Bridget

Alone, with only the rats for comfort, a blonde waif sat shivering in her chains.  Straw and dirt clung to her threadbare clothes.  Long, stringy hair fell to her waist in a tangled mess that her ratty friends envied for their nests.  She often felt them nibbling around her as she lay to rest her head at night and had to fight them off in her fitful sleep. Months ago, when she'd first arrived, the cuffs had been too large for her tiny wrists and at once she had slipped free.  Being the kind and loving types, her captors arranged for new cuffs to be forged in her honor, exactly the right size; just right for rubbing on the bones and causing bruises and callouses.

She was privileged though, the length of her chains afforded the girl a few short steps from the crumbling stone wall and the ability to sit down. The pacing and the sitting stirred up the  otherwise monotonous hours of her empty, filthy days.  To add insult to injury, (though she was glad, how strange to feel glad for something in this terrible place) the jailer seemed to forget she was there except for the food ration which was delivered every other day.   Some others, she surmised were not as lucky (if one could call anything here lucky)... they measured their days by the number of sleeps in between beatings.  The tortured cries of other inmates deep in the chambers of this ruinous castle echoed around her as she wondered again, "How did I get here?"

Staring down at her bony, knobby knees and sallow skin, Bridget sighed in disgust.  She used to be beautiful, she knew.  She had long beautiful hair and perfect, peachy skin.  Her tall frame had filled out nicely just after her seventeenth birthday and life on her master's land was good.  She was a good housemaid and Lady Margaret had even mentioned to her mother that she might be a good choice as a lady-in-waiting for her precocious young daughter, Christiana. What a good position that would have been!  Food was plentiful and fresh and tasty... her mouth started to water as she let her mind wander back to these more pleasant thoughts. 

Startled by the sound of the jailer's keys in her cell's lock, Bridget frantically tried to scramble away from the awful man.  He had a tendency to be a little grabby.  She did some quick calculations and then became panicky; today was not her food day.  That awful man had just come yesterday with her two small, stale loves of bread and rotten potatoes.  What is he doing here now? she wondered warily.

Slowly, the creaky old door opened and Drake, a portly (to be kind) greasy, unkempt, mismatched, shaggy bearded, fat-fingered, mean-spirited, old fellow stood in the frame grimacing in her direction.  "Today's yer lucky day, little flower," he growled.  "Let's go get you some sunshine. "  He reached for her chains.

A  shriek erupted from Bridget; her crystal blue eyes snapping like thunderbolts. "Get your filthy hands off me, you dirty old man.  I'll not be going anywhere with the likes of you!" 

"Sure ya'are," Drake whispered,  his voice sickeningly sweet.  "You've been complainin' about gettin' yer audience with King John, haven't ya?"

Temporarily silenced, Bridget contemplated her choices.  At least she felt as though she might have choices.  If she threw a fit, Drake would probably beat her, or worse.  If she let him unshackle her and take her to the king, perhaps she could find out what was going on.  Why was she here?  Maybe she could finally go back home!  Oh, it was too much even to hope for! But what if Drake was just trying to lure her away from the safety of her chains (funny, she'd loathed them all this time...).   Bridget eyed her captor suspiciously; she could smell the ale on his breath. Maybe she could outrun him if need be.  That was it.  She'd just have to take her chances and escape when the moment arose. 

For a peasant, the dirty, unkempt ragged young woman in the dungeon cell had a surprisingly commanding presence, or so thought Drake.  He was shocked when she stood to her full height, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and looked him square in the eye and commanded him to release her and not to lay a single hand on her.  The nerve!  He ought to give her a good smack just for talking that way, for looking at him.  He, Drake of Montfort was above her... even if he was working off debts here in this awful place. He hiccuped and tried to keep a quiet smirk to himself knowing where they were headed as he unsteadily tied a rough hewn rope around her dirty, delicate hands. 

Bridget tried to maintain her composure, holding her head high, keeping her eyes forward as Drake lead her out through the dungeon's maze like a naughty dog.  The taunting and jeering and rude gestures were almost too much for her to handle, but she concentrated on the justice that was about to be delivered to her. Soon the wrongs would be made right and she would be returned to her home; someone, perhaps her master or even Lady Margaret, had made a plea on her behalf. However it happened, Bridget wasn't about to  (how was it that people were saying these days?) "look a gift horse in the mouth."   She continued to follow obediently, lost in thought for several minutes before her senses began to take over.  Shouldn't they be heading up the stairs soon?  The hearing room was far above them.  Drake had been leading her by the rope for some time now, but they had not traveled up any stairs.  She tried to recall her journey down in to this putrid hole. 

Finally, they came to a series of wooden doors, double barred, chained, locked, and guarded.  It was very still and quiet, the noise of the prison far behind them and Bridget felt very alone and uneasy.  Passing through these barricades, they came to one more set of wooden doors.  The knot in her stomach growing with each passing second, her heart pounding up into her ears, Bridget thought for a second that she could hear the drums in the square.  Scoffing, she chided herself for being such a ninny; she was just nervous about her coming meeting.  Yet her heart continued to pound so loudly in her ears that Drake had to yell to get her attention.

"Here ya'are, little flower.  Go and get your sunshine." He sneered as he opened the heavy doors, pushing her into the square.

Her whole body shook and she gasped for air, grasping wildly for anything and anyone that would support her, finally collapsing onto the dirt.  Dry heaving in fear from the wooden platform at the end of her sudden path, Bridget nearly fainted.  How has it come to this? she ached to know.   There was a crowd gathering, as always happened when the dark door opened and spewed forth a victim from its depths.  She searched the faces, desperately hoping to recognize someone, the blacksmith, the cooper, the dressmaker, the baker, all of whom knew her or at least had, before but none would reach out a hand now to a filthy woman on her walk to the noose.  


Someone in a black hood had the other end of her leash and yanked her harshly off the ground, growling menacingly, jerking his head toward the long circle of rope dangling from the arch ahead on the wooden platform.  She wriggled and fought until another hooded enemy came up behind her with his knife to her back. Bridget refused to surrender her pride and walked the longest ten yards of her whole life with her chin high as she frantically tried to think of a way to escape.