The Alteration

by Kingsley Amis

  'I see. Answer my first question. You refuse to sign the document I spoke of. Why?'

  Here Lyall was given another breathing space, though not one he would have chosen. A light step was heard on the stairs. At once, without reference to each other, the two officers moved over to the corner of the room by the chest-of-drawers, where they were out of sight from the doorway. Lyall bit at the inside of his cheek: if Margaret was going to do as she usually did, she would hurry up to him immediately the door was open, saying things that nobody should ever say to a priest. The door opened and she appeared. Although she had for the moment no ordinary way of knowing that there were others in the room (certainly not from any intended move by Lyall himself, who was under the careful gaze of both officers), she responded as fast as she had in the garden ten minutes before, stood her ground and uttered not a word. He said mildly, 'Dame Anvil, I'm well aware that I'm in your honoured husband's service, but these are my quarters, and I'd be greatly favoured if you'd knock before entering them. However, please come in. These are two gentlemen from the Tower.'

  She gave them a distant nod as she walked forward, her mouth set. 'I, Father Lyall, should be greatly favoured if you'd refrain from admonishing me in the hearing of strangers. That's no way for anybody, high or low, to conduct himself.'

  'My excuses, dame, I...'

  'Perhaps you'll attend me in my sitting-room when your business here is done. Good-day, gentlemen.'

  The door shut behind her. Redgrave looked sidelong at Foot, who shut his eyes briefly in negation. The pair approached Lyall again. He almost groaned aloud with the effort of not showing the smallest sign of relief at Margaret's successful departure, which he had done his best to round off with a shrug and a shake of the head. Officer Foot came and stood, legs apart, hands behind back, a yard from him. After staring him in the eyes for some seconds, he said as deliberately as ever, 'I ask you for the third time. You refuse your signature. Why?'

  Lyall was no longer frightened. Relief still had hold of him, accompanied by a sense of triumph and, more than either, love. Until just now, he had supposed it impossible that his feeling for Margaret could grow, but in that moment it had, and this woman loved him. He was possessed by elation, though he had room also for the thought that here in front of him was about as good a representative as he would find of everything he most disliked in the world he had been born into. The priest had come to a very dangerous mood. Trying to match the other's tone, he said, 'I choose to. No more than that.'

  'I must have more than that. Your reason for so choosing.'

  'I choose not to give it.'

  'Give it here and now, or elsewhere later.'

  'Your indulgence, officer, but I can't take you seriously. How in the name of St Peter can why I act as I do be of import?'

  'If it was on the orders of certain unlawful-' said Redgrave before Foot interrupted him.

  'It's only my first question, Father.'

  'Still one too many. Now I'll make a compact with you. You give me your reason for wanting to know my reason, and I'll consider giving you my reason.'

  Redgrave sighed noisily. 'We don't make compacts, Father. Have you learned so little in your life?'

  'Then I've nothing to tell you.'

  'You first defy the wishes of your superiors, the Lord Abbot of St Cecilia's Chapel and Master Anvil, and now you defy the Holy Office,' said Foot.

  'If you say so.'

  'Don't be a nitwit, Father,' said Redgrave, screwing up his face. 'You ask to go to the Tower.'

  Lyall had not even reached the point of dismissing this threat as idle: he simply disregarded it. 'Fuck a fox, the pair of you,' he said without warmth. 'You're mean of spirit—none who was not would lower himself to do your tasks, even so slight a one as this present errand. You're false, claiming to serve a just and merciful God and at the same time proud to wear the colour of blood on your dress. And you're dull and dismal, you're enemies of all wit. Hope at best to be laughed at, officers, with your pretty armlets like some gewgaw from a boy's motley-box. Now take yourselves back to your beloved Tower and leave me to my work.'

  Foot had listened to this with close attention and total impassivity, restraining his companion's several attempts to interrupt it, one of them physical. 'Is there more?' he asked.

  'You may have more.'

  'No, we have enough.'

  'Enough to attach you,' shouted Redgrave.

  'Upon what inculpation?' Foot betrayed very slight surprise. 'It's an offence to cast a servant of the State or the Church into obloquy and disrepute, and, uttered in public, a tenth part of what we've heard would surely fetch an inculpation. But all this was in private.'

  'But his gross defiance—his refusal to...'

  'Our commission was only to ask questions, not to compel replies.'

  'But the type outfaces our threat to remove him!'

  A silent message passed from Foot to Redgrave; the latter at once stopped protesting. Foot addressed Lyall.

  'Your conduct has been noted. That concludes our dealings.'

  Trying to hide his puzzlement, Lyall said, 'For the moment.'

  'The Holy Office has no more to say to you on this count.'

  The two moved off without a word of farewell, though Redgrave looked over his shoulder with something like contempt as he reached the door. Lyall groaned and rubbed his forehead, then turned to the long narrow window that faced Tyburn Road. At the edge of the footway stood a black express, its varnished panels trimmed out in scarlet. In ones and twos, a dozen or more of the people had gathered near it, on the chance of seeing some offender, perhaps with the marks of a beating on him, flung inside and carried away. Foot and Redgrave came into LyalPs view walking down the drive from the express-house. Already, the bystanders had seen that they were unaccompanied and begun to disperse, but by degrees, staring dully up at the house as if it could tell them what man it was that had attracted the notice of the Secular Arm, whether to give orders or supply information. The driver of the vehicle came round from his place and, first jostling an old woman out of his path, opened the rear door. Redgrave got in at once; Foot paused and looked straight in the direction of Lyall, who drew back a pace even as he told himself that he could not possibly have been seen. Then the door shut after Foot, the driver took his seat and the express pulled out, causing an omnibus to brake sharply.

  Lyall left the window. Could it be so easy to have beaten them off? The Tower was known to be most punctilious in adhering to the letter of its own statutes: no doubt the officers were on their way to sift its archives for material that might provide them with a firmer grip upon him. But would they not have done that before visiting him in the first place? Perhaps. Who had been the author of the citation against him? He was more than ever certain that it had not been Tobias Anvil, who had a much simpler means of overcoming him, one that could never be said, even by the most ingenious enemy, to comprehend trouble with the authorities. The Abbot? There was little enough to be said for that dignitary, except that this sort of work seemed not to be in his style. Collam Flackerty (from whom nothing had been heard since their interview)? Not at all impossible—but why?

  There was no more time for questions when Margaret came back into the room. They stood with their arms round each other and did not move.

  'I saw them go.'

  'Outraged dignity. Like Winifred the Queen-Mother herself.'

  'What did they want?'

  'Blessed are the keen of apprehension, for they shall arouse desire. They—those, those two—they tried to cow me and I remained uncowed.'

  'Will they return?'

  'Not in the next hour. Not for long enough, if ever.'

  'They made me afraid.'

  'I'll take your fear away. I promise to. I can take no other fear away, but this I can, and only I.'

  Chapter Five

  In the dormitory at St Cecilia's, Hubert finished folding a coloured shirt and tucked it carefully away in his valigia, watched by Thomas and Mark. Thom
as said in the customary after-dowse-lights undertone, 'You should go to the woods. You could find a hollow, wrap yourself in a blanket and not be cold. We'd bring you food.'

  Hubert shook his head firmly. 'You'd be missed, then seen, then followed. I won't have you suffer penance for me. My way's best.'

  'Tell us where you do mean to go.'

  'As before, Tom, I won't have you lie or be held sinfully obstinate on my account.'

  'Then-why do you go at last? After not going at first? Because of... fucking? Say, Hubert.'

  'No, because of something Master Morley told me about myself just before I was summoned to Rome. That's as much as I'll say.'

  'But weren't you tempted at all by what the Pope offered you?'

  'Oh yes, greatly, but not enough, and so my mind was made up. If something of that mark didn't signify, nothing would.'

  'I beg you not to defy the will of the Holy Father, which is also God's will.' This was Mark. 'In the name of your saint. In Our Lady's name. In Christ's name.'

  Without speaking, Hubert again shook his head.

  'You think you can continue as runaway for ever?'

  'A few months will be enough, Mark. Perhaps only a few weeks. Until I'm too old to be altered and save my voice.'

  'Fool! Apostate!'

  'Silence, Mark,' said Thomas in a hiss. Then he turned and reached under his pillow. 'Before you fasten those straps... I don't know if you'll have time to do much reading.'

  Hubert glanced at the almost intact cover of the book. 'Galliard. Keith Roberts.'

  'It's CW. What would have happened if the Schismatics' attempt to abduct Elizabeth Tudor had succeeded and they'd reared her as one of themselves.'

  'Flying machines?'

  'No, but electricity.'

  'Wonderful. Thank you, Tom.'

  'Now you must be away.'

  Thomas carefully opened the door, listened, and nodded to Hubert, who picked up his valigia.

  'Stay a moment.' Mark took from round his neck a thin chain bearing a plain silver cross and transferred it to Hubert. 'God give you His protection wherever you go.'

  'Thank you, Mark,' said Hubert, and paused. He wanted to kiss Thomas, and would not have drawn back from kissing Mark as he would then have been obliged to, but he did not dare, and shook hands with them instead. 'I'll see you both again-that I know. Good-bye.'

  'Be lucky,' said Thomas.

  Hubert went out; the door shut silently behind him. There was almost no light in the corridor, but the positions of the windows along it showed well enough to give him his bearings. With his fingertips brushing the inner wall he moved along to the stairhead, his feet in rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the tiles. The handrail guided him down to the hall and he found the outer door after only a few moments' groping; it was unlocked, as he had been told it would be. Closing it on the far side, he unguardedly let the latch fall with a loud clink and stood rigid. Nothing happened. He turned his head and there was the central statue of St Cecilia,? showing as a dark shape partly edged with pale silver under the moon, a candle or two burning inside the buttery, the window of the Abbot's parlour defined by an oil-lamp. It was in that direction that he now made his way, then through the arch into the completely unlit rear yard, past the carp-pond and towards the left-hand cluster of farm buildings. From among these, an affronted barking suddenly burst out; it died down again as suddenly when Hubert, kneeling by Smart's kennel, passed over the chunk of boiled beef he had taken out of supper for the purpose. He added some strokes and pats which brought tail-thumps in return, perhaps in recognition, and whispered a farewell.

  The going was more difficult after that, up a slanting slope broken by tussocks of long grass. After stumbling twice in a dozen yards, he halted and collected himself: he must not turn an ankle now. As he stood there, something like a joined pair of fists butted him in the small of the back, not hard enough to knock him down, though, twisting aside half in alarm, half in an attempt to strike out at whatever it was that had shoved him, he did fall on to hands and knees. There was a grunt, a quick footfall or two, and a snapping of stems, but, by the time he was up again, nothing to be seen. Just then he heard a faint whistle from under a clump of small trees, and went there as fast as he safely could.

  'So, master runaway,' said Decuman's voice. 'Have a piss before you set off. There's six hours at least till full light, so wherever you mean to go you needn't scramble. If a constable questions you, you act like a noodle. "The priest... send... for me," and if he asks where, point the way you go. He'll soon tire of you. Get your food at stalls and pattie-shops, never at an eating-house, however low. Journey by night, except through towns, and sleep in the open by day.'

  'You told me all this before.'

  'I tell you again. Now come and stand by me. There's the road. Left to Coverley and London, right to Oxford and the North. You see? Good. Mount, then. Give me your foot.'

  Hubert was quickly settled astride the pony that had been waiting almost in silence near by. It looked black, but then so would most horses in such deep shade.

  'This is old Joan,' continued Decuman. 'She's well-behaved—just let her carry you. Now in here there's cheese, bread and apples. Water. And...' He reached for Hubert's hand and put some coins into it.

  'You give me too much,' said Hubert, stowing the money away in his pocket: he did not care to count it in front of Decuman, but he could feel the milled edges of a half-crown and a shilling. 'Too much of everything. How can I ever thank you?'

  'By staying free.'

  'You put yourself in serious danger, stealing a horse.'

  'I didn't steal her-you did.'

  'The Abbot will know different.'

  'The Abbot never acts without proof. And that puts me in mind: try not to be caught with Joan. You're less than twelve, therefore they can't send you to gaol, but they can give you infants' purification. I hear that's best avoided.'

  'No doubt. Why do you do all this for me, Decuman?'

  'Because I'm safe and you're not. I'll always be safe from whatever they may try against me-I'm too crafty for them. Not you. You've plenty of wit, more than I have, but you're not crafty. And you entered my dormitory.'

  'That wasn't your choice or mine: I was allotted.'

  'You entered just the same.'

  Joan, impatient for the journey, tossed her head and blew gently down her nostrils. Hubert said, 'If I'm not crafty, how can I hope to stay free?'

  'By following what I told you, and by luck, and by their stupidity: they're well practised in the catching of felons and apostates, but where are they to look for you if not at your father's house—and you don't mean to go there, I hope?'

  'No.'

  'By God's grace too. There must be such a thing. Good-bye, Hubert.'

  'Decuman, I wish I had a hogshead of ale and a pretty young miss to give you.'

  'So do I, my dear, so do I. Now go carefully.'

  Catching the note of farewell, the pony had already started to move; the merest touch of Hubert's knee brought her round the small distance necessary to set her straight downhill. She stepped as carefully as Decuman could have wished, but without fuss or hesitation, and Hubert looked forward to an easy ride. Everything was in place: the provision-bag, the water-flask, his valigia with its carrying-strap handily looped over the pommel in front of him. He took a deep, slow breath, and all that he had left behind him faded from his thoughts. Even the Chapel itself to his left, a dark pointed bulk touched with light here and there, served only to give him his bearings. He reached the road and turned Joan towards Coverley and London.

  It was neither a warm nor a cool night: when the breeze touched his cheek, it felt to be of exactly the same temperature as himself. Patches of shadow passed briefly over him and slid away down the road ahead. He looked into the sky and saw thin rags of cloud twisting about over the face of the moon with a speed and violence whose soundlessness seemed the more unnatural for the multitude of sounds, soft but clear, that came from close by: th
e groan of leather, the regular thud of hoofs, Joan's occasional snorts, the scurrying of some small creature through the grasses near the road, the indignant shriek of an Athene's owl, with, further off, the notes of a bell in Coverley, the muffled beat of a manufactory machine and, rapidly approaching from behind, the unmistakable noise of a vehicle engine.

  Before he thought, Hubert had urged Joan into a canter; when he did think, it was to reason that pursuit could not be on its way so soon, then, as the noise grew nearer and lamplight began to illuminate his surroundings, to reason further that he must have been seen by now and had better behave like someone with no cause for fear. He pulled the pony back to a walk and a moment later halted her against the hedge, patting her neck and telling her gently that she was not a green young filly who would shy at anything a little out of the way. As it happened, she had been to market scores of times, felt perfectly indifferent towards all forms of transport, and did nothing more than toss her head when the express, as it proved to be, came drumming past. As before, the head-tossing showed impatience, but when Hubert indicated that they should move on again she stood her ground for some seconds, evidently to mark her disapproval of the abrupt and unjust ending of an enjoyable scamper.

  By the time the rear lamps of the express had disappeared, other lights, fixed ones, were in clear view, and it was not long before boy and horse made an upward turn on to the stone facing of the street that led to the centre of the capital. It was bright with gasoliers on poles and gantries; Hubert held off the impulse to wheel aside into the protective darkness of one alley or another. He had calculated earlier, and now told himself again, that to do so would be the act of a nitwit. The side thoroughfares were long since under curfew and patrolled by the constabulary; anyone found in them without a valid transeat (which even Decuman's resources could not have secured) would be attached at once. Far better to stay in the light with the honest folk. Hubert pulled down the peak of his cap, tried to look as tall as he could in the saddle, and quietly rehearsed the rumbling bass voice he would use if accosted.