Portia obeyed. Rufus had not followed them out of the tent, and she couldn’t even summon up the energy to ask where George was taking her. As he clicked his tongue and set their horses in motion, Juno barreled out of the undergrowth, yapping excitedly, prancing on her hind legs demanding to be lifted up to the saddle. George ignored the puppy and urged the horses to a trot.
“George, please.” Portia could hear the tears in her voice. “Juno…”
George swore. “My orders said nothin‘ about that damn puppy.”
“Please.”
He looked at her properly for the first time, it seemed, and there was a softening to his mouth. Then he drew rein and when Juno bounded up, he leaned down, caught her by the scruff of the neck, and yanked her upward. “ ‘Ere.” He handed the puppy across to Portia, who managed a painful smile of thanks. She didn’t know where she was going, but having Juno was an immediate comfort.
The next hours passed in a daze. She didn’t know whether she slept or was just unconscious some of the time. All her being was centered on her hands clinging to the pommel. If she didn’t let go, it didn’t matter that her eyes were closed, her head drooping, her body swaying. Her mind had ceased to work. She couldn’t think of what had happened, or what might happen. She existed only in this moment, this little spate in time that contained her body.
She was barely aware when they passed through the sentry posts into Decatur village. The posts were unmanned, the fires unlit. The village was no longer a martial establishment, and its few occupants were content with the small rituals of daily living that provided a threat to no one.
George led Penny to a stone building on the outskirts of the village. It was small and square, its windows barred, its single door of massive oak kept closed with a heavy bar across it on the outside. It was the Decatur prison.
Portia half fell into George’s arms as he reached up to help her dismount. She was clutching Juno as if the puppy were her only connection with life. She didn’t take in her surroundings, merely stood swaying as George raised the iron-bound bar across the door and opened it. He urged her inside into the dark and musty interior. There were two cells. Small, stone-floored, barred spaces, each containing a narrow cot and a bucket. It was a prison, not designed for comfort.
“In ‘ere, lass.” George swung open one of the barred doors and gave her a little push into the cell. “I’ll fetch ye some water an’ some bread. The master says y’are to stay ‘ere until ’e’s decided what to do wi‘ ye.”
Portia dropped onto the cot. There were two thin blankets and it seemed like heaven. She rolled herself into the blankets and was instantly unconscious, Juno curled tightly against her breast She didn’t hear George return with a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread, which he set down on the floor of her cell, didn’t hear the key grate in the lock or the heavy bar fall in place on the outside door.
Juno awoke her hours later. It was dark and Portia for a moment had no idea where she was, or even, for a terrifying instant, who she was. The puppy was scratching and whining at the barred door, clearly desperate to go outside.
“Oh God!” Portia sat up, memory flooding back and with it the now familiar misery of waking nausea. Her face felt stiff and sore, her mouth twice its normal size. She stumbled to the bucket and retched, but it was so long since she’d eaten, she brought up nothing. Juno continued to whine.
“I can’t let you out.” Portia sat back on her heels on the cold stone floor, for the first time fully aware of her predicament. “I can’t let either of us out.” A faint diffused light came from the barred window high up in the wall and she guessed it was moonlight. There was total silence. Was she to be left moldering here forever?
It was a terrifying thought, almost worse than the prospect of what had awaited her in York. She forced down the panic, swallowed the tears, and broke off a piece of bread. Plain bread sometimes helped the nausea. She nibbled it slowly, feeling her stomach settling. Juno had yielded to the force of nature and was squatting in the far corner of the cell, looking apologetically at Portia.
Then came a sound. The scrape as the heavy bar was raised on the outside door. Lamplight poured into the space and Portia couldn’t help a little cry of relief.
“Eh, just what’ve you been an‘ gone an’ done?”
Josiahs rather creaky voice was the most welcome sound Portia thought she had ever heard. The old man set his lamp down on a table outside Portia’s cell. A rich aroma drifted upward from the covered dish he set beside the lamp. Josiah approached the cell, the lamplight shining off his round bald head, giving the fluffy- white tonsure a pinkish tinge.
“I’d best take the pup out… oh, too late.” He spotted the puddle and shook his head with annoyance. “I looked in a couple o‘ times, but you was both dead t’ the world. I’ll fetch ye a mop.”
“Can you let us out?” Portia stood up and approached the bars.
“Just the pup, George says.” Josiah unlocked the door and opened it. Juno raced out between his legs, and the old man closed the door again. “I’ll be back wi‘ that mop.” He shuffled out of the building, Juno darting ahead of him.
Portia sat down on her cot and contemplated her situation. It was better than she’d thought a few minutes ago, but it seemed she was to be kept a prisoner in this tiny space.
Josiah returned with a bucket of water and a mop, which he passed to Portia, unlocking and locking the door with great caution. “So, what ‘ave ye gone an’ done? George wouldn’t say.”
“Nothing, as it happens,” Portia said grimly, cleaning up Juno’s mess. “But Rufus thinks I have.”
“ ‘Tain’t like the master to be unfair,” Josiah stated, clearly not believing Portia’s claim. “Not in all the years I’ve known im… an’ I’ve known ‘im since ’e was nobbut a nipper.” He unlocked the bars again to take back the bucket and mop.
“There’s no need to keep locking and unlocking those bars,” Portia said wearily. “I’m not going anywhere. Where’s Juno?”
“Runnin‘ around outside.” Josiah hesitated, looking at the prisoner’s wan and battered countenance, then he turned to the table, leaving the bars unlocked. “Ye want some supper?”
As usual these days, Portia’s stomach was giving mixed signals, but she knew she needed food. “Can I come out and eat it?”
Again Josiah hesitated. Then he said, “If’n ye promise-”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Portia repeated swiftly. She stepped into the main room. “What did George tell you?”
“Just that the master’s ordered that y’are to be kept in prison until ‘e says otherwise. I’m to take care of ye, since there’s only us old folk left be’ind.” He lifted the lid on the dish. “There’s a spoon fer the stew.”
Portia ate standing up because there was no chair. And with the first spoonful she found she was ravenous. “Could you bring me some warm water to wash, d’you think?”
“Aye, I’m to give you anything you need,” Josiah said with a nod. “Empty the bucket an‘ such like… bring ’ot water and food. I’ll bring ye wine, or ale, when I comes in the mornin‘.”
Portia set down the empty bowl and returned to her cell. “Can you bring me something to do? Paper, a quill and ink, perhaps, and one of Rufus’s books? Any one will do.”
Josiah looked doubtful. “Take things from ‘is cottage when ’e’s not there? I dunno.”
“I don’t think he’d mind,” Portia said. “And if he does, he won’t blame you, he’ll blame me.”
Josiah frowned, his weak, faded eyes examining his charge. She looked desperate in her unhappiness and he could think only of how vibrant and happy and exuberant she had always been. Whatever she’d done, this imprisonment in the near-deserted village was harsh enough without adding to its severity.