conversation over the rack. Is that what you have in mind for me Mr Priest Hunter? Torture, until I tell you where these supposed priests are hidden?”
It was indeed a pretty bonnet, thought Noyce; it was just a shame that the face it framed was now exuding barely disguised contempt. “Let us hope that it will not come to that. Perhaps we could proceed in private? I am sure you would not want to expose your servants to any more unpleasantness than is truly necessary. Let us not forget that I have still to question them about what goes on here.”
This veiled threat to her servants was enough to encourage a change of attitude. “Very well, Mr Noyce, come with me.” She gestured to the door and Noyce followed her from the room.
“Will he torture her?” asked a young girl with a scrubbing brush in her hand and fear in her voice.
“I would like to see him try,” said one of the cooks with a reassuring smile. “He will pay dear for the torn tapestry. Her father brought that back from the wars in Flanders.”
Noyce was standing by a glowing fire and had taken care to adjust his sword so as to keep its tip away from the flames. At his insistence, Mrs Habingdon had taken to a chair, beside which a needlework frame stood idle, coloured threads dangling to the floor. She eyed her own handiwork critically and once again her thoughts turned to the damaged tapestry, which she had yet to examine for herself.
Noyce pre-empted her. “The damage is most unfortunate, Mrs Habingdon. The soldiers are incompetent. They do not know how to search a house. I may however be in a position to rid you of them.”
“And what have I done to deserve such treatment, Mr Noyce? To you I am nothing more than another pestilent Catholic. Why would you wish to ease my discomfort?”
The man took a step forward from the fire and drew his sword, causing the woman to shrink back in her chair. To demonstrate that no threat was intended he placed the blade on a nearby table and took a seat in the chair opposite her, on the other side of the fire.
“Because, my dear lady, easing your discomfort might just have the same effect on my own, shall we say, rather unenviable predicament?”
Mrs Habingdon was studying him, trying to gauge his measure. There was something about him, a charm which she would not before have associated with a man who chose to hunt priests for a living. “In my husband’s absence you might think me obliged to act as he would in such circumstances as these. But in the world of domestic affairs I am the mistress of my own destiny. Now, sir, you have my attention so, pray continue with your exposition.”
With the house cleared of soldiers and more than half of them now marching away, Noyce was left at peace to advance the search. But, when Sir Henry found him, he was sitting idle in the great hall. “Well, Noyce, what do you hear? I can assume that you are listening and not just resting your backside?”
“Quiet as the grave I am afraid. They are not hiding in here. Of that I am confident.”
“Then where in the blazes are they? There are dozens of apartments in this pile. Is it your intention to sit in each of them until it becomes apparent to you that Jesuits in hiding know better than to create a din?”
“No, I intend to search the long gallery. You might care to join me.”
“Anything to hasten an end to all of this. If only Habingdon would return.
“And how is that, sir?”
“Why, we can rack him of course. I refuse to torture a woman but, when he gets back, I will know the location of each and every one of the hiding places soon enough.”
“Now that would be a shame,” said Noyce, jumping to his feet. “I have always taken pride in winning my prize without recourse to torture. It is such a noisy, messy business and it entirely takes the sport out of the chase. And, in any case, there is a flaw in your proposition.”
“And what is that sir?”
“I have not noticed you with a rack about your person. Nor have I observed your men setting one up in the gardens. I can only suppose they are too busily engaged in ripping up the roses and pissing on the lawn.”
Sir Henry was quick with his response. “I am sure a rope thrown over a rafter in the barn will provide more than one way of producing the requisite agonies.”
Noyce had never marked Sir Henry out as a man of initiative. “In the meantime, might I suggest we continue the search? Perhaps now I can prove to you the nature of my talent.”
Sir Henry was already pondering what sort of knot might best secure a man suspended by his hands, preferably while they were tied behind his back. But he saw no harm in going along with the priest hunter, at least for now. “The long gallery I believe you said?”
Owen had finished taking stock of his victuals and did not like the result of his accounting; the biscuits and quince jelly would last no more than another day, the beer perhaps another two. There was a fortune in the bag at his feet but a man could not live by silver coins alone. There were far better holes in the house, but, being only a lay brother, he had shown favour to the priests. The previous day, the sound of soldier’s boots stomping across the floor and the crash of furniture had died down, almost to the point that he thought they may have abandoned the search. But then, with his ears straining, he picked up quieter stirrings, the pad of stockinged feet and the gentle teasing of the woodwork. These were not sounds to sooth the soul. Oh Lord, he prayed, I would prefer a company of clumsy soldiers — who are no better than the blind leading the blind — over a single priest hunter.
Equipped with the tools for the job, he could work on improving his surroundings, for, even with the great risk of the searchers hearing the sound of his labours, doing something seemed a better option than doing nothing. But, in the absence of tools, he had no option but to wait — either to be discovered in hiding or for his enemies to give up their search. But, as time slipped slowly by, another option came to mind. And so it was that he determined to leave his hiding place, and then the house, if it were possible; if it were not, then he would make for one of the better appointed priest holes.
Once again, with his best ear to the wall he listened to the house and what she had to tell him about the hunter. At first, all was silent; but then he heard it, the sound of someone upstairs, walking down the long gallery from where the floorboards were creaking. The timbers there were badly seasoned and it had long been Mrs Habingdon’s desire to have them replaced; but, whenever he arrived at the house for a period of employment, he was tasked with creating a further hiding place. There were now so many, he was afraid that the house, thus honeycombed, would collapse on to its foundations. Until then, the number and precise location of all of the holes would be known only to him and the lady of house.
He always worked alone and at night, reciting prayers as he carved his way into the fabric of the house. Then, when the work was done he would unveil his latest creation to his mistress and teach her its secrets. There were regularly priests and lay brothers in the house, but never so many as to require the use of more than two or three of the hiding places. Nevertheless, the mere knowledge of their presence seemed to gift Mrs Habingdon with a peace of mind which only the attendance of a mass in her hidden chapel could improve upon. This time though it was different. These were not priests making one of their regular clandestine visits but a group of desperate men, traitors caught up in a plot which had gone terribly wrong. There would be no giving up on the search for them as had been the case on many a previous occasion. This time they would be hunted to the ends of the earth.
Noyce was running a lighted candle across the surface of the wood panelling. He was crouching now, holding it close to the junction of the floor and the wall. At first Sir Henry thought the flame was merely providing illumination, shedding light into the nooks and crannies. But then, as it continued to move along the flame flickered, leaping away from the wall for just an instant before steadying again as it resumed its passage across the skirting. When drawn back and held steady the flame guttered almost to the point of expiration.
It was obvious even to Sir Henry that the draught was coming from a void behind the panel and he watched, fascinated, as the priest hunter stood up and began to feel along its edge. Unable to get a purchase with his fingertips, he pulled a knife from his belt and began to prize away at the beading. The blade disappeared behind the wood and then, after a little agitation, there was a click and the wood popped away from the wall.
Stepping back, Sir Henry unsheathed his sword and pointed its tip towards the widening gap. “I should call for the men, they might be armed.”
“Indeed they might,” said Noyce as he held the dagger above the loosened panel. “But I think we still hold the advantage over those within.”
