A hero, he who had done naught but steal all his life.
Others heckled and threw rotting fruit and worse. He hardly noticed. Where was Silence now? God! Was the Vicar raping her, extinguishing that sweet, hopeful light in her eyes? He wanted to kill at the thought. To wreak bloody mayhem. But he was tethered like a wild animal in a cart.
They stopped at a tavern on the outskirts of London so that he might buy a last drink. And Mick did, praying as he drank that he wouldn’t be rescued. Let his death be price enough for Silence. He knew what the Vicar did to women in his power. He’d watched his mother weep for what the Vicar had made her do.
Let Silence live. Let her be happy.
Finally, finally, the tall Tyburn gallows came into sight, the distinctive triangle top foreboding against the gray sky. Wooden platforms had been built to one side with viewing seats, but the majority of the crowd milled about on foot. Mick saw a woman with a tray of pies on her head, steadily making her way through the mass of people. She was shadowed by a pickpocket who took advantage of her customers while they paid for the pies. A pack of boys with several dogs ran alongside the cart, shouting. Farther on, a juggler entertained a small circle, handily tossing a man’s hat, an orange, a knife, and a posy of flowers into the air. He was quite good, but a group of drunken apprentices to the side were calling insults anyway.
Mick was grimly amused to see that his rescue plan would’ve most likely worked. The cart had to stop again and again as the crowd pressed around it, struggling to catch a glimpse of him. Hands reached inside, pulling at his coat, his breeches. A piece of fabric from his clothes would make a nice souvenir of the day—one that could later be sold to ghoulish collectors. There were soldiers to be sure, dozens on horseback, but the milling people separated the soldiers from the cart.
The cart drove right up to the gallows with no sign of his men and Mick at last breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps they had gotten Bert’s message. Perhaps even now they and Makepeace were rescuing Silence.
Dear God, he prayed so.
Mick descended the cart and was led up the gallows steps as the chaplain murmured prayers. The crowd was loud, a yammering, shouting, mass of mindless idiots.
Mick nodded to the hangman, a tall, bent figure, and handed him a guinea. The hood was put over Mick’s head and his legs tied together. He felt the heavy noose drape over his shoulders and then tighten. He breathed in and out, calm and steady, his breath hot under the hood.
A lever was pulled and he dropped into nothingness.
His mouth opened wide, gasping for the air that could not enter his throat.
He spun, jerking involuntarily as stars lit in the darkness behind the hood. He was dying, his body painfully fighting the inevitable. His ears rushed with incomprehensible noise and he suddenly saw Silence’s face, beautiful and as clear as day.
And then he hit the ground.
He lay there, stunned, taking deep, grateful breaths as someone loosened the noose around his neck. He didn’t know if he were dead or alive until the hood was pulled from his head and he saw the Ghost of St. Giles.
“What the fuck are ye doin’ here?” Mick choked out, his throat raw.
“She needs you alive, pirate,” the Ghost said in a familiar voice. He knelt to cut the ropes around Mick’s legs. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m doing this for you. I’ve sent your men ahead. Now go save Silence.”
“Arrogant bastard,” Mick muttered, but the crowd was swarming and the Ghost whirled to fight off two apprentices bent on being heroes.
“Go!” shouted the Ghost.
And Mick did, simply by rolling into the crowd. His hands were still tied and he worked the little penknife he’d concealed up his sleeve loose as people stumbled over him. He was kicked twice in the legs before he could cut the cords. Then he threw off the noose and looked up. A stunned walnut hawker was staring back at him and Mick reached up and pulled the man to the ground, scattering nuts everywhere. He simply shucked his velvet coat and tore the man’s plain brown coat from his back. Mick had on the tattered coat in a thrice, took the man’s battered tricorne for good measure, rubbed dirt on his face and white shirt, and stood.
The spectators were all looking to where the Ghost was in a mismatched fight with four soldiers.
A woman noticed him and began to open her mouth.
“Oi!” Mick shouted. “The pirate’s gettin’ away over there!” He pointed in the opposite direction from the Ghost.
There was a surge as the news spread through the crowd. Mick saw the Ghost fall and then get up again. Some of the crowd were still intent on him, angry for having their entertainment snatched from them. But the Ghost of St. Giles had proven himself a capable fighter more than once. As Mick watched, the Ghost dodged away, slipping back into the milling masses.
Mick drew the collar of his coat up around his cheeks and made for a mounted soldier on the edge of the crowd.
The soldier’s horse was already agitated from the noise and movement of the crowd. All Mick had to do was give the soldier a good push and he tumbled from the nag.
Mick swung up in his place as the horse reared. People screamed and struggled to get away from the horse’s flailing hooves. Mick kicked the nag and they were off at a cantor.
Charlie Grady lived in Whitechapel. Mick rode as fast as possible in that direction. He passed soldiers riding toward Tyburn and what was no doubt a riot now, but they didn’t even look in his direction.
Mick rode hard and as he did all he saw was Silence’s face. A bell began to toll. It had been at least three hours since the Vicar had taken her.
Jaysus, was she alive?
SILENCE SAT AS still as if she were in the presence of a viper. Except the man in front of her was much more dangerous than any snake.
She must survive.
Even if Michael no longer lived, even if this human snake attacked her, she must find a way to learn to live. Mary Darling depended on her and it seemed that Mr. Grady was quite obsessed with Mary.
Or rather he was obsessed with anyone who had any connection to Michael.
They were in an untidy bedroom that still bore the faint sour smell of the sickroom. From that and the feminine accessories on the dressing table she surmised that this must have been Michael’s mother’s room.
The room she’d died in.
Silence shivered and then froze as Charlie Grady swung his hideous face toward her at the movement. He sat in a chair across from her, his left hand constantly rolling two grimy dice. The left side of his head was almost entirely bald, only a few long strands of gray hair grew here and there. His ear was gone as was most of the left side of his nose. The skin that remained was burned a dark, leathery brown and rippled quite disgustingly. Had she seen him in the street, she would’ve turned aside in sympathy.