by Susan Price
"I have no money," I said. I felt a sharp prick in my side and remembered the knife. We crossed the yard toward the inn, swaying and knocking together with ludicrous awkwardness, as if we were tied together for a four-legged race.
One of the men opened the back door of the Inn, and then we all had to turn and edge through it sideways, so that they did not have to let go of my arms. It was only then that I realized, fully realized, that these men were not thieves. Thieves who used knives did not take people into inns in order to rob them. At once I thought of the red-haired man, and stopped, and threw my weight backward, my heels braced against the stone floor.
I dragged the other men momentarily off balance, but then they both heaved and jerked me forward, my head snapping back. The man on my right showed me the knife he held, sticking upright from his fist and angled toward me. ''Up we go," he said. "Up the wooden hills."
We climbed the stairs. I could see the door which led into the kitchens, and there were sounds of water being splashed about, and pots and crockery moved, and I wondered if shouting would do me any good. Would I be heard? And what would the man with the knife do? We had reached the top of the stairs before I had decided if shouting for help was worth the risk of being stabbed. I had no experience of making such decisions.
I was led along the landing to the first door. One of the men opened it, and the other shoved me through it, into a hot room which smelt of burning coals, and ashes. I turned back toward the door, to see it closing. A second later I heard it locked.
I turned to see a drab, untidy room, with dried mud and scuff-marks on the wooden floor, and crumpled balls of paper scattered under and round a table stacked with papers, one pile being held down by an apple from which a bite had been taken. No one was seated behind the table, as I had expected. I had to look away, into a corner, before I saw the man I had been brought to see. He was seated in an armed-chair, the ankle of his right leg resting on the knee of his other; his elbows resting on the chair's arms, and his fingers locked together across his body. He nodded toward something behind and said ''Sit."
I saw that a chair had been placed for me in the middle of the room. "Why?'' I asked.
He sat still and looked at me, until he made me feel that I was behaving pettishly. "All right," I said. "I'll sit." I went over to the chair, but did not know how to sit for the best effect. With my feet set side by side and my hands in my lap, I felt prim and silly; with my legs crossed, I felt self-conscious and affected. If I gripped the edges of my chair with my fingers, I felt that I must be betraying my fear. I tried each position in turn, and changed it, and fidgeted, and grew steadily more nervous.
The red-haired man still did not speak. He stared in my direction, but at some point beyond me. Every line of the way he sat, every moment of silence, was intended to impress upon me that he was older, stronger, more confident and more authoritative than I; and knowing this did not prevent his performance from having its effect. He filled me with something close to panic.
"What - ?'' I began to ask again, and he spoke at the same instant. I stopped speaking immediately; he waited, allowed a pause.
"Christopher Joseph Uptake,'' he said. "You come from some place called Hawksmere; you have had more education than you need; your father is a joiner, and you call yourself a playwright.'' He paused again, as if to allow me to correct any mistakes. "Not long ago you managed to find out a morsel of information concerning recusants* - and sold it as soon as you could. Right?"
"Look," I said. "I don't know what it's got to do with you - An old man mistook me for a Catholic - I'm not - "
"I know you're not," he said.
"I was asked," I went on. "I mentioned the old man to some friends, and this man - he said he was a draper - he overheard, and he asked me. He said that he was a Catholic too, and wanted to contact others - it's not against the law to be Catholic yet, is it? So I told him where I'd met the old man. That's all. That was all I knew, and that was the only reason I told this - this draper."
I looked at the red-haired man, to see if I had succeeded in getting myself out of whatever trouble I had gotten myself into. He said slowly, and with some amusement, "You didn't believe that he was a draper or a Catholic. You're too clever for that, Christopher. Think of all that education." He smiled.
"Did my information lead to their arrest?" I asked.
He made me wait for an answer, but, finally, with mouth pursed in a smile and finger tapping against his lips, he said, "Partly. Partly."
I wondered what I should say, or do, next. Nothing occurred to me. What do you do to mark or celebrate the certainty that you have helped to spoil, and even end, the lives of twenty people? I asked, "How do you know?"
"I'm more interested in discussing what you know. About recusants.''
"You already know all that I know about them. I've told you - my meeting with that old man was an accident. I wasn't trying to find out anything about them." I watched his face carefully, and it seemed to me that he believed me. I was relieved. I had my suspicions about who he was, and what kind of work he did; but, if he believed that I had not been deliberately spying, and that I knew nothing more, then he could have no further use for me. He would tell me to go, and I could forget about him.
He said, with an amusement which showed only in the emphasis on the words, "No; but you will be."
"What?'' I said. "What do you mean?" He didn't answer. "Oh no," I said, standing and shaking my head.
He watched me. I crossed to the door and tried to open it forgetting that I had heard it locked. He sat on his chair, tapping his finger against his mouth and watching me. "I wish to leave - now," I said.
He raised his brows and nodded, then inclined his head toward the chair I had left. "Sit."
I considered refusing; but if I did, I should have to continue standing by the door, looking foolish. I shrugged, to show that I was going to sit because it was the most sensible thing to do, and not because I was afraid of him, and then crossed to the chair and sat again.
"Good," he said, and grinned. "I don't want more information from you - yet. I know how ignorant you are. I wanted to talk to you because you know Edmund Brentwood."
"Brentwood? - I hardly know him. I've seen him - twice - I think."
"But he has sent you money."
"To help me write - that's not so unusual. Those Catholics. Were they tortured?''
"Questioned, Kit," he said. "Questioned.'' He was evidently amused by the term.
"But were they?"
He was silent for a moment, then remarked, "I don't want to talk about those Catholics. I want to talk about Brentwood.''
"I don't know anything about him!'' I said in exasperation.
"No," he agreed, rather surprisingly. "You don't know that he's a Catholic, do you?" He grinned as I looked sharply up at him, and rocked his chair back on its rear legs. "Yes,' his country house - Alston - is a safe house for seminary priests. It's also a Catholic chapel, where the good word is preached that the Queen is a bastard and excommunicate, and that every true Catholic should be ready to support the rebellion - when and if it comes. Brentwood himself is known to be in sympathy with a Catholic rebellion."
"Do you believe everything that you overhear people say?" I asked. "I've said that I'll kill my father, but I haven't."
"It's of no interest to me if you do," the red-haired man said. "Nobody pays me to protect your father." He tapped his forefinger against his mouth, and looked at me, and I was irritated by something familiar about that look.
I suddenly remembered myself, watching George when he was ill, watching him in just that withdrawn, considering way. I decided to end this conversation.
“I am not going to spy on Brentwood for you," I said.
“The pay's good - and afterwards you'd be retained, employed again, protected. You wouldn't need to grub for patronage."
"No," I said. "I wouldn't know how. It's too dangerous - so we may just as well - '' The words half-spoken, I realized that thi
s was not a conversation we could amicably agree to forget.
"It's not so hard, Kit," said the red-haired man. "You weren't chosen by lot. You were chosen because you are already acquainted with Brentwood, and because he already appears to have some liking for you; and because you are clever, and have no previous association with - anyone like me. But if you can't manage anything else, you can be provided with a Papal Bull to plant on him, as proof of treachery, and we can get him that way.''
I thought about agreeing, simply to escape, but - it would be better to settle the matter then and there. "If I had known," I said, "when I was speaking to that - 'draper' - that what I told him would help in the arrest of anyone, I would not have said anything. If I ever find out anything like that again, I shall not mention it to anyone, I shall not even dig a hole and whisper it into there. I do not want to be the cause of any more arrests, and I will not spy for you."
I said all this while staring at the floorboards. I waited for him to answer, but he did not. I looked up at him. He was seated just as before, tapping his mouth, considering me, calculating something. "Oh dear, dear, dear," he said. ''Well; this changes things.''
I smiled with relief. "I'll go then," I said, leaning forward to get up.
"No, not yet, Kit. Sit." I paused. "When did you last attend church, Kit?"
I made a startled noise, then recovered, and said, "Last Sunday."
"Liar. Another thorn in the Crown. You are aware that you are required by law to attend morning and evening services at your local parish church every Sunday."
"Oh, yes, of course; everyone is," I said, with a sickly lightness of tone; hopelessly sure that he knew I was lying, but still determined to lie my way out.
"And that you are required to register your name at your local parish Church?"
I did not answer; I was beginning to wonder how much more he knew of me.
"I have been to every parish church within reach of your present lodgings, and your old lodgings. Your name is registered at none of them."
"It's on the register at Hawksmere,'' I said.
"And on the register of the University's chapel; but when did you last attend a service either there or at Hawksmere, Kit?"
I said slowly, with an attempt at authority, ''I would prefer you to address me as Master Uptake, and I have been - "
"Ah don't be cheeky, Kit," he said, with a contempt as sweeping and final as a scythe through weeds. "And don't tell me that you kept your name off the register in order to give anonymously to the poor-box. I've heard that one. I know what you’re doing. You’re taking advantage of the number of people in town, and the opportunity of moving from one parish to another by changing your lodgings, to avoid being registered, and so avoid the fine payable for non-attendance at church. You must have run up quite a debt by now, Kit. And I also know why you go to such trouble to avoid church attendance."
"But I don't go to - "
"'Pagan gods are as true as ours,'" he said. "'The Bible encourages incest, for if Adam and Eve were the only people on earth, from where did their sons' wives come, if they were not their sisters?'"
I leaned forward over my knees, my hands cupped about my head, as I listened to him quoting my words from either a perfect memory or supernatural knowledge.
"'The Bible is a collection of old wives' tales' - and - this is the best, Kit - 'Why are Catholics and sceptics persecuted for holding differing views about something which doesn't exist?' A plain denial of God. Kit, Diabolical Atheism."
I was unable to think of even a blustering answer.
"You know the sentence for Diabolical Atheism?" he said. I nodded. "There wouldn't be any trouble in proving it. There are your own words, and you're well known as an atheist, aren't you? You haven't made a secret of it - you didn't while you were at University. I could easily find a dozen or more people who would swear you are an atheist."
"You're blackmailing me!''
He shifted impatiently in his seat. "Which is it to be? An honest job of work, or prison?"
"I haven't done anything!''
"Haven't done anything? You're guilty, Kit! Guilty of Atheism."
"I talked, that's all: I talked."
"Subversive talk, Kit. You've been encouraging people to subvert our Queen's governance. You know you have."
I stared across the room at him in amazement. "When? When did I encourage anyone - ?"
He tilted back his head, so that his scorched and wrinkled skin folded into a score of creases as he squinted down his nose at me. ''Didn't you say something like - oh - 'The first, second, third . . . sixth . . . ninth and tenth Commandments should be - ' What was it? Ignored, done away with, rewritten? Who knows what temptation you put in the way of the poor souls who overheard you? You were attacking our system of Justice and Law at its very root - and unless you do as I ask, I'll see that you catch it in the neck from both of them, my lad."
I put my hand to my earring again; licked my lips as I tried to think. Could he? Could he carry out his threats? I could not reason, I could not follow through what he had said. I needed to get away from him, and think. "I don't want to go to prison," I said.
"Who does, Kit, who does?'' He leaned back in his chair, and touched his ear again, as if he too wore an earring and was nervous. I put my hand down.
"What if Brentwood wouldn't accept me as a friend?" I asked hopefully.
"See that he does," the red-haired man said.
"But I'm a playwright - my father is a joiner. Brentwood is - '' I spread my hands.
"Well, that should make it easier for you," he said. "It doesn't have to be a lifelong friendship, Kit." He stretched both legs out in front of him. "Well - your answer?"
"I can't do it," I said. "Look - don't expect too much. I've never done anything like this before.''
The red-haired man gave a jerk of his legs and stood; he crossed to the door behind me. "Never mind; you'll pick it up as you go along,'' he said. I heard him rap on the door with his knuckles, and I heard the door opened. ''Now you can go,'' he said. "Frazer and White will see that you get home safely."
I was so much at a loss that I didn't want to leave any more than I wanted to stay. "But I don't know what to do." I said.
"I have told you what to do, Christopher.''
I went part of the way to the door, but stopped short again, being unwilling to pass so close to him. "You mean that - from the second I step into the corridor, I must be a spy for you?"
"Phrased almost like a playwright, Kit." he said. "Yes. That is what I mean." He opened the door a little wider.
I took another step toward it. "But - if I succeed in making a friend of him - what do I do then?"
"You go on being his friend until you hear from me. I will keep in touch with you."
I reached the door and turned sideways to edge through it rather than turn my back on him.
"My name is Bagthorpe," he said. "Good night, Christopher; God go with you." He shut the door on me.
Frazer and White, the two men who had brought me there, fell into step on either side of me. They stayed close to me, even accompanying me up the stairs to my room, and waiting until I had gone inside. When I glanced back at them as I was closing the door, I saw that they were tossing a coin.
George had returned, and was asleep in the bed, making a shrill whistling noise as he breathed. I was too troubled to be glad that he was safe. I could not believe what was happening to me, and yet I understood it very well.
If I refused to spy on Brentwood, I would be arrested for atheism, and, since I was guilty, I would certainly be executed. I would be burned - oh, sweet Jesus, burned!
I stood, flattening my hair, covering my mouth with my hands. I wrapped my arms round my body, and was further disturbed by the discovery of how solid I was, and how much of me there was to burn. My breath came in irregular gasps; even the thought that I would probably be throttled before being set alight brought no comfort. I would have to endure the throttling, and, illogically, the thoug
ht of my dead body disintegrating under the touch of the flames was no less horrifying to me than the thought of the pain my living body would suffer. And before any of this, I would be imprisoned.
A rich man can have a comfortable stay in prison. He can rent a private room, pay for food and drink to be brought in for him, bribe the guards to take off his chains, let in his friends, deliver letters . . . A poor man, such as myself, is punished for being poor in addition to his crime. He is put into the filthy Common Hold, with every kind of prisoner, ranging from those poor souls who have fallen into debt or have been forced to beg, to murderers and thieves.
A poor man, in prison, is left in heavy chains which drag on him, make sores in his flesh, and hamper him when he tries to lie down; he has to pay for his food, and, if he cannot, is fed on nothing but bread and water; and he will, very likely, die of disease before he can be brought to trial.
