Low Treason

by Leonard Tourney

  “My name is Adriana,” said the woman. She sat down beside Joan and put her arm around her. To this maternal gesture Joan yielded; choked with tears, she couldn’t speak. “Wat treats us all so,” said Adriana. “He would

  sooner cast an insult than catch a compliment. It’s his way. Pay him no mind.”

  Joan told Adriana that she had only wanted to know the time of the service. Chapel service was at seven, Adriana told her. She pointed to two women who were dressed in black. One of these Joan recognized from the night before, the hard-faced vixen with the mouth of filth and the termagant’s temper. But the woman’s fury was cooled now. Standing there, dressed for the grave, she seemed almost serene, the hard lines of her visage dissolved in the earnestness of her communication, which was obviously as intense as it was intimate. The girl with whom she spoke was very young. She was painfully plain, with a long jaw and little pig’s eyes. Joan thought, what had the child done to deserve this—murdered her lover, assaulted a constable, filched a loaf of bread? The women stood apart from the others, not by choice. They were being shunned because their death was to be very soon. Their garb testified to the fact.

  Then Wat returned, announcing in a high, shrill, impudent voice that chapel service was to commence presently. Those inclined to attend, he said in a tone implying that there would be very few, should form a line. He raised his thin arms in the air to indicate just the point on the floor at which the line was to form. The condemned women moved forward, a handful of others joined the line, and Joan took her place behind the others. Wat surveyed the chamber with the authority of some great lord and then, when it was apparent he had collected all that morning’s faithful, with a great show of ceremony he bade them follow him.

  The chapel of Newgate was a lofty chamber on the third floor of the jail, very bare of the furniture of holiness and with high barred windows and a gallery crowded with onlookers come to the prison to see the sights. At the center of the chapel, directly beneath an empty pulpit, was a rectangular enclosure in which benches were arranged around an oblong box. At first Joan thought this a table, but then she realized it was a coffin. A handful of male inmates, garbed in black, were already assembled there

  under the watchful eye of two of the turnkeys. Around the enclosure pews were arranged and these were already nearly full of inmates, most of whom were behaving rowdily and exchanging greetings and insults with their acquaintances or making obscene remarks to the women, who were, she was relieved to find, seated separately. Ahead of her, Joan heard two of the women comment on the size of the congregation; one of the two responded that this was typical of a service for the condemned.

  Wat ushered Joan and the others into one of the pews, warned them sternly to keep silent, and then disappeared out the door from which they had entered. Joan sat down and began to search the faces in the crowd for her husband’s. Faint from exhaustion, hunger, and fear, she found the faces were indistinct, but then her vision sharpened, cleared, and presently she discerned Matthew’s features in a pew directly opposite hers. They saw and recognized each other in the same instant. Matthew’s expression changed from anxious inquiry to joyful recognition. Then as suddenly his countenance was transformed. His brow darkened, his jaw set. He was staring intently at something—or someone—above her. What had he seen? Joan turned in the pew to look upward to the gallery.

  It was John Beauclerk, Cecil’s secretary and their betrayer. He was seated among the visitors, looking very prim and neat, his lips curled in a derisive smile. And next to him was Starkey.

  Joan’s heart sank. The two men were looking down at her and were both smiling. Then Starkey whispered something in Beauclerk’s ear and the younger man laughed and fidgeted in his seat.

  Joan’s eyes sought her husband and found him again. The significance of his anguished countenance suggested that even in this assembly, in this sacred place, they were in great danger.

  A sacristan with a tall staff was pounding on the floor of the chapel for silence, but if anything the talking and laughter increased. The warders began to patrol the pews bidding the noisier inmates to keep order but to no avail. The uproar continued. Finally, the sacristan, a round little

  man with a shiny bald pate, looked appealingly to the warder who seemed in chaige of the rest and he leaped upon the coffin at the center of the chapel and, with his legs spread apart and his fists planted firmly in his sides, he ordered those to keep silent or he would have the chapel cleared. This threat, issued in a strident, commanding voice that rose above the clamor, took its effect. There were a few final outcries and jibes, a general stirring in the pews and in the gallery, and then quiet as the congregation waited for the preacher to appear.

  Behind the pulpit was a small door, which presently opened to admit the man of God, a tall, almost emaciated figure with a long narrow face, a complexion of sickly pallor, and dark eyes that appraised the congregation with a stare of disapproval. The preacher, dressed in black, placed his hands on the pulpit and leaned forward.

  In a clear, resonant voice he announced that the service would commence with a hymn. Then he began to sing, and some of the congregation joined; afterward he delivered a lengthy prayer, read several passages from Holy Writ, and then began to preach, taking as his text a verse from the New Testament that spoke of hell. As he spoke, he became animated, gestured dramatically; his forehead, high and pale, shone with sweat, and his eyes grew laiger, darker, and more fiercely intense. He described hell with such vigor that one would have thought he had just returned from a tour of inspection. But no mortal had seen hell, he insisted. Man’s imaginings fell short of its terrors. There, he declared, in hell’s fiery reaches was the abode of murderers, the sorcerers, the liars, and thieves.

  He paused. During this recital his voice had risen to a feverish pitch. A number of the women present, both in the pews and in the gallery, were weeping, while in the pit, a young girl had apparently fainted.

  “Have you ever singed your finger in a fire?” asked the preacher. “Thrust your foot into boiling water? This was naught. Have you ever broken a bone, seen it protruding from your flesh, all white and glistening? That was naught. Have you ever—”

  But the preacher’s question was interrupted by a pierc—225

  ing shriek from the condemned pit. Joan looked to where the young woman had recovered from her faint and was now standing on her feet. She had thrown the caul from her head and was tearing at her hair and flesh. Her companions were trying to restrain her. The preacher glared down at the girt, extended one long, accusatory finger, and said: “Well may you weep, woman, knowing the hell fire that awaits—”

  But he did not finish his sentence. He was prevented by a thunderous explosion that shook the building and brought everyone to his feet. It had come from the gallery where thick clouds of noxious yellow smoke were rolling across the ceiling of the chapel, and John Beauclerk was standing on his feet with the rest of the visitors shouting “Fire” at the top of his lungs. But the congregation hardly needed this warning. The sermon had set the scene for the panic to which the strange explosion, the cry of fire, and the billowing smoke had now given the final touch. Everywhere there was confusion as the inmates climbed over each other to escape.

  For a moment Joan was too stunned to move. The other women in her pew pushed her aside in their rush for the doors, screaming. In vain she looked for her husband, but the chapel opposite her presented a chaos of bodies and indistinguishable faces. Those who were not coughing from the smoke were yelling appeals, curses, or mindlessly echoing Beauclerk’s cry of fire. Some of the visitors were leaping from the gallery to avoid the flames and landing on the heads and shoulders of those below. In the high pulpit the preacher whose eloquence had incited the panic had now vanished while the warders and turnkeys had relinquished all control in order to save themselves. The doors into the chapel were much too small. Only a trickle of persons was managing to get out and the bodies of those who had stumbled in the attempt were now blocking
the escape of the rest. As the inmates became increasingly desperate, they became violent, and fighting broke out in various parts of the chamber. To add to the confusion, someone had struck the prison alarm bell located outside

  the door and the clamor now magnified the uproar in the chapel.

  In the midst of the bedlam Joan’s only thought was the whereabouts of her husband. Then she saw him, struggling toward her, climbing over the railing that separated the pews from the condemned pit. The chamber was filled with smoke; she found it difficult to breathe and her eyes watered. Her husband’s approaching form blurred. She cried out to him and in the next moment they were in each other’s arms.

  Matthew had been pushed aside as his fellow prisoners rushed for the door; now he started for the center of the chapel for a better view, motivated by a growing certainty that the explosion, the fire, the smoke were a cover for manslaughter and that they—Matthew and Joan—were to be the victims. Of course die vengeful Starkey, shamed by his failure to drown Matthew at the bridge and enraged by Joan’s counterfeit letter, would want to do the deed himself. And he no sooner thought this but Matthew saw where Starkey was, making his way from the gallery to the chapel floor. And there was Joan, standing motionless, obviously stunned by the explosion and ensuing panic, unaware of her danger. Matthew knew he must reach his wife before Starkey did.

  Matthew did reach Joan, shook her to her senses, and told her to follow him. He was sure Starkey had caused the explosion. He had seen him stand and move to the rear of the gallery just before the blast and he knew it would have been no great thing for Starkey, a practiced villain, to smuggle power and flint into the prison. He prayed that what Starkey had designed to conceal a murder would as well facilitate their escape. Pulling Joan after him, Matthew ran toward the front of the chapel, bounded up the handful of steps to the pulpit and door through which the preacher had made his entrance and exit. As Matthew hoped, the door was unbolted, the preacher in his haste having forgotten to bolt it, but Matthew did not make the same mistake. The door was no sooner secured than he heard Starkey’s heavy tread upon the steps and an instant

  later the full weight of the man’s body hurled violently against the door.

  “I'll kill you, Stock, I’ll kill you!” cried Starkey from the other side.

  Matthew leaned back against the door, praying to God that it would hold against Starkey’s assault.

  The door held. There were more blows, more curses, and then nothing. But Matthew knew Starkey had not given up. He saw they were in a sort of attic, a long empty room. On the bare wooden floor was a heavy layer of dust except where the succession of preachers had made a path to the pulpit door. He said to Joan, “Now we must make haste.”

  But Joan was exhausted; she was still coughing from the smoke; her tear-stained face was pale with fear and she shuddered in his arms. “Where? How?” she asked.

  “There,” Matthew said, pointing to the opposite end of the chamber where the wall was partly covered by a curtain. The curtain concealed a door. Beyond were stairs, descending to the floors below.

  Joan looked down uncertainly. “Would we not be safer to remain as we are?”

  Matthew shook his head. “It’s likely Starkey knows the prison like the freckles on his face. If we don’t hurry, he’ll find us here alone and will need no fire to undo us.”

  The door on the next landing was also unlocked and Matthew opened it cautiously. Inside was a cloakroom. On a table at its center the man of God had cast off his vestments in the course of his flight and on the walls were hooks from which hung an assortment of winter garb and several of the brown leather jerkins that served the warders as uniforms. Beyond, another door was slightly ajar and from the other side Matthew could hear angry voices and the rattle of weapons.

  “The lodge,” whispered Matthew. “We’ve come down to the lodge.”

  “Then escape is futile,” Joan moaned.

  Matthew closed the door and waited, thinking. Presently the uproar in the lodge subsided. He said to Joan, “It is likely they’ve all gone up to the chapel to fight the

  fire or control the riot. We may be able to pass through now.”

  But Joan hesitated. “Will they not have the gate guarded?”

  Matthew thought there still might be an avenue of escape. They had very little to lose, and he felt it was better if they were caught by the guards than by Starkey. He opened the door to the cloakroom and looked about. No weapons were kept there, only clothing. The weapons, he remembered, were in the keeper’s office. The clothing. He pulled one of the leather jerkins from its hook and then another, trying them on over his shirt. “Pray God they think me one of them,” he said to Joan, who had watched his activity with great puzzlement.

  “Will you leave me behind, then?” she asked in a pitiful small voice. “For I can fit no jerkin.”

  “You may dress as you are. I will say I am a guard and you a visitor and my charge to see you safely from the prison.”

  “But what if the keeper’s deputy or one of the warders recognizes us?”

  Matthew had not thought about this complication, but he brushed it aside. There was nothing else to be done.

  He led Joan through the cloakroom and into the lodge. It was not empty, as he had supposed. The elderly recorder who had admitted them was seated at his customary place, bent over his ledger, pen in hand, his head down so that all Matthew could observe was the untidy growth of his white hair. The man was strangely oblivious to the turmoil in the prison, and Matthew and Joan were well into the center of the room before he looked up at them quizzically. The recorder’s vague expression showed no sign of recognition and Matthew realized that at least as far as the recorder was concerned, the warder’s jerkin Matthew wore was sufficient evidence of his new identity.

  “Who is the woman?” inquired the recorder absently, turning his gaze again to his book.

  “One of the visitors,” Matthew replied, trying to sound casual. “I was ordered to bear her to the street—for safety’s sake, from the fire and riot.”

  “Indeed,” said the recorder. “And who ordered you

  so to do?”

  Matthew hesitated, and looked at his wife in bewilderment. What could he say? But Joan whispered, “Tell him Wat ordered you.”

  Matthew said, “Wat.”

  “Wat, was it?” replied the recorder briskly, his head still down. “We have fallen on ill luck here then if such as Wat gives orders. I haven’t seen you before in the lodge.”

  “Iam newly appointed ...” said Matthew.

  “Indeed,” mumbled the old recorder. “Well then, learn your duty—which I assure you will not consist of obeying Wat. Don’t stand there gawking, fellow, bear the woman out.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matthew replied promptly. He proceeded to lead Joan from the room and had nearly gained the threshold and the prospect of freedom when his way was barred.

  Starkey stood in the doorway, smiling grimly.

  “You’re leaving—so soon?” Starkey asked calmly.

  “By your leave, you wretch,” Joan said from behind Matthew.

  “Well then, I ’ll have a word with you both before you do. The recorder here won’t mind. We’ll be very quiet, won’t

  we?”

  The recorder had stopped his writing and was looking up at Starkey. He was obviously irritated at this new interruption.

  “You won’t kill us, not with him here,” said Joan, meaning the recorder.

  Starkey nodded his head slowly, his eyes fixed on Matthew. “You’re right, Mrs. Stock. What I have in mind is best done without witnesses. But please remember that you and your husband are prisoners in this place. Escaping prisoners now. And were you to compound the felony with cold-blooded murder, say, of a prison official—”

  “What official?” demanded Joan hotly.

  “He means the recorder,” Matthew said.

  The old man’s mouth was agape. He sensed trouble and

  was glaring at Starkey. He began to
splutter inarticulately as though he had very little breath left for his words, and in a quick blow Starkey sent the old man sprawling. The recorder lay on the floor, face up, his eyes closed.

  “You’ve killed him!” exclaimed Joan, horrified.

  “Prisoners desperate to escape will do anything, Mrs. Stock,” replied Starkey, grinning.

  Matthew began to back toward the door to the cloakroom, his eyes fixed on Starkey. He knew the man had a weapon, probably the stiletto, and indeed at that moment Starkey withdrew it and held it out in front of him, a long narrow blade.

  Matthew heard Joan behind him. “Oh, Matthew,” she groaned.

  “You were very clever, both of you,” said Starkey. “You tried to make me look the fool—put me in bad with my master—with that business about Cecil’s whore. I do not forgive easily . . . that’s why I came here myself. I never trust another to do my work for me. Besides, I wanted to see your faces. At the end. Do you understand?”

  Matthew understood well enough. He braced himself for Starkey’s attack, warning Joan to stay well behind him. He had no sooner done so than Starkey thrust out with the knife, the blade flashed, and Matthew jumped backward, pulling out a chair and holding it in front of him to ward off the slashing blade. He told Joan to run for her life and out of the comer of his eye saw her dart to the far side of the room. Starkey lunged for the chair, wrenched it from Matthew’s grasp, and hurled it against the wall.

  “You must take your comeuppance, Mr. Stock,” Starkey said, crouching low, ready to spring again.

  Desperately Matthew looked about him for another means of defense. There wereweapons in the keeper’s office adjoining, halberds and pikes, a half-dozen swords, if he could only reach them. They were hanging upon the wall, but between him and the keeper’s office was Starkey.

  Joan meanwhile had moved quietly forward while Starkey and Matthew maneuvered in the center of the room. She was behind Starkey but Matthew could not tell whether the man was aware of Joan’s movements or not.