Treachery (49 page)

I nod towards her. ‘Cut her down first.’

‘Do you really believe you are in a position to negotiate, Bruno? First I want to see that you have not brought us some forgery or substitute. Although that would be very foolish indeed on your part and Drake’s, and whatever else you may be, I do not take either of you for a fool. Show me the book. John!’ He gestures Doughty across the room to Lady Arden. Doughty rests a foot on the bench, his gun still pointed at me.

‘Do as you are asked, Bruno, and no one will be hurt.’ Jenkes lifts the knife to the side of my head and holds it against my ear. ‘Though it is tempting, to show you first-hand what I endured. Handsome fellow like you – how would you like to look like me?’ He presses the knife a little harder. A warm trickle runs down my neck. I clamp my jaw tight and keep my eyes fixed on his. ‘You would find ladies of quality like this one here less eager for your company, I fear.’

Keeping my head as still as I can, I unwrap the manuscript from its protective oilcloth and open it to the first page, willing my fingers not to tremble. Jenkes bends towards it, almost salivating. He lowers the knife, lifts the book from my hands and turns a few pages, his attention wholly absorbed. I look across at Doughty. His foot rocks the bench a fraction, to show me I should not think of moving. I press my sleeve to my ear and it comes away spotted with blood, though the cut is only small, just enough to give me a taste of what might come next. We are entirely at their mercy; if it pleased them to make us suffer before death, we would be powerless to stop them. I try to push the thought away, but the fear of torture sits like a stone in my throat.

Jenkes turns another page. A slow, triumphant smile curves over his face.

‘The hour grows late, Rowland,’ Doughty says, impatient. ‘The boat will be waiting. Let us get this over with.’

I sneak a quick look at him. This is welcome news; if they are in a hurry to leave, perhaps they will not have time to indulge any drawn-out toying with their prey.

Jenkes snaps his head up and for an instant his face glows, as if he were experiencing his own private rapture. ‘This is the book,’ he says, jolting back to himself. ‘Cut her down.’

I stare at him. My legs almost fold under me and I have to concentrate on standing, the wave of relief is so great it threatens to knock me off balance. Does he really mean to keep to the bargain? Even John Doughty looks sceptical, though after an exchange of glances with Jenkes he steps up on to the bench, takes a knife from his belt and, tucking the pistol under his arm, proceeds to sever the rope above Lady Arden’s head. She slumps into his arms, knocking them both off balance; Doughty falls backwards and just manages to catch her as she topples from the bench. She can hardly stand, she collapses into him and he lets her slide to the floor. I take a step towards them to find the point of my own knife inches from my eye.

‘Stay where you are, Bruno.’ Jenkes holds the blade steady in front of me until Doughty has righted himself and aimed the pistol at me once more. When he is sure that I cannot afford to move, he wraps the manuscript again and motions to me to pass him the bag, where he tucks it safely away. ‘Thank you. Not the sort of thing we want falling into any old hands, is it? Best it is kept secure where it can do no harm.’

I do not reply. I have long ceased to care about the book; all I want now is to be allowed to leave with Lady Arden. He slings the bag over his shoulder and pauses to study me.

‘This chapel was completed in the twelfth century. They were most ingenious with their building works, those monks.’ He gestures to the crumbling walls. ‘It doesn’t look much from here, I grant you, but it does hold a few surprises. Chapels built in remote high places are often dedicated to Saint Michael – patron saint of those who suffer. How apt.’ He smiles, showing his teeth. ‘Even you might find yourself offering a prayer to him, Bruno.’ He picks up an empty lantern and takes one of the lit candles from a wall sconce to fit inside it.

I realise now, with a flat sense of inevitability, that my brief flicker of hope was a delusion. We are to die here, and cruelly, if Jenkes has his way. Doughty heaves Lady Arden to her feet, hooks her limp arms around his neck and half-hauls, half-forces her over to where we stand.

‘You had better take her,’ he says, pushing her roughly towards me. ‘She is your whore, is she not?’ I brace myself to support her weight, hooking an arm around her waist to keep her on her feet. Her eyes are glazed, as if she is drugged, perhaps the effect of being partially choked. She slumps into me.

‘I found her not especially pleasing,’ Doughty adds, lightly. ‘Though I imagine one gets more out of it when she shows some enthusiasm? She seemed unwilling to give me her best efforts, I must say.’ He laughs, a low taunting snigger. His words rouse Lady Arden from her stupor; anger surges through her, sparking in her eyes as she spits a curse at him, though it is muffled by her gag. I feel all her muscles tensed against me and I am seized by the urge to rush at John Doughty and crush his head into the wall. As if reading my thoughts, he lifts the pistol again and levels it at my face. I find myself hoping, absurdly, that he will shoot Lady Arden first; at least that way I would not feel I was leaving her for them to torture further after my death. A great tremor travels across her shoulders; after it has passed she seems to subside. She closes her eyes. I keep mine open, fixed on Doughty. I will die looking him in the face, so he remembers that look for the rest of his sorry days.

But he does not pull the trigger. Instead he glances over to Jenkes, who walks purposefully to the east end of the chapel, where a small stone altar stands bare under the narrow window. Setting his lantern on the altar, he crouches behind it, busy with something on the floor, out of view. After a short while, I hear a strained grunt accompanied by the grating of stone and Jenkes reappears, beckoning us. Doughty makes a brusque gesture with the gun, so I shuffle forward, pulling Lady Arden with me as best I can. She seems better able to move her feet as we approach Jenkes, though it is I who falter as I feel the cold muzzle prodding between my shoulder blades.

There is less light here; the sconces Jenkes lit are at the other end of the chapel and are already burning down. The semi-circular chancel behind the altar is sunk in near-darkness; an orange glow licks up and down the stone as the candle dances wildly in a draught. Jenkes indicates the floor; he lifts the lantern and holds it closer so that I can see where he is pointing.

He has removed one of the carved memorial stones set into the floor to reveal a rectangular space. I can see nothing but two worn stairs, leading down into black. A stale, dank smell drifts upwards.

‘Down you go,’ Jenkes says pleasantly.

Sweat prickles on my palms and my brow. I hesitate, unable to move my feet. Does he mean to incarcerate us underground? My heart skitters like a terrified creature; since I was a youth I have had a horror of confined spaces, of airless darkness. I have a recurring nightmare of being buried alive. I would rather he shot me here and now, and have it all over in an instant; I almost say so. But there is Lady Arden to think of.

‘Don’t take all night about it, Bruno, we have a pressing appointment with a French merchant ship,’ Jenkes says, pointing to the maw of the crypt. ‘We’re coming with you, don’t worry.’ The enigmatic smile again; he is enjoying himself.

I try to close my mind to thoughts of what awaits us down there and concentrate on each step, each breath. The opening is only wide enough for one person at a time. I let go of Lady Arden, wait until I am sure she is able to stand, then turn my back on the stairs and begin to descend backwards into that dark space, holding both her hands with mine and leading her down, one at a time, until I can see nothing. I have no idea how far down the stairs will lead, but I count about a dozen before I reach a solid brick floor. I guide her down the last step; she stumbles and falls against me, and I pull her close to shield us both from the cold. All around us is thick darkness and the smell of damp stone.

Lady Arden shivers in my arms. I unfasten the cloak at my neck and wrap it around her shoulders, but she goes on shaking violently. A faint light hovers at the top of the steps; I fully expect to hear the stone grind into place over us. But, true to his word, Doughty begins to descend with the lantern in one hand, the pistol in the other. Halfway down he pauses, waiting for Jenkes, but there is light enough to see that we are in a vaulted undercroft, lined in aged brick. Crates and barrels are stacked around the walls. Jenkes eventually appears on the steps and reaches up, pulling the memorial stone overhead until it falls into place with a heavy crash. He is holding another lantern. Coiled over his arm is a length of rope – presumably that which had suspended Lady Arden from the beam.

Now the four of us are seemingly trapped down here. My mind is a riot of unformed terrors, though for Lady Arden’s sake I fight to keep my breathing steady and my face composed. Jenkes walks slowly towards us, rope in hand.

‘I hope you won’t make this difficult, Bruno,’ he says. His eyes shine in the semi-darkness. ‘Just remember, any attempt to cause trouble on your part and you will have a shot between the eyes before you can blink. Then you wouldn’t be here to protect the lady, would you? Not that your protection is worth much, but it allows you to maintain the illusion of control, does it not? Now – this will interest you. Come and look.’

At the far end of the undercroft, three barrels are piled up in a corner. All around them, on the ground, are fragments of broken brick. Jenkes sets down the lantern cautiously, some distance from us, takes hold of a barrel and heaves it out of the way, then does the same with the others. Behind us, Doughty prowls, silent as a wildcat, only the swinging cone of light tracing his movements. Jenkes holds up his lantern to illuminate a patch of loose bricks set into the floor.

‘I told you these monks were ingenious,’ he says, squatting to prise one brick out with his fingers. It scrapes away easily and he tosses it to one side. ‘This is hard labour – why don’t you do it for me, Bruno?’

Unwillingly, I release Lady Arden, who leans back against a pillar, and crouch at Jenkes’s feet. I lift out another brick, and a gust of chill, damp air causes goosebumps to rise on my skin.

‘That’s it, keep going,’ Jenkes says, ‘all the loose ones. The chapel was intended partly as place of worship, partly as vantage point. This undercroft is built into the very rock of the island. But they were afraid that if the enemy invaded – France, as it was then – the island would be taken first. They built into their chapel a means of escape.’

‘A secret tunnel?’ So that was why the two of them were so untroubled by the prospect of Drake’s waiting fleet.

He looks almost disappointed. ‘You know of it?’

‘Drake knows of it – they will be waiting for you at the other end.’

A brief shadow of doubt crosses his face. ‘Where is the other end, then?’ When I do not reply, he laughs. ‘You are bluffing. Good try, Bruno. There are plenty of legends about the tunnels, but very few people know of their existence. The customs men had this entrance bricked up years ago, but the smugglers are enterprising fellows, and there is more than one exit, to foil the authorities. The tunnel itself is in a poor state of repair, but it is still passable. Drake’s men will be waiting till dawn to catch us leaving by sea. By which time we will be long gone.’ He pats the bag at his side.

‘They will catch you one way or another,’ I say, trying to sound as if I believe it. ‘Drake already has the hue and cry out for you.’

Jenkes shakes his head and tuts, as if he is disappointed in my efforts. ‘You know very well that is not true, Bruno. Drake would not do anything that would risk Lady Arden’s life. It was a gamble, I’ll admit, but Doughty seemed sure of it.’

‘What about Robert Dunne?’ I say, turning to John Doughty. ‘Was he a gamble too?’

He gives a baffled laugh. ‘Dunne? Yes, I suppose he was. A gamble I lost, in the end, which I should have foreseen. Poor Dunne was cursed by ill luck. Worse even than mine, so it seems.’

‘So what do you get out of this charade?’ If I can at least keep them talking, I give myself time to think. Unfortunately I cannot fathom any way out that will not leave Lady Arden or me, or more likely both of us, dead. ‘You didn’t really believe Drake would come here in person?’

Doughty considers the question. ‘No, I suppose in my heart I did not. But this will do almost as well for now. I will leave her head in the church for him to find.’

Lady Arden makes a frantic noise through her gag. She sinks to the floor, tears streaming down her face. She is so pale I fear she may vomit; with her mouth bound, she would choke immediately.

‘By rights I should leave it on the cliff for the sea birds to peck out her eyes, like he did with my poor brother’s,’ Doughty continues matter-of-factly. ‘See how he likes that. Show him a prelude to his own death.’

‘You really think you will kill Drake one day?’ I ask.

He does not miss the scorn in my voice. His expression hardens as he steps closer.

‘I must believe it,’ he says, through his remaining teeth, and in those words I hear the force of the man’s despair. ‘The only thing that stops me following Robert Dunne’s example is the oath I swore to my brother, that I will see Francis Drake in his grave before I go to mine. That man took everything from me.’ He is so close I can feel his breath on my face. The muzzle of the gun presses against my breastbone. I hear the blood thudding in my ears. ‘My brother, my money, my reputation. My patriotism. Even my fucking teeth,’ he adds, with a sour laugh. ‘And I had good teeth. While he collects land, titles, fame, royal favour, a beautiful young wife.’ He casts a glance at Lady Arden. ‘I would have preferred to have taken his wife, of course – saving your presence, my lady – but Elizabeth Drake is too closely watched. This bitch will have to do. I will take his spoils from him, one by one, until he knows how it feels to lose everything. England will never give me justice, so I must make my own.’

‘Or persuade a desperate man like Robert Dunne to do it for you,’ I say, though I did not miss his reference to ‘Dunne’s example’.