The Birthday Book

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Movar De' Mere paced the small cellar room that had become his prison. Three full strides one way, a sharp turn, and three back the other. Just room to avoid the pile of blankets that were his bedding, the slop bucket and the little table that held a single candle stick - the meagre flame his soul comfort. His mind was in turmoil. So far, apart from some pushing and shoving and the damage done to his shirt, they'd done nothing to him, but he knew that wouldn't last. Soon now, maybe even tonight, they would come for him and take him to the dark cells beneath the Palace of Justice. Then the pain would begin. Fists clenched,
De' Mere paused in his pacing and squeezed his eyes tight shut against that thought and the images it provoked. After that, of course, would come trial and inevitably, execution. He swallowed hard, feeling already in his imagination the cold kiss of steel on the back of his neck.

With a release of pent breath he resolutely opened his eyes and resumed pacing. Death was something he had resigned himself to in recent hours. His Lord knew that he deserved it. Had he not sold the lives of his brother and his brothers' wife into the hands of the red capped Peoples Army? It was cold comfort indeed that he had managed in the hot, confused aftermath of the arrest to snatch their three children and send them and their nurse fleeing towards the Spanish border. His sole resolution now revolved around his determination not to reveal the route of that flight for as long as he possibly could.

But when the torture began how long would that be?

Sweat broke from his skin again and De' Mere mopped his broad featured face with the ends of his ragged cravat.

Five men sat in the improvised guard room. Their seats were upturned barrels and their table an old wooden box. They had three bottles of brandy to share between them. Three of them sat with heads bent over a board game, passing the dice and the brandy round, talking in low tones, occasionally laughing loudly. The fourth man puffed on a long stemmed pipe and watched them play. The fifth snoozed in a corner. Their muskets leaned in a row along the wall. None of them saw the wraith that flitted unseen, unheard, past the open doorway.

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Movar De' Mere paced the small cellar room that had become his prison. Three full strides one way, a sharp turn, and three back the other. Just room to avoid the pile of blankets that were his bedding, the slop bucket and the little table that held a single candle stick - the meagre flame his soul comfort. His mind was in turmoil. So far, apart from some pushing and shoving and the damage done to his shirt, they'd done nothing to him, but he knew that wouldn't last. Soon now, maybe even tonight, they would come for him and take him to the dark cells beneath the Palace of Justice. Then the pain would begin. Fists clenched, De' Mere paused in his pacing and squeezed his eyes tight shut against that thought and the images it provoked. After that, of course, would come trial and inevitably, execution. He swallowed hard, feeling already in his imagination the cold kiss of steel on the back of his neck. With a release of pent breath he resolutely opened his eyes and resumed pacing. Death was something he had resigned himself to in recent hours. His Lord knew that he deserved it. Had he not sold the lives of his brother and his brothers' wife into the hands of the red capped Peoples Army? It was cold comfort indeed that he had managed in the hot, confused aftermath of the arrest to snatch their three children and send them and their nurse fleeing towards the Spanish border. His sole resolution now revolved around his determination not to reveal the route of that flight for as long as he possibly could. But when the torture began how long would that be? Sweat broke from his skin again and De' Mere mopped his broad featured face with the ends of his ragged cravat. Five men sat in the improvised guard room. Their seats were upturned barrels and their table an old wooden box. They had three bottles of brandy to share between them. Three of them sat with heads bent over a board game, passing the dice and the brandy round, talking in low tones, occasionally laughing loudly. The fourth man puffed on a long stemmed pipe and watched them play. The fifth snoozed in a corner. Their muskets leaned in a row along the wall. None of them saw the wraith that flitted unseen, unheard, past the open doorway.