The Heretic’s Wife by Brenda Rickman Vantrease Read Free Book Online

warned herself. The woman might turn on her. Even try to grab her.
    Kate gripped the tuppence between her forefinger and middle finger and slid her arm through the narrow space between the bars.
    “Come on. Take it. For the baby in your belly.”
    The woman did not move.
    Kate let the pennies fall. They thudded against the grime-caked stone of the floor. As fast as a serpent’s strike the woman swooped down and with long thin fingers clawed them from the dirty straw.
    At least she does have some sensibility, Kate thought, encouraged. “Mistress, do you know of a prisoner named John? A tall, blond man with blue eyes . . . he has a vein that is prominent on his forehead. He is a gentle, quiet man.”
    The woman retreated from the window and shook her head violently. Kate could barely see her in the shadows.
    “I suppose not,” Kate said, and then added as she turned away, “God’s blessings on you, mistress.”
    Kate thought she heard some whimpered response and perked her ears. But no. She could see the woman’s silhouette in the corner of her vision. She had not moved.
    “Here, over here.” The clanging of a tin bowl against the iron bars accompanied the words. It was a male voice, coming from the next cell.
    “I know a man named John,” the prisoner shouted. “He may be the one you’re looking for. If you have any more pennies in that bag.”
    Kate’s heart gave a little thump.
Likely not,
she told herself.
He saw me give the woman money and figures me for an easy mark.
    “John’s a proud man,” the prisoner said. “Too proud to beg. Or too melancholy to care if he starves. He came in fairly beat-up.” He paused, then snaked a hand from between the iron bars, motioning for her to come to his window. When she did not respond, he continued. “Raves in his sleep about a woman named Mary. Might you be Mary?”
    That could be naught but a cunning guess. There were hundreds of men named John and more women named Mary. Still . . .
too proud to beg
! She looked hopefully at the gate to see if a gaoler or some sentry stood watch on the street.
    None did.
    Backbone, Kate.
She moved over to the grilled window where the prisoner stood with his face pressed against the bars, but she kept a safe distance.
    “Will you take a message to him for me, then? Will you bring me news of him, or bid him come in person to this window to meet his sister?”
    “Sister! So I’ll be guessin’ you’re not Mary. I might do it,” he said, nodding purposefully.
    He was not an old man, though it was hard to tell through the stringy black hair, hair as sooty as a raven’s wing. He had a wide straight mouth with smooth lips that curved scythelike within a stubble of dark beard. She grew uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. His eyes were jet-bright and bold, both searching and staring. The eyes of a man who is always on the hunt, she thought. A dangerous man—maybe even a Spaniard—her good sense said, a man who would always seek the advantage. His shirt was filthy with a ragged bit of lace at the throat and full sleeves. Not the usual dress of a beggar. Probably stolen from some wealthy merchant, maybe even the reason for his incarceration.
    “I suppose you would not do it out of human kindness?” she said dryly. “I am courting poverty myself by always paying for information that is never forthcoming.”
    He laughed. “I’m not too proud to beg. Or to negotiate. I have to eat. And I have no loving sister to look out for me.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
    “Have you some offer of proof,” she said, “that this man is the one I seek? John is a common name. So is Mary.”
    “This John speaks like a man with an education,” he said. He had withdrawn his hand from the window, now that he had her attention. He leaned against the bars, picking nonchalantly at a ragged cuticle, his tone as light as though they were equals engaged in gossip. “There are ink stains beneath his nails. Maybe an artist—or a printer, I’d