The windows were covered with thick planks of wood, nailed so tightly down that hardly any light from outside could stream through. It could have once been a decent room, but now it was rotting and had a single bed pallet, pushed against the far wall, with old lice infested blankets. Marcus, weary and hungry and riddled with insect bites, paced the small room. He had not cared to keep track of time when he was first imprisoned and was now without a way of knowing how long he had been kept here; but it certainly felt like an eternity.
He heard footsteps leading up what he could only presume was a staircase as he had every other day. He was not sure if it was the same time each day, but once a day someone would bring him food and water. It was either one of three men; the one missing an eye, the one who walked with the gait of a sailor or the big bellied fellow. The door clanked unlocked and the sailor walked through, holding out a knife cautiously. Marcus had eyes only for the tray of food the sailor placed down. Then the man left, locking the door behind him as Marcus threw himself onto the ground and devoured the food. The water he would save most of, but the bowl of stew and the small chunk of bread was quickly gone.
The man who held Marcus here was Noah Whitehall, and Englishman who Marcus owe far too much money. Every time Whitehall questioned Marcus about the money, he was dissatisfied with the truth. "Before you took me," Marcus usually said with a broken voice. "I was working to get the money to pay you back."
"You fled England, you probably thought you could escape."
"I was going to pay you back! Just give me time, please."
And then Noah would leave. It happened again that day, but instead of replying that he would pay him back, Marcus yelled in desperation, "Why are you keeping me here? Why don't you just kill me and be done with it?"
Noah, always calm and always with his hands clasped behind his back, watched Marcus with disgust. "Someone may pay your ransom; and if not, then you will die, but only when I'm sure I'll wring no money from you."
"Nobody will pay my ransom," Marcus tried to convince him. He lied, of course. Connor, if he found out where Marcus was being kept, may pay. Or he may never find out and simply believes Marcus no longer cares for him. That thought made his stomach twist but he continued pleading to Noah. "My family is all in England and my employer doesn't care. Please, if you release me, I will get you your money."
Shaking his head, Noah left the miserable chambers without another word. Marcus began to sob, then wail. He was shameless in doing so and wanted nothing more than to be gone from this horrible, horrible place.
The next day, they did not feed him. His stomach cramped and groaned in protest but that never helped. They kept food from him mostly likely because of him speaking up to Noah. The only thing Marcus could do to ignore the hunger pains was to sleep.
The note had told Connor the address in which to drop the ransom off to –save for that it was simply a skeleton of the former building. Sitting around a fireplace was two men, chatting grouchily and drinking from bottles of ale. Unfortunately for them, they were not visible from the street and this area of Boston was not a busy one, especially during the night.
Connor approached them calmly, his tomahawk in his hand. The first man noticed him, questioned Connor, then yelped when the tomahawk's blade slid across the second man's throat. Before the first man could run Connor gripped his shoulder and held the bloody blade against the man's throat. "You know of a man named Marcus Holmes? English, tall, black haired, green-eyed…"
The man was nodding furiously.
"Where is he being kept?"
The man described the old inn's location. It was only a few blocks from where they were currently.
Connor felt slightly foolish when he asked, "Why is he being ransomed?" He knew about the amount of money Marcus owed this Noah Whitehall; what he didn't know was why such a sum was needed. £3,000 was no small amount of money.
"Gambling debts. Mr. Whitehall came all the way out here to track Holmes down. He quite likes it here though, lots of people to get lots of money off."
Sheathing the tomahawk, Connor pushed him away. "Get out." The man certainly didn't need to be told twice. The last thing Connor had wanted to do was to pay, even if he had the money. He would rather make sure Marcus was safe first and far away from here.
Following the man's instructions, Connor found a building that matched the provided description. Any thoughts about this building being the one were confirmed as it was the only on the street not monitored by officials which had a guard standing before the door. Connor walked right passed the bored looking man, scanning the building out of the corner of his eyes.
When he got to the adjacent street, a place where he was nearby but out of the guarding man's view, he began to scale the building. Getting onto the roof was a small task for him and he was soon on the rooftop. Years of honing his skill meant that he could walk undetected by even the nearby guard. The inn was large and a few stories taller than the small neighboring houses. Connor scaled it, already seeing that most of the windows had wooden planks nailed to them. But he aimed for one of the few windows which were not shut off and, positioning himself well, he peered through. It seemed like a makeshift guard room, a bed in every four corners of the room and a chest at the end of each bed. The window, with a little encouraging, would open. Connor tried putting as much weight as he could on his foothold and less on the one hand which kept him clinging to the building. The other hand and his hidden blade was working to coax the window up. After a little frustration, Connor slid the window up and pulled himself into the building.
A man walked in right as Connor landed. The two stared at each other for a moment, but Connor had his wits about him and lunged. The man turned to run but Connor dragged the back of his collar, almost pulling him back off his feet. Closing the door behind them, Connor shoved the man down onto the floor and kept himself between the man and escape. "Where is Marcus Holmes?" Connor demanded, pulling his tomahawk out. He did not wish to use it, but if he had to there would be no hesitation.
"One story down from 'ere," he was just as willing as the first man to give up information. "Please, I don' wanna to die. I didn' wanna even come 'ere!"
"Which room?"
"Opposite 'ere, on the far wall. Only guarded one."
"Stay here," Connor warned him, "Or I will come back and I will kill you."
Connor left as the man was nodded and making absolutely no attempt to move. Closing the door behind himself, Connor glanced around. There was no one else in the passageway and making note of where he was going, Connor found the staircase. Right where the terrified man had said, a man guarded a door. Pretending as though he belonged, Connor walked right up to the guard. He was given strange looks and when the man turned to face him fully, he boxed both his ears at once. Stunned, the man didn't have time to react as Connor plunged his hidden blade into the man's chest, between his ribs into his heart. He lowered him down to the ground, as to not make a noise, then rummaged through his pockets until he found the keys to the room. Unlocking the door, he kept his the beating of his heart normal and steadied his breathing.
In the single, shabby bed a man sat upright. Marcus stared at Connor through the dim light from the lanterns in the passageway, incredulous. Then he shot up and flung himself at Connor just as the latter closed the door behind himself. There was no force behind Marcus' embrace and Connor had to keep him from falling as his legs gave out beneath him. Still Marcus clung to him, arms around his neck in total trust, trying not to sob. Connor coaxed him into sitting down on the bed, feeling how weak he was. Marcus knew why he did so and gave the weak complaint, "I spoke out and they haven't fed me in two days."
"We have to get you away from here," Connor told him, reassuringly rubbing Marcus' arms. He doubted he could walk far, let alone run. Marcus chewed on his dry bottom lip in consideration, gaze unfocused. Connor tried to think of a way to easily get Marcus out that didn't involve walking through the front door, but the only possible exit for someone in Marcus' condition was the front door.
"You know now, don't you?" Marcus murmured.
"Yes. You should have told me from the beginning. Gambling?"
"I'm sorry." Marcus looked down. "I didn't want you to pay the debts for me."
"If you had told me that is not what you wanted."
"I know you. You would have insisted on helping me, and it would've meant I could have been at the manor more often."
Connor knew he was right but shook his head. "We will talk about this later. Come," Connor took his hand and guided him from the chamber. "If fighting breaks out, back away. Do not get caught in it." Marcus gave no protest. He followed just behind Connor, not seeing the dead man on the floor beside the room that had been his prison. Through the passageways Connor crept silently, wishing that Marcus had his skill of silence. Despite that, the two men in what appeared to be the large kitchens were so enwrapped in their conversation they noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Motioning for Marcus to stay where he was, Connor stood up straight and walked straight at the men. These two were more alert than the one outside Marcus' room and were standing and drawing their pistols from their holsters as he approached. Connor, as his occupation demanded of him, was quicker. With his tomahawk he pushed the first man's hand down to the ground as the shot was taken. Connor's other fist smashed into the man's nose, sending him backward and distracting him while Connor went to the second man. The shot he fired missed and Connor kicked him hard in stomach, making him double-over. Connor brought the tomahawk down into the man's shoulder, wrenched it out of the flesh and bone and whirled around to collide with the abdomen of the man he had stepped past.
He heard Marcus yelp and immediately ran out toward him, and as soon as he saw the assailant flung his tomahawk. Seeing it hit the new attacker's head in a spray of blood, Marcus paused in horror before bending over and heaving. Nothing came from his lips because there was nothing in his belly to bring up. Claiming back his tomahawk and sheathing it, Connor placed his hand on Marcus' back in a reassuring attempt to get him moving again. "You knew what I am," Connor reminded him of their conversation, lying on the blanket, naked in the sun. It seemed like a long time ago now.
"I do," Marcus groaned. When he straightened himself, he was pale as snow. "I never expected to see it."
Connor said no more, but encouraged his lover to keep moving. From the mental image Connor was gradually forming of the old inn, they must not be far from the entrance. His assumption was right and around the next corner was the open room of the ground floor, the doorway on the opposite wall. Connor instantly moved to cover Marcus, seeing a tall, barrel chested man standing by the doorway. A pipe hung from his lips and as he spoke it moved up and down, "You could've just paid me."
"That's Noah Whitehall," Marcus whispered to Connor. Having gathered as much, Connor eyed him. He was big but not fat; he probably possessed the strength of a bear and clearly had enough wits to know what was happening. Inwardly, Connor chided himself for letting the man in the guards' room live.
"I would have released him, had you paid up front."
"Would you have?" Connor took a small step forward, holding his hands up slightly so Whitehall could see them. "I find your type are not quick to keep promises."
"Perhaps. Marcus owes me quite a bit of money, after all," Whitehall discarded his smoking pipe onto the nearest table and pulled out an already loaded pistol. "Wouldn't it have been nice if he was made an example of? Sail across the sea and you'll still have to pay me."
Without warning, Whitehall fired. Instinctively Connor ducked and shot forward, over tables and chairs. Marcus had been behind him, safe, but now was left behind. Whitehall had another loaded pistol and pulled it out, discarding the other one. He fired, but passed Connor. Marcus let out a shrill cry. Connor let that fuel him and with red hate burning in his vision, he plunged his hidden blade into Whitehall's throat. Hot, heavy blood flowed over Connor's hand and down the inside of his arm as he held it there for a moment before pushing Whitehall's writhing body to the side.
Fear, no matter how well Connor's mastery of his body was, was nearly paralyzing. He turned back and ran toward Marcus, unable to breathe. Marcus was on the ground, clutching at his thigh with bloodied fingers. His face was set in an agonized grimace and he tried to sit upright. Connor's hand went to the wound and applied pressure while he examined it. The entrance was clean and it appeared only a flesh wound; but there was no exit hole. Where the bullet should have left the flesh, Connor could feel a round, hard lump. Trying not to alarm Marcus, Connor tore a strip of cloth from his undershirt, just as he had on the day they met, and tied it as a tightly as he could. Then Connor picked Marcus up, fearful to let him walk on his own. With difficulty, Connor opened the front door. He wondered whether that guard still stood watch, and if so why he had not entered the building when guns fired. Upon opening the door, they found no trace of the man. Some guard he was.
Marcus clung to him, more shocked than pained at being shot. That would soon change. Connor knew he had to get him to Dr. White as soon as possible.
When he saw a wagon about to pass them on the street, he tried to capture the driver's attention. The driver, already staring at them in blatant horror, stopped the horses. The wagon had a canopy and would be perfect for the time being. Connor quickly bundled Marcus in the back with the barrels of wine and then returned to the driver, whom he paid handsomely. Connor could have driven himself, but his pressing need to stay with Marcus forbade it. Leaping into the back of the wagon just as it began moving again, Connor found Marcus still ghostly pale and shivering. Holding his lover close, Connor found he was powerless and could only count the long seconds as they traveled to safety.
I did a little research and apparently in this time period, a family could live off 100 to 300 pounds a year. So you can imagine just how much £3,000 is, even then...