Sable night, mother of dread and fear.
— William Shakespeare, The Rape of Lucrece.
More than once in that headlong flight she stumbled, grazing her hands and knees as she fell, each time picking herself up with desperate haste. Then abruptly she was on level, wooded ground. Through fog-shrouded trees she could see the dim outlines of the Abbey buildings.
She heard a rattle of loose stones behind her, and a muffled curse. She ran faster, thorn branches clutching at her garments. There was a stitch in her side, and her chest hurt. She knew that her pursuer was gaining ground; but where could she find a hiding place in these ruins, with all their roofs and windows open to the night?
And then she remembered the tunnel beneath the Lady Chapel, with its heavy oaken door. There was refuge there, if only she could reach it.
Her breath came in painful gasps as she raced along the path and down the stairs to the crypt beneath the Lady Chapel. She tore aside the curtain of ivy, pushed open the tunnel door and ducked under the lintel. Then she closed the door behind her and dropped the bar.
Almost at once she heard the clatter of the outer latch. Panicked, she fled along the passageway, feeling her way in the darkness with one hand against the tunnel wall. In her haste she stumbled, almost losing her balance, as her foot skidded in a patch of something slick and wet.
Tunnels were meant to lead somewhere. Over the centuries many feet must have trod these flagstones, on who knew what secret assignations. But the monks had been gone for fifty years. By now the passage could be blocked with rubble, or the exit walled up with bricks. She could be trapped here for hours, or days, until her pursuer gave up the chase.
Now she could hear something heavy thudding against the door. She reminded herself that the boards were thick, the hinges sturdy. One man, working alone, would be hard put to batter it down.
As a child, walking abroad with her father, she had loved the dark, had been excited by it; but then there had been stars and moon overhead, a lamp in her father’s hand, glints of candlelight through shuttered windows. This was the darkness of the tomb, stifling and oppressive; the formless, featureless dark of the alchemist’s nigredo. It had weight and substance as it pressed against her eyes, her mouth; she drew it into her lungs with every breath.
The thudding had stopped. All she could hear now were her own footsteps on the paving stones, and somewhere ahead, a slow tap, tap of water dripping. Step by step she moved forward, one hand tracing the tunnel wall. The passage, which at first had been wide enough for two to walk abreast, grew narrower, so that she could touch the two sides with her outstretched hands. And then, with dismay, she found her shoulders brushing against the stones on either side. What if the walls met, and there was no way through? She sensed as well that the roof was pressing down on her, and she tried not think of the massive weight of earth and stone overhead.
She dared not go back; there was no choice but to push forward. The roof, now, was so low that she could no longer walk erect, but must drop to her hands and knees.
She bundled up her skirts as best she could and tucked them into her girdle. For what seemed like hours she inched her way along the rough flagstones. Her stockings were shredded, her knees scraped raw. Her face was covered with cold sweat.
And then she could go no farther. Her mouth went dry, her throat constricted as she realized she had come to a solid brick wall.
A part of Sidonie, at that moment, wanted to give way to despair, to throw herself down and weep with anger and sheer frustration. But she had to reckon with that other part of herself, that would not give up on a problem until she had exhausted every means to solve it. And so she ran her hands slowly along the top of the wall, and down the sides, and across the middle, in the hope of finding crumbled mortar, a brick she could work loose, some means of opening a way through. Then, as she crouched on her heels, her hand encountered a wedge-shaped brick. She felt to one side and then the other, and realised that it was the keystone of an arch.
The opening, set low down in the wall, was not large, but there was room enough for her to squeeze through. She gathered her skirts around her, and crept through to the other side.
A smell of dust and mildew prickled her nostrils. Close by, something scratched and scrabbled — rats, she thought with a shudder. Faintly, from above, came the sound of music. Groping in the dark, she discovered a row of casks, an overturned bench or table — and then a stair-rail. Holding tight to the rail she climbed a narrow flight of stairs towards a sliver of yellow light. At the top she found hinges, a latch.
Pray God, she thought, that there is no one on the other side who means me harm. She tried the latch, but the door would not open. She shouted, and hammered her fists on the wood. She heard someone call out in a startled voice. More voices joined in. There were hurried footsteps, and then the door swung open.
She wavered for a moment on the sill, squinting into a long, low-ceilinged, smoky room, filled with the flickering glow of rushlights. And then her strength failed her. She swayed, tottered, and collapsed into the bewildered grasp of a large, red-bearded man.
“God’s mercy, what have we here?” the man said. He held Sidonie at arms length, examining her with curiosity and mild alarm.
All at once there were a dozen people jostling for a better view. Someone offered helpfully, “Methinks ’tis a wench.”
“I can see that, plain enough,” said red-beard. “But how came she into my cellar?”
“Through the tunnel from the Abbey, like as not.” An old man’s voice, raspy and querulous. “Had a sheep do that once. No young maids, though, nor any monks since King Henry’s time.”
Dazedly, Sidonie looked round — it seemed she was at an inn, or an ale-house. There was a babble of voices, faces crowding close.
Just then a sturdy young woman in a homespun gown pushed through the crowd. Her broad, fair face was flushed with indignation. “Fie, for shame,” she scolded. “Away with your questions, leave the poor maid be, can’t you see what a state she is in, all smutched and draggled?”
Sidonie could only imagine what a tatterdemallion she must look. She had long since lost her cap and there was a rip in her cloak where it had caught on a thorn bush. Her shoes and the hem of her skirt were caked with mud. Distractedly she raised one hand to smooth down the wild tangle of her hair. “Prithee,” she said, “what place is this?”
“Why, ’tis the Pilgrims’ Inn. My father is the innkeeper. And you’ll be the lass that’s gone missing, I’ll warrant. Your lad was here earlier, all in a fret and asking after you. How you came to be in that cellar, I cannot fathom.”
“Nor I,” said Sidonie. She might have invented a story, but she was too weary to try.
“Come sit by the hearth,” said the woman. “There’s a kettle of pottage on the fire. Are you hungry?”
Sidonie nodded, realising suddenly that she was famished. Her legs felt weak, from exhaustion and sheer relief. She was safe, for now, in the midst of these good-humoured, inquisitive country folk. But where was Kit?
She drew up a bench and huddled close to the fire. Presently the woman brought her a bowl of stew and a tankard of mulled ale. The ale was steaming hot and heavily spiced. The first few sips sent a flush of warmth to Sidonie’s face.
She blew on her stew to cool it. “But where is he now, my young man?”
“Why, he has gone with the village lads to scour the Abbey ruins for you.”
“Will you send after him, then, and say I am here, and quite safe withal?”
“Never fear, “ said the innkeeper’s daughter. “My father has already sent the stableboy.”
“What a fright you gave me when I found you gone, Sidonie Quince!” Kit had seized hold of her hand, and seemed loathe to let it go. “And when I asked the shepherd lad, he offered me small comfort. He supposed you had been carried down to Annwn by the King of Faerie.”
Sidonie summoned the ghost of a smile, and left her hand in Kit’s warm grasp. “Mayhap,” she said, “that was the truth of it, Kit — I was stolen by Gwynn ap Nudd, and all this while I have been wandering in the Underworld.”