S. Parris - Treachery

I realise now, with a flat sense of inevitability, that my brief flicker of hope was a delusion. We are to die here, and cruelly, if Jenkes has his way. Doughty heaves Lady Arden to her feet, hooks her limp arms around his neck and half-hauls, half-forces her over to where we stand.

‘You had better take her,’ he says, pushing her roughly towards me. ‘She is your whore, is she not?’ I brace myself to support her weight, hooking an arm around her waist to keep her on her feet. Her eyes are glazed, as if she is drugged, perhaps the effect of being partially choked. She slumps into me.

‘I found her not especially pleasing,’ Doughty adds, lightly. ‘Though I imagine one gets more out of it when she shows some enthusiasm? She seemed unwilling to give me her best efforts, I must say.’ He laughs, a low taunting snigger. His words rouse Lady Arden from her stupor; anger surges through her, sparking in her eyes as she spits a curse at him, though it is muffled by her gag. I feel all her muscles tensed against me and I am seized by the urge to rush at John Doughty and crush his head into the wall. As if reading my thoughts, he lifts the pistol again and levels it at my face. I find myself hoping, absurdly, that he will shoot Lady Arden first; at least that way I would not feel I was leaving her for them to torture further after my death. A great tremor travels across her shoulders; after it has passed she seems to subside. She closes her eyes. I keep mine open, fixed on Doughty. I will die looking him in the face, so he remembers that look for the rest of his sorry days.

But he does not pull the trigger. Instead he glances over to Jenkes, who walks purposefully to the east end of the chapel, where a small stone altar stands bare under the narrow window. Setting his lantern on the altar, he crouches behind it, busy with something on the floor, out of view. After a short while, I hear a strained grunt accompanied by the grating of stone and Jenkes reappears, beckoning us. Doughty makes a brusque gesture with the gun, so I shuffle forward, pulling Lady Arden with me as best I can. She seems better able to move her feet as we approach Jenkes, though it is I who falter as I feel the cold muzzle prodding between my shoulder blades.

There is less light here; the sconces Jenkes lit are at the other end of the chapel and are already burning down. The semi-circular chancel behind the altar is sunk in near-darkness; an orange glow licks up and down the stone as the candle dances wildly in a draught. Jenkes indicates the floor; he lifts the lantern and holds it closer so that I can see where he is pointing.

He has removed one of the carved memorial stones set into the floor to reveal a rectangular space. I can see nothing but two worn stairs, leading down into black. A stale, dank smell drifts upwards.

‘Down you go,’ Jenkes says pleasantly.

Sweat prickles on my palms and my brow. I hesitate, unable to move my feet. Does he mean to incarcerate us underground? My heart skitters like a terrified creature; since I was a youth I have had a horror of confined spaces, of airless darkness. I have a recurring nightmare of being buried alive. I would rather he shot me here and now, and have it all over in an instant; I almost say so. But there is Lady Arden to think of.

‘Don’t take all night about it, Bruno, we have a pressing appointment with a French merchant ship,’ Jenkes says, pointing to the maw of the crypt. ‘We’re coming with you, don’t worry.’ The enigmatic smile again; he is enjoying himself.

I try to close my mind to thoughts of what awaits us down there and concentrate on each step, each breath. The opening is only wide enough for one person at a time. I let go of Lady Arden, wait until I am sure she is able to stand, then turn my back on the stairs and begin to descend backwards into that dark space, holding both her hands with mine and leading her down, one at a time, until I can see nothing. I have no idea how far down the stairs will lead, but I count about a dozen before I reach a solid brick floor. I guide her down the last step; she stumbles and falls against me, and I pull her close to shield us both from the cold. All around us is thick darkness and the smell of damp stone.

Lady Arden shivers in my arms. I unfasten the cloak at my neck and wrap it around her shoulders, but she goes on shaking violently. A faint light hovers at the top of the steps; I fully expect to hear the stone grind into place over us. But, true to his word, Doughty begins to descend with the lantern in one hand, the pistol in the other. Halfway down he pauses, waiting for Jenkes, but there is light enough to see that we are in a vaulted undercroft, lined in aged brick. Crates and barrels are stacked around the walls. Jenkes eventually appears on the steps and reaches up, pulling the memorial stone overhead until it falls into place with a heavy crash. He is holding another lantern. Coiled over his arm is a length of rope — presumably that which had suspended Lady Arden from the beam.

Now the four of us are seemingly trapped down here. My mind is a riot of unformed terrors, though for Lady Arden’s sake I fight to keep my breathing steady and my face composed. Jenkes walks slowly towards us, rope in hand.

‘I hope you won’t make this difficult, Bruno,’ he says. His eyes shine in the semi-darkness. ‘Just remember, any attempt to cause trouble on your part and you will have a shot between the eyes before you can blink. Then you wouldn’t be here to protect the lady, would you? Not that your protection is worth much, but it allows you to maintain the illusion of control, does it not? Now — this will interest you. Come and look.’

At the far end of the undercroft, three barrels are piled up in a corner. All around them, on the ground, are fragments of broken brick. Jenkes sets down the lantern cautiously, some distance from us, takes hold of a barrel and heaves it out of the way, then does the same with the others. Behind us, Doughty prowls, silent as a wildcat, only the swinging cone of light tracing his movements. Jenkes holds up his lantern to illuminate a patch of loose bricks set into the floor.

‘I told you these monks were ingenious,’ he says, squatting to prise one brick out with his fingers. It scrapes away easily and he tosses it to one side. ‘This is hard labour — why don’t you do it for me, Bruno?’

Unwillingly, I release Lady Arden, who leans back against a pillar, and crouch at Jenkes’s feet. I lift out another brick, and a gust of chill, damp air causes goosebumps to rise on my skin.

‘That’s it, keep going,’ Jenkes says, ‘all the loose ones. The chapel was intended partly as place of worship, partly as vantage point. This undercroft is built into the very rock of the island. But they were afraid that if the enemy invaded — France, as it was then — the island would be taken first. They built into their chapel a means of escape.’

‘A secret tunnel?’ So that was why the two of them were so untroubled by the prospect of Drake’s waiting fleet.

He looks almost disappointed. ‘You know of it?’

‘Drake knows of it — they will be waiting for you at the other end.’

A brief shadow of doubt crosses his face. ‘Where is the other end, then?’ When I do not reply, he laughs. ‘You are bluffing. Good try, Bruno. There are plenty of legends about the tunnels, but very few people know of their existence. The customs men had this entrance bricked up years ago, but the smugglers are enterprising fellows, and there is more than one exit, to foil the authorities. The tunnel itself is in a poor state of repair, but it is still passable. Drake’s men will be waiting till dawn to catch us leaving by sea. By which time we will be long gone.’ He pats the bag at his side.

‘They will catch you one way or another,’ I say, trying to sound as if I believe it. ‘Drake already has the hue and cry out for you.’