S. Parris - Treachery

He gestures to me to turn around, and wrenches my arms back, binding my wrists behind me. My knees crack against the floor as he pushes me down and drags me across to the pillar where Lady Arden lies curled up and whimpering, her face buried in her knees, as if she could make herself so small she might escape their notice. Jenkes sits me upright, my back against the pillar. He does the same with Lady Arden on the other side, then takes the remaining length of rope and wraps it around the two of us, binding us fast to the pillar, so tight I can feel the cord cutting into my chest each time I expand my lungs to breathe. Lady Arden makes the occasional hiccupping sob, though subdued, like a child whose tantrum has subsided. It is a defeated sound. I hope that she is only semi-conscious; I wish I were in that state myself, but my awareness seems heightened by the nearness of my death, as if everything is picked out in perfect clarity. I see the black hairs on the back of Jenkes’s hands as he moves the lantern some distance away and begins to shift one of the barrels towards us; I hear the scrape of the wood over the brick floor. I notice how the veins bulge at his temple with the effort of moving it. He does the same with the other two, positioning them around us. When he has arranged them to his satisfaction, he dusts off his hands and smiles, as if pleased with his handiwork.

‘In the time of the heretic queen’s father and grandfather, this undercroft was used as a munitions store,’ he says, in a conversational tone. ‘Some supplies were left, in anticipation of the new fort.’ He takes out my knife and uses it to prise open the bung in the top of one barrel, then calls Doughty to help him lift it. Now I understand why he moved the lantern to a safe distance. He indicates the far side of the undercroft and they carry the barrel between them, tipping it up to release its contents as they move backwards towards me and Lady Arden. A trail of fine black powder snakes behind them; they scatter it liberally around us before wedging the barrel into place next to me. Then they cross the room again and lay a second trail.

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.’