Canterbury Castle ruins

Previously in the novel: Leon, a novice mercenary, is in the middle of taking the Archbishop of Canterbury hostage and exchanging for an anarchist during the Great War.

“Why would they treat you like this?” Leon asked the old man and leaned into to hear the reply.
“I suppose they kidnapped me because I am the Archbishop of Canterbury,” he replied in a calm, clear voice. “Recently the police arrested a man named Jack Smith in Glasgow. He was the leader of a group protesting Britain’s involvement in the Great War. Anarchists, I believe they are called. I think the government would turn Mr. Smith over to them to ensure my safe return.” He chuckled from beneath the hood. “Quite a prize, aren’t I?”
A thousand thoughts raced through Leon’s mind. No one in the Bahamas knew much about the war raging in Europe. He did not understand why a government would care so much for the life of one old man while it sacrificed thousands of young men in battle. Leon knew he put his life in danger but only for money. He did not care much about dying for just an idea. Ideas did not fill a starving baby’s stomach. Food first, then worry about things like freedom and justice.
“Do you want anything to eat?”
“Food is the least of my worries at this point, young man. I fear I will be with my Lord by the time the sun sets again.”
Leon glanced up though the open roof of the dungeon ruins. The sun was fairly high in the sky. Perhaps it was noon already. The hours had passed quickly. He was hungry, but he was young and strong and could survive without food. The old man, on the other hand, was already weakened by age and poor health. He studied the hood.
“If I lifted your hood up past your mouth, you could eat and drink something without seeing me. It doesn’t matter if you are rescued but are close to death.”
“I must confess I am hungry.”
Lifting the hood slightly, Leon decided his plan would work. The archbishop could see nothing. All Leon could make out of the man’s face was his mouth. His lips curled around a terrible set of dentures. “I may not be able to get you anything but a crust of bread and some water, but at least it will be something.”
“Bless you, my son.”
Leon stood and left the cell, trudging up the rough stony floor to the upper level of the dungeon. The two men leaned over a radio and didn’t notice him approaching. He cleared his throat which drew their attention.
“You need to feed the old man,” he announced with determination. “You can’t trade a dead man to get back your buddy.”
The older man, with bits of gray spotting his red hair, glared. “Shut up! Ye don’t know what ye talk about!”
“I know about empty bellies!” Leon knew precious little about the ways of the world but he did understand the simple act of survival.
“I said shut up!” the younger man growled. “We’re getting our orders over the damned radio!”
Leon stayed quiet and listened.
“The Archbishop of Canterbury, looking hale and hearty for his sixty-eight years, stood on the balcony of Buckingham Palace waving to the crowds.” The radio crackled with static but the message was clear. “Counselors to His Royal Highness George V told the BBC Archbishop Randall Davidson spent the night at the palace with the Royal Family and conducted a prayer breakfast this morning.”
The younger man looked at his boss. “Do ye think they’re tryin’ to fool us?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged his beefy shoulders.
Leon turned and ran down the dank slope of the dungeon, quickly followed by the two red-haired men. They stopped when they saw that the cell door was open. Lying on the ground in front of it were the archbishop’s pajamas, robe, the hood and the crucifix which had hung around his neck. Leon’s gut told him not to move any further, and Leon always paid attention to his gut. The two red-haired men rushed passed him into the dark cell.
A couple of thuds came from inside, followed by screams, one from an older, deeper voice and the other from a younger, more frightened one. Then silence. Leon did not know whether to run away or to look inside to see what had happened.
The decision was made for him when a slender figure stepped out dressed in tight black trousers, a turtleneck and a ski mask. No, Leon corrected himself; it was not really a ski mask but rather a silken covering over the face which would not protect against cold winds on a snowy mountain side. Its only purpose was to hide the identity of the man wearing it. Leon noticed the man held in his hands the awful-looking dentures, only now they dripped with blood. The man held out the bloody dentures for Leon to see.
“My dentures,” the man explained, “dipped in a deadly poison. A single prick of the skin with the venom is instant death. I’m afraid I bit them more deeply than necessary, but I thought they were extremely rude, didn’t you? Would you like to see? I’m afraid their bodies are still twitching quite badly.”
“Oh.” Leon was at a loss for words.
“This is your first job, isn’t it?
“Yes.”
“Then don’t look. Ease into the more gruesome aspects of the job, I always say.” He locked the dentures together to render them harmless and slid them into a trouser pocket. “Don’t worry. I can tell you are a good boy. You will live to see your mum another day.”
“Thank you.”
“You won’t be paid for this mission, will you? Frightfully sorry.” As he passed Leon, he handed him several large gold coins. “Perhaps this will get you home. By the way. Take my advice. Find another profession. This one can be hazardous to your health.”