Gunpowder, TREason and Plot, or How we dug up the Ancestors

by Allan Frost

  ‘Damn it!’

  He picked up the cask and placed it hurriedly on top of another. He didn’t notice a split in the side, nor the black powder trickling steadily out of it onto the floor.

  ‘Here are the papers,’ said Elizabeth, handing him the satchel. He took it and made his way to the corner near the casks. He groped the wall with his fingers until he located a small circular hole in the stonework. He tugged at it.

  A section of the wall came away. It was a small door painted with a stonework pattern to camouflage it.

  Augustus pulled the door open wide, revealing a low passageway behind.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, taking the candle from Elizabeth and entering the tunnel. She followed, her shoulders hunched to avoid striking her head against the low ceiling.

  After a few metres, Augustus paused to unlock another door beyond which lay a small chamber. An open fireplace occupied a space in the centre of one wall. The grate was full of tinder; a few logs lay stacked to one side.

  A rustic bed lay along another wall. Its straw-filled mattress was covered with a coarse brown blanket. A crucifix hung from a nail above the bedhead. Several candles, two pewter tankards and a partly full firkin of ale sat on a table next to two chairs. A small, iron-bound oak chest lay beneath the table. Being below ground, there were no windows. It felt more like an inhospitable dungeon than a secret chamber for hiding visiting Catholic priests.

  Augustus smiled. ‘We’ve had some fun in here, haven’t we?’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘My father wouldn’t have been at all happy if he’d known this was where Jane was conceived!’

  Elizabeth blushed. ‘Yes, we’ve had some good times here,’ he continued. ‘Shame we have no further need of it.’

  ‘I much prefer the Hall to this place,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It never gets warm here. It’s colder than a grave.’

  ‘Ah, but the blanket kept us warm!’

  His wife’s blushes darkened to a deeper shade of pink.

  ‘No one ever discovered us, that’s true. But I never liked the idea of the Lodge keeper walking around above us.’

  ‘He couldn’t hear us; he was tone deaf,’ Augustus recalled. ‘In fact, no one above could hear anything down here once the doors were closed.’

  ‘Remember that winter’s day when we wanted to light the fire, it was so cold?’ said Elizabeth. ‘We had to wait four hours before they lit the fire upstairs because we were afraid the smoke from this chimney would be noticed and someone would come to investigate.’

  ‘Ah, those were the days!’ Augustus laughed. He put the candle down on the table before pulling her close and planting a firm kiss on her warm lips. ‘I do so love you, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I know you do, dearest.’ She shivered again. ‘Hurry up,’ she added. ‘It’s late, I’m tired and beginning to know what a corpse feels like, it’s so cold.’

  The mention of corpses made Augustus remember his conversation with Giles’s ghost. Should he mention it to her now? No, perhaps not. He’d leave it until the light of day made the subject a little less frightening. She’d have to be told, though, in case some unfortunate passer-by unwittingly encountered the apparition and she got to hear about it.

  ‘You’re right. I’ll put the papers in the chest.’

  He fumbled in his waistcoat pockets, then inside the satchel. ‘I must have put the key on the table in the hall.’

  ‘I’ll fetch it,’ said Elizabeth, turning towards the door. ‘But why do you want to put the papers and money in there? Why not bring the chest to the Hall?’

  ‘For one thing, because it’s too heavy for one person to lift. I’ll come back tomorrow with a couple of servants. Besides, I’d rather keep the contents hidden safely here until I’m sure Giles didn’t turn everyone against me while we were away. You know what he was like; couldn’t trust him at all. Can’t be too careful.’

  Elizabeth considered what he’d said.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she admitted, shrugging her shoulders. ‘You know best.’

  Elizabeth returned along the tunnel, crossed the cellar and mounted the steps. The key wasn’t on the hall table. Perhaps it had fallen out of her husband’s pocket beneath the bench on the wagon.

  Shivering again for the umpteenth time during the last hour, she lifted the lantern and strolled over to the wagon. The horses stood patiently, as if rooted to the spot. They, too, couldn’t wait to reach the warmth and familiar surroundings of their stables at Priorton Hall, which they sensed weren’t far away.

  Elizabeth peered under the bench and groped around the darker recesses. Yes, there it was. She picked the key up with frozen fingers and returned to the cellar.

  ‘I hate the dark!’ she muttered to herself, stumbling over the uneven stone floor towards the narrow space between the casks and the tunnel doorway illuminated by a faint, flickering glow. ‘Oh!’

  She nudged the broken cask. It crashed to the ground and rolled slowly into the tunnel, leaving a trail of something black behind.

  Robert Catesby would not be at all happy to see the contents of one of his precious casks scattered over the floor! Maybe she could sweep it all up and find a similar cask to put it in. Mind you, the cask wasn’t anything like the ones her father had at the inn.

  She followed the cask as quickly as she dared and hit her head on a piece of rock jutting from the ceiling. It smarted.

  Elizabeth rushed into the chamber, blood trickling down the side of her face, desperately trying to grab hold of the cask before it smashed into something.

  While she had been looking for the key, Augustus had dragged the chest from beneath the table and was kneeling beside it. His spluttering candle sat precariously in a pool of softened wax on a chair.

  Hearing the commotion, he turned to see what was happening. He first saw the cask roll into view, then the blood on Elizabeth’s face as she entered a fraction of a second later. He hesitated, not knowing what to do for the best.

  The cask thudded simultaneously into the chair and the side of the chest, burst open and knocked over the candle. Molten wax dripped onto the floor, but the candle remained lit. Black powder scattered in all directions.

  Suddenly, the powder burst into flame and hurled a shower of sparks high into the air, almost to the ceiling. The flame spluttered and hissed loudly as it followed the powder trail out of the chamber and into the dark tunnel.

  ‘Gunpowder!’ yelled Augustus.

  He leapt towards the tunnel and looked frantically inside. The fast-travelling flare had already burned along the full length of the tunnel and now lit up the casks in the cellar beyond.

  Augustus slammed the door of the chamber shut and put his back against it. Elizabeth rushed over and did likewise. The faint light from the upturned candle showed the terror of anticipation on their faces.

  A deafening series of enormous explosions ripped the Lodge apart. Timber and stone were hurled high into the night sky.

  The horses, still in their shafts, reared and, with wide eyed panic, galloped away into the night.

  XIX

  The mist swirled and cleared again to reveal a heap of smouldering ruins where the Lodge had previously stood. Charred timber and fragments of stone lay scattered over a radius of many metres.

  Although the scene was now lit by the first rays of summer sun, there were no birds singing. Nothing moved except for wisps of smoke wafting lazily in a gentle breeze.

  The explosion had been heard throughout Priorton, bringing hordes of inquisitive onlookers to witness such incredible devastation. Had the disaster occurred within the village, teams of willing helpers would have formed chains, passing buckets of water along to quell the fire and prevent it spreading to neighbouring properties.

  But the Lodge had been built in the middle of nowhere, too far from the Tricklebrook or any other source of water. No one could raise a finger to help. At least they had some consolation; no one would have been killed or injured because the Lodge had been unoccupied these last few we
eks.

  Giles’s corpse was discovered by one of the villagers hurrying to the scene and, because of his reputation, put the catastrophe down to mischief on his part; as no one had ever witnessed the visual sign of lead shot penetrating the skull, assumed the charring around the lethal hole had been caused by a projectile from the explosion hitting him between the eyes, in spite of the distance his corpse lay from the Lodge. Perhaps it was God’s way of punishing him for all his misdeeds. Having reached this simple yet satisfying conclusion, it didn’t cross anyone’s mind to search for the offending pistol.

  But why hadn’t Giles’s ghost been seen? Because it was startled by the appearance of so many commoners trampling along the lane with dazzling torches and lanterns held high, that’s why. Giles in the Afterlife maintained the same low opinion of peasants and artisans as he had during his lifetime; why bother to converse with these miserable, uncouth creatures now?

  The crowd had dispersed by dawn, leaving the fire to burn itself out. Later that morning, servants carried Giles’s corpse back to Priorton Hall to await Augustus’s instructions, afterwards returning to the Lodge to rummage through the remains to see if anything was worth salvaging. There wasn’t; the whole site was completely and utterly destroyed. It wasn’t even worth the effort to take many of the dressed stones away for reuse elsewhere, so great had been the damage.

  Speculation ran high when neither Augustus nor Elizabeth returned to Priorton. Enquiries were made along the road to Bridgnorth; several cottagers could remember seeing their heavily-laden wagon pass but no one had seen it after nightfall.

  Ancient, respected and feared Sir Barnabas Foot-Wart from nearby Blister Grange conducted a few enquiries into the circumstances surrounding the destruction of the Lodge, Giles’s death and Augustus’s disappearance. The day-long hearing took place in the court house above the market hall paid for by Augustus’s father William, that same building in which Barnabas’s descendent Sir Cedric Foot-Wart continued to hear cases and pronounce judgement four centuries later.

  Had Giles killed his brother and disposed of his body? It was common knowledge that he despised Augustus and was jealous of his brother’s good fortune. Evidence from the servants indicated Giles had been drunk most of the time while Augustus had been away on business and had incessantly cursed the fact that the elder brother had inherited the family fortune.

  And he had been heard making countless loud-popping explosions with a new-fangled hand weapon in one of the rooms, where holes and splinters had subsequently appeared in the oak wall panelling and furniture. Could they be related to the explosion at the Lodge? Was he experimenting, or just practising?

  And what had happened to the contents of the wagon? Had Giles murdered Augustus and sold the contents to an unknown accomplice? The wagon had been empty when servants discovered it near the stables of the Hall the day after, so the goods must have been taken somewhere, certainly not the Lodge which, if Giles intended blowing it up, made no sense. Furthermore, Augustus had told Giles to leave Priorton Hall before his return, yet hadn’t made any effort to do so. Surely this was a sure sign of his guilt?

  Another theory, suggesting that Augustus had killed Giles and run away to avoid facing the consequences and the hangman’s rope or executioner’s axe, was dismissed as pure speculation. Augustus was a thoroughly honest and God-fearing man, never known to be violent. On the contrary, he had always avoided conflict, even with his wayward brother.

  It seemed more likely that Augustus had been taken away by one of Giles’s dubious friends, perhaps to extort a ransom. Regrettably, it was not possible to interview Giles’s mortal remains. No doubt Giles’s partners in crime had panicked after hearing that Giles had been killed by his own stupid actions and realised there was no one left in the Wilton family to pay the ransom. They must have killed Augustus to get rid of the evidence.

  Sir Barnabas had no choice but to declare that Giles had died at his own hand and ordered his body to be buried on the north side of All Saints parish church, the area of the burial ground reserved for suicides and paupers.

  As far as Priorton Hall and all its extensive grounds were concerned, Sir Barnabas thought it prudent to appoint lawyers to administer the estate until a rightful heir came forward. There was, after all, a glimmer of hope that Augustus himself was still alive and would, one day, return.

  No mention was ever made of Elizabeth. Her parents thought it best to keep their mouths shut and not mention the true parenthood of William and Jane lest they were accused of fraud and deception, a charge which, if proven, could have devastating effects on trade at the inn and their position in the village, let alone lead to imprisonment. Who would believe a simple inn-keeper, especially since Elizabeth’s affair had been a closely guarded secret? Village tongues may have wagged, but there had never been any solid proof of the affair.

  They drew consolation from the belief that Elizabeth would remain with her beloved Augustus, whatever their fate.

  Any hope of being reunited with their daughter faded as time went by.

  Augustus and Elizabeth barely escaped death when the explosion occurred. In some ways, it would have been better for them if they had been killed instantly. But God has always moved in mysterious ways and it is not for mere mortals to question his actions or reasons.

  The force of the blast threw them across the chamber and into the table and chairs. Rubble and a tremendous amount of dust and mortar fell from the ceiling, leaving behind a thick covering over the floor and furniture. It was pitch black.

  The series of explosions continued for several, long minutes. No sooner had the noise of one subsided than the next ear-splitting boom rent the air, sending another shower of debris over their terrified bodies. They lay on the hard floor, eyes shut tight, desperately covering their mouths and noses with one hand to prevent suffocation and shielding their heads with the other.

  Eventually, everything fell silent apart from gentle splats of particles falling from the cloud of dust onto the floor and the occasional rumble as masonry and timbers from the building above collapsed. Still covering his face as best as he could with a handkerchief, Augustus coughed to clear his throat.

  ‘Elizabeth! Speak to me, Elizabeth!’ he said hoarsely.

  He heard something fall onto the ground nearby. It was his wife, shaking pieces of rubble from her back.

  ‘Oh, my head hurts,’ came a weak, trembling voice somewhere nearby.

  ‘Don’t move, Elizabeth! I’ll look for a candle.’

  She heard his hand scraping in the dust.

  ‘Got one!’

  She heard the sound of cloth being rustled while he searched for his flint, then saw sparks in the speckled haze. Whether it took an age to light the candle because of the amount of dust in the air or because Augustus couldn’t see to strike the flint properly, she couldn’t say, but eventually a weak yellow flame revealed the full extent of their dangerous situation. Her eyes smarted as they glanced around the chamber. She gasped in horror.

  Augustus kicked rubble out of the way and knelt by her side. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder; it was covered with blood from a thousand cuts and nicks.

  ‘Made a bit of a mess,’ he observed wryly. ‘Curse Catesby!’

  ‘I pray to God, whatever plan he had for the gunpowder fails and he suffers a terrible end!’ she choked, lifting herself from the floor and holding her husband’s arm tightly. She saw his face for the first time since the explosion.

  ‘Oh, dearest, you look dreadful! Are you hurt?’

  He shook his head. Dust fell like a surfeit of dandruff onto his shoulders.

  ‘Still alive,’ he said, as cheerfully as he could. Apart from a few cuts and knocks, he was in one piece.

  ‘The candle won’t last forever,’ he added. ‘There were some more on the table before it collapsed. Ah! There they are.’

  ‘Put them in the hearth,’ suggested Elizabeth. ‘We’ll know where to find them. And your flint.’

  They heard
a further rumble of masonry falling, followed by another shower of debris from the ceiling.

  ‘The whole Lodge must have gone up in smoke,’ she said.

  Augustus righted the chair which had escaped damage and sat her down.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said.

  The door to the chamber was hanging abjectly from a single hinge. He struggled to open it enough to enter the tunnel and slid inside. He returned a minute or so later.

  ‘The other end’s full of debris,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Can we move it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not for the moment,’ he answered. ‘Too dangerous, with all the burning above. We’ll have to wait.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Don’t know. It’ll take some hours before it’s safe enough to make a start. We can’t do it if the building’s still collapsing.’

  He shuffled over to the bed, lifted the blanket and shook the rubble onto the floor. Resurrected dust made him cough and sneeze. Elizabeth laughed; she sounded nervous and was obviously doing her best to put on a brave face.

  ‘Get into bed,’ instructed Augustus.

  ‘Oh, Augustus, how could you think of that at a time like this?’

  ‘You need to keep warm and you could do with a rest. It’ll help pass the time. You’ll need all your strength to help me shift the rubble.’

  She lay down. He poured a little ale into a tankard and shared it with her while sitting beside her on the edge of the bed.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t get to sleep. Augustus holding her hand tenderly did nothing to reassure or prevent the growing number of terrifying thoughts entering her mind.