by S. J. Parris
When they have done, Doughty surveys the tableau before him and curls his lip. He seems displeased with the result.
‘I would still rather Drake found her head on the altar,’ he says. ‘There should be some poetic justice to this.’
‘Do you know how long it would take to sever a head with a knife like this?’ Jenkes snaps. ‘And how would we walk away, covered head to foot in blood? No, this is the practical solution. The fuse is long enough to give us time to get some way into the passage. The explosion will seal off the entrance here, and will be large enough to attract attention. While Drake’s men are busy trying to dig out what’s left of the gallant Bruno and his lady, we will be long gone. Come – take this lantern.’
‘Should we not at least make sure they are dead first?’ Doughty says, crouching to our level and cocking the gun towards me.
‘Do not waste good shot. We will have need of that. You think three barrels of gunpowder will not suffice? Besides,’ Jenkes looks at me and smiles his lazy, reptilian smile, ‘I want to give Bruno time to repent. To count the minutes as he sees his death stealing towards him. I have often observed that heretics lose their defiance when they realise they will shortly face their Maker. You are a man with a ready wit, Bruno, but I fear it will not hold up when you have to stand before the throne of judgement.’
I say nothing. He looks disappointed, as if I have deliberately spoiled his game.
‘Come, then,’ he says to Doughty, who disables the pistol, tucking it into his belt, then takes one of the lanterns and lowers himself cautiously into the hole. Jenkes sets the other lantern down by the entrance to the tunnel shaft, slips the satchel over his head and traces his path back to the beginnings of the gunpowder trail.
‘At least take the gag from her mouth,’ I say, my voice shrill with panic. I have escaped Jenkes before; I could do so again, if only my thoughts would stop jostling one another long enough for me to see a clear path. I try to move my wrists behind my back but the cords are so tight there is barely any give; I succeed only in making them cut deeper into my flesh.
‘So you can whisper your enduring love to one another as you die?’ Jenkes says, amused. ‘Very well. Never let it be said I am not merciful.’ He breaks into that dry cackle again.
I see a flash of steel by my right eye; for a dreadful moment I wonder if I have provoked him by asking a favour. Perhaps he will do something worse to Lady Arden. But I hear the swift tear of cloth, followed by a soft sigh and a choking cough. The pillar is narrow but I am tied so tight I cannot turn my head to see her. Jenkes drops the severed gag on the floor and returns to the gunpowder fuse he has laid. He readies a taper and turns back to judge the distance between himself and the entrance to the tunnel, then concentrates on tidying his thin black powder ropes with the tip of his boot, making sure there are no breaks in the trail, nothing which might cause the flame to falter and die before it reaches its goal. When he is satisfied that everything is ready, he strikes his tinder-box carefully, his eyes meeting mine with a black glitter as he lights the taper from its spark. Then, in one practised movement, he lowers the taper to the end of one fuse, waits until he is certain it has taken, repeats the movement with the other, then scuttles across the floor, snatches up the bag and the lantern and disappears into the hole in the corner. When only his head is visible, he pauses.
‘Goodbye, Bruno,’ he says. ‘My lady. I hope Saint Michael hears you.’
His laugh echoes up the shaft as he descends, like some diabolical figure vanishing through the stage in an inn-yard theatre show. The pool of light wavers and diminishes with him.
‘Bruno?’ Lady Arden’s voice emerges harsh and guttural, as if she is unused to using it. I think of her bruised and swollen throat and the rope that almost choked the breath from her – the same rope that now holds us fast to this pillar. Would it have been kinder to let her die there, in the church? Or will it be quicker this way? Would you lose consciousness in an instant, I wonder, or would you be aware of the force ripping through your frame as you were blasted in all directions?
‘I’m here,’ I say, knowing that my tone can convey no reassurance. I cannot even reach for her hand.
‘Will we die?’ she croaks.
There is no light now in the undercroft save the two little blue-gold dancing flames sizzling steadily towards us in a pincer movement. I stretch my legs as far forward as I can, sweeping my left foot and then my right in wide, desperate circles, hoping to disrupt the line of gunpowder, though I cannot see where I am kicking and I know that Jenkes has laid the trail in a loop out of my reach. The flames grow as they eat their way relentlessly along the line of the fuse, as if their progress only makes them hungrier.
‘See if you can kick the powder away,’ I say in desperation. The silence is filled by the short, frantic scratches of our heels in the dust.
‘I can’t see where it is,’ she whispers. ‘And I can’t move my legs much anyway.’
‘Never mind.’ I do not know what else to say. She begins to murmur something soft and urgent under her breath, the cadence rising and falling. I strain to catch the words, but her voice goes on in the same chant, faster and faster, like the senseless babbling of a lunatic and I think the fear has turned her wits, until I catch now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
‘Nell?’ I say. The frenzied muttering continues. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen. ‘I am so sorry,’ I say, raising my voice over her manic repetitions. ‘This is my fault. If it were not for me, you would not be mixed up in this.’
She pauses, mid-prayer. ‘Not true,’ she says. ‘They took me because of Sir Francis, because they could not get to Elizabeth. You heard him. And in any case,’ she adds, her breathing growing fast and shallow, ‘even if it were because of you, I cannot regret it. I would not undo that night with you.’
‘Really?’ I turn my head as far as I can, but all I can see is the twin flames advancing on us. The air is thick with smoke; tears spring to my eyes and I struggle to catch my breath through the acrid smell. I know that her declaration is of a piece with the frantic Hail Mary, a clutching at anything that will make her feel less alone as she waits for death, now moments away, yet it catches at my heart. I wish I could reach her, at least take her hand as we brace ourselves for the impact.
‘Do you love me, Bruno?’ she asks. I can hear the spike of terror in her voice. ‘Do you? Oh, God have mercy on us.’ She starts up a low moan which threatens to break into uncontrolled screaming. I feel I must soothe her, if only to prevent that being the last noise I hear.
‘Yes,’ I reply, surprised at how calm I sound.
‘Then say it,’ she demands, though it emerges as a harsh croak.
‘I love you.’ The words hang in the air with the smell of burning powder. A harmless lie to ease her last minutes; no one is hurt.
I feel oddly empty, as if watching this scene from outside. The flames have sucked their way along the trail and almost reached us, though they loop away on their detour, just out of reach. By the time they have burned around this last curve, they will touch the powder scattered all around us and finally ignite the barrels.
Behind me, in the darkness, Nell gives a choking sob. ‘And I you,’ she croaks. ‘In another life—’
I make a gentle shushing sound, but it seems to me as if the noise comes from some other person. As the flames crackle the last few inches, I muster a final surge of energy and wrench my arms back, struggling with all my remaining strength against the rope that holds me to the pillar. I escaped Rowland Jenkes once; perhaps that gave me a false confidence, the belief that I could do it a second time. The rope bites into my flesh, rubbing it raw, but he has made it secure; I cannot save myself this time. Nell has taken up her prayers again. I think of the woman I did once love, and perhaps still do, far away; would she ever hear of my death, or care one way or another? Perhaps she is dead herself by now; I will never know.
The flame nearest me tou
ches the powder around my feet and flares up; I writhe away as a sudden shock of heat scorches the left side of my body. There is no time to think; I pull my knees in, turn my face away from the flames and brace myself for the grand conflagration. In the thick darkness Nell screams, one long, piercing note, and the last thought that passes through my smoke-dazed mind is that at least the explosion will make that stop.
TWENTY-TWO
But the scream continues, boring through my skull, insistent and drawn out, until she runs out of breath and the note collapses into a protracted fit of coughing. I remain still, curled tight away from the kegs, every muscle tensed, awaiting the white-hot blast. After a long pause, I lift my head. Smoke grates against my throat, my eyes. There is nothing but blackness and the curtains of smoke. I let out a sudden, amazed bark of laughter.
‘Bruno?’
‘It didn’t happen,’ I say, jubilant. My own voice is harsh now from the fumes. ‘The powder must have been too damp. It didn’t take. Thank God.’ I almost mean it. I laugh aloud again, my eyes streaming with tears.
‘So – we are safe?’ she asks, her voice small and shaky.
‘Safe?’ My euphoria quickly subsides; we still have no way of freeing ourselves and there is precious little air in this undercroft. Already I can feel my head swimming from breathing in the smoke. And what of Jenkes and Doughty? They cannot be too far along the tunnel. They will be expecting an explosion; when it does not come, will they return and silence us some other way, or are they in too much of a hurry to escape? ‘We are in better shape than we would have been if these barrels had ignited, that much is certain,’ I say.
‘I feel dizzy,’ she says. ‘My throat hurts.’
‘Take short breaths. We’re going to get out soon,’ I say, trying to sound convincing. ‘Can you move your hands at all?’ Unlike me, her hands are bound in front; she has a better chance of wriggling free. My throat is also scorched and my mouth dry and cracked; I would give anything for a sip of water. Drake’s men will come eventually when they realise that no one has left the island, but they might wait hours, by which time we could have been poisoned by the smoke, or slaughtered like animals by Jenkes and Doughty, if they return.
‘I can move them a little.’ Her voice floats, disembodied, through the darkness. ‘But I haven’t the strength.’
‘Try,’ I say, with more force than I intend. ‘If you can free your hands, you can untie us. It’s our only chance – they have bound me too tight to move.’
She does not reply. I am afraid she has passed out, until I hear a scuffling noise, accompanied by a series of grunts and hard breathing, the sound of exertion. After a few moments she gives a sharp cry that might be pain or triumph, or both.
‘I have one hand free!’ she exclaims.
‘Quick, then – untie us.’
There is a longer delay; she must first free her other hand, then find the knots that hold the rope binding us to the pillar. I curse again the loss of my knife. I listen to her scrabbling fingers, biting my tongue against my impatience, reminding myself of all she has been through. I make reassuring noises as she swears an oath, then half-sobs in frustration; when at last she falls still, I fear she has given up or collapsed, until I feel the rope around my chest slacken and I am able to lean forward, away from the pillar. She crawls through the smoke, trailing coils of rope, and hurls herself into me, burying her face in my neck, gasping or sobbing. I remind her gently that my wrists are still bound behind me. With shaking hands she unties them and finally I can stretch my stiff arms and shoulders, though I am encumbered by Nell clinging to me like an infant.
I prise her away as gently as I can.
‘We need to get out,’ I say, trying to impart a sense of urgency without alarming her further. ‘Are you burned?’
‘Scorched a little on one side, but not badly,’ she says. ‘But it’s hard to breathe in here. My throat …’
‘Don’t speak, then.’ I hold her by the arms until I am sure she can stand alone. Inside my doublet I find my tinder-box and the candle I saved from the lantern. I can see nothing but smoke and blackness in the undercroft, so I place my hand on the rough surface of the pillar and take a few steps to my left, to be certain I am away from the gunpowder. We were remarkably fortunate – the barrels must have grown damp from being stored underground too long – but I do not want to take any chances. The flint strikes sparks and after a couple of attempts the candle lights, a feeble glow in the smoke.
‘Stay there,’ I instruct her. I grope my way fruitlessly along the walls until I reach the stone stairs we descended from the church. Relief ripples through my chest, allowing me briefly to forget my aches and pains. Shielding the candle, I climb until I can push against the stone over the entrance. It does not move. Cursing, I climb a few steps higher so that I can wedge my shoulder under the slab and use the whole weight of my body to force it upwards. I groan with the effort, all my muscles straining. Again, nothing. Jenkes has sealed it somehow. I run my fingers all around the edge, but I cannot make out any bolt or padlock. It must have some secret locking mechanism impossible to see in this light. After one last push, I concede defeat.
Holding my candle carefully behind my hand, I climb down and call to Nell. It is difficult to tell whether the smoke is beginning to subside, but my breathing seems fractionally less effortful. Through the haze I see her figure emerging, tentative, towards me. I reach for her hand.
‘The entrance is sealed,’ I explain. ‘We have no choice but to use the tunnel.’
‘But – those men are down there!’ The whites of her eyes flash at me in the darkness, rolling like a spooked horse. ‘They’ll kill us if they find us following them.’
‘They’ll be long gone by now,’ I say, with a firmness I do not feel.
‘Can’t we just wait here? Drake will come for us eventually, won’t he?’ She grips my arm, her face close to mine.
‘Eventually is no good. This air will poison us if we go on breathing it for much longer. You said you felt dizzy – that’s the smoke. I feel it too. If we pass out here we may not wake again. We have to take our chances. Come.’
I lead her towards the entrance to the tunnel, feeling my way with my feet so that we do not fall down it. The candle flame is no more than a fuzzy halo, barely penetrating the smoke. A loose brick skids as I kick it, then another, until I can feel a welcome breath of cool, damp air drifting up from the open shaft.
‘I will go first,’ I say. If Jenkes and Doughty are down there waiting, better I come upon them; I will at least put up a fight. ‘Watch your step – come right to the edge of the hole – that’s it. There – you see those rungs?’ The mouth of the tunnel gapes, a bottomless pit in the faint light. Attached to one side I can see iron staples set into the wall. From here I can only make out the first two, but I have to assume they continue all the way down. ‘Climb down on those. Tie the bottom of the cloak around your waist. We’ll be doing it blind, though. I’ll have to put the candle out as we climb.’
I sit among the loose bricks, my legs dangling over into the empty space. She moves alongside me and I hand her the candle.
‘Take this. When I have gone down a few rungs, use it to find your footing, then blow it out and tuck it in your bodice. Keep it secure – we will need it. You will have to feel your way down. Can you do that?’
She looks up, biting her lip, gives me one miserable nod. I position myself on my knees, facing the wall of the shaft, then lower my foot to the first iron bracket and the other foot further still, to the next. Groping in the thin light, I step down another, and another, amazed each time that they hold my weight. The metal feels ancient; rusted and grainy, gnawed by age and damp. But five rungs in, the air is clearer. I look up and see Nell’s foot casting about for the first rung; she finds it and makes her footing secure, then extinguishes the light with a sharp puff. Darkness covers us.
I lose track of how far we descend, or how long it takes. The air grows colder the further down we climb an
d soon I am shivering, despite my wool doublet; I can hear the scrape of my breathing, my chest burning with each lungful. Moisture trickles down the walls of the shaft; in places the iron rungs are slippery with moss or weed. Stepping to the next rung, and the next, becomes an act of pure will. It feels as if we are descending to the frozen depths of the earth where Dante found the Devil himself devouring Judas Iscariot. At any moment I expect Nell to give up, to let go her hold on the rungs and tumble on to me, dragging me down with her to the bottom of the pit, but she keeps a tenacious grip and a steady pace. I dare not call out to her, in case Jenkes and Doughty are anywhere within earshot; though I can hear her laboured breaths, she makes no complaint.
At length, just as the muscles in my arms are about to mutiny, I put my foot down to find there are no more iron rungs, only an uneven rock floor sloping gently downwards. I step off to find myself in a tunnel, just high enough for me to stand, if I hunch over, and wide enough that I can touch the sides with my arms outstretched. There would be a limit to how much contraband you could smuggle through a tunnel this small, I think, peering ahead into the blackness. A whole cargo might take several journeys. God, a man would have to be determined – or desperate – to make a living this way. I whisper to Nell to watch her step. She arrives beside me, flexes her arms, and hands me the candle. I pause, straining to hear anything beyond the constant drip of water. When I am as satisfied as I can be that there is no movement ahead of us, I strike the tinder-box; the flame takes several attempts to catch, and gutters dangerously, but it holds and we are able to press on with its weak cone of light showing the path.
