Chapter Seventeen
The crypt – escape, thwarted – sandwiches – illness – teaspoons – bad news – bound up in a nutshell
Gruffydd Pritchard awoke, head thumping like a mortar barrage. His stomach churned like his first week in Delhi before it became accustomed to the water. His mouth felt like a desert and tasted like a barracks floor. A sharp pain shot up from his ankles.
He was somewhere cold and smelling of dank. The one fortunate thing about his current circumstances was the quality of the light, which was bright enough to see by, but dim enough that it did not hurt.
He lay fully clothed on a thin straw mattress, set on top of a stone slab. The walls around him were cold stone, the ceiling was low and vaulted. The slab next to his bore some writing: “Major Sir Francis Rearden. 1771–18
