Nicholas Owen had been in tight spots before, most of them of his own making. But it is one thing to build a priest hole, quite another to hide in it. If they did not find him, he promised himself, then the next would be made with an eye to comfort. Owen had lost count of the number of these secret chambers he had constructed over the years, but that was not to say that they were all alike. Every hidey-hole, just like the houses in which they were concealed, had its own character, its advantages and disadvantages. Whether inside a fireplace, beneath the stairs, under floorboards, within the hollow core of a wall or behind a tapestry, they differed in size, shape, airiness, level of illumination, ease of escape and method of entry. While each of these factors was always a consideration during conception and execution it was perhaps in rendering the last of them that Owen had proven himself the absolute master. Every commission required him to approach the challenge of concealment afresh, to impart a unique flourish and avoid the tricks and traps of his last. In repetition were sown the seeds of capture, torture and death.
No matter how well designed, there was always the risk of discovery, either through betrayal or thanks to the talents of one of the small number of priest hunters who turned a hefty profit from seeking out these hiding places and bagging their occupants. Every time the secrets of a hole were exposed, so the task of creating a new one became all the more difficult. With every discovery, the hunters learned something more about the habits of their prey. Like dogs pursuing a fox’s scent, they knew where best to look inside a house and how to recognize the tell- tale signs that a priest was hiding behind what to the uninitiated appeared to be a wall devoid of aperture, or a fireplace with nothing more than a fire in the grate.
An architect will always strive for perfection, but, however cramped his present conditions, Owen knew better than anyone that, when lives of his brethren were at risk, comfort was not a priority. What was there to be gained if, in creating it by making the chamber larger or diverting light from a nearby window, locating the entrance became easier for the hunters? A chink of light here or too wide a wall there was all that was needed to give the place away to a practised eye. In any case, a little cramp in the legs or a crook in the neck was nothing to a man born with a twisted back and known as Little John, thanks to his permanent stoop. But it was just this peculiarity, which God had chosen to bestow on him, which marked him out as ideal for the task. This was, after all, more than a mere profession; it was a calling, as strong as that which drove the many priests — who at times had cause to make use of these sanctuaries — to keep the Roman Catholic faith alive. It was his absolute belief that God had chosen him, just as he had chosen Noah to build the Ark, to serve as the architect of these hidden places. No one was better suited to spend days on end working in confined spaces. There were times, however, when he had to remember that not everyone was as small as he, and it was true that one or two of his creations were a little cosier than they could have been.
For the whole of Owen’s lifetime, and longer, it had been a crime to be a practising Catholic in England. It hadn’t always been so; during her brief reign, Mary Tudor had put fire and sword to bloody use in her determination to return the nation to the bosom of a mother church so cruelly defaced by her father, Henry VIII. But things changed again when her Protestant sister and rival Elizabeth came to the throne in the year of our lord fifteen hundred and fifty eight. Thus it was, that under Queen Bess Catholicism was outlawed; priests and Jesuit missionaries were regarded as enemies of the state and those who refused to deny their faith could be put to death. As a result, Catholicism was not only driven underground but also into the walls and under the stairs. But, just as the Romans had realized so many centuries before, it took more than persecution to kill a faith. And now there was James, the king from north of the border, of whom there were, at first, hopes of a more enlightened rule. His mother, Mary Queen of Scots, had after all been a devout Catholic. But within just a year the persecutions returned and it was the recent ill-fated attempt to put a stop to this reign of terror that caused Owen to be here now — a fugitive in a hide of his own handiwork.
It was the twenty-first day of January in the year of Our Lord sixteen hundred and six. Two months earlier, on a cold November night in London, Guido Fawkes had been discovered lurking within the cellars of the House of Lords in the company of dozens of barrels of gunpowder and a lighted lantern. The taking of Fawkes brought an end to what they were now calling the powder treason — a plot by disheartened Catholics to kill the king and as many members of parliament as were present in the house during the state opening. Other plotters, including their ringleader, Sir Robert Catesby, had been taken since, while others still were already dead. Owen was one of the few remaining at large and, despite his lowly ranking within the scheme, he had been tasked by its leaders with a heavy responsibility, and it was that which sat between his feet, confined within a leather sack — just as he was, between walls of timber and stone.
If failing anatomy and hard labour caused him some discomfort, this was nothing when compared to the agonies of torture. He knew all too well what the rack could do to a man, having before now been tied to the state’s favoured instrument of torture. His crime then had been to speak out against the arrest of a neighbour for attending a mass; but even under torture he refused to speak out against his fellow Catholics. In truth though, he had been on the verge of breaking when his freedom was purchased by a wealthy local family for whom he had built several holes in the past. This time though, if taken as a traitor and failed regicide, torture would merely be the first of many horrors to be faced.
As yet there had been only a little discomfort, though he was grateful for the blanket helping to shield him from the chilled air blowing in through a fissure in the exterior wall. But only half a day had passed since the hammering on the door. Now he would see how good his work had been.
“We have them,” said the first of the two horsemen to arrive in front of the red brick house. Tired but still restless, Noyce’s mount shifted on the carriage-way just inside the ornate gate posts. Removing his broad-brimmed hat he bent forward across his horse’s flank, studying the ground. The heavy wooden gates were slightly ajar and the gravel was scuffed and mounded — the legacy of a half-hearted attempt to drag them closed, but, with the house still a good distance away and their pursuers closing in behind them, their quarry had given it up as a bad job.
Hindlip Hall was a rambling pile with ivy-covered walls and towers, projecting wings, too many windows to count and spiralled chimney pots stacked high above the roof. Gathered behind the riders were foot soldiers, armed with half-pikes and muskets. Their easy posture and the patches of rust on their helmets and breastplates marked them out as something less than the king’s elite.
“Hiding like rats in the walls,” said Sir Henry Bromley, the well-dressed and even better fed local Justice, as he drew up alongside Noyce on a sweat-flecked bay.
Noyce’s horse threw back its head, stamped a hoof and through flared nostrils pushed smoky breath into the cold air. The sudden movement prompted the man standing closest to them to take a step back and almost drop the partizan he was carrying. He was the captain of militia, a gangly fellow with a thick grey beard in need of a trim and men in want of orders. “What a peculiar breed of coward they are, these Catholics. They dare try their hand at killing our king but then hide behind the wainscoting. You are correct Sir ’enry, vermin all of ’em.”
“That may be, captain, but they are clever vermin,” replied Noyce. “I have been hunting these people and their like for years. It will be a job of work to pull them from their holes, have no doubt of that.” He turned to look doubtfully at the slouching soldiers behind him. “We must hope that your men are up to the task at hand.”
“They will be, sir, once they’ve got their wind back. It is not an easy thing for infantry to keep up with cavalry.”
“Well, now you have arrived,” interjected Sir Henry. “You can instruct your men, winded or not, to surround the house. It would not do for our rats to leave the trap before we have closed it. There are outbuildings to the rear. Billet your men there. One of them is a smithy. When the house is secure I will require the services of the
