And with these words all the hope and urgency of his task returned to him. “It is my mother’s. . .it is Mary’s ring, cast down as a marker from one of the cells above.” He turned again to face the Tower, careful to stand in the exact spot where he had found it. “The way the windows are staggered, it could only have come from the uppermost story. Would that make sense, based on your knowledge of the Tower?”
“Yes,” said Stephen, understanding. “And it would suit my father’s temperament as well. He’ll have done everything possible to intimidate.....”
But Michael was no longer listening. Instead he ran with sudden resolution, back to the startled horse, and removed the saddlebags. Returning again, but this time not so close, he tried to gauge the height and distance exactly, then poured out his bundles on the ground.
* * *
The two women sat huddled together in fear, at the farthest point from the wretched, inadequate door. For as Ballard suspected, they had heard every word of the murderous doings beyond it, including Lord Purceville’s promise that they would not live out the night.
Of all the moments Mary had yet endured, this was undeniably the darkest. To hear one’s death sentence pronounced is a trial few can face. To hear the words spoken by her own father, the man who had brought her into the world, who should have loved and cared for her above all others. . .was a horror so black it nearly clove her heart in two. She hunched together, pale and shivering with fright---unable to act, or even to think.
And yet it was only in that, most desperate of corners, that the true strength of her spirit revealed itself. Her slow-awakened courage, pushed to its final need, became galvanized at the last, not a momentary surge, to be swept away as soon as anger left her, but a permanent foundation, underlying all. The will to live, and to resist the evil that would snuff out that life, rose so strong in her that it was all she could do not to cry out in rage.
Clenching her jaws to keep the lower from trembling, she broke away from the helpless embrace and began to move across the floor on all fours, searching for the blade that she had earlier discarded.
With this, Anne Scott too seemed to gather herself, and perceiving her niece’s intention, began to search for the knife as well. All done in the poor and inconstant light from without, and with the urgency that only threat of death can bring.
It was no easy task. For the uneven paving stones held many cracks, with scattered straw overlying all. But at last Mary’s hand touched steel, and her fingers closed around it.