Mina, moving with much more difficulty, slowed their progress; the first stars were shining when Kit finally spied the outline of the familiar bluff. He paused, wiped the sweat from his face, and announced to the women a few steps behind, “I see it! Just ahead. We’re almost there.”
“Thank God,” sighed Cass. To Mina she said, “A little farther and then you can rest.”
Mina, eyes glassy, jaw clenched, merely nodded.
The way widened somewhat as the path became barren rock leading to the rounded limestone bluff and the cave above. The sky still held a little light, and away to the east a sliver of moon was cresting the canyon rim. Kit stopped. “Here we are,” he said, indicating what appeared to be little more than a dark spot in the cliff face. “Listen, Mina, there’s a shelf protected by a rock overhang with a small cave behind it. It’s a bit of a climb, but we’ll get you up. Just sit tight for a second until I get it sorted out, okay?”
Kit disappeared into a gap between two boulders and climbed the old familiar stairway formed by tumbled rocks and rubble. Upon reaching the top, he turned and signalled to Cass. “Okay, ready!”
Wilhelmina raised her eyes to where Kit was waving to them. “I can’t do it,” she said, looking at the too-narrow gap and the scramble up the rocks protecting the entrance. “My arm is killing me.” She glanced around in the failing light. “Maybe I can just stay down here.”
“You can make it,” Cass said. “Kit will help you from above and I’ll support your weight from below. All you have to do is relax and put yourself in our hands. Let us do the work, okay?”
Mina, eyes shut, her mouth pressed tight, gave a nod of resignation.
Cass guided Mina through the gap and up the stony steps. When they were in position, she grasped Wilhelmina around her knees and lifted; Mina used her good hand to steady herself against the rock face and protect her injured arm. Kit, on his stomach, leaning over the ledge, took Mina under her arms and lifted; together, he and Cass slowly manoeuvred her up and over. Mina, biting her lip against the pain, was in tears by the time she collapsed onto the ledge.
“We’re there,” declared Kit as he eased Mina up onto the platform. “It’s over. You made it.”
Cass scrambled up into the shelter. “Well done, Mina,” she said, wiping sweat from her face. She steered Mina to the nearest wall and eased her down into a sitting position; she put down her pack and joined Kit at the shelter opening, looking out across the lower valley and the curve of the slow-flowing river as it bent around the base of the bluff and out of sight. The water was silky in the soft evening light, and the air was alive with the sounds of cicadas buzzing and birds flocking to roost. She breathed in the soft air and exhaled a heavy sigh. She wanted nothing more than to curl up and forget the last few hours. Instead, she squared her shoulders and asked, “What’s next?”
“It might get chilly later on,” Kit replied. “I’d better get some firewood up here before it gets completely dark.” He stepped to the edge of the shelf and started to climb down onto the path leading to the river. “Look after Mina and I’ll be back.”
Wilhelmina roused herself sufficiently to say, “Just do what you have to do. I’ll be all right for a little while.”
“You’re sure?” said Cass.
“A hundred percent.”
Cass called down to Kit, “Want some help?”
“You could fill the water flasks and cut some fresh bullrushes to add to what we’ve got. We’ll make Mina as comfortable as possible.”
Kit and Cass worked until they could no longer see their hands in front of their faces, then retreated to the rock shelter. While Kit hauled up the last of the deadwood he had collected, Cass set about spreading the rushes and arranging them in a neat crosshatch pattern to make a thick pallet for Wilhelmina. Later, after Kit got a fire going, they forced themselves to eat from the last of their provisions. They had light and warmth from the fire, but that was where the comfort ended. They sat and glumly watched the flames and thought about the events of the last few hours as avalanches of regret and guilt crashed down upon them.
Finally, they gave up and decided to get some sleep, but even that proved difficult. One or the other would occasionally drop off, only to be awakened by the howl of an unseen animal or, more often, by Wilhelmina’s moaning. Cass eventually achieved something resembling repose, but Kit was not so lucky. He dozed, drifting in and out of consciousness, and each time he surfaced he remembered that Dr. Young was dead. Into his mind flashed the image of the good man’s last moments and his crude burial. He saw the makeshift grave and could not help picturing what seemed to him unavoidable: wild dogs or hyenas digging up the corpse for a gruesome nocturnal feast.
Some few hours before dawn he achieved sufficient clarity to resolve that they simply had to get Wilhelmina back to civilization where she could receive proper treatment for her injury. Sunrise, of course, was his next opportunity for ley travel. So when the night sky began to lighten, he woke the two women and said, “Sorry, ladies, but I think we’ve got to go.”
Cass came awake instantly at his touch and then groaned as the grimness of their situation bit hard once more. While Kit went to stoke up the fire, Cass crawled over to where Mina lay and put her palm to Mina’s forehead, then gave her shoulder a gentle shake. When this brought no result, she leaned close and whispered into Mina’s ear and, after a few moments of gentle coaxing, brought Wilhelmina out of a deep, coma-like sleep. “How are you feeling?”
Mina gave a low moan and said, “I’m thirsty.” Her voice was raspy and cracked.
“I’ll get you some water,” Cass told her. “Where do you hurt?”
“My arm,” Mina whispered. “And my side.”
Cass brought a flask and raised Mina’s head so she could drink. While Mina sipped, she said, “We need to get you home. Do you think you can make it up to the ley line?”
Wilhelmina gave her head a shake and sank back onto her mat. She closed her eyes once more.
“Is she awake?” said Kit, crouching near. “We’ve got to hurry if we’re going to reach the ley while it’s still active.”
“I don’t think she’s ready yet. Can we give her a little more time?”
“We don’t have a lot of other options here. She needs a doctor. The sooner, the better.”
“How are we going to get her out of the cave and up to the ley line?”
“I’ll carry her.”
“Kit, be reasonable,” Cass pleaded. “Think about it.”
“I am thinking about it!” he declared hotly. “That’s all I’m thinking about right now—getting us safely out of here in one piece.”
“I know that, Kit,” she replied, matching his flare of temper. “And I thank you for it, but facts are facts. Carrying her is not a real option here. And with her arm the way it is—and who knows what internal injuries she might have—she cannot make the jump. End of story.”
Kit stared at her. “What do you suggest?”
“You could go and bring someone back.”
“And what if I can’t get back to you in time? Or if I get lost, what then?” he challenged. “Things have got very unpredictable lately, if you haven’t noticed.”
Cass bit her lip. He was right.
Kit pounced on her indecision. “This is the only way. We’ll just have to make it work. Once we’re on the other side, you can look after Mina while I go for help. But we all go together.”
Cass regarded the sleeping Wilhelmina with a doubtful look. “Okay. What if we give her the day to rest and get ready? We can try the ley line this evening.”
“I don’t know.” Kit ran a hand through his hair.
“She can’t move, Kit. We can’t drag her all the way up there.”
“Okay. I hear you,” he said, relenting at last. “But we’ve got to find a way to get her in good enough shape to travel.” He followed Cass’ gaze to Mina’s inert form. “How do you propose we do that?”
“Feed her, keep her warm, give her pl
enty to drink. And there’s another thing we could try—willow bark.” At Kit’s raised eyebrows, she explained, “It’s a natural form of aspirin. The Native Americans used it as an anti-inflammatory and painkiller.”
“I can find a willow tree. What do you need?”
“Just some strong young branches to scrape. I can make it up as tea and get her to drink some. It could help.”
Kit nodded, glad to be doing something useful. “It’s a plan. Sit tight until I get back.”
CHAPTER 22
In Which the Wheels of Justice Grind On
The clickety-tap of the gaoler’s heavy hobnail boots in the stone-flagged corridor roused Burleigh from his morose stupor. He heard the iron key in the lock and the creak of the half-rusted door swinging open. The earl, curled up in his corner, did not raise his head when the man called his name and told him to stand. “On your feet,” the turnkey called, stepping farther into the cell. “You are wanted upstairs.”
At this Burleigh pushed himself up onto an elbow. “Bitte?” he said. “Pardon?”
“Get up and wash your face.”
“Why? Where are you taking me?”
“You will find out soon enough.” The turnkey took his shoulder and gave him a push to get him moving. “Schnell! We don’t have all day to waste.”
On the contrary, Burleigh did have all day to waste, but he obeyed—if only for the novelty of the request. He shambled to the water butt and dipped in his hands and splashed tepid water over his face; he smoothed down as best he could his wild, overgrown mass of hair and beard, then allowed himself to be shackled and led from his cell. He was marched along the corridor and up three flights of stairs. The climb left Burleigh breathless and weak-kneed, and slightly disoriented.
“In here,” the gaoler said, pushing him through one of the doors at the top of the stairs. The prisoner stumbled over the threshold and into the daylight blazing through the two windows overlooking the square.
Stunned, Burleigh stood blinking, half shielding his eyes with his hands, trying to get used to the brightness. The room was bereft of furniture except for a low wooden bench against the wall opposite a tall, narrow window and, between the two doors on the third wall, a large wooden desk behind which sat a man busily writing something in a great leather-bound ledger. “What is it?” intoned the man absorbed in his work.
“I have brought the prisoner you requested,” the gaoler said.
“Over there.” The man pointed with his quill at the bench. His nostrils flared with disgust at the stink as Burleigh passed by his desk. “Sit down and wait until you are called.”
The gaoler stepped back and took his place to one side of the door to forestall any attempt at escape. They waited. Burleigh, after so many months in the dark recesses of the Rathaus, was happy just to sit and allow the blessed sunlight to wash over him, bathing his light-deprived senses. After a time, the outer door opened and a skinny youth bustled in carrying a roll of paper tied with a red ribbon.
The court clerk held out his hand to receive the document and then motioned the young man away again; he loosed the knot, unrolled the document, and read for a moment. Then, apparently satisfied that all was in order, he pushed back his chair and turned to the door behind him; he gave a single knock and stepped inside, reappearing a moment later. “Come,” he said. “The magistrate will see you now.”
Burleigh was hauled to his feet, his shackles were removed, and he was pushed toward the inner office. He shuffled into a large book-lined room and was brought to stand before an expansive leather-topped desk occupied by a sharp-featured man in a curly black wig and a stiff-starched white collar tight around his thin neck. The man did not deign to acknowledge his visitor’s presence.
“Herr Magistrate,” intoned the clerk after a moment. “The prisoner you requested is presented.”
“Name,” the magistrate said without raising his eyes from the papers spread out before him. When Burleigh did not reply quickly enough, he glanced up. “State your name for the records.”
“Burleigh,” the earl said, his voice a raspy croak. “Lord Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland.” The title sounded ridiculous in the circumstances, even to him. The magistrate glanced up sharply and cast a critical eye over him as if to ascertain the truth of this assertion, then shrugged and, dipping his pen, entered a line on the paper.
Chief Magistrate Richter waved a narrow hand at a corner of the room. “Is this the man who assaulted you?”
Burleigh glanced around to see Engelbert Stiffelbeam standing behind him. He had not noticed anyone else in the room. “This is the man, yes,” replied Etzel.
Herr Richter nodded slowly and returned to his papers. After a moment, he said, “And is it your intention to have the charges levied against this prisoner set aside and dismissed?”
“That is my intention,” said Etzel evenly. “I wish to have him released.”
“You make this declaration under your own volition and of your own free will?”
“I do, yes, Chief Magistrate.”
“No one has paid you to do this, or promised you anything of material value, or threatened you in any way in order to persuade you to make this request?”
“No, Herr Magistrate, no one has given me anything. Nor has anyone promised me anything or threatened me. I do this because Jesus has commanded us all to forgive those who have sinned against us.”
The magistrate gave a little snort, whether of agreement or annoyance, Burleigh could not tell. Herr Richter, Chief Magistrate of Prague, dipped his pen again and made a note on his paper. Then, replacing the pen, he folded his hands and looked up into the prisoner’s face. “These charges are hereby answered. Time served in prison shall be considered just and sufficient punishment for the aforementioned crime. Therefore, it is the decision of this office that the prisoner will be released from captivity pending further charges arising from matters relating to subversion of authority and interference with the lawful work of His Majesty’s court.”
Burleigh heard the words “released from captivity” and his heart lurched in his chest. But before hope took flight, the stern-faced official continued; pointing at Burleigh with his pen, he said, “You are hereby released on the provision that you remain in the city until all legal proceedings are concluded.”
“I am to be released?” said the earl, unable to trust what he had heard. “But where am I to go?”
“That is none of my concern,” replied the magistrate sternly. “So long as you remain within the city walls, you can go where you like.”
“My purse, my money—it was taken from me when I was brought here. I will need it.”
“Any property you may have possessed is forfeit to the crown until any and all matters arising from any and all cases against you shall be adjudicated,” the magistrate intoned curtly. “That is the law.” He looked hard at Burleigh. “If you have no money, you can be declared a destitute and charges of vagrancy can be brought against you.”
“If my purse is forfeit, how am I to pay my way?”
“That is not the concern of this office.”
Burleigh stared at the man. “So then . . . ?”
“You will be returned to gaol to await further legal proceedings. Is that your desire?”
“He can stay with me.” Engelbert moved to stand beside the earl. “I am sorry,” he told Burleigh, “I meant to say this before.” To the magistrate, he said, “If you please, sir, he will stay with me and work in my kaffeehaus to earn his keep. He will not become a vagrant.”
“See that he does not,” replied Herr Richter. “I agree to release him to your care on the condition that you stand surety for him until judgement is rendered. You are responsible for his upkeep and must see that he fulfils all his obligations. His debts and trespasses become your debts and trespasses—understood?”
Etzel looked at Burleigh as if judging the worth of a sack of flour. “I understand, Chief Magistrate.”
Herr Richter reached for the little b
rass bell at the corner of his great desk and gave it a shake. Pavel, the clerk, appeared momentarily and took his place beside the magistrate, who said, “These men have agreed to the conditions and stipulations of the court; see that they sign the appropriate documents.”
Turning once more to the former prisoner, the magistrate gave his head a slight shake—as if he still could not decide what to think about all this—then sighed and, pushing back his throne of a chair, stood up to deliver his provisional verdict.
“Under the conditions just specified and agreed,” said the high official, “I hereby authorise the release of the prisoner to the care and custody of Engelbert Stiffelbeam, baker in this city, until such time as the court shall summon Archelaeus Burleigh to receive the judgement of this court regarding all remaining charges against him.”
Burleigh, not quite believing what had just happened, looked around at the still-open door behind him. “I am free to go?”
“You are free”—the magistrate thrust a finger at the document now in his clerk’s hands—“providing you obey the agreed stipulations and conditions.”
“I can go now?”
Nodding, Herr Richter said, “There are papers to sign. The clerk will see you out.”
Not twenty minutes later, the earl emerged from the shadow of the Rathaus into the glorious light of a splendid midsummner afternoon. He paused to breathe the clean, fresh, sun-washed air and the warmth of the gentle rays on his pallid skin. It felt like tiny electric fingers dancing all over him, and he closed his eyes to savour the feeling and marvel that he had never felt anything so wonderful in all his life.
CHAPTER 23
In Which the River Is the Only Way
That first day of freedom and light after so many months in the dim, noisome dungeon cell was intoxicating, and Burleigh wandered the city streets in a daze. Unaware of the effect of his wan and dishevelled appearance on the respectable citizens of Prague, he roamed the busy thoroughfares, lost to the world and lost to himself in the random chaos of his thoughts. The sun had long since set and shadows claimed the streets when he at last turned his feet toward the Old Town Square and the Grand Imperial Kaffeehaus to find Engelbert putting up the shutters for the day. “Guten Abend,” Etzel called when he saw Burleigh strolling up. “Have you had a good walk?”