Free Death of a Duchess by Elizabeth Eyre Page A

were too sharp. His head throbbed like a huckster’s drum. The straw had odd rustlings where, he thought, rats must be at work. He imagined them on the remains of a former prisoner. Something dripped in the near-dark. He could only see at all by courtesy of a narrow slit high above his head, and clouds obscured the moon. He was very, very cold. He did not think he had ever been so cold, and it was also evident that someone, perhaps himself, had recently been sick in the straw.
    He wondered if it would be worthwhile, or even possible, to drag himself away from the smell, though nearer to the rats. Some other sound made itself heard, voices muttering. At first he thought the rats were becoming vocal, but then the grate of heavy bolts being drawn back produced a clarity in his mind. The grating groan was like the voice of imprisonment itself. A dark-lantern shone at him across the straw, and as it was not easy to raise an arm, he merely shut his eyes. The door closed with a hollow finality; but he thought that someone was in the cell with him.
    Leandro thought it was possible, even likely, that the Duke had sent someone to strangle him. Justice, even in this modern age, bent to expediency and caprice. He was accused of the murder of the Duchess. He remembered seeing her body, he remembered the Duke’s remote, unreal face with eyes wide and blue as a winter sky, a nightmare face. Had he dreamt her body, a knife? He knew that criminals of any sense perished decently, in prison, before anyone could suspect they might be innocent. His father, his father’s friends, had made such things clear in their talk ever since he could remember.
    The Duke was said to be merciful. Strangulation here and now would be merciful, compared to being tortured in the usual way.
    Nevertheless he was unable to look forward to it.
    The lantern was placed on the floor not far from him, and opened so that the light fell on the man who sat there on one heel, looking at him.
    Leandro knew he was definitely going to die very soon. The Duke, whose mercy was greater than he had suspected until now, had sent a priest to confess him. The strong features were thrown into relief boldly by the golden light, the features of some antique Roman emperor, sensual and commanding. The shaven head, however, that rose from the cowl, convinced Leandro that his death was near. His thoughts again drifted into confusion; he felt regret that he was still young and had always thought of his life as before him; he felt fear that he might forget some of his sins, in this dreadful hour. He hoped that God might be even more merciful than the Duke, yet there was no way to God except through His Church, His priests. The big priest was murmuring again, loud enough to be heard above the resumed rustling of the rats, long indifferent to any invasion of their privacy. He did not speak loud enough to be heard by anyone outside the door; confession was a sacrament not for the ears of others. Leandro tried to raise himself, to wipe a horrid incrustation from his chin, to make himself respectable for his last quarter-hour of bodily peace on this earth. A strong arm helped him up, and Leandro for the first time made sense of the murmur, for it was not Latin but the vernacular.
    ‘I say, I am come from the Duke. He has given me powers to question you.’
    Leandro sprawled back in the straw again, his limbs failing. The man was not a priest after all. He was a torturer.
     
    The strong arm supported him and held him up again. He felt like a puppet moved by a master hand. He understood of a sudden the phrase heard in church: his bowels turned to water . Desperately, he hoped not to disgrace himself, but he imagined his body’s sinews cracking under that dispassionate gaze.
    The prospect of strangulation was suddenly quite desirable.
    ‘What happened before the Duke came? Tell me from the start. How did you come to be in the Palace?’
    The voice might be low, speaking in his ear, but it had