S. Parris - Treachery

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 touches 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.

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.