by S. J. Parris
The tunnel is rough-hewn, rudimentary and in poor repair; fissures gape in the walls and roof and the water seeps in relentlessly, in some places no more than a trickle, but elsewhere a steady stream, pouring down the rock and along the floor. I think of those monks five hundred years earlier and the force it must have taken to hew this escape route out of the living rock. Here and there the passage is scattered with rubble where parts of the tunnel have subsided; I try not to think about the weight of the sea above us, the walls pressing in, the fact that I have no idea how far we have come or how much longer we must continue in this dank, subterranean trough. Instead I keep my breathing steady and concentrate on each step, guarding the candle flame and keeping alert for any sound that would betray the presence of another human. I can feel the pressure of Nell’s hand on my back, her fingers clutching at my shirt as if she fears I would leave her behind.
‘Who was the woman?’ she says, out of nowhere.
‘What?’ I almost miss my footing and stumble, then turn, holding the candle up to look at her. Her hair hangs loose, the ends scorched a little on one side; her face is smeared with soot but her eyes have regained some of their fire.
‘Which woman?’
‘The woman in Oxford. The man with no ears said you risked your life for her once.’
‘More than once,’ I say, without thinking.
‘Did you love her?’ Her tone is accusing.
‘It was a long time ago.’ I turn back to the path ahead and continue walking, partly to hide the smile. Of all the things she could choose to worry about at present, it is the thought of another woman that preoccupies her. I find this oddly endearing. A woman’s mind is a strange thing indeed.
I have barely taken five steps when I freeze, and the smile dies on my lips. A distant rumble reaches us from somewhere up ahead. I have been half-expecting this since we entered the tunnel; I did not believe that Jenkes and Doughty would leave anything to chance. Perhaps they took more explosives with them to seal off the tunnel once they reached the end. That rumble, I realise with a sickening certainty, is the sound of the rock collapsing, trapping us down here – or, worse, cracking open the roof of the tunnel to let the thousand tons of water above us surge in. I hesitate, stiff with fear, heart racing, awaiting the great onrush of the sea through the darkness. Moments pass; the water does not come. At length I allow myself to exhale and motion for Nell to continue.
Some yards further on, I find the source of the sound: a section of the wall has fallen, almost blocking the tunnel with debris. Water is gushing through the crack; not fast enough yet to cause a problem, but the fissure is a deep one and the pressure of the water could burst the wall open further. I wedge the candle into a crevice in the rock wall, where it flickers precariously, and begin to pull the fallen rocks away with both hands.
‘We need to hurry,’ I say, hurling lumps of stone behind me; more tumble into the gaps I have made as fast as I can clear them.
‘Are we in danger?’ she asks, crouching alongside me and grabbing at a rock.
I glance sideways at the water coursing through the cleft in the tunnel wall. ‘Until we get out, we cannot assume ourselves safe. Help me here.’
We work in silence until we have cleared a gap large enough to crawl over. The candle gutters out as she tries to pass it through to me on the other side and it takes some time to spark the tinder-box into life again. The tunnel is pitched into blackness and I have the uneasy sensation that I can hear someone breathing close by. I reach up to help Nell through the gap; she hauls herself down, slipping on loose rocks, wincing as she turns her ankle upon landing beside me, but without complaint. She stands unsteadily, resting a hand on my shoulder, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and I see that she is weak. Her treatment at the hands of Jenkes and Doughty has injured her, perhaps more than I can see, and though she pushes on valiantly, I realise she is in pain. I can only hope she will be strong enough to reach the end of the tunnel – though I have no idea where the end of the tunnel might be, or what awaits us there.
‘Lean on me if you are tired,’ I instruct her. ‘I must keep my hand around the candle flame or we will lose it.’ But the candle is burning down fast; we will lose it soon in any case. I have to keep shifting it from hand to hand as the hot wax drips on to my fingers. I have lost all sense of time; it seems as if we have been down here for days. ‘I feel like Orpheus,’ I say, taking a step forward as the light flickers and dims.
‘Don’t look back, then,’ she says, with a small laugh, ‘or I shall be left down here for ever.’
The tunnel roof is lower now; we have to stoop to continue, making progress all the harder.
‘He was lying, you know,’ she says, out of the darkness behind me. ‘The man called Doughty. He did not violate me. He wanted to taunt you.’
‘It would be no dishonour on your part if he did, my lady,’ I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the candle. I wonder if she feels obliged to deny it for my benefit, in case I should consider her compromised.
‘But it is true,’ she insists. ‘He would have, but the other one stopped him. The man with no ears. They argued about it – No-Ears said it would be a sinful act that would taint them both. And yet he would have been quite happy to kill us.’
‘Rowland Jenkes has his own moral code,’ I say. ‘Sins of the flesh bring no glory to God. I think he prides himself on his asceticism.’
‘You called me “my lady” again,’ she says softly.
‘I’m sorry. It is a hard habit to break for a man of my birth.’
‘Are we going to die, Bruno?’ she asks suddenly, as if reading my thoughts.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Some day. But not down here, if I can help it.’ On impulse, I turn, cup her bruised face in my hand and press my mouth to her scorched lips, because I have just realised that the tunnel has begun to slope unmistakably upwards.
TWENTY-THREE
The tunnel ends abruptly, emerging into a round shaft lined with brick that appears to be a dry well, the bottom covered with a mulch of dead leaves. The candle is burned down to a stub, but in its faint glow I can make out iron treads hammered into the wall at ascending intervals, just as there were in the shaft we climbed down. The air smells less dank here, but when I crane my neck upwards, I see only darkness. I reason that it must be the middle of the night, but even so, you would expect some glimmer of natural light at the entrance. As I consider this, my heart lurches so violently that I stagger and have to hold myself up against the slimy wall: perhaps Jenkes and Doughty have sealed the entrance to this end of the tunnel, as a last bitter joke on us? I do not know where the tunnel emerges – whether near the city, where we might hope to be heard, or in some remote spot along the coast, where no one sets foot except those smuggling in contraband. There is nothing for it but to try.
‘Can you climb?’ I ask. She raises her eyes to the blackness above us.
‘I don’t think I have a choice,’ she says, forcing a smile.
‘Good. Wait until I call you, though – no point wasting your energy if we can’t get out at the top.’
‘What?’ Her face twists with alarm and she clutches at my sleeve. ‘I can’t go back, Bruno. I don’t have the strength. I would rather just …’ Her eyes fill with tears; her resolve visibly drains from her face as she slumps against me. I wish I could take the words back.
‘We will find a way,’ I say, squeezing her arm. ‘Come – hold this while I climb.’ I hand her the last of the candle. She shivers, flinching as the hot wax touches her skin. I place my foot on the first of the iron rungs and begin to pull myself up, dread sitting heavy in my stomach.
The shaft must be at least a hundred feet deep, perhaps more. Shadows close around me as I climb, until the candle is no more than a pinprick of light far below. As I make my slow way upwards, I recall what Jenkes had said about giving me the chance to repent. Another man might start praying now, indeed would have been praying fervently to every saint he could name for the past few hours, but
I find I cannot, even in what may well be the hour of my death. Ironic, that for thirteen years of my life I spent most of my waking hours in prayer, only to find that prayer eludes me when I truly need it. Experience has taught me that the only one I can depend on to save me is myself.
At the top of the shaft my fingers brush against a rough surface; holding tight with my left hand, I extend my right and tentatively feel the shape of a wooden cover. I flatten my palm against it and push. It does not budge. As I am straining against its resistance, the iron staple under my left hand slips. I cry out as my knuckles scrape hard over the brick; one side has come loose in its fittings, but for now it holds. If it should come away altogether, I will fall back into the darkness. Gripping it hard, I gather all my remaining strength and heave my shoulder against the wooden cover. With a groan, it moves and through the crack I taste a breath of fresh, salt air. I brace myself, push again and climb another step as I do so, lifting the heavy cover with me until I can move it far enough to one side to grasp the stone lip of the well and pull myself up through the opening.
I collapse sprawling on to a dry dirt floor, sucking in great gasping lungfuls of air, cold and sharp as a blade to my raw throat. I lean over the rim of the well and call down into the darkness to Nell that it is safe for her to climb, though all I hear is my own voice spiralling down into the hole and the patter of a few loose stones I knock over the edge. There is no longer any sign of light from the candle.
While I wait for her to appear, I try to ascertain some sense of my surroundings. As my eyes adjust, I can see that some kind of shelter has been built over the mouth of the well, simple but substantial, with stone walls on three sides, the fourth open to the elements. I struggle to my feet and stand fully upright for the first time since I was tied up, stretching out my aching limbs and back. At the open side of the shelter, I venture to poke my head outside, conscious that Jenkes and Doughty may yet be waiting for us. My hand moves instinctively to my belt, only to find my knife gone. I curse under my breath; I have only my fists and my feet now to defend myself, and I feel so weak I would like just to lie down inside the shelter and sleep for days.
Outside there is only silence – but it is a silence alive with the sounds of the night: a brisk wind soughing in the leaves, the groan of branches, the low rumble of the sea close by and, far off, the barking of dogs. Feeling bolder, I step out and look up into dense woodland. The moon is high overhead in a cloudless sky, a silver coin glimpsed through the trees. The pale light filtering through would be sufficient for us to make our way through the woods, if Nell is strong enough – though I have no idea which way we should go. Perhaps it would be better to rest in the shelter until dawn so that we can take our bearings – or would we be more vulnerable at first light? I rub my forehead; my brain is so fogged by pain and the bone-deep exhaustion that follows prolonged terror that I cannot make any useful decision. I listen again to the night around me and hear the pull and slap of waves; we have evidently come out close to the shore. I decide we should wait until morning so that we can see where we are, and make our way back to Plymouth as best we can.
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.’