by Andre Norton
He smiled. “I am Peter Bowyer who keeps this inn.”
Nan flinched. “I am Nan Mallory, if it please you, sir.” He was dressed with the plainness of a countryman, and yet she felt that there was about him the manner of a squire.
“It pleases me very well, Mistress Mallory. Now bide you here where it is warm, and one shall bring you a hot posset to drink and an apple tart. Sukie has taken a batch straight from the oven. You shall find them very good indeed.”
He nodded as if they were already old friends, leaving with a quick step as if there was much to see to. Nan fumbled with the throat ties that held her hooded cloak. She did not know where Uncle Jasper was, and for the moment she did not care. But she could not help looking about her now with the eyes Uncle Jasper had trained to serve him.
The room was small, and the walls paneled throughout. Even the door, when it was closed, was covered by panels, so that it could hardly be told from the rest of the wall. There was a large fireplace, though the fire did not fill it, and the stone mantel was carved with a tracing of vine and flat roses.
But there was little furniture—a table pushed against the far wall with a candlestick on it, the bench Master Bowyer had pulled closer to the fire for her to sit on, a couple of stools. It was the walls, however, that would yield any secrets.
Those who held by the Old Faith had hiding places in the walls—places where a man might stand or lie when the King's Men hunted them. Those places were secret, but such secrets could be discovered. And Uncle Jasper had taught her how one worked toward such discoveries. Nan uttered a small sound which was near a whimper. She would have to look—soon.
Chris watched the men tramp into the kitchen. Sukie did not look up from the table where she was setting out the loaves, hot and smelling so good, which she had just brought in from the oven. Twice her fingers jerked, and she nearly tumbled a round of fresh bread onto the sanded floor. Yet she did not glance at the men, and her lower lip was caught between her teeth. Chris felt her fear, though he could not understand it. Surely they had nothing to fear here, they were not sheltering any enemy of the King. Let this officer and his men clatter through the Red Hart from attic to cellar and leave with empty hands.
He could not understand what story had brought them here at all. This was a quiet village, strung out along the Rye road, the cottages fronting each other across the highway, the church at one end and the Red Hart at the other. Everyone knew that Squire Kenton, up at the Manor, was no lover of the Pope. His own brother had been killed in Spain by a priest's urging.
Master Bowyer had raised no protest when they had tramped in with their officer, that sour-faced man now standing in the doorway, his never-still eyes darting about the room as if he expected the Pope himself to rise up from behind the dresser with its heavy burden of pewterware. To think of this being a traitor's hiding hole was so foolish a thing that Chris had stared open-mouthed when he understood they were serious about this search.
Sukie took up a small tray and loaded on it one of the steaming apple tarts, a small tankard of ale, and a spoon. She snapped her fingers to Chris as if she dared not speak aloud. When he came to her, she moved the light burden toward him.
“The parlor—”
“What's to do, slut?” The officer gave Chris a look hard enough to make him drop his eyes. He had seen such before when he had been afraid of being dragged before some parish constable for a homeless rogue.
“Master—he says it be for the maid.” Sukie flashed a scowl at the officer. “Master has a kind heart; more than some—”
For a moment the man looked as if he were not going to allow Chris to pass, his gaze straight on the boy as he pulled at the point of his small beard. Then he motioned him on.
‘Take it then, fellow.”
Chris was glad to be out of the kitchen. Though there had been unusual activity there to watch—such as one of the men briskly measuring the length of the fireplace on a marked stick and another prodding along the stones. As he passed the small chamber where Master Bowyer kept his accounts, he saw another of the King's Men lounging by the half-open door and caught a glimpse of russet sleeve. Master Bowyer must be within, and they had a guard on the door! Chris longed to trip the fellow as he went, but there was no need, he knew, for such tactics. They would discover soon enough that this was a fruitless hunt and be gone about their business. He saw the guard watching him, but as Chris put hand to the latch of the small parlor door, the man relaxed.
Chris entered. Maid, Sukie had said. But did the King's Men bring with them women when they hunted? Or was she some prisoner or witness they kept in guard? Yet there was no man before this door—
“Oh!”
Here was only a girl! No bigger than Bess the last time Chris had seen her. She stood by the table, staring at him as if he had frightened her. Her dress was creased and crumpled. She might have been traveling for several days, and it was dingy dark gray, its cuffs and collar of linen grimy.
While she was not only plain but near ugly. Her hair was strained back tight under her cap. What little of it showed was a sandy red, as were her brows and her scanty eyelashes. There were thick freckles across her nose and cheeks. Why, Bess had been far prettier. This girl looked as if she were afraid of her own shadow.
“Something to eat, mistress.” Chris set down the tray.
“Thank—thank you.” Even her voice was like the shadow of a real one. “It is—it is kind of Master Bowyer—”
Chris swung around, taking a step closer to her. “What do you know of Master Bowyer?” he demanded fiercely.
She shrank a little. “Naught. He—he was kind to me. He said someone would bring me food—”
“What are you doing here?” Chris was oddly heartened by her obvious signs of fear. “Why did you come to trouble Master Bowyer?”
The girl shook her head. “I—I came because Uncle brought me. He—I must go to my aunt; it is in this direction. So I travel with my uncle.”
Chris snorted. “You know what he is, this uncle of yours? He takes men to kill them. But why does he come here? Master Bowyer is no priest lover! So who sent him to seek what he is never going to find?”
Nan kept shaking her head. “I—I do not know. He tells me nothing.”
She looked at the boy who faced her with only the short space of the table's edge between them. He looked very rough—frightening—in spite of the apron belted about him and his rolled-up sleeves. Who was he? Some inn servant? But why was he asking her all these questions? This was the first time Uncle Jasper's story had been suspect. She was sure that the kind-faced innkeeper had believed it, that she was merely in Uncle Jasper's company because it was necessary that she travel a short distance in his charge. She swallowed. She must do as she had elsewhere, begin to ask questions of her own. But always before she had dealt with serving maids who had felt sorry for her and were willing to believe the part she played. In the weeks she had been with Uncle Jasper, she had never met face to face one who was angry and suspicious from their first meeting. Nan made a great effort to summon courage.
“Who are you?” Her voice came out firmly enough to give her more confidence. “Master Bowyer's son?”
He shook his head. “I'm the potboy.” He made that answer short and did not say his name. But then he added, “Master Bowyer is not married; he has no family.” Now he came a step closer, watching her so intently that she wanted to retreat again. “Who lied about him?”
“I do not know—” she began. Then he interrupted her hotly, “It is your uncle who has come a-hunting here. Who said that the Red Hart shelters Papists?”
Nan could only stare. “He—my uncle—tells me nothing. I do not know why he has come here.” That was a lie, one of the many which always lay heavy on her mind. Uncle Jasper said that such were not lies when they were told in the good cause, yet Nan hated to speak them.
She wondered if this potboy guessed she lied, he continued to stare at her so fiercely. What lay between him and his ma
ster that he was so ready in Master Bowyer's defense? If they were not kin, and he had said so—
“The master, he is a good man!” He paused as if to dare her to deny that. “He should not be troubled thus.”
Abruptly he swung around and left, shutting the door behind him with a decided bang. Nan stood shivering where she was. The good cinnamony smell of the tart on the table only made her stomach feel the worse. Yet she must force herself to choke down at least part of it, so there be no suspicion roused that she was not what Uncle Jasper had said she was—a young maid innocent of all his work, on her way to her aunt.
She reached for the tankard and sipped at the mulled ale. The brew was warm, spicy. For the first time she felt warmth within her. Taking the horn-handled spoon, she broke through the flaky crust of the tart. But she ate with no pleasure, only the need for playing her role here. Let it be done and quickly—Oh, let it be done quickly, so they could be away!
All the time she gulped both ale and food, her eyes sought the wall panels. She knew well what had brought Uncle Jasper here: his belief that Master Bowyer himself was other than he seemed—one of the traitor priests perhaps—and that the Red Hart had a secret which served those who came and went within its walls.
There were those who in the days of Queen Elizabeth had gone from place to place fashioning hiding places for priests, cunningly concealed, but some large enough to hold a man in safety; others to hide only those things that each priest must carry if he was to serve the false services he held. If Master Bowyer was himself a priest, as Uncle Jasper believed, then what she must seek was not a hiding place for a person, but rather one for the vessels of the Mass.
Nan could eat no more. The shadows which lay in the corners of this small parlor were drawing in upon her as if determined to push her out. The girl squeezed her hands to her breast and stared wildly around. It was there somewhere— what she sought, what she must find. She knew that as much as if some voice shouted to her out of the very air.
It had been this way before—twice. Something had sent her directly to a place of secrets. She was afraid, bitterly afraid, of that queer knowledge that slipped slyly into her mind, sent her in the right direction. At least that was one secret she had managed to keep hidden from Uncle Jasper. It was—like witchcraft, this being able to find the hidden. And witches were even more of the Devil than priests. If Uncle Jasper knew— Nan shivered and gave a small moan, the sound of which frightened her even more.
Let her just be able to find what she had to, so that they could go from this place! Let her do it quickly—quickly—!
She closed her eyes and waited, allowing that knowledge to come, not fighting it, in spite of all her hatred of what would possess her. Then, staring straight before her, though she did not really see the room, she went, her fingertips sliding across the panels. It was when she approached the fireplace, on the far side, that she found it. Here—somewhere—
Up and down the panel her fingers went. She had found it. She might not be able to open it, but Uncle Jasper would see to that. Sighing, she wavered back to the bench where her cloak trailed down to the floor.
The fire could not warm her now. As always when that— that knowing came to her—it left her weak and sick—and cold, as if life had been drawn from her. Now she must work to find an explanation to give Uncle Jasper, one which would fit her learning where the secret lay hid so he could never guess how she had discovered it. This time she could not say she had overheard any whispers of man or maid. There was the boy—But she did not believe that Master Bowyer would entrust a potboy with knowledge that might mean his own death. No, this time she was caught without any way of crediting her discovery to something Uncle Jasper would believe.
Nan drew the cloak up about her body. To keep silent would be no way out. She did not trust her own courage; she had none where Uncle Jasper was concerned. He had broken her will in the first days after he had taken her, so she was his servant and could keep nothing from him, except the greatest secret of all—how she was able to learn such matters.
She began to cry, hopelessly, silently, the tears running down her cheeks, she making no attempt to rub them away. Always she had feared that this would happen—some day.
Chris slipped down the hall. The King's Man had called Master Bowyer into one of the upper rooms for questioning. He could hear the rumble of men's voices from above the stairway where the searchers tramped from room to room.
Jem was in the kitchen with Sukie and Bet, one of the maids. They were under the eye of one of the guards now. But Chris had been in the yard when they were rounding them up. And he knew one of the tricks of this place, the door from the stables into the main hall, a door which could be easily overlooked. Sometimes at night Master Bowyer came and went by that door, and Chris had seen him, saying nothing. For Master Bowyer's business was his own, and no man knowing him could think he went so to do evil. But for these searchers to think the innkeeper a priest! Who had told such a wild tale?
Chris paused by the door of the small parlor. That girl, she said she knew nothing, but he did not believe her. She had been frightened half out of her wits. He was sure he could get more out of her, given the chance. Swiftly he opened the door and whipped around it, shutting it silently behind him.
There was little light here. The inner curtains had been drawn to keep out frosty drafts as well as the daylight. He looked for her first on the bench or by the table—she was gone.
Then a faint scratching drew his attention to the far side of the fireplace. She was standing before the wall, feeling along the edge of one of the panels. Chris moved forward, and his thick shoes scraped on the sanded floor. The girl gave a little cry as she faced about.
“What do you?”
Nan gasped; then she straightened. She saw the scowling face, the fingers balled into fists as if this potboy would willingly pummel her to get his answer. All at once a new idea came to her, so strange a one that she wondered why it should visit her here and now. What if she could find the secret place for Uncle Jasper, but find it empty? If she did not see anything in it, then she could truthfully say that it was as she had located it!
“Listen"—she leaned forward—"what my uncle and his men seek—lies behind here.” She tapped the surface of the panel. “If they find it... your master will be taken, do you understand?”
“You won't tell them.” He advanced upon her.
“I must tell—about the hiding place. But if it is empty— What then?”
For a moment she thought her words had made no impression on him. Was he too thick-witted to understand? Then he turned that straight stare from her face to the wall.
“Can you open it?”
Nan gave a sigh of relief, so she had touched him that far.
“I hope that I may.” Now she dared set her back to him, call upon that power she did not understand to serve her. Up and down she ran her fingertips, trying to hold within her control her fear and impatience.
It was as if she touched some spot which was faintly warm. Then another slightly below it. She pressed on these together, and there was movement in the wall.
Straightway she drew back, refusing to look at what she had uncovered. Only so could she tell the truth, and Uncle Jasper could read it so with his skill at winning confessions from the weak.
“I must not look at it,” she said hurriedly. “If I do—then he will get that from me. He can always tell if I try to lie. Do you take what is there into safety! But—leave the panel a little open!”
Nan pushed past him, her breath coming in gasps, her head turned away. She heard his movements before she caught up her cloak and hurried out.
Chris looked within the hiding place. There was a bag lying there, and he knew it for the one which Master Bowyer carried on those night travels of his. Chris did not understand all the girl had said, but he was well aware that his master was menaced by what lay here. He pulled the bag from the hidden cupboard and pushed the panel near to.
Where could he set it for safety—? The oven! The oven still hot enough to roast the joint which Sukie had put in when she took forth the bread! Grasping the bag tight, Chris slipped from the room. The girl was going upstairs toward the murmur of voices. He did not know if she were on her way to betray him or not. But he was still free. Down the hall he darted, slipping through to the stable. There was the coach with a man on guard at the door of the courtyard, but his head was luckily turned away. Chris scuttled past the scullery to open the door of the oven. The odor of roasting meat, the heat struck him in the face. He tossed the bag, to hear it clink against the back wall, behind the joint. Maybe not good enough, but the best he could do—
“What are you doing there!” Chris stiffened.
A hand closed tight on his shoulder. He summoned all the courage he had as he looked up into the face of the guard.
“Seeing to the meat. They keep Sukie in the kitchen, and she can't get to it. This be baking day, see—and the week's joint, Sukie puts it in when the loaves come out.”
“More like you're thinking of stealing yourself a cut.” The guard laughed. “At your age no boy has ever a full belly. Be glad you didn't get caught by your master.”
He clanged the oven door shut with one hand, kept his grip on Chris with the other.
“March"—he pushed him toward the door to the kitchen— “get you in with the rest, and don't let me catch you sneaking out again.”
He thrust Chris inside with a word to the other guard about not taking his eyes off the brat. The man grunted sourly and sent Chris across the kitchen with an open-handed slap that made his head ring.
The boy crouched on the floor by the hearth. What if the guard mentioned the oven and that officer with the ever-moving eyes was suspicious? They were not safe yet—they could not be. The girl—what if she talked? In spite of the fire Chris shivered.
