppence a week bought black bread and beer each midday. After a few days most felons were hauled out to pass time in the stocks or pillory at Cornhill and then released. She, however, would not leave until her trial, a week or two away perhaps, and with her purse taken from her, she had no money for an attorney. She presumed neither Borin nor Margery would come to see her. No one else knew where she was.
The whisper in her ear at first seemed simply a draught. Then she sat up, hearing words. ‘Rob Webb’s little darling, are you, dearie? His special little whore? So, what do you do for him, then? And what would you do for me, if I was to do something special for you?’
Tyballis swallowed hard. ‘You heard what Constable Webb said. Leave me alone, or I’ll scream.’
‘I can look after you better than he can, my pretty doxy. But I’ll want something worthwhile in return. Give me what I wants, when I wants it, and we’ll call it a fair exchange. There’ll be no one else dares touch you with my hand clamped safe on your arse.’
The man who spoke squatted in front of her, peering through the gloom. Small and hunch-shouldered, wide-mouthed but toothless, he possessed only one eye, with a black hole where the other should be. His solitary eye winked slowly, evidently to entice. Tyballis cringed back. ‘Please. Please don’t touch me.’
‘I’ll not force you, darling. That’s not the way I like it. But I can look after you, if you wants me for a friend. I makes a good friend, I do, and I keeps my word once a bargain’s made.’ The half-blind man paused, hopeful. ‘What’s your name, pretty?’
Tyballis whispered her name. ‘And I’m innocent. Constable Webb knows I am.’
‘Ah.’ The frog mouth snapped shut. ‘Blessop, is it? Would that be – Borin Blessop’s – sister, perhaps?’
Tyballis shook her head. ‘His wife.’
There was no silence, for the noise sank and rose in waves of restless humanity, the coughing, spitting, choking and the muttering of eternal argument. Finally, only a little louder than the background discomfort, the one-eyed man said, ‘Well, mistress. It’s a shame, for you’re the prettiest I’ve seen in here for many a long day, and I reckon we’d have made a good pair. But Borin Blessop was my friend once, and he walloped the bugger what tried to stick his dagger in my balls. I’ll not harm you, Borin’s wife, nor let no one else. Casper’s my name, and when you next see your man, you tell him I looked out for you in here. Tell him I’ve not forgot him.’
Casper patted her cheek with a hand so thick with filth, her voice wavered. But she said with enormous relief. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, thank you. Borin will be – grateful, of course.’
The man wobbled his bald head. ‘No matter gratitude, darling. Three days more, and I’m for the drop. Maybe Borin can put in a good word for me with the Almighty afterwards, but I doubt it’d do much good. Hellfire is nice and warm, they says, and that’s the best I can hope for. I’d thought my last days might be warmed with a little plump flesh instead, and a memory of them times when I had a woman at home. But no matter. You get to sleep now, Mistress Blessop. I’ll just sit here and keep the rats from your nose whilst you snores.’
When she woke, she did not at first realise she had been crying. Her face was quite wet, but she thought it the oozing damp and the rain from her hair. Then the unutterable melancholy impinged, and as the misery swept in, she cried again. The man Casper was sleeping with his back hard up against her feet. She wondered how she had managed to sleep herself, and thought it the inevitable exhaustion of hopelessness. Other sleepers stretched out one against the other, snuffling and dribbling away their hunger and desperation, grumbling through their slumber. Rats prowled. They worked in teams, sniffing into lolling mouths and groins, disappearing suddenly inside shirt collars, thin bare tails flicking from torn cuffs. Sharp teeth sank suddenly into toes poking from frayed hose or fingers twitching in sleep. No one woke. They were accustomed. Tyballis tucked her skirts tightly around her legs, crossing her arms over her breasts and pulling her damp cape once more over her head. She did not sleep again.
When Casper woke, others made room for him. He turned a toothless grin to Tyballis and winked his one eye. ‘Slept well, darling? No one dared molest nor even speak to you, I’ll be sure. One word from Casper Wallop, and folks knows their place.’
Tyballis nodded bleakly. ‘I’m grateful. Is it a new day?’
‘And for me, one day closer to the rope.’
The guards brought ale, thick with the dying scum of the yard – beetles, fleas and larvae. Two men, each carrying a great jug, ladled out the brew in tin cups. Tyballis held her breath and drank. The gaoler regarded her before snatching back the cup for the next man. ‘Constable Webb’s girl, aren’t you? Said he’d be down this afternoon after dinner. Wants a word with you.’
‘There you are, pretty,’ Casper said. ‘He’ll see you all right, Rob Webb will.’ He winked again with conspiratorial cheer. ‘And what was it then, darling, what you didn’t do?’
Tyballis smiled faintly. ‘They think I killed the Baron Throckmorton. First they thought it was Borin. He didn’t do it either.’
‘Ah,’ sighed Casper, ‘then it’ll be the drop for you, too. I’m sorry for it. Not that they likes hanging females. Maybe they’ll send you to the press instead.’
‘Oh, please don’t say that,’ Tyballis gulped. ‘Borin told me about a woman who wouldn’t plead to her crime, so they pressed her until she died. They piled huge rocks, he said, until the poor thing was squashed and broken.’
Casper nodded with relish. ‘It’s a wicked thing, it is. The woman lies flat on her back between two wooden boards. They piles up the rocks on top till she’s proper flattened. They says as how they’ll keep on till she pleads, but I reckons they’d not hear her voice after the first half-dozen stones, and after that her chest is all crushed up and she’d have no voice to plead with anyways.’
‘Heaven help me,’ whispered Tyballis.
‘Heaven?’ Casper shook his head. ‘Maybe will, maybe won’t. Ain’t never helped me. But that pressing’s a bad business, though they don’t see the poor mashed face while they heap up them rocks, so perhaps it seems cleaner. But them boards is left right mucky, a proper inconvenience, I reckon, since they usually comes off the sheriff’s table top, being part of his trestle for dinner. Just imagine all them nasty stains beneath his platter.’
‘I’d rather be hanged,’ whispered Tyballis.
Casper shook his head. ‘Now, that’s a nasty business, too, is hanging. Can take a right long time, with you kicking around for an hour or more, feeling your breath all squeezed out. And your innards fall down between your legs, you know, soon as your feet leaves the ladder. That’s why they don’t like swinging the females.’