S. Parris - Treachery

I peer into the shadows between the trunks ahead and wonder which route Jenkes and Doughty have taken. Their boat must have waiting somewhere further along the coast, out of sight of the fleet in Plymouth Sound. Drake does not have enough men to watch the coastline; they could be out to sea in the time it takes Drake’s armed patrols to realise no one is leaving the island by boat. They could be in France by dinner time tomorrow. For now, I feel nothing but weariness at the thought. I am too numb with relief that we have both escaped with our lives even to summon any anger towards Jenkes for the loss of the book.

I return to the stone hut and push the wooden cover further over to widen the entrance to the well shaft. I strain my eyes peering into the dark hole, but there is no sign of Nell.

‘Are you there?’ I call down. My voice bounces off the stones and is lost in the blackness. ‘Keep climbing. Don’t think about it — just put one hand over the other. Come on — I can almost see you.’ I continue talking to her, repeating similar sentiments, the way you might try to calm a skittish horse, until the top of her head appears out of the gloom. ‘That’s it,’ I say, encouraging, reaching out a hand towards her. She twists to look up at me, a pained smile breaking over her face. She reaches up with her left hand for the final rung, the one that had begun to tear loose when I put my weight on it. Before I can warn her, she grips it to pull herself up and lets out a wild scream as it wrenches free from the wall and she loses her balance, falling back. I grab at her and manage to catch a handful of her sleeve; for a moment she hangs there, her whole weight suspended from that scrap of fabric over the well shaft. I hear the stitches rip where the sleeve is attached to her bodice; I lean further over, jam my knees against the stone rim of the well and clutch with my other hand at her wrist just as the stitches give way. She is a slight woman, but her whole weight is now suspended from my two hands, and my arms feel as if they might pull out of their sockets. Worse still, her hand is clammy with fear and I can feel her fingers beginning to slip from my grasp.

‘Get your feet back on the rungs,’ I instruct, through gritted teeth, struggling for a firmer grip of her wrist with my left hand. My palms are sweating now and if she does not soon support her own weight, I will be helpless to stop her falling. The screaming stops abruptly; I hear her breathing hard as she flails around, searching for the iron staples in the wall. A sound from outside distracts me; I jerk my head up and realise that the barking of the dogs is getting closer. My concentration wavers in the face of this new threat; just as I am about to lose my grip on her hand, the strain suddenly eases and I almost fall forward. She has managed to place her feet back on one of the rungs. Clasping her hand tight, I guide her upwards the last few steps, past the missing rung, until I am able to drag her over the rim of the well. She collapses into my arms on the floor, shaking violently like someone in the grip of fever. I hold her, stroking her hair gently as her breathing calms, but my nerves are tight as catgut as I listen for sounds outside. The dogs are closer still. Through the slit windows in the wall I can make out dancing flames, the flickering light of torches approaching. There are footsteps, and raised voices. Nell tenses against me, looking up, her eyes wide, questioning. I am frozen in position, unable to move.

‘Holy fuck!’ exclaims a man’s voice, not far from our hiding place. A chorus of cries erupts; it is hard to discern how many men are outside, but they appear to have discovered something shocking. I motion to Nell to keep quiet while their animated debate continues; just then, a great snarl erupts in front of us and she screams again. In the doorway to our shelter stands a huge dog, snapping its jaws, eyes and teeth gleaming out of the night. It is too dark to see what kind of dog it is — perhaps a mastiff. It is an angry one, that much is certain; the fur on its neck bristles and its hackles are raised, its hindquarters coiled to pounce, though it holds back and lets out a furious volley of barks to attract attention. It appears to be waiting for a command to attack.

Sweat springs out in beads along my hairline as the dog and I continue to stare one another down. Once, in Oxford, I saw a man who had been savaged by a dog; I try to push the thought from my mind, but the image of his corpse, lying in wet grass with its throat torn out, remains stubbornly vivid. Nell scrambles around behind me and the movement makes the dog start and snarl again, but it has evidently been well trained; it maintains its position, muscular shoulders filling the narrow doorway. It seems it will not go for the kill until it is commanded.

‘Throw the gun outside and come out with your hands on your head, or I will set the dogs on you,’ calls a stern voice. It takes me a moment to realise he is talking to us.

‘I have no gun,’ I shout back. ‘There is a woman here, badly injured. We are unarmed.’

This is met with a hasty conference among the men, during which I clearly catch the words ‘fucking Spanish’.

‘Show yourselves, then,’ comes the response.

‘Call the dog off first,’ I say. There is a further outbreak of indignant muttering, but after a pause I hear a low whistle. The dog snaps its head round, gives me a disappointed look and trots reluctantly away. I heave myself up, hoist Nell to her feet and half-carry her out of the shelter, hoping that my legs will not buckle under me.

We emerge into a circle of torchlight to find four halberds pointed in our faces. The men holding them are wearing a livery I cannot make out, but beneath their tunics they are wearing quilted arming doublets — they have come dressed for a fight. A second dog crouches at their feet, showing its teeth.

‘Poaching, is it?’ says the man who ordered us out. He is in his fifties, with a grizzled grey beard and narrow eyes.

I shake my head, trying to muster the energy to speak.

‘Where is the gun? Throw it down where I can see it,’ he says again.

‘I told you, I have no gun.’

‘Then how did you kill them?’ He steps aside and motions to one of his men to hold up the torch. On the path ahead of us I see two dark mounds. I do not need to step closer to see that they are the bodies of a man and a dog.

‘I didn’t. We have only just now climbed up out of the well.’ I gesture to the stone building behind us. ‘We were taken hostage on St Nicholas Island, but we escaped through the tunnel that comes out at the bottom of the well shaft. The men who took us captive came this way some time before us. One of them had a pistol.’

The men look at each other. ‘Likely story,’ one mutters, and I have to agree; my tale is so preposterous I would not believe it if I were him. Though from the glances they exchange I suspect the tunnel is not news to them.

‘Stand apart from one another,’ orders the grey-bearded man. ‘Search them,’ he says to one of his troupe. ‘If you are not poachers, you are smugglers, I reckon. Either way, Sir Peter will see you hang.’

‘Who is Sir Peter?’ asks Nell, letting go of my shoulder. It is the first time she has spoken since she emerged from the well shaft.

‘Sir Peter Edgecumbe,’ the man says. ‘These are his lands you’re trespassing on and his gamekeeper you’ve murdered, and rest assured you will swing for it. Both of you.’

‘Then we are in Mount Edgecumbe park?’ she says, with an incredulous laugh. ‘But I know Sir Peter Edgecumbe.’ She draws herself up, wincing, to her usual posture and tilts her chin. ‘I am Lady Eleanor Arden, widow of Sir Richard Arden of Beauchamp Hall in Somerset. My late husband was well acquainted with Sir Peter. Take me to him immediately — he will be able to help us.’