If only she hadn’t been so dismissive of Kit. Her mind hummed with questions only he could answer, and the rock on which her certainties were built was starting to crumble. She was desperate to return to her room, to think things through in peace and quiet. Then tomorrow, she’d be up with the lark, and see if Kit was still here.
At last, yawns spread about the room and, one by one, everyone sought their chambers. Alys went to bed but remained awake, listening to the subdued noises of the servants as they put the house to bed, and the steady descent of the rain. Suddenly, the room was illuminated by a brilliant flash of light. As the red ghosts of objects swam before her eyes, a massive blast of thunder assaulted her ears. The wind had brought the storm circling back—they weren’t free of it yet. Ruefully, she spared a thought for Kit, damp and shivering in his hut—and hoped the roof would hold up to the relentless beating of the rain.
She eyed the empty hearth—a fire would not be unwelcome. Extravagant, but comforting. She was too enervated by the storm and the events of the day to sleep anyway. Slipping out of bed, she piled kindling in the middle of the hearth and was just on the point of striking a spark from her tinder box when she heard a terrific rushing noise. Something struck the wall of the house with such force, the whole building shook. A great crashing sound came up from below.
“What is it? What’s happened?” She rushed out into the passageway. Tousled heads were peering out down the corridor, and a male voice was calling for lights. The air felt very damp and cold, and an odd splashing sound could be heard.
Sir Thomas, a cloak thrown over his nightgown, leaned over the banister, staring into the hall below. “Bring more light!”
A couple of servants scampered downstairs. There was a second of silence, followed by a loud splashing, and cries and shrieks of alarm. New voices rose from below, and the stairs were overrun with damp, frightened kitchen wenches and pot boys, their nightclothes clinging and wet.
Alys caught one by the arm as she scuttled past. “Bessie! What’s happened?”
“Oh, my lady! We were nearly drownded! I was just dozing off in front of the kitchen fire, and then the last trump sounded. Terrible, it was. We must get to the roof, high as we can.”
Alarmed by the woman’s frantic gabbling, Alys pushed her way to the top of the stairs and stood next to Sir Thomas, staring down. The sight revealed by his lantern made her heart stand still.
The entire hall was a swirling mass of water, with ripples and waves glittering in the faint candlelight. Small objects bobbed about like ships at sea and crunched and crashed against the walls.
Selwood Manor was flooded!
Chapter Twenty-Three
Only Kit’s leather jerkin had prevented him from being totally drenched. His hair hung lank and straight, dripping down his back, and his shoes were wet through and probably beyond repair. Rain ran down his face and splashed off his shoulders to join the teeming flow on the highway below. This itself was rapidly becoming a sea of mud and would render travel impossible for some days.
None of this perturbed him or could distract him from his purpose. He stood by the hollow oak tree he’d found yesterday, listening intently. Yes! He could hear it, down below him, a noise faint compared to the rainstorm, but quite distinct to the avid listener. He knelt and clawed at the dead leaves choking the base of the old tree.
A searing flash of lightning illuminated a plank of wood beneath his searching fingers. Wait—several planks, like the top of a barrel, forming a trapdoor. This he heaved up, then found a fallen branch with which to prop it open. A yawning void was revealed, from which issued the sound of water slapping and splashing against solid walls.
He was right! By flooding the property, he’d located the tunnel, the Spaniard’s hidden access to Selwood Manor. Dropping a stone into the void, he heard it plop into the waters not far beneath. With any luck, his mission was very near completion. Buoying up his courage, he slipped down into the darkness.
The water came above his shoulders—surely there must be enough of it to disrupt the plotters’ communications. Once again, he thanked God for the inspiration which had come to him earlier that day. It had softened the blow of his argument with Alys, made him feel less guilty. Lord, but she’d be none too pleased with what he had wrought this night!
He struck a spark from his tinder box, grateful he’d thought to tie it high around his neck, and lit the lantern he’d brought with him. The flickering light revealed a low, brick-built tunnel, like a culvert to carry a stream underground. He saw the ceiling was free of cobwebs, so the tunnel must have been used a lot, and recently. Holding the lantern above his head, he counted out his paces until, after about a hundred and fifty, his way was blocked by a wooden door. The boards glistened where the floodwater had soaked into them, but he could see the level was going down already—he didn’t have much time.
He had to pick the lock on the door, not easy to do below the water but, eventually, he was through,
