"Tell me, then." The effort of talking was making him sweat freely, but he seemed more alert. Concentrating on the problem of the lock seemed to help.
Following his directions, I found a suitable key and thrust it in as far as it would go. According to Reilly, a solid blow straight in on the end of the key would force the other end hard against the tumblers and spring them loose. I looked around for a suitable instrument for bashing.
"Use the mallet on the table, Sassenach," said Jamie. Caught by a grim note in his voice, I glanced from his face to the table, where a medium-sized wooden mallet lay, the handle wrapped with tarred twine.
"Is that what—" I began, aghast.
"Aye. Brace the manacle against the wall, lass, before ye hit it."
Grasping the handle gingerly, I picked up the mallet. It was awkward to get the iron manacle correctly positioned so that one side was braced by the wall, as this required that Jamie cross the manacled leg under the other and press his knee to the wall on the far side.
My first two blows were too weak and timorous. Gathering determination about me like a cloak, I smashed the rounded end of the key as hard as I could. The mallet slipped off the key and caught Jamie a glancing but hard blow on the ankle. Recoiling, he lost his precarious balance and fell, instinctively reaching out his right hand to save himself. He let out an unearthly moan as his right arm crumpled beneath him and his shoulder hit the floor.
"Oh, damn," I said wearily. Jamie had fainted, not that I could blame him. Taking advantage of his momentary immobility, I turned his ankle so that the manacle was well braced, and banged doggedly on the embedded key, with little apparent effect. I was thinking grim thoughts about Irish locksmiths, when the door beside me swung suddenly open.
Randall's face, like Frank's, seldom showed what he was thinking, presenting instead a bland and impenetrable facade. At the moment, though, the Captain's customary poise had deserted him, and he stood in the doorway with his jaw agape, looking not unlike the man who accompanied him. A very large man in a stained and ragged uniform, this assistant had the sloping brow, flat nose, and loose prominent lips characteristic of some types of mental retardation. His expression did not change as he peered over Randall's shoulder, showing no particular interest either in me or the unconscious man on the floor.
Recovering, Randall walked into the room and reached down to prod the manacle around Jamie's ankle. "Been damaging the Crown's property, I see, my girl. That's an offense punishable by law, you know. To say nothing of attempting to aid a dangerous prisoner in escaping." His pale grey eyes held a spark of amusement. "We'll have to arrange something suitable for you. In the meantime…" He jerked me to my feet and pulled my arms behind me, twisting his stock around my wrists.
Struggle was plainly fruitless, but I stamped on his toes as hard as I could, purely to vent some of my own frustration.
"Ouch!" He turned me and gave me a hard shove, so that my legs hit the bed and I fell, half-lying on the rough blankets. Randall surveyed me with grim satisfaction, rubbing the scuffed toe of his boot with a linen handkerchief. I glared back at him, and he gave a short laugh.
"You're no coward, I'll give you that. In fact, you're a fit match for him," he nodded at Jamie, who was beginning to stir a bit, "and I can't give you a better compliment than that." He tenderly fingered his throat, where a darkening bruise showed in the open neck of his shirt. "He tried to kill me, one-handed, when I untied him. And damned near managed it too. Pity I didn't realize he was left-handed."
"How unreasonable of him," I said.
"Quite," said Randall, with a nod. "I don't suppose you'd be so impolite, do you? Still, on the off-chance…" He turned to the large servant, who was simply standing in the doorframe, shoulders sloped, waiting for orders.
"Marley," said Randall, "come here and search this woman for weapons." He watched with some amusement as the man groped clumsily about my person, eventually coming upon and extracting my dirk.
"You don't care for Marley?" asked the Captain, watching me try to avoid the thick fingers that prodded me all too intimately. "Rather a pity; I'm sure he's quite taken with you."
"Poor Marley hasn't much luck with women," the Captain went on, a malicious gleam in his eye. "Have you, Marley? Even the whores won't have him." He fixed me with a designing sort of look, smiling wolfishly. "Too big, they say." He raised one eyebrow. "Which is quite a judgment, coming from a whore, is it not?" He raised the other brow, making his meaning quite clear.