Mask of Duplicity (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 1) (19 page)

She had walked for no more than a couple of minutes when it started to rain. At first she ignored it, but then as it became heavier she took temporary shelter in a doorway, hoping that the downpour would soon blow over. It didn’t, and the streets quickly emptied of people, except for a few who, dashing past her, disappeared down a narrow passage on the other side of the road, which led towards the River Irwell.

Comprehension dawned, and after hesitating for a moment and looking up at the cloud-filled skies in an attempt to estimate the time, she came to a decision, and plunged off down the passage herself, following the others down the slippery flight of stone steps which led to a dye-house on the banks of the river.

She had been here before, several times, although not as frequently as she would have liked. It was a risky place to be seen, and even more risky for her now, accepted as she was into the bosom of the devoutly Anglican Cunningham family, but she could not resist. What better way to end a rebellious day, than to attend mass? She had no idea how long it would be before she dare attend a Catholic mass again, to celebrate the mysteries of the faith with like-minded people.

A temporary altar had been set up on a trestle table in the corner of the dye-house. It was covered by a lace cloth, and a wooden crucifix stood atop it, along with two expensive beeswax candles and the pyx containing the host. Behind it stood the small slender figure of Father Henry Kendal, his round moon of a face beaming from above his vestments as he waited for the final stragglers to take their places before commencing. The congregation was not large. There were few Catholics in Manchester, and not all of them were able to attend every mass. Beth acknowledged the greetings of her neighbours, and noticed with disappointment that Mary was not present. It would have put the icing on the cake of this thoroughly enjoyable day if she could have seen her friend and been introduced to the wonderful Joseph.

She soon became lost in the comforting routine of the mass, the familiar responses, the dim glow of the candles reflecting off the polished surface of the pyx. The people assembled were dressed in their everyday clothes; they dared not wear their best for fear of arousing suspicion. Many of them had come straight from work and smelt of sweat, leather or horses, mingled with the odours of their occupation. The man next to her was a blacksmith; the sharp metallic scent of iron emanated unmistakably from his clothes. The Latin words wrapped themselves warmly around her like a blanket as she joined in with the creed, reaffirming her faith.

Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, factorem caeli et terrae...

The service was simple; there was no choir, no organ, no magnificent building and rich music soaring to the rafters; but it was genuine and heartfelt, and all the more so because many of the people present probably risked dismissal from their jobs if they were discovered to be Papists.

And what do I risk?
Beth thought as she left the makeshift church, resisting the temptation to stay and chat after the mass was over.
Complete, irrevocable alienation from my family, and the subsequent murderous wrath of my brother.

She shrugged the thought off
.
She need not worry about her faith being discovered. What she
did
need to worry about, she realised with alarm as she emerged from the dye-house and looked up at the sky, was that either the mass had lasted longer than she thought, or she had estimated the time wrongly. It was still drizzling, but the darkening sky was due more to the fact that it was getting close to nightfall than to the miserable weather. Cursing inwardly, she set off at a brisk pace back along Deansgate. It must be close to four o’ clock by now, and she estimated it would take her another thirty to forty-five minutes to get home. She tried to speed up even more, but, out of shape through her sedentary lifestyle of the last weeks, she was soon out of breath and had to slow down.

It was as she entered the maze of buildings and narrow passageways known as Smithy Door that she realised she was being followed. She walked on, hoping to reach the safety of the Market Place before the man overtook her, but as she heard his footsteps quicken behind her, she realised that he had no intention of allowing his quarry to reach sanctuary. Trying to look as though she intended to walk straight on, she suddenly veered off to the right, and the moment she was out of sight she took to her heels and ran, taking turnings at random, hoping to lose her pursuer in the maze of little alleys. It was growing ever darker and more than once she stepped into some unidentified slimy substance, wrinkling her nose in disgust, but not pausing to inspect her shoes. Finally, seeing no sign of her pursuer, she stopped at the entrance to a narrow alleyway to regain her breath. She peered into the gloom, trying to see if this way led back to civilisation. In her flight she had lost all sense of direction and was not sure where she was, but this way looked promising.

She started to make her way down the long narrow cobbled path, which was lined on either side by tall gloomy buildings in various states of dereliction, some dating from the Middle Ages. Most of them were shuttered and seemed deserted. No lights gleamed in the windows, and there was no sign of any habitation. The general atmosphere was not pleasant and Beth shivered, drawing her cloak closer around her, although in spite of her damp dress she was not cold. In fact she was sweating slightly, both from her recent exertion and from fear.

The overhanging buildings blocked out the little natural light that remained, and Beth did not realise that the alley was a dead end until she was almost at the end of it. She had two options; she could stay where she was and hope her pursuer would not explore the alley, or she could retrace her steps and then take another route, in the hope that she would emerge onto a street that she recognised.

Beth was always one who opted for action rather than procrastination; she turned round and started to make her way carefully back down the narrow thoroughfare. She was no more than a hundred yards from the end when a figure appeared at the head of the alley, his bulky shape dimly silhouetted by the last remains of the daylight. Beth shrank back against the wall, watching as he hesitated for a moment then slowly started to make his way in her direction.

He hadn’t seen her yet, she was sure of that. She groped her way crab-like along the wall until she came to a recess, sliding silently into it. If she kept absolutely still as he passed by, she thought, there was a chance he would not see her. He was still some distance away, however, and she took the opportunity to reach through the slit in her gown into the pocket tied around her waist, and pull out the knife she carried in its leather case. She slid the blade out of its sheath, and felt the six-inch-long razor-sharp edge with satisfaction. At least if her pursuer caught her, she determined, she would not be an easy conquest. She stepped further back into the shadow of the doorway, and as she did so felt the wood behind her give slightly. Keeping her eyes on the alley, but reaching back, she gave it an experimental push. It opened inward. Quick as a flash she slid inside the building, closing the door silently behind her. The surge of relief made her legs wobble and she took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness she could make out the vague shapes of boxes stacked in the corner to her right. It seemed to be a storeroom of some sort, but if so it was very small. To her left was another door. There was a gap between the bottom of the door and the stone floor, which revealed a faint line of yellow light.

Light meant occupancy, but whether that was a good thing or not, she had no idea. She moved a little closer and was suddenly halted by a burst of male laughter. There were at least two men in the room, then. Something furry ran suddenly across her foot before pattering off in the direction of the boxes and she stifled a scream of fright. Her heart banged painfully against her ribs, and she waited a moment for it to slow before inching her way up to the door. If she could hear a little of what was going on behind it, she would be able to ascertain whether the occupants would be likely to assist her or not if she called on them for help.

The door was thin and somewhat rotten and when she was close to it she had no difficulty hearing the conversation that was taking place in the room. A few moments of listening told her that these were definitely not the kind of people who would be likely to help her, but although she knew she should retreat, still she stayed, mesmerised by the soft cadences of the foreign voices.

When the man opened the door, his fingers already undoing the buttons of his breeches preparatory to relieving himself, and saw the young woman standing there, it was difficult to ascertain which of the two was the more shocked. Both of them froze momentarily, then Beth’s hand drove up forcefully, aiming for the soft area just underneath the sternum, at the same moment as he leapt sideways. The knife sliced through his shirt and tore into his skin, raking along his side.

He was fast. Before she could recover her balance he had grabbed her wrist and pushed her up against the doorframe, twisting her arm so hard up her back that her shoulder creaked alarmingly. She cried out in pain and he plucked the knife deftly from her fingers before spinning her round and pushing her into the room he had just been about to leave. He closed the door, and stood with his back to it. Her hip collided painfully with the edge of the wooden table which dominated the room and she almost fell across it, taking her weight on her hands and wincing as her abused shoulder protested at the sudden weight it had to bear.

Seated along both sides of the table were several men, who regarded her silently with surprise. The room was pleasantly warm and they were all in shirtsleeves, having removed their coats, which hung on the backs of their chairs, and several of them had rolled up their sleeves, exposing muscular forearms. Clearly they had been here for some time. A brazier glowed redly in one corner and two candles burned on the rough wooden surface of the table, which also held a number of pewter tankards and a large flagon of mulled wine. Beth shrank back a little, instinctively trying to disappear into the shadows, although her common sense told her how futile an action that was.

The solitary man seated at the head of the table nodded his head briefly at two of his companions, who stood immediately and left the room.

“Are ye alright?” he addressed the wounded man by the door, who had now taken off his shirt and rolled it into a ball, pressing it against the wound in his side.

“Aye, It’s nobbut a scratch, but if I hadna moved, she’d ha’ stuck me in the heart,” he replied, a distinct tone of awe in his voice that such a fragile-looking woman had nearly killed him.

All of the men were bareheaded except for the one she presumed to be the leader, judging by his air of authority. He had thrown a cloak around himself and had pulled the hood low over his brow, casting his face into shadow so that she could not make out any of his features. The other men all had dark hair, except for one, whose hair was a mass of fiery red waves hanging loose to his shoulders. Their features differed dramatically, but they had one thing in common. They all looked extremely ruthless.

The shadowed man now turned his head towards her. She was aware of his close scrutiny, although she couldn’t see his eyes, and she ran her tongue around her lips nervously.

“Welcome to our gathering, lassie,” he said mockingly. “Would you care for some refreshment?”

She shook her head quickly, once, and remained silent. Her breathing was fast and shallow and her hands were trembling violently. She pressed them into her sides in an attempt to stop him observing how frightened she was, and forced herself to stand erect. However terrified she felt, she was determined not to give these men the satisfaction of seeing it.

“Now then, it seems to me that ye owe us an explanation for coming upon us in so unexpected a manner,” the man said conversationally. As he spoke, he casually produced an object from the folds of his cloak and placed it on the table. Beth regarded the twelve-inch-long, razor-sharp tapering blade with something close to mindless terror. His hand rested lightly on the wooden hilt, which was intricately carved with an interlacing knotwork pattern.

“First of all, are ye alone? I’ll have the truth, mind.” His voice was deep, with a soft Scottish accent. In more favourable circumstances she would have found it seductive rather than menacing.

Normally when faced with extreme danger, there is a choice between fight and flight. Inability to decide between the two leads to paralysis of the mind and body. Beth had no such problem. Flight was impossible; she had no choice but to fight. Relieved of the necessity of making a decision, her mind cleared. She decided to opt for honesty, instinctively feeling it to be the safest option.

“Yes, I am alone,” she admitted.

“Good,” he replied, and she wondered if he meant that it was good that she had told the truth and he was now going to release her unharmed, or good because he could now kill her without having to deal with her companions as well. She glanced around the room again. All attention was fixed on her. None of the other men had spoken yet, and she found their silence unnerving.

“Now it seems to me a wee bit strange that a young lady should be strolling about this part of the town at night armed with a blade,” the man with the knife continued amiably. “Are ye a whore?”

“No, I am not a whore!” she retorted in outrage. She stopped, brought her voice back under control, and started again.

“No, I am a respectable lady. I was exploring the town, doing a little shopping, and lost my way, that’s all.”

She looked at the man, trying to ascertain whether he believed her or not, but it was impossible to see his expression under the hood. He lifted his hand, pulling the hood further down over his forehead, and she realised that he did not want her to see his features. That was a good sign; if he intended to kill her, he would surely not care whether she could identify him or not. Of course the other men were not wearing headgear, and they didn’t seem concerned that their faces were clearly visible in the candlelight, which was
not
a good sign. Why was he so bothered? Did he think she might know him? He spoke again, still in the same soft, casual way.