Okay, first off, WOW I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON. This took forever to write, and for anyone waiting for this, I am so sorry. I've had a bit of a busy life recently, and several things have happened (big and small) since I last updated. I apologize. My fandoms change face near constantly, and when I commit to writing a new fic, sadly, sometimes my older fics get pushed to the wayside. This one has always been on my list to update first, but sometimes...yeah. Another important thing to know is, I am no longer posting any new works on ; I have converted to AO3, and you can find me there under the same username. However, I will continue to update this story on both platforms! :)
Anyway! My inspiration to continue and finish this fic reemerged recently in the form of the friend I'm writing it for (Kayla; she's like my sister) threatening to stand over me while I'm sleeping every night until I finish it. (Which would be impressive, since I have a loft bed.) But, she knows where I live, and what window is mine, soooo...not taking any chances! ;)
This chapter is short; it rang in at just over 2200 words. I'm sorry, but when I tried to continue onto the next bit, it didn't fit with the flow of the story, nor with the chapter, so I decided to cut it in half and write the rest as the next chapter. It will be out soon!
CHAPTER SONG: "The Sleeper" (also known as "The Fish") by Disparition.
Governor Ratcliffe was not known to be a patient man, nor was he known as a forgiving man. He was abrasive in even the most common of societal settings, but incredibly impertinent when irritated in private.
Needless to say, he was in no way pleased with the amount of time it was taking the guards to break Smith. Not one bit. He had been waiting in the courtyard of the Tower for several hours now; the wine from the ball was beginning to settle into the pit of his stomach, and the call of a good sleep was hard to ignore. Surely Smith should be talking by now? It had only taken twenty or so lashes to get him talking last time. Ratcliffe doubted it would take forty to convince his tongue to loosen further.
He walked swiftly through the halls towards the cell where he had left Smith to the mercy of the guards. He flicked out the key to the cell from his pocket, and rolled it between his fingers, relishing the power it provided him. Smith was his, finally, and he could do as he pleased with him.
Killing him was obviously high on Ratcliffe's list; making sure Smith never saw another sunrise was tempting, but the prospect of making him suffer was much more appealing. Ratcliffe knew that manipulation was the easiest way to break someone, to cause them to become their own downfall. Physical pain was temporary; emotional pain tended to linger.
Ratcliffe was not an idiot. He knew exactly why that fool had been at the Hunt Ball: that savage. Had she not been there, he had no doubt that Smith would not have shown himself in such a manner as he had, with such a lack of planning and execution.
Of course, he supposed that he should be thanking the uncivilized wench. Had she not been there, indeed, Smith would not have dared enter the palace grounds, and thus, would not be here now, Ratcliffe's to control. She had unknowingly played Smith into a game of which he could not emerge at the end alive. And this time, she could not get in the way of doing away with him, as she had last time; a death via the chief of her murderous, thieving people would have been much more clean and convenient, but Ratcliffe could not deny the allure of doing away with the bastard himself. It would be so much more than satisfying.
He turned the corner that would lead him to Smith's cell, and he chuckled darkly as he neared the door. Despite his annoyance at the persistence of time in which it was taking, he knew that if nothing else, Smith would still be just as he wanted him; weak, defenseless, and at his mercy. Mercy that he did not possess, and mercy that he would not show.
The first clue that he was presented that something was wrong was the fact that the door to Smith's cell was slightly ajar as he neared it. It was not like the guards of the Tower to be so careless, even thought Ratcliffe was very well aware that there was no way that Smith could escape even if the door had been left wide open; the shackles that had been placed around his wrists would have prevented that. Still, it was a mild frustration, if nothing else.
The second clue was the complete lack of sound from within the cell. Surely, if it were taking this long, Smith should still be as Ratcliffe had left him, crying out in pain as another lash was delivered? There was no sound of a whip being cracked, so he knew that at the very least, the whipping had, momentarily, been halted.
Still, Ratcliffe squared his shoulders as he neared the cell door, taking in a deep breath, and smiled wickedly as he set a hand upon the wood and pushed inwards.
"Are you ready to talk, Smith?" He asked as he entered. "Surely by now you must be willing to—"
He stopped still when he was met with not with Smith, kneeling in a pool of his own blood and ready to tell Ratcliffe anything he wished to know, but instead by empty chains hanging from the ceiling, and Smith nowhere to be found. Bloody footprints – there appeared to be two, if not three sets of them; it was hard to tell completely – trailed from inside the cell into the hallway beyond, but disappeared within a few footsteps outside the cell walls, leaving Ratcliffe without an idea of where they led.
One thing was absolutely clear, however: Smith had escaped, but he had not done it alone.
"GUARDS!" Ratcliffe roared, enraged, his voice echoing through the quiet din of the Tower halls like thunder from an approaching storm. "Guards, present yourselves immediately!"
Within moments, three guards burst into the cell, very nearly stumbling over each other in their haste, before they stood to attention.
"Governor Ratcliffe," one addressed.
"Would any of you witless imbeciles," Ratcliffe seethed. "Care to explain to me just what the meaning of this is?!" He gestured to the empty room. "Where is Smith?!"
The guards glanced anxiously at each other, and Ratcliffe bit down on the impulse to shoot them all where they stood with the pistol he had hidden in his shirt. Surely that would cause nothing but further trouble.
Finally, one of the guards spoke.
"It appears that he is not here, sir." He said, somewhat shakily.
"I can see that." Ratcliffe said through his teeth. "What I wish to know is where he's gone! And why he was left alone in the first place!"
"He lost consciousness, sir." The guard answered. "We opted to allow him time to…regain functionality before continuing on with the interrogation."
"Why was I not informed immediately?!" Ratcliffe demanded. "You should have reported directly to me in the event that he lost the ability to continue with the interrogation, and in failing to do so, you have committed a direct act of insubordination! I should have your heads for this!"
"We believed you to be aware of the situation, sir." Another guard spoke up, palms out in surrender. "That's what I was told when I…" He trailed off, his face blanching, as though he had seen a specter in the night. He didn't dare glance at his comrades.
"When you what?!" Ratcliffe snapped. "Spit it out, man!"
The guard was quiet for a moment, his expression harrow. Ratcliffe's fingers unconsciously brushed against the butt of his pistol; just one shot, cleanly between the eyes, would see that this man never got the chance to annoy him again. He reigned himself back with the bitter reminder that such a deed would deem the guard utterly useless to him in telling him what it was he needed to know.
"Well," said the guard after a moment further's hesitation, and he swallowed thickly. "I was doing my rounds about half an hour ago, when I saw two of our men taking Smith down the corridor. I stopped 'em an' asked what they was up to, and the one said they was taking Smith to speak with the King, on the King's orders, sir. They also said you had been informed and was waitin' for 'em at the palace."
"Well, then," Ratcliffe said through clenched teeth. "It appears as though they lied, does it not?"
The guard before him was physically trembling, and Ratcliffe once again had to remind himself that killing him would not gain him anything.
"Forgive me, sir," the guard said finally, falling one knee and bowing his head before Ratcliffe. "I did not know."
"And you did not think to investigate further, did you?" Ratcliffe reprimanded sharply. "I should have you flayed alive for your act of incompetence, but instead, I will have you disposed of your position. Get out of my sight before I rethink my decision."
The guard wasted no time scrambling to his feet and fleeing down the corridor. Ratcliffe watched him go, his fingers inching at his side to reach for his pistol and shoot the man in the back, but the armor he wore would have prevented it had he attempted in the first place, so instead he turned towards the remaining guards.
"You there!" He barked at the two remaining guards, who all immediately stood to attention. "You're not to speak a word of this to anyone, am I understood?! If anyone asks, you're to tell them that John Smith died in interrogation, but not before he gave us the answers we sought. I'll not have this interfering with my quest to conquer the gold of the New World for King James. Understood?!"
"Yes, sir!" The guards said in unison.
"And if I heard one word that you've slipped and told anyone otherwise, I'll have your heads for my wall. Got it?!"
"Yes, sir!" The guards repeated, but this time, Ratcliffe could hear the strain of fear in their tones, and he knew they'd take his threat seriously.
"Good." He said, nodding at them. "Now, let's discuss the plot in detail so that there's no holes, shall we?"
...oOo...
The trudge back towards Rolfe's estate had been long and arduous, but they had made it, nonetheless, exhausted, on edge, and reeking of sweat and blood, but safely. The few people Rolfe and Thomas had passed along the way had not even given them more than a second glance as they continued to help their incapacitated comrade along, a hood up to hide his identity, and if anyone had noticed the blood that was beginning to soak through the back of the cloak, they said nothing and hurried along their own way.
Upon reaching Rolfe's estate, they wasted no time ushering John inside. Rolfe immediately called for Mrs. Jenkins, who came rushing into the living room in her nightdress and nightcap.
"Oh heavens!" She explained upon seeing the two of them, the haggard form of John between them. She rushed forward to help them. "What happened?!"
"Interrogation." Rolfe grunted as they gently steered John, who was teetering on the edges of consciousness, towards the kitchens. "Ratcliffe had a whip taken to him."
Mrs. Jenkins' eyes flashed. "A barbaric punishment." She said, her voice uncharacteristically hard. "How many lashes?"
"We aren't sure." Thomas answered. He was helping John ease down into a chair next to a small table, his friend hissing in pain.
"I lost count." John rasped. "Somewhere around fourteen."
"Mrs. Jenkins," Rolfe said, turning to his housekeeper, his face serious. "He's injured quite badly, and needs medical attention immediately. However, due to the nature of his being here, it is best that we keep this between us, and it shouldn't leave the grounds of this estate. If the King finds out that he has escaped and we were the ones that helped him, it will be the noose for us all."
The old woman nodded. "What would you have me do, Johnny?" Mrs. Jenkins questioned.
"I'm going to run down to the apothecary and purchase enough vials of ointment and salves to help with the pain as I can without being suspicious as soon as he is settled, but for now, I need you to run a bath, cold water. We need to clean the wounds and dress them as best we can, as soon as possible."
Mrs. Jenkins nodded. "Consider it done."
"Thank you." He rubbed a hand over his face. He lowered his voice. "How is she?" He dared.
"Sleeping, the poor dear." Mrs. Jenkins answered. "Finally nodded off about an hour ago, at the window, waiting for your return. I had Utte carry her to bed."
"I think it best we allow her to rest, for now." Rolfe said, quietly.
Mrs. Jenkins nodded. "I think that's best. The dear girl exhausted." She looked around Rolfe at John as Thomas began to help him peel his bloody and tattered shirt from his back, having already discarded the cloak on the floor. "No doubt she will be very upset when she sees what's happened to him."
"Pocahontas," John gasped as his shirt pulled at a particularly sensitive lash. "She…she's in trouble. Ratcliffe, he's…"
"Hush now," Mrs. Jenkins said gently as she quickly made her way over to where he was sitting to help Thomas and get a good look at the lashings. "She's safe, don't you worry. The poor dear, she's been worried sick since your capture. She'll be overjoyed to see you again, once we get you cleaned up."
"No harm will befall her here." Rolfe assured him.
"That's right." Mrs. Jenkins agreed. "Now, dear, you just sit right there while I draw a bath, alright?"
John, his vision still hazy at the edges, the pain threatening to capsize him into a sea of darkness, nodded.
"John Smith," he said, holding out a hand weakly. Mrs. Jenkins shook it, very gently, his hand dwarfing her tiny one.
"Mrs. Jenkins." She replied, smiling. "Nice to finally put a face to the name. Now then," she looked at Thomas. Her voice held an edge of authority as she took control of the challenge presented before her. "Here's what I need you to do…"