“I will find them, Sir Henry, but it shall be for the king that duty will be served, not for your own gratification.” With that, Noyce turned on his heels and left. Sir Henry looked as though he was about to shout after the impudent fellow but, instead, picked up the fork and thrust it angrily into the chicken’s breast.
Leaving Sir Henry fuming at the dining table, Noyce went to the kitchen where he found the mistress of the house in the company of her servants. A scullery-maid was reporting on the condition of the house. “There is a great tear in the tapestry in the upper gallery and this morning they have ripped up boards from the floor in the great hall.”
Mary Habingdon listened as the list of desecrations grew: panels removed, doors unhinged, stairs lifted. The maid was clearly anxious, her voice quivering as she continued her litany. Mary on the other hand was the very picture of calm, and she seemed more concerned with re-adjusting her bonnet than fretting about the damage done to her beloved house. It was typical of her behaviour since the arrival of her uninvited guests, thought Noyce. She had treated them with haughty contempt, done nothing to assist or provoke them and had remained adamant that she had nothing to hide.
“The wainscoting can be replaced and the floorboards polished but the tapestry is another matter,” she said. “Repairing it will certainly be beyond my skills with needle and thread. May God forgive those foolish oafs.” Unaware that Noyce was watching, she crossed herself.
Noyce coughed, announcing his presence. One of the servants let out a surprised gasp on turning and seeing him loitering in the door. The group dispersed, returning to the tasks which had busied them prior to their mistress’s arrival and leaving her standing alone.
“Mr Noyce, have you tired of destroying my house?”
“Such is the price for hiding priests and traitors both, Mrs Habingdon. Now I think it is time that you and I had a talk.”
The woman strode towards Noyce, her annoyance only now showing. “I thought you and your kind preferred conversation over the rack. Is that what you have in mind for me Mr Priest Hunter? Torture, until I tell you where these supposed priests are hidden?”
It was indeed a pretty bonnet, thought Noyce; it was just a shame that the face it framed was now exuding barely disguised contempt. “Let us hope that it will not come to that. Perhaps we could proceed in private? I am sure you would not want to expose your servants to any more unpleasantness than is truly necessary. Let us not forget that I have still to question them about what goes on here.”
This veiled threat to her servants was enough to encourage a change of attitude. “Very well, Mr Noyce, come with me.” She gestured to the door and Noyce followed her from the room.
“Will he torture her?” asked a young girl with a scrubbing brush in her hand and fear in her voice.
“I would like to see him try,” said one of the cooks with a reassuring smile. “He will pay dear for the torn tapestry. Her father brought that back from the wars in Flanders.”
Noyce was standing by a glowing fire and had taken care to adjust his sword so as to keep its tip away from the flames. At his insistence, Mrs Habingdon had taken to a chair, beside which a needlework frame stood idle, coloured threads dangling to the floor. She eyed her own handiwork critically and once again her thoughts turned to the damaged tapestry, which she had yet to examine for herself.
Noyce pre-empted her. “The damage is most unfortunate, Mrs Habingdon. The soldiers are incompetent. They do not know how to search a house. I may however be in a position to rid you of them.”
“And what have I done to deserve such treatment, Mr Noyce? To you I am nothing more than another pestilent Catholic. Why would you wish to ease my discomfort?”
The man took a step forward from the fire and drew his sword, causing the woman to shrink back in her chair. To demonstrate that no threat was intended he placed the blade on a nearby table and took a seat in the chair opposite her, on the other side of the fire.
“Because, my dear lady, easing your discomfort might just have the same effect on my own, shall we say, rather unenviable predicament?”
Mrs Habingdon was studying him, trying to gauge his measure. There was something about him, a charm which she would not before have associated with a man who chose to hunt priests for a living. “In my husband’s absence you might think me obliged to act as he would in such circumstances as these. But in the world of domestic affairs I am the mistress of my own destiny. Now, sir, you have my attention so, pray continue with your exposition.”
*
With the house cleared of soldiers and more than half of them now marching away, Noyce was left at peace to advance the search. But, when Sir Henry found him, he was sitting idle in the great hall. “Well, Noyce, what do you hear? I can assume that you are listening and not just resting your backside?”
“Quiet as the grave I am afraid. They are not hiding in here. Of that I am confident.”
“Then where in the blazes are they? There are dozens of apartments in this pile. Is it your intention to sit in each of them until it becomes apparent to you that Jesuits in hiding know better than to create a din?”
“No, I intend to search the long gallery. You might care to join me.”
“Anything to hasten an end to all of this. If only Habingdon would return. Then we would make some progress.”
“And how is that, sir?”
“Why, we can rack him of course. I refuse to torture a woman but, when he gets back, I will know the location of each and every one of the hiding places soon enough.”
“Now that would be a shame,” said Noyce, jumping to his feet. “I have always taken pride in winning my prize without recourse to torture. It is such a noisy, messy business and it entirely takes the sport out of the chase. And, in any case, there is a flaw in your proposition.”
“And what is that sir?”
“I have not noticed you with a rack about your person. Nor have I observed your men setting one up in the gardens. I can only suppose they are too busily engaged in ripping up the roses and pissing on the lawn.”
Sir Henry was quick with his response. “I am sure a rope thrown over a rafter in the barn will provide more than one way of producing the requisite agonies.”
Noyce had never marked Sir Henry out as a man of initiative. “In the meantime, might I suggest we continue the search? Perhaps now I can prove to you the nature of my talent.”
Sir Henry was already pondering what sort of knot might best secure a man suspended by his hands, preferably while they were tied behind his back. But he saw no harm in going along with the priest hunter, at least for now. “The long gallery I believe you said?”
*
Owen had finished taking stock of his victuals and did not like the result of his accounting; the biscuits and quince jelly would last no more than another day, the beer perhaps another two. There was a fortune in the bag at his feet but a man could not live by silver coins alone. There were far better holes in the house, but, being only a lay brother, he had shown favour to the priests. The previous day, the sound of soldier’s boots stomping across the floor and the crash of furniture had died down, almost to the point that he thought they may have abandoned the search. But then, with his ears straining, he picked up quieter stirrings, the pad of stockinged feet and the gentle teasing of the woodwork. These were not sounds to sooth the soul. Oh Lord, he prayed, I would prefer a company of clumsy soldiers – who are no better than the blind leading the blind – over a single priest hunter.
Equipped with the tools for the job, he could work on improving his surroundings, for, even with the great risk of the searchers hearing the sound of his labours, doing something seemed a better option than doing nothing. But, in the absence of tools, he had no option but to wait – either to be discovered in hiding or for his enemies to give up their search. But, as time slipped slowly by, another option came to mind. And so it was that he determined to leave his hiding place, and then the house, if it were possible; if it were not, th
en he would make for one of the better appointed priest holes.
Once again, with his best ear to the wall he listened to the house and what she had to tell him about the hunter. At first, all was silent; but then he heard it, the sound of someone upstairs, walking down the long gallery from where the floorboards were creaking. The timbers there were badly seasoned and it had long been Mrs Habingdon’s desire to have them replaced; but, whenever he arrived at the house for a period of employment, he was tasked with creating a further hiding place. There were now so many, he was afraid that the house, thus honeycombed, would collapse on to its foundations. Until then, the number and precise location of all of the holes would be known only to him and the lady of house.
He always worked alone and at night, reciting prayers as he carved his way into the fabric of the house. Then, when the work was done he would unveil his latest creation to his mistress and teach her its secrets. There were regularly priests and lay brothers in the house, but never so many as to require the use of more than two or three of the hiding places. Nevertheless, the mere knowledge of their presence seemed to gift Mrs Habingdon with a peace of mind which only the attendance of a mass in her hidden chapel could improve upon. This time though it was different. These were not priests making one of their regular clandestine visits but a group of desperate men, traitors caught up in a plot which had gone terribly wrong. There would be no giving up on the search for them as had been the case on many a previous occasion. This time they would be hunted to the ends of the earth.
*
Noyce was running a lighted candle across the surface of the wood panelling. He was crouching now, holding it close to the junction of the floor and the wall. At first Sir Henry thought the flame was merely providing illumination, shedding light into the nooks and crannies. But then, as it continued to move along the flame flickered, leaping away from the wall for just an instant before steadying again as it resumed its passage across the skirting. When drawn back and held steady the flame guttered almost to the point of expiration.
It was obvious even to Sir Henry that the draught was coming from a void behind the panel and he watched, fascinated, as the priest hunter stood up and began to feel along its edge. Unable to get a purchase with his fingertips, he pulled a knife from his belt and began to prize away at the beading. The blade disappeared behind the wood and then, after a little agitation, there was a click and the wood popped away from the wall.
Stepping back, Sir Henry unsheathed his sword and pointed its tip towards the widening gap. “I should call for the men, they might be armed.”
“Indeed they might,” said Noyce as he held the dagger above the loosened panel. “But I think we still hold the advantage over those within.”
“Very well,” replied Sir Henry, who was now speaking in a whisper. With his free hand he too drew a dagger and with both blades poised, he motioned with his chin for Noyce to pull open the panel.
With a jerk the hidden door opened and Sir Henry cleared his throat before bellowing into the dark. “Come out from there.” There was no reply. “It will go better for you if we do not have to come in and take you.” Nothing stirred. “There is nowhere left to run. Come out!” Still nothing. There seemed little option but to enter. Sir Henry eyed the narrow gap and then looked down at his prodigious, sash-bound frontage.
“Perhaps you will allow me?” said Noyce.
The Justice did not need to hear the offer made twice. “Yes, yes of course. You are the priest hunter and I am sure you have seen more of these niches than many a Jesuit.”
Noyce could barely mask a smile as he ushered his companion out of the way and followed the candle and point of dagger into the void. Once inside, the candle flickered wildly. But there was light enough to illuminate a small box-like space just large enough to accommodate a crouching man of no more than medium stature. But there was no crouching man. The priest hole was empty.
Noyce took a moment to study the interior, noting the vent in the back wall through which the draught entered. At least, he thought, the occupant would not suffocate, but even with the door open he was beginning to find the atmosphere oppressive.
“Empty?” asked a disappointed Sir Henry as Noyce backed out into the hall.
“This has not seen an occupant for some time.”
“You are certain of that?”
“A man would leave behind some trace. We would smell him.”
Sir Henry sheathed his sword and dropping to his knees, peered into the hole. There was nothing in there, neither seat nor commode. “Zounds, there can be few torture devices in the Tower as bad.”
“It is strange is it not,” offered Noyce, “the lengths to which a man will go to avoid being disembowelled alive?”
Sir Henry closed the door and frowned. “There are times sir, when your sympathies would appear misdirected.”
Noyce was already walking away. “My work has made me a student of the human animal, that is all. Now, sir, shall we begin our search again? A house this size may have a dozen such places concealed within it.”
Sir Henry paused before following, taking the time to run his fingers across the edge of the secret door. He could not help but admire the skill required to conceal the join so well. To all but the most experienced eyes there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen here. Noyce may be insolent, he thought, but the man clearly knew his business.
*
By noon the next day two more holes had been breached, and each was empty. The first was concealed beneath the floorboards of the vestibule, cleverly placed so close to the front door that it was almost outside rather than being buried within the heart of the house as might be expected. The second was in the pantry, concealed behind the heavy stone walls of the under-croft and with access provided by a hatch cut into the back of a high shelf. The priest hiding there would require the dexterity only to be found in a young man, and, from the size of the hiding place itself, Noyce could only assume the architect intended it for the concealment of a boy.
Despite the cupboards being bare, Sir Henry continued to be impressed with the priest hunter’s abilities, at one point comparing him to a terrier let loose in a rabbit warren, albeit a warren which lacked rabbits. By the time the third of the day’s discoveries was made – the largest of them all – inside a fireplace, the Justice began to worry that the birds had flown. Noyce paused only to enquire whether Sir Henry would prefer him to find birds or rabbits before continuing with his search.
*
“I want no more than twelve men remaining,” insisted Sir Henry, as he rode along the ragged line of men. It had been three full days since he first arrived here, at the gates to the house. Although Noyce had succeeded in sniffing out four hiding places, not one of them had produced a fugitive. He did not doubt that, given enough time, the man would find every secret space in the house. But further delay would not impress his superiors in London, and with every passing day so his own costs mounted. Noyce was right; it was an expensive business to keep soldiers in the field. He contented himself with the thought that if the fugitives were still bottled up, and pray God they were, then there was nothing that a dozen of them couldn’t do as well as a hundred.
The priest hunter was watching the activity at the gate from a window in the long gallery. He was pleased to see yet more men being sent away and, having won the confidence of the Justice, was looking forward to making his move before the evening was out.
The captain yelled orders to the men, who, with no great hurry, organized themselves into marching order and began to move off. Progress along the track was halted almost immediately by a party of riders approaching at speed. The men on foot stood aside as the horsemen cantered along the centre of the track without so much as a sideways glance.
“Who in God’s name is this?” asked Sir Henry, to no one in particular.
“I have no inkling sir,” said the captain, “but they look to be carrying enough armour to equip a small army.”
“I fear that is
exactly what they are captain,” said Sir Henry, who had a dreadful sense of foreboding about the new arrivals. Could it be that news of his lack of success had already reached his superiors? Whatever the motive behind this unexpected development, the grim expression on the face of the lead rider did not bode well.
There were half a dozen of them on tall military mounts, all breastplates and thigh-covering tassets, though the man in front was marked out not by his armour, of which he wore none, but by the austerity of his dress, which lacked both collar and cuff. He pulled up his horse in front of Sir Henry’s mount and gave an eye to the house before speaking.
“You will be Sir Henry Bromely?”
“I am sir, and those are my men you just forced off the road.”
The newcomer cast a glance over his shoulder. “On their way home are they? Can we presume then that your task is complete?”
The colour was rising in Sir Henry’s cheeks; he had suffered enough impertinence over these past days. “Whatever my task might be I am hardly likely to report its results to persons unknown. Now who in blazes are you and what is your business here?”
The stranger did not even have the decency to look at him when he answered, for his eyes were fixed on the house again. “I am Jonathan Noyce, sir, officer of the king tasked with bringing his Catholic enemies to justice.”
Like bolted claret, the colour immediately drained from Sir Henry’s cheeks. “Jonathan Noyce? That cannot be. You are an impostor, sir.”
The man pulled a parchment from his satchel. “This is a Royal warrant, bearing my name and the king’s signature.” He held it out to Sir Henry.
“But you cannot be Mr Noyce.”
“Will you take the blasted warrant and examine it, sir. I am here to take over the search of the house. And your obstruction will go badly for you.”
Sir Henry took the parchment and unrolled both it and the uncomfortable memory of the time when Mr Noyce – the other Mr Noyce – had refused to let him examine his warrant. Unfortunately, this document appeared to be genuine, but it was difficult to keep it from rolling up again while he used one hand to rub his aching neck.
The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction Page 27
