The Shining City by Kate Forsyth Page A

send her to the madhouse. She‟s as crazy as a loon, poor thing.”
    Rhiannon could not help shuddering. Bess saw and gave her a sympathetic look.
    “What does hanged, drawn, and quartered mean?” Rhiannon asked suddenly.
    “Do ye no‟ ken?” Bess asked in surprise. “Och, it‟s what they do for traitors. They hang ye till ye‟re almost dead, then they gut ye while ye‟re still alive, and then they cut ye up into quarters and throw the parts o‟ ye to the four corners o‟ the city, for the dogs to fight over. I havena heard o‟ it being done for years and years. No‟ since afore I was born, at least.”
    Rhiannon pressed her face down into her knees, within the circle of her imprisoned hands. Bess touched her arm in quick sympathy, but Rhiannon did not respond. She was afraid she might weep, or laugh, or throw up, or shriek, if she moved. Hanged, drawn, and quartered. No one had ever told her that was the fate she might have to face.
    “Are ye all right?” Bess whispered. “What‟s wrong? Do ye feel sick? The smell from that bucket is enough to make anyone throw up!”
    Rhiannon managed to nod her head.
    “Here, hold this to your nose,” Bess said, taking a little bottle from her basket. “It‟s lavender.
    It‟ll help.”
    Rhiannon reached out to take it but could not manage with her hands locked together with the thumbscrews. Bess held it to her nose for her.
    “Thank ye,” Rhiannon managed to say.
    “Och, that‟s fine,” the girl said awkwardly and put the bottle away.
    They were silent after that, Bess sensing that Rhiannon did not want to talk. The hours crawled past. Rhiannon found herself getting more and more uncomfortable. The ground was bitterly cold, damp, and very hard, and no matter how she sat or lay down, her imprisoned hands tortured her. Her thumbs were now red and swollen and throbbed incessantly. She was hungry and thirsty too, and tormented by a constant crawling sensation on her skin, an itch that she could not scratch.
    “Lice,” Bess told her. “The smocks and blankets are full o‟ them. That‟s what I have the lavender oil for, to put on the bites.”
    Knowing the cause of the itchiness was no consolation. Rhiannon scratched wherever she could reach until her fingernails were bloody, but it did no good. The lice feasted upon her in high good humor.
    Clarice the thief was one of the few prisoners not confined in some way. It did not take long for her to grow bored of exploring her toenails, and she began to prowl the room. First she tormented the madwoman in the cage, reaching through the bars to poke and pinch her. The madwoman began to wail, rocking back and forth, back and forth, until Rhiannon wanted to screech at her to stop. She was not the only one. Waves of unease rolled around the room. The woman in the stocks raised her head to look, but lacked the strength to crane it up for long and let it loll limply again. One woman hid her face in her hands and began to rock too, murmuring,
    “Make her shut up, make her shut up.” Yet another tried to plug her ears with her fingers. Bess drew her shawl up around her ears and buried her face in her arms.
    Clarice grinned and reached through the bars to tug at the madwoman‟s matted hair. At once she shrieked like a banshee and leaped up, one hand clawing out through the bars and raking Clarice‟s face. The thief was sent sprawling, her cheek bleeding. The madwoman laughed and laughed. Her high-pitched, hysterical giggle was weirdly infectious. Rhiannon had to cram her throbbing hands against her mouth to stop an answering chortle, and she heard a muffled snicker from somewhere on the other side of the room.
    Clarice heard it too, and got up, her leathery face twisted with malice and hatred. “Who was that?” she demanded. “Who just laughed?” She prowled the room, prodding and kicking the chained women. “Ye think it funny, do ye?”
    No one said anything. Rhiannon herself hardly dared glance that way, in case