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Chapter 1

London, 1729

A rooster greets the morning light, while above the seedy streets of London, a fading star clings to life. Warm tears coat my cheeks. Burdened by anger and fear, my chest heaves. Beyond the icy window through which I gaze, a dull winter sun peaks through plumes of chimney smoke. 

My brother touches a hand upon my shoulder. “Devon, please forgive me.”

I have no voice. I have no wish to reproach David for losing all our coin at the tables. I have no desire to do more than fall to my knees and pray for a swift end to the pain in my soul. I turn to meet David’s sad eyes. As if gazing into a mirror, I see a reflection of myself in his face. I am older only by minutes. Physically, we are cut from the same cloth. In every other way, we are as different as chalk and cheese.

A clank at the door turns my head. Landlord Standish bursts into our tiny flat. His ample cheeks blossom with rage and a set of keys dangle from his hand. “Do you have it?”

I glance at the frost on the eastern window. “We need more time.”

Standish shakes his bald head. “I gave you more time the last time. You will pay the rent now or face eviction.”

David brings his hands together, as if praying. “Please, good sir, you can see the condition on the streets. You will sentence us to death.”

Standish shakes his head, as if doing so will clear his conscience. “You have brought this upon yourselves.”

David’s voice quivers. “Do you not have a soul?”

Standish’s eyes narrow. “You have been clapped with a twenty pound action. You have but two days.”

Before I can bring an answer, Standish storms from the room.

David’s face fills with false hope. “We will find a way. I promise.”

I say nothing and turn again toward the frigid window. In two days time, I have little doubt we will face eviction or perhaps a debtor’s gaol where the prison bars are stained with rust and blood. Where most succumb to illness or the end of a blade. The few who survive emerge from beyond those wretched walls with sunken cheeks and gaunt frames, tortured by fits of madness. Mere skeletons draped in sagging skin.

I turn from the window. “I earn but shillings and you earn but dirt. We are destined for Marshalsea.”

David offers a sheep’s grin. “Lady Luck has not been my companion of late, but I feel she is due for an appearance.”

“If I had but a shilling given for each time you have uttered such nonsense,” I say under my breath. My hands shake and my stomach growls.

“This time will be different,” David says.

I know he is lying, but we are out of options. I shrug and point toward the door.

We pull on our ragged coats and worn boots and trudge out into the cold. A bitter wind turns our cheeks into pincushions. A sprinkle of new snow dusts our tricorns as we pound fists upon doors. We are beggars now, asking friends and aquaintences for meager loans. Most refuse, but a few take pity. By day’s end we sit near the Square of Saint James to count our catch. We have but a few pounds and a smattering of pennies. Not enough to pay the rent, but perhaps enough to gamble away our last few days of life.

David leads us to a worn tavern on the south side of London. We are both much too tall for the door and must bend low to enter. The room is filled with gray smoke and the rancor of splashed beer. A few gamblers grumble about their losses and storm from the room. My knees weaken as I imagine the worst. David finds a table. I stand nearby and pray for a miracle. It does not happen. Hours later, the cards have not fallen in our favor. David has lost almost all our stake.

I approach and whisper. “David, we must leave.”

David brushes me off with the wave of a hand. “My luck will change. I can feel it.”

I again whisper. “We must cut our losses. We will need what is left if we hope to survive the gaol.”

David turns and stares at me through harsh blue eyes. “We will not survive the debtor’s prison, with or without what is left.”

My head knows he is right, but my heart trembles with fear. I have no choice. I step away and utter another silent prayer.

The dealer at the table is a small man with large daddle hands. He offers a fake smile while shuffling the deck. Three additional players slap plastic chips onto the table. David hesitates. His eyes squint in contemplation. He rests an unsteady hand upon the few pounds left and then pushes them all to the center. My heart leaps into my throat. We are all in. We live or die by the next hand we are dealt. 

The dealer touches a finger to the stack and brings forth two cards. My pulse quickens as he turns one over. The two of spades. David shakes his head. We have lost the first chance. I force the vomit to remain in my gut. My lungs refuse to pull in air as the dealer reaches for the second card. I lower my head and close my eyes. The room falls silent, save for the sound of chests heaving with anticipation. I hear David gasp, and open my eyes. Whether it is the sound of defeat or triumph, I do not know. David stands from his seat. His face is white with shock.

“David?”

My brother’s eyes meet mine, but his voice remains silent.

“David? What is our fate?”

David beams. “King of hearts. We are saved, brother. We are saved.”

I let out the breath I have been holding for eternity.

David collects the winnings, more than enough to cover our debts. He glides from the gambling room with me in tow. He throws a shilling upon the bar and orders two ales. The hostess is a young lass with tight blond curls, ruby lips, and a trim waste. Her smile is broad as she slides the mugs across the wet bar. My drinking is rare but tonight I choose to celebrate. I have been granted another day of life.

The room is a dissonance of sharp voices and bustling staff. Men laugh, clink mugs, and wipe foam from lips. Two girls approach. Flirting hands run fingers through our hair. One nuzzles close to David’s ear. “May we help you lads spend your winnings?”

I fear for David. He often allows his hedonistic desires to rule his actions. I speak for us both. “Alas, fair ladies, we will soon be off.”

David appears torn as he glances first at the women, then at me, then back at the women. His head nods a reluctant agreement, and the maidens turn toward other marks. Men willing to rent a nearby room and pay for a night of pleasure. If none can be found, the ladies of the night may sell their services at a discreet brothel near the piazza or slink back home to small flats along the Strand. 

We finish our ale, don our coats, and step toward the door. On the dark street, a pale moon glows through a light fog. Our warm breath mists the air.

A small link boy emerges from the shadows holding an unlit torch. His cheeks are crimson from the chill and dotted with soot and soil. “Where ye two bound?”

“Greek street,” David says.

The boy removes his ragged tricorn and attempts a bow. “At your service.”

David smiles and hands the lad two pennies. Twice the normal rate.

The boy grins and lights his torch from a nearby lantern. The flame splashes the street with flickers of burnt orange and bright yellow. Following the lad, we stride toward Greek street, our steps now lighter than before. 

Now and then the glow from the pitch reveals the boy’s face. I see not the innocence of youth; not the playful smile of a lad without a care. His shoulders sag with the weight of a cruel world. He holds the torch above his head and points toward Soho. We follow.

David slaps my back and laughs. “Did I not promise you we’d take the egg?”

I nod, even though I know the gesture cannot be seen in the dark. “I truly believed your last hand was a shot into the brown. Going all in was a bricky thing to do.”

David cups his groin with a hand. “Sometimes you just need a solid pair.” 

I smile at the double entendre and say nothing. I choose not to spoil the moment with thoughts of our future; with worry about how rent might be paid the following month. I choose to squelch such concerns, at least for now. Consumed by my thoughts, I take little notice of our route until I glance up and view a sign post. We have crossed Long Acre. Yellow flames flicker in the windows of splintered timber houses along the dark street. A cool wind touches my face and brings with it the scent of decay and depression. A shop sign hangs from rusted chains and moans in the breeze. The link boy turns toward a narrow ally. I start to follow and then freeze.

I grab David’s shoulder. “Wait.”

He turns and cocks his head. “What is the matter, Devon?”

“We have not gone west. We have been led east, toward St. Giles.”

The link boy glances over his shoulder and offers a coy smile. He turns and runs down the ally, cupping his hand over the torch to shield it from the bitter wind.

I frown. “He’s a moon-curser.” 

David’s eyes grow wide. “We must leave. Now.”

I nod. The lad had been hired to lure us away from the safety of the busy streets. David and I turn to flee, but we are too late.

A half-dozen men step from the shadows. Their dark faces are shrouded by scarves. They stand almost as tall and wide as the two of us. Before they can move to block our escape, David lunges at a nearby shape. The man dodges and lands a blow upon David’s back. He stumbles and falls to his knees. I rush to defend him but an attacker stops me with a jab to my gut. I double over as my lungs empty of air. I avoid another fist, grab the man’s leg, and fling him upward. The assailant lands on his back with a grunt. Another cutpurse grabs my arms and holds me in place while his mate slams a fist into my solar plexus. Searing pain blurs my vision. I cannot see David, but I hear him grunt while being pummeled. The man holding my arms throws me to the ground and thrusts a foot against my ribs. I hear one crack. Each shallow breath brings agony. I close my eyes and wait for another kick, but nothing happens.

I hear scuffling, shouting, and boots crunching atop dirt. Then silence.

I can barely move my lips to call for my brother. “David?”

Nothing.

“David, are you…?”

Silence.

An uncaring wind howls and shrieks.

His voice but a rasp, David finally answers. “Devon?”

“I am here.”

Unable to move, I close my eyes and curl into a ball. I can do nothing more than lay upon the hard ground surrounded by broken glass and the stench of urine. An hour passes before I can force my eyes to open. A crescent moon illuminates the tumbledown hovels of the impoverished. Rows of rotting wood and brick shelter the men who fear landlords and the women who pray their children will live through the winter. 

I glance away and finally find the will to move. The effort brings torture beyond measure. I crawl toward David, and we help each other to stand. 

David’s eyes fill with tears. “They stole our coin. We are doomed.”

“We are alive.”

“Only for now.”

Leaning upon each other, we find our way back to a small church near Greek Street. The nuns take pity and tend to our wounds, which are many. Hours later, we stumble back to our miserable flat and crawl into bed, perhaps for the last time.

When dawn arrives with a rooster crow, the door bursts open with a thud. Startled, I rise from my bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. Landlord Standish grunts and storms into the flat, his black polished boots clacking on the wooden floor. A stocky mutton shunter follows close behind. His massive fingers curl about the handle of a sledge hammer. The warrant officer has a parish pickaxe for a nose and biceps the size of elephant legs. The chains wrapped about his neck fall to the floor and rattle as he moves.

David springs from his bed. His eyes land upon the stocky officer with the chains. He offers Standish a pleading look. “You gave us one more day.”

“I lied,” Standish said. “I needed to be sure you would not run. Now at least I can collect a few coins from the jailer.”

“You have no heart,” I say to Standish.

“You have no right to judge,” Standish says. He turns to the officer. “These two. Do as you will.” 

Given no choice, David and I dress, collect what few belongings we are permitted to keep, and stretch our hands toward the officer. The man clamps us in manacles and chains and drags us out the door. He leads us through a busy Soho market where onlookers flash but a brief glance before turning back toward tables filled with pungent spices, baked bread, and glistening vegetables. They have witnessed this sight before. Men abandoned by fortune, some with pregnant wives in tow who weep and beg for mercy. 

“I am sorry, brother,” David whispers, his chains clanking like muted bells in a tower.

“Tis not your fault,” I reply. “Fate has robbed us.”

“Silence,” the officer says.

Pigs grunt and chickens squawk from nearby cages. The retched scent of their feces overpowers the stench on the street. Jugglers in bright pink and red entertain the crowd while musicians play baroque flutes and guitars. A young lady glances up from a table filled with nosegays and wool scarves. She holds one up and smirks, as if taunting us to consider one final purchase. We near the end of the market and slow. I crane my neck to keep the square in focus, knowing that every step takes me further away from the pulse of life. 

Our escort shoves me in the back and points toward Southampton Street. We march down the dusty road and arrive at the river Thames. Tainted water laps at the bricks along the edge where an array of worn boats rock upon the current and smack each other’s wooden sides. 

Inside one boat, a man stands and waves. “Scullers ‘ere!”

Another make-shift sailor smacks an oar on a wooden gunwale. “Oars for hire!” 

The officer brings David and I to a halt. His brow furls as he considers the options. Finally, he points to a waterman with a gray beard and weathered hands. The man nods. “Officer Yates. To the Borough again today?”

“Aye, Thomas, reservations for two,” Officer Yates says, as if taking us to a fine restaurant.

“Five pence,” Thomas says.

Yates frowns and cocks his head to one side. “Four, as always.”

“Let a man earn a living,” Thomas says.

Yates folds his arms and nods toward a dozen other clamoring boatmen.

Thomas grumbles and rows to shore while his competitors snarl. The officer jerks our chains and drags us onto the boat. David smacks a knee on the wooden side and winces. The officer helps him into the boat with a boot to his britches. As if royalty on a grand yacht, Yates settles near the stern and motions for Thomas to cast off. The muscles beneath Thomas’s shirt bulge as he rows. The mud brown water splashes across the sculler’s bow and smells of soot and slime.

A dull sun hides behind a damp London fog while the lights of the city grow smaller with each splash of the oars. 

Yates nods his chin toward me. “Ye have any coin?”

David answers. “For you?”

Yates shakes his head. “For the turnkeys at the gaol. Debtors with no coin don’t last long.”

David lowers his eyes.

“Our coin was stolen,” I say.

Yates looks away, as if the sight of us is too painful to bear, even for him. “‘Tis sad. ‘Tis sad indeed.”

Thomas pulls to shore and steadies the boat as Yates disembarks. Amidst clanking chains, David and I stand upon rotting dock wood. Our knees quaver, as much from fright as from cold. Yates pushes us toward the Borough’s High Street and the end of our journey. I glance about and recall a day from the distant past when David and I had ventured to Southwark Fair. A row of pubs and taverns went on forever, as if an infinity illusion seen in a mirror. Revelers laughed and smacked mugs, vendors held forth handmade trinkets, and scented smoke billowed from street carts filled with sizzling meat.

Today, only a few souls mill about and fewer still lift chins as we pass. Their sullen eyes reflect a mix of apathy and gratitude. Apathy because to feel otherwise brings too much pain. Gratitude because as dismal as their lives may be, they are lucky not to be in our shoes.

I recall the history of Southwark, settled by the Romans in 43 AD. The area had become the southern entry point into London. Long lines of uniformed soldiers once marched along Watling Street, the Roman road from Canterbury. Upon reaching Borough High Street, they turned north toward London Bridge. Given the traffic, inns and pubs sprang forth. A community formed and brought with it prostitutes, poverty, theaters for plays—including Shakespeare’s Globe—and a few prisons to house the drunks, thief’s, and debtors. 

I shiver when I think about the worst of these, only moments away.

Several blocks onward, Yates turns us toward a dim and narrow alley that ends at the gates to the prison. Aged stone walls, perhaps 150 feet on a side, rise toward a dull sky filled with tearful clouds. An elevated turret, almost fifty feet high, flanks the castle keep. Large wooden doors, studded with iron, form the gaol’s gate. Yates pounds a fist upon a door. Silence, save for the squawking of crows in the air. Long minutes pass before a grinding screech is followed by the opening of a small iron grate embedded in the door. 

Dark and reddened eyes glare through the opening. The turnkey speaks with a heavy Scottish accent. “What have we ‘ere?” 

“Two more guests for the lodge,” Yates says.

The guard’s eyes change from annoyed to bemused. “Have they any coin?”

Yates turns and whispers. “There is nothing, boys? Not even a trinket that can be pawned?”

I shake my head no.

Yates grumbles and turns back toward the gate. “No coin.”

“Then welcome to hell,” the guard says.

The heavy doors lumber open with a moaning wail, as if a premonition to the torture that awaits beyond. David lets out a whimper. His knees buckle. I turn my gaze toward the narrow rock walls beyond the gate and lift my weary chin.

Yates rests a hand on my shoulder. “Without coin, you will be sent to the Common Side.”

I nod with understanding. Few last long on the wretched side of the prison reserved for paupers. 

Chapter 2

London, 1729

My stomach flutters as I hear the front gate slam shut with an echoing boom. The chains wrapped about my chest squeeze the air from my lungs. I fight to keep my back erect and my face hard. Any sign of weakness inside these walls carries a death sentence. The stocky turnkey with plump cheeks and a drinker’s nose lifts his cane and points. I turn my eyes toward the long damp corridor that leads into the bowels of the Marshalsea prison.

The turnkey limps as he guides us down the passage until we reach the end and another set of wooden doors. The dank air in the cramped space smells of sweat and fear. He bangs his cane on the wood. The door creaks open and the turnkey props it with an empty wine barrel. He smiles, bows, and waves a hand toward the entrance.

Another corridor leads toward an outdoor courtyard. I squint as beams of morning light filter through an open door leading to the yard. I take a step toward the warm and open space, but the turnkey grabs my shoulder and spins me around. His eyes narrow as he points his cane toward another passage to the left. Beside me, with his face blanched, David lowers his eyes and staggers forward.

“‘Tis alright, brother,” I whisper. “Be at peace.”

The turnkey smirks and pushes us down the path. We stop at a small room with no door. Inside, a fire crackles in a corner. Two chairs and a small table have been aged by splinters and stains. Atop sits a bowl of steaming soup covered in grease and bread crumbs. A half-empty mug of ale patiently waits nearby. My stomach growls. The turnkey scoops a spoonful of soup into his mouth and sloshes it down with a gulp of ale. His teeth are stained brown and his breath wreaks. He reaches for a leather-bound ledger tucked under a chair, plops it onto the table, and opens it to a half-filled page. Above the lines on the paper are the scribbled names, addresses and debt amounts of a dozen guests.

Without looking up, the turnkey says, “Name?”

“Devon Mizra,” I answer.

The turnkey studies my brown face. “Asian?”

“Persian.” 

The turnkey nods, enters my name, and then says, “Address?”

“Greek Street.”

“Debt?”

“Twenty pounds and eight shillings.”

The turnkey lifts his chin and frowns. The red hair above his eyes is thick enough to resemble a large bush. “That much, eh?” He shakes his head and looks at David. “Name?”

When the turnkey completes the entries, I ask, “And what is your name?”

“William Wallace,” the turnkey says with a grin. “I once conquered the Brits.”

I allow myself to smile at the joke.

The Scottish turnkey shrugs, “‘Tis Samuel McClintock the third. Almost royalty but not quite.” He waves a hand in the air. “Welcome to my castle.”

I tilt my head to one side. “You are a prisoner?”

“Same as ye,” McClintock says. “Only now I work for the head turnkey and warden, William Acton, under the charge of the governor, John Darby, who is under the charge of his majesty the knight’s marshal, Sir Philip Meadows.”

“You are paying off your debt,” David says. “Can we also…?”

McClintock wags his head to and fro. “Only a few are so lucky. There are far more debtors than jobs to be had. Best to find a way to stay alive.” He glances us up and down. “Can ye fight?”

I hold my head high. “We can stand our ground.”

McClintock lets out a snort. “In this place, pride is a killer.”

I lift my chained hands. “May we have an easement of chains, good sir?”

“I’m neither good nor a sir,” McClintock says. “You have no coin for a trade of chains, so they remain.”

I have read that Marshalsea is legally controlled by the Knight Marshal, Sir Philip Meadows, and the gaol had been sublet to Governor John Darby, who in turn had leased it to a butcher named William Acton, a former prison turnkey. Under Acton’s control, rumors had spread about harsh treatment and excess charges for an easement of chains. Stories surfaced about Acton’s butchering tendencies and a rise in body count. Those fortunate enough to have a few coins to their name help Acton make a profit. Prisoners must pay for their lodgings, food, clothing, and ale. Many run up debts and are forced to remain behind these walls years beyond their original sentence. Tales are told of prisoners, even when later acquitted of their crimes, being forced to remain confined for many years after their sentences to clear the debts.

David and I have no coin. We must rely solely upon charitable donations, often siphoned by turnkeys like McClintock and Acton. Even then, the provisions are dismal. Scraps of bread or a few chunks of spoiled meat. Save a miracle, David and I have little hope of survival for more than a few weeks.

David’s chains rattle as he raises his hands. “Please, can you not take pity?”

McClintock’s eyes fill with sympathy, but the look is fleeting, like a brief hug between men. He shakes his head no. “I must abide. ‘Tis the rule.” He stands and hobbles through the door. His voice echos off the cold walls. “Follow me, gents.”

With our chains rattling, David and I trudge forward. McClintock leads us again toward the sunlit courtyard beyond the inner doors. Warmth touches my face like the hand of a fair lass. Unable to shield my eyes while chained, I must squint to see the path ahead. My worn shoes scrape across scuffed stone, laid down centuries ago. Beyond the stone, in the open courtyard outside, grass-lined dirt has been carved by carriage wheels and horse hooves where carts have brought in supplies for the prisoners and guards. 

A few steps before we reach the courtyard and a glimmer of freedom, McClintock turns us toward a set of stairs that lead into the turret. My heart sinks. The sick scent of urine and vomit waft up from the floor as we struggle to climb. He leads us onward until we reach another set of ascending stairs. Under the stairwell, an angled pair of double doors resembles an entrance to a cellar. McClintock grabs a handle and pulls open a door. My face wrinkles as the sickening smell of feces and bile reaches my nose.

“‘Tis the hole,” McClintock says, “where ye go to be punished. Step out of line and Acton will sentence you to several days in ‘ere. No one has lasted four, and those who survive three…” McClintock’s voice trails off. “Well, they no longer step out of line.”

McClintock shuts the door and escorts us to the end of the narrow passageway and another door. He fetches a key from a pocket and turns. The door opens to reveal a room filled with four cells. Tiny barred windows, high on the walls, offer glimpses of the free world beyond. A dozen prisoners, four in each small cell, share two wooden cots. Their clothes have been reduced to shreds and their eyes to hollow orbs. I imagine David and I in the same condition mere weeks from now and fight to keep my hands from shaking.

McClintock fetches forth another key and unlocks a cell. He motions for David to enter. “‘Tis the pound, where ye will stay until Acton returns from his travels, a few days hence.”

Clinking and clanking, David steps inside. Moments later, I sit on a hard cot next to my brother and ponder our fate. Perhaps God will have have mercy on our souls and end our lives a few days hence, long before we have suffered beyond measure. 

I glance about the pound. Manacles and chains hang from spikes driven into the stone. The chilled air is thick with dust and pungent body odor. The wooden floors are covered with dirt and resemble the dank streets on the east side of London. I shiver when my eyes land upon a morbid display affixed to the back wall. David follows my eyes and shudders. Iron collars, sheers, thumbscrews, twelve-pound skullcaps, and teeth-pulling implements hang upon the stone, as if decorations selected by a masochist. The skullcap consists of a round metal head-shaped frame attached to a long vertical rod, with two long screws that jab into the inner space of the round frame. The sheers look like large scissors, hinged in the middle, with pairs of flesh-ripping hooks on both ends. 

Several bull pizzles also dangle from hooks. Fashioned from a bull’s penis, these long whips are often used to beat prisoners into submission. I recall that in 1639, twenty-three women had been forced to occupy a single room without enough space to lie down. The horrid conditions eventually led to a revolt where prisoners yanked down fences and attacked the guards with bare hands and stones. Both the male and female prisoners were caught and whipped with pizzles until near dead. Many perished days later from their wounds.

McClintock walks toward the instruments. He palms the end of a pizzle and grins. “‘We have no court jesters ‘ere, so we must amuse ourselves in other ways.”

One of the tattered debtors raises a chin. “The jest is long worn, McClintock. Have ye nothing new?”

McClintock wraps a large hand about the end of a thumbscrew. “Careful lad, I might lose me temper.”

The prisoner lowers his head and says nothing.

David holds up his chained hands. “Please, can we not be removed of this burden?”

No sympathy graces McClintock’s eyes now. His face hardens as he turns toward the door. Under his breath, he says, “The Court of the Verge will decide your fate in a few days.”

Before McClintock can leave, the door bursts open. 

A petite woman in a silk mantua dress and poke bonnet strides into the pound. Her eyes meet mine. The are beryl green, like a pair of glimmering emeralds. She has dark skin and appears to be Middle Eastern. She is about my age, perhaps twenty and five. Dark brunette curls fall about her narrow shoulders and touch upon her brown neck. Beams of light through a window make the auburn strands in her hair shimmer like gold. The woman’s button nose compliements her ruby lips and graceful jawline. Despite my desperate situation, I am powerless against the ache this woman conjures in my chest and groin. 

The woman’s eyes remain fixed upon mine. I am thankful she does not look down at my mud-covered shoes and tattered breeches.“These are the new debtors?”

“Indeed, lady Ariana,” McClintock says. “Delivered today by Yates.”

Lady Ariana examines my chains. She looks away to unlatch her purse and fetch six shillings. “Remove them. Now.”

McClintock pockets the coins. “Yes, me lady. Right away.”

Our cell door clanks open and the turnkey unlocks and removes David’s chains. He rubs his wrists and sighs with relief. McClintock then removes my chains and relocks the cell door.

Ariana steps close to the iron bars and holds my gaze. The soft scent of lilac oozes from her skin. “What is your name?” 

“Devon Mizra. My brother is called David.”

She glances at David, narrows her eyes, and then turns to look deeper into mine. “You are twins.”

“Yes.”

“Any other siblings?”

“No.”

“What is your lineage?” Ariana asks.

“My lineage?”

“Your parents,” Ariana asks. “From which countries do they descend?”

David answers on my behalf. “They were both from Persia.”

Ariana looks at David and raises both eyebrows. “Persian? They have passed?”

“Yes,” I answer.

Ariana again examines my face. Her eyes flicker with excitement. While her gaze is still locked with mine, she calls toward McClintock. “Have they been harmed?”

“Not yet,” McClintock says with a devilish smile.

Ariana swivels her head and levels a stern glare. McClintock loses his smile. His face resembles that of a scorned dog.

“The good doctor will return from his travels with Knight Marshal Phillip Meadows in three days,” Ariana says, handing McClintock more coin. “Until then, these two are to be moved to the Master’s side where they can be bathed, fed, clothed, and kept safe. Is that understood?”

“Yes, me lady,” McClintock says. “But ye well know the dangers within these walls. Safe is a tall task.”

“Hire Timothy as a guard,” Ariana demands. “Three days, Mr. McClintock. You must keep them alive for three more days.”

My eyes open wide. Who is this strange lady? Why does she care about our lineage? How does she wield so much power within these walls? And who is this mysterious ‘good doctor’ traveling with the knight marshal? What will become of us when he returns? Most concerning, why is it such a tall order to remain alive in this gaol for a scant three days?

Chapter 3

London, 1729

The late morning sun is powerless against the frost lining the walls of our prison cell. David and I share a small cot, shivering and curled together to keep from freezing. I pull my coat tighter about my neck, but the act does little to diminish the bitter chill. David and I have not been bathed, clothed, or fed well at Marshalsea. Instead, we were thrown scraps of near-raw meat and handed half-empty ladles of water. Unable to sleep in this place of misery and decay, my body and soul ache from fatigue. I wonder how anyone can survive more than a few hours, let alone years in such a place.

McClintock arrives at our cell by midday. He rattles his cane against the iron bars.

David and I turn our weary heads toward the sound.

With chattering teeth, David again asks, “Why have we not been moved to the Master’s side, as Lady Ariana instructed?”

McClintock grins, exposing his stained teeth. “Patience, me lads. There are only fifty rooms on the Master’s side. Accommodations must be found.”

I suspect that our turnkey has pocketed Ariana’s coin and will not move us to better lodgings in the other building until the third day, just before the mysterious good doctor returns from his travels. In the meantime, David and I need to find the will to survive on the Common side of the gaol.

McClintock fingers a key and inserts it into the lock. He opens the cell door and then turns to leave. “Follow me.”

Nearby prisoners reach their arms through bars and beg to be fed and clothed. McClintock ignores their pleas. My legs feel like those of a newborn foal as I try to stand. David helps me stagger toward the door. We follow McClintock down the corridor, down the stairs, and out into the gray fog that mists the air in the courtyard. The rectangular space is massive, almost half an acre in size. 

A few rays of sun pierce the fog and touch my cheeks. I close my eyes and hold my face higher, as if doing so might bring me an inch closer to the warmth. I open my eyes and stumble as we leave the stone and step onto the grass. David steadies me with an arm. I glance behind at the castle keep and recall stories about the original Marshalsea building having been turned into a prison in 1373. Now, there are two buildings. The Common side, from whence we have come, and the Master’s side, where I pray we are headed. Those with coin enjoy the Master’s building, which we can barely see beyond a narrow brick wall that runs down the middle of the courtyard.

“Welcome to the park, boys,” McClintock says, waving his arm through the air. “The wall was built so those on the Master’s side can be spared the sight of ye common folk. We wouldn’t want them distressed, now would we?”

“When can we move to a Master’s room?” I ask.

“Soon enough,” McClintock says while sprinkling some tobacco onto paper. He rolls the smoke and lights one end. 

While the dense odor fills my nose, a tingle runs down my spine. If McClintock does not transfer us to the Master’s side, we will be forced to live in squalor on the Common side for at least two more days, assuming the good doctor returns on time…or at all. Our holding cell has been heaven compared to what might lay ahead. I have watched former prisoners, with tears in their eyes, tell sad stories about being crammed into one of only nine small wards with two dozen other prisoners. There are few cots, little food, and even less hope. 

In contrast, the Master’s side has spacious rooms with beds, proper food, and ale. Rent is 10 shillings a week, usually shared by two or three lodgers. I long for such accomodations, even if only for a few days.

Nearly fifty prisoners mill about the yard, smoking, talking, and breathing in the fresh air. I suspect they have just enough coin to buy a few moments of freedom each day. Near the far end of the park, the heavily guarded Lodge gate offers the only way in or out. No one has ever made it over the walls.

David points to his right. A wooden cottage stands in stark contrast to the rock walls nearby. A white picket fence surrounds the property and painted pastel curtains cover the windows. The decorative print hints at a female’s touch. A few trees struggle to survive in the front yard and the grass has turned yellow.

McClintock notices our gaze and nods at the house. “Warden William Acton’s home. He and his wife, Martha, live there. She also runs the pub on the Master’s side.”

McClintock points north. Iron spikes top a long wall that leads to a terrace flanked by three lodges. “Prison wards. Twenty rooms with eight to ten men each who have a little coin, but not enough for the Master’s side. The best rooms are near the front and cost a wee bit more.”

A gaunt, tired man stares through one of the windows. His eyes catch mine. They are sad, hopeless, and lost. My stomach knots and I pray for Lady Ariana’s return.

Further north, a tall house towers over the prison lodgings. The structure appears narrow but well-kept. I point a finger. “Who lives there?”

One side of McClintock’s mouth turns upward. “I do.”

I say nothing and turn toward David. He lifts his nose to take in a scent.

“David? What is it?”

David does not respond but instead walks toward the south wall.

I follow. “David?”

McClintock calls after us. “I would not go over there, lads.”

David stops in front of the wall. He sniffs the air and rests a palm on the stone.

I approach and place my hand next to his. The stone is cold, like my mother’s face after she had passed. A rancid scent reaches my nostrils. “What is that smell?”

David turns toward me. His cheeks are blanched. “Death.”

My eyes open wide as I realize where we are. I remember whispered stories about poor souls who did not survive the trauma and tortures at Marshalsea. I had often wondered how the guards disposed of the bodies. Now I know. The graveyard for the unfortunate must lay beyond this wall. I bring a hand to my mouth as a wave of nausea forces me to gag.

David touches my arm. “Devon.” He nods toward the exit from the Common side. Two men carry a stretcher. A sheet is draped over a body. They walk toward the south wall and stop near a door at the far end. They set down the stretcher while one man unlocks and opens the door. They again hoist the body and step through the door. David and I watch as long minutes pass. The two men reappear with the stretcher, now empty. 

David turns and stares deep in to my eyes, as if an answer might be found there. I see the same fear and despair on his face that now resides deep within my chest. Are we destined for the south wall? Perhaps a few scant days or weeks hence?

The two guards reappear with another body on a stretcher. They again dispose of the corpse and return to the Common side. My gut tightens as the ritual repeats another dozen times.

David and I walk around the yard, partly to exercise and partly to dispel what we have just witnessed. McClintock waves a hand and we stroll back to the center of the yard. 

Out turnkey wags his head from side to side. “Told ye not to go to the south wall.” He pulls a worn watch from this pocket and snorts. “Time to go back inside, boys. I must make me daily rounds.”

“Please.” David begs. “Can we not stay here in the yard?”

McClintock shakes his head. “I cannot leave ye alone. Too dangerous.”

“Did not Lady Ariana’s coin buy us quarters on the Master’s side?” I ask.

“Indeed,” McClintock says. “But ‘tis full. I need a wee bit more time to move some lads around.”

David lowers his head to hide his tears. 

McClintock escorts us back to our holding cell in the tower and slams shut the iron bars. He turns to leave and then stops. “At least ye boys be up here and not in a Common room. Be a shame to see one of ye on the next stretcher out the door.” 

My stomach churns as McClintock leaves the room. I rest upon the weary cot and steal a glance at the other prisoners. A man looks up and meets my gaze. One of his swollen eyes does not open.

“How long?” I ask.

The man shrugs. “Ten days, maybe more.”

Another man pipes in, as if competing in a contest. “Twelve.”

Others up the ante. “Fifteen.” “Eighteen.”

The bidding stops at twenty. Either no one has lived longer, or they were transferred to a Common room where they perished all the same.

David lays a hand on my shoulder. He offers a sad smile, as if a dying soldier in a foxhole. We curl into balls and struggle to sleep more than an hour at a time. The cell room stinks of urine and body odor. Men moan and snore and grunt their way through the night. Roosters crow early and I cherish a glimpse of warm sun through the east window. I pray that today we may find our way to the Master’s side.

McClintock arrives before midday. Crumbs dot the stubble on his chin. He opens the cell door and hands David and I warm biscuits. The other prisoners wail in misery at the sight and smell. I steal a hurried look at the starving men and my eyes mist. I am filled with shame. My heart longs to share the bread I hold in my hand, but my flesh is weak. I devour the tiny meal within seconds and follow McClintock out of the room.

Our turnkey guides us back to the park. We walk to the wall where he unlocks a door and ushers us through. My chest fills with hope as I step through to the Master’s side. The buildings here appear more modern and in better repair than the Common side. Dozens of men stand about smoking and laughing. Others sit at tables and play cards, betting with coin, cigarettes, or bits of food. They are unkept and unshorn, but their cheeks are pink rather than gray.

McClintock walks toward a building on the east side and cracks open a door. The sweet scent of candles and soap waft from the room and remind me of a Christmas past, when David and I were boys at home with our parents, long before they died. “‘Tis the chandler’s shop run by the Cary’s, both prisoners.”

McClintock shuts the door and points to another door a few dozen yards away, where several prisoners palm mugs. “Coffee shop run by Sarah Bradshaw. She brews a strong cup that’ll make your balls hang low.” McClintock nods toward a building on the west side. “If ye fancy a steak, Titty Doll’s is yonder. Richard McDonnell and his wife are fine chefs indeed.”

Knowing full well that David and I, even on the Master’s side, will only be given small shards of meat and potatoes, McClintock pats his ample belly with a smile. We walk to the right of the main lodge. The sound of music, laughter, and clacking mugs sweeps from under a large wooden door. 

McClintock nods. “Tap room. If ye have coin, ye can have ale. If not…” The turnkey shrugs and grins. “As I said, Acton’s wife, Martha, runs the room. If someone doesn’t pay…well, ye have seen the bull’s pizzle.”

A glimmer fills McClintock’s eyes as he opens the tap room door. He steps inside and waves for us to follow. My nose reels from mixture of scents coating the stale air. Dried ale on the floor, pig fat candles flickering on the tables, and sweet tobacco smoke billowing from pipes. My senses filter through this and discern the savory smell of beef coming from the back kitchen.

McClintock finds a splintered table inhabited by woodworm. He pulls out a cane-back seat and nods toward two more chairs. My legs are still weak, and I welcome the chance to sit. McClintock lifts his chubby chin and motions toward a bar lass. The rotund woman sports a double chin and bright cheeks. Her crimson hair is pulled into a tight bun and her ample bosom spills out beyond the untied ribbons on her dress stomacher.

“Me lord,” the woman says, leaning close to give McClintock an ample view. She has a strong Scottish accent. “What’ll ye have?”

McClintock grins and hands the woman a few coins. “Me usual, Elsie, and the same for these lads.” 

Elsie smiles, pockets the shillings, and lumbers toward the bar. Near the back of the room, a prisoner attempts to play a ditty on a worn piano while three mates try to sing along. The men are more out-of-tune than the piano. The walls are coated with sloshed ale and candle soot, and a few forlorn pictures do nothing to hide the neglect.

Elsie returns with three mugs of ale. Another woman follows with three bowls of stew. My eyes water and my stomach growls. David looks at McClintock, as if asking permission to partake. The turnkey nods and David dispenses with a spoon, instead lifting the bowl to his face to pour it down within seconds. I am compelled to do the same. The dense taste of beef and broth wash over my tongue and coat my empty belly. Heaven has found me in this forlorn place, even if only for a brief moment. I lick the bowl clean and wipe my chin. Unable to hide my smile, I wash down the meal with gulps of ale. I wipe my tongue across the foam on my upper lip and close my eyes. I imagine a time long ago when I was a free man in Soho, sitting with David at a fine restaurant. We had enjoyed a steak and ale pie and several glasses of wine. We had ample coin and no worries. 

I open my eyes and gaze upon the prisoners in the room. David and I have been afforded the simple luxuries of the Master’s side due only to the generosity of a strange woman who vowed to return this very day. If she is delayed, or never returns, we will be sentenced to death in the rat-infested dungeons on the Common side.

Despite the new warmth in my belly, my hands shake and my chest tightens once again.

Chapter 4 

London, 1729 

My hands shake even more when a monster enters the Tap room at the Marshalsea gaol. He bends through the door and stands a head or two taller than most. His wide shoulders and bulging muscles make him look like a Belgian Draft horse, once used in medieval times to carry knights into battle. A cavern forms between his harsh brown eyes as he scans the room. His gaze lands upon David, then me, and then McClintock.

Our turnkey stands from his chair and motions for the mountain of a man to join us. The beast plods his way through the crowd, the other prisoners readily moving to let him pass. He stops at our table, inches from my nose, and glares at me. My soiled shirt flutters with each pound of my heart.

The tall man grins and holds out a hand. His voice is deep and booming, like a ship’s cannon. “Timothy.”

I force my hand to remain placid as we shake. “Devon.” 

Timothy’s grip feels firm but not crushing, as if offered by a gentle giant. He also shakes David’s hand and then sits at the table.

“This ‘ere is ye guard,” McClintock says. “I suggest ye not wonder far from his side.”

I swallow a lump and a gulp of ale. David nods a silent agreement. 

McClintock continues. “Timothy lives ‘ere with his family.”

I had once heard rumors that many debtors on the Master’s side are forced to bring their spouses and children to Marshalsea, as they have nowhere else to live. Often, wives and children are made hostage while the men are allowed to leave the prison during the day to earn coin—or vice versa. Some children, be told, have lived their entire lives within these wretched walls. I shudder at the thought. 

“How long have you been here?” David asks Timothy.

The massive guard lowers his eyes, as if ashamed. “Three years, seven months, two days. My son and daughter were but tikes. My family must now work long days to keep us on the Master’s side.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Where do they work?”

Timothy offers a smile full of pride. “Me wife, Lilly, will launder ye linens. Be