S. Parris - Treachery

Sounds drift across the water from the great ships of the fleet, but they are snatched away by the wind. For me there is only the plashing of the oars through the waves, the keening of the gulls overhead, the forward motion of the boat and the rocky haunch of the cliffs on St Nicholas Island that now, finally, veer up ahead of me. As I squint towards it, I catch the flash of a lantern at the top. It hangs for a moment, apparently suspended in mid-air, then is extinguished. Somewhere out there, beyond the island, Carleill’s men wait in their boats, ready to fire on Jenkes and Doughty as they make their escape. I did not feel it my place to contradict Drake or his military commander, but I cannot believe the kidnappers would not have pre-empted this. I feel certain Jenkes and Doughty would not create so elaborate a strategy and then row straight into the path of Drake’s fleet on their way out. They must have another plan. A plume of spray slaps me in the face again and I recall my walk along the Hoe with Sam. He had talked about a network of secret tunnels used by those who bring in contraband. But if these were still in use, Drake would surely have mentioned them.

The water eddies faster around the foot of the rocks and I have to fight to heave the craft level with the landing stage, which has been built out from the shallow beach on the north side of the island. The current pulls me hard to the west and the wind drives me backwards, away from the shore; I feel my shoulders may be wrenched out of their sockets in the effort to maintain a straight course. After wrestling with the weather for so long that I fear I may never make it ashore, a fortuitous wave bumps my boat against the wooden pillars of the landing stage and I grab for the iron ladder that hangs from it, slippery with tendrils of weed. Once the boat is secured, I gather my equipment: the bag containing the book and an unlit lantern. A tinder-box, tucked away inside my doublet. I check that my knife is in place. As I climb the ladder, my arms shake with fatigue and it is a struggle to bear my own weight. Another sharp ploy by Jenkes and Doughty, to ensure whoever comes to meet their challenge will be exhausted by the journey. I could have asked someone to row for me, but the light I saw suggests they were watching my approach from the high point of the island. If they had seen two people in the boat, they might have considered the deal broken already.

I pull up the hood of my cloak and leave the lantern unlit. The wind has driven the clouds inland and clear patches of sky are widening over the water, fading to violet, the first faint glimmer of stars visible. A bright gibbous moon hangs overhead, giving some light to the uneven path that curves ahead up the cliff. I breathe deeply and begin to climb, keeping close to the rock, my ears straining for any sound that would betray an ambush. But there is no sign of life here except the gulls.

Fear holds all my nerves taut. The hairs on my body bristle. At any moment I expect to hear the whistle of a crossbow bolt, or feel a cold edge of steel against my neck, but I reach the top of the cliff path without hindrance, which only makes my fear all the greater. Ahead I see a clump of scrubby trees and my heart lodges in my throat; surely here, in their shadow, is where they will take me, unguarded as I am? But all I can hear is my own ragged breathing and the moans of the wind. I whip around at every creak of a branch, every snapping of a twig. As I follow the path through, there is a sudden flapping of wings and a crashing of leaves as I startle some bird out of its roost; I smother my instinct to cry out, but by the time I emerge from the trees on to a wide grassy expanse at the summit of the island my whole body is trembling.

In the moonlight I can make out the form of a small chapel. To the south and east of it, the outline of ramparts, the half-finished fort Drake had mentioned. The place is entirely still; there is no sign of any movement save the branches of the trees and the scudding clouds above me. If there were soldiers stationed here, I fear Thomas Drake was right; the men waiting for me will have made sure they could not interfere.

I walk towards the chapel, slowly, one cautious step after another. As I draw closer I can make out its narrow pointed windows, black slits along the side, and a low arched door at one end. It has no tower, just a gabled roof that looks in need of repair. There are no lights anywhere. This is where they want me, I think to myself as I approach the door. This is where they will be waiting. Jenkes will appreciate this setting; Jenkes the faithful son of Rome, who hates all heretics with a holy fury and regards their murder as an act of piety. Will he shed my blood in a holy place? The chapel is exposed on all sides here, the wind cutting across the clifftop, scything at the hood of my cloak. I pull it tighter around me and walk up to the door, my tread as silent as I can make it.

I exhale slowly, trying to calm my pulse. My palms prickle with sweat. This is where it will come, I fear: the killer blow, out of the darkness behind the door. I can almost feel them waiting for me. The wind drops suddenly, as if holding its breath. I set down my unused lantern and undo the top buttons of my doublet, loosening my knife in its sheath so that I can draw it in one movement when I need to. I place a hand on the latch, and turn it. The door creaks open an inch.

In case anyone is hiding behind it, I kick the door hard so that it smashes against the wall behind and judders on its hinges. Nothing moves inside. I peer into the black maw of the chapel. After a long pause, I step forward on to the threshold.

Faint light from the windows slants across the worn flagstones. All else is smothered in a thick, velvet darkness. I breathe in the mineral smell of old stone. Then I hear it, or perhaps I sense it, the sound is so insubstantial, but it is there — a muffled, shallow breathing, quick and panicked, like a cornered animal. I take another step inside, slipping the knife silently from its cover. The sound grows stronger; I am not mistaken. I lower my hood, not wanting my vision obscured, and advance another two paces, blade held out before me. I jolt as I hear the swift creak and slam of the chapel door. I should have expected that: now I am trapped. Blackness closes around me; from somewhere there comes a brief, muffled cry, or perhaps a sob. I wheel around in the dark, pointing my knife this way and that, jabbing it from side to side, but it only slices through chill air. I can feel the fear rising in my chest, the dread that threatens to overtake my reason; with all the force of my will I fight it down and concentrate on straining my ears through the dark for any tell-tale sound.

In the silence, I catch the rasp of a flint striking; at the far end of the chapel, the small glow of a tinder-box sparking. I keep absolutely still. So one of them is directly ahead of me, but that leaves one to creep up from behind. The spark catches and a candle flame wavers into life. It moves, not towards me but to the side, and another orange petal of light blooms from it, followed by another, and another, until there is enough light to make out a figure passing down the side of the chapel, lighting the stubs of candles in wall sconces. Finally he turns to me and takes a step closer. I hear a soft movement from my left and jerk around, hearing myself gasp aloud at the sight that greets me. In the dim, flickering light I see Lady Arden, her hands tied in front of her, a cloth bound over her mouth and a noose around her neck. The rope attached to it is slung over a beam in the rafters. Her feet rest precariously on a rickety wooden trestle. There is barely any slack in the rope. If she lost her balance, or if the bench were to be kicked from under her, she would begin to choke immediately. Her eyes bulge with terror; she makes a whimpering noise, stifled by her gag.