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“Crummingsworth Manor”

by Cynthia Rainfrette-Barlow
 
My pleasant dream ended in a nightmare of reality. I felt pressure bearing down on my shoulder.

“My Lord. My Lord, wake up. Quickly!”

I dragged myself from the depths of sleep like a swimmer reaching for the water’s surface. A rough shake accompanied my breakthrough and I gasped for air.
My manservant, Winthrop, stood over me. Annoyed, I rolled over. His haunted eyes, visible in the moonlight, startled me. Whatever the reason for my abrupt awakening, his expression indicated an ill omen. I wiped the slumber from my eyes and fought to focus on the moment. “What is it?”

“It’s Blackstone’s men, my Lord. They’ve found us and set fire to the stables. You must get up quickly before they discover you! You must escape!”

“Find my clothes. I’ll not leave in my nightwear.”

“You haven’t time, my Lord. The tunnel—we must get you up to the top floor and into the tunnel before they discover you.”

He grabbed my arm and hauled me from the warmth of the bed. Without fires, the room was cold. A rash of goose bumps raced over my body, but I did not complain. Winthrop pushed me forward with an uncharacteristic roughness. Never before had he handled me in such a manner, causing the seriousness of the matter to press me into action. I shoved my feet into leather slippers by my chair, and hoisted a heavy robe over my shoulders. I clasped the material to my chest, realizing it was the last remaining remnant of my opulent lifestyle.

At the doorway, Winthrop stepped in front of me, his body shielding mine in the event of danger. The hall was empty, although the sound of looting and destruction was evident beneath us. He stepped out, looked both ways as a precaution, and waved me on.

“That way,” he said, turning me in the direction of an open archway leading to the floor above.

I knew the escape route was a narrow stairway that wound its way down between the walls to a tunnel six feet below ground level. The tunnel then extended out to a concealed opening in the woods. Winthrop had checked the outlet upon our arrival.

My mind reeled in outrage as we hurried along the corridor. Crummingsworth Manor had been built in the 1600’s as a haven for the Prince of Davens and his family in the event of danger or an overthrow of his sovereignty. The Manor eventually fell into my possession. To my knowledge, the tunnel had never been used, save for an occasional curious band of children. I prayed the tunnel had not collapsed over the years.

I had arrived at Crummingsworth only four days before, in hiding from a militia whose mission was to see me dead in retaliation for the murder of their leader, Hamilton Blackstone. Blackstone had pillaged my villages in the Suffolk region. As Lord and Magistrate of the County, I had dispatched my most accomplished officers to arrest Blackstone, disable his men, and restore harmony. The villain died in the struggle. Unfortunately, several of his men escaped. They put a price on my head.

Forced to leave my home under the cover of darkness, I found myself a hostage in hiding with only Winthrop and two stable workers to attend to my needs until the danger passed. Yet even here at Crummingsworth I was not safe.

“Keep moving, my Lord,” Winthrop urged, his heavy hand thrusting me through the archway and up the staircase to the top floor.

Gunfire exploded below us, followed by the yelp of one of my dogs. “Bastards,” I said, spitting out the word. “They’ll pay dearly.”

“Yes my Lord. They will indeed,” he assured me, pushing me now.

Splintered wood and harsh voices filled the first floor. They had broken through the barrier set up on the landing below. The staccato of footfalls racing toward us grew louder with every passing moment.

“Hurry, My Lord, hurry, and listen well. When you reach the woods,” he instructed, “stay beneath the ground until these scoundrels leave. Then make your way to Capestone Village under darkness. You’ll be safe there. Travel in the direction of the sunrise. Tell them you are from Crummingsworth. The villagers will watch out for you.”

I bundled up the excess material of my robe, now more of a drawback than a benefit, and scrambled up the last few stairs. My momentum pitched me forward at the top step and I fell into the immense room, scraping my hands and knees. I looked up. The room encompassed the entire top floor. It was empty, save for stone pillars placed strategically for support.

Winthrop raced past me to the wall. He ran his hands frantically over the mortar and stone façade, like a blind man searching for what, I did not know. The mayhem downstairs grew in intensity.

Winthrop looked over his shoulder and snapped his fingers, directing me to his side. “Help me! There’s a doorway. We must find it. Quickly!”

I pulled myself to my feet. Panic overtook me. I looked about helplessly. “There’s no door. We’re trapped! Winthrop, we’re trapped!”

He continued his frenzied splayed finger exploration. “No, no. It’s hidden, my Lord. Help me. Feel for a perforation between the stones. A gap into which you can insert your finger. It’s somewhere between these two windows.”

The moonlight illuminated the room in shades of gray. Through the shadows, I rushed over to him, feeling my heart rattle against my breastbone.

The rough exterior of the wall stung the pads of my fingertips. The gap eluded me. Seconds turned to minutes. My enemies’ shouts came closer.

“I’ve found it!” Winthrop exclaimed, and motioned me to his side.

He shoved his finger into the indentation. He pulled back and the camouflaged door swung open with relative ease, revealing a narrow staircase leading into the darkness.

“Hurry!” he said, pulling me to the entrance.

I wound the cumbersome robe tightly around me and stepped past his outstretched arm. I stopped before entering. “There’s no light.”

“Follow the stairs. There should be a torch and matches further down. Keep your hands to the walls to guide you. Wait until you’re half way down before lighting the torch, so the light won’t be seen.”

Several bearded men flung themselves into the far end of the room, their weapons drawn. Winthrop turned and faced them. A shot rang out, exploding in my ears. Then a second shot. I stood paralyzed.

Winthrop swung around and catapulted me into the darkness. “Run!” he ordered.

I tripped down several stairs, grabbed the wall for balance, and turned to look back over my shoulder. He stood above me in the entrance, his arms stiffened against the sides of the door. “Hurry. Run, my Lord,” he uttered weakly. A third shot rang out. His eyes widened and his back arched. He fell sideways into the stairwell.

Terrified that I would be next, I hurtled headlong into the darkness, two steps at a time. There was a scuffle above me. The staircase flared yellow. A shot rang out. It hit me hard in the small of my back. I lunged forward from the impact. White pain shot through my body. I fought to hold myself upright. A high-pitched whistle darted past my head and pinged on the stones below me. A third shot slammed into my shoulder. The impact flung me face-first against the wall. I felt its cool dampness scrape against my cheek as I crumpled to the stairs. The bones in my legs snapped. I lay still in a pool of crimson as footsteps approached from behind me. A torch pressed near my face. Its flame seared my cheek.

“It’s him. It’s Buckingham,” I heard the torch bearer exclaim with an air of satisfaction. I closed my eyes. Other voices joined in. I felt the jarring pain as strong hands dragged me up over the stairs. The voices muted to a low buzz, and then a whisper; and then my whole world turned to black.
I have no idea how long I remained unconscious. When I awoke in total darkness, I was lying on my back in excruciating pain. A hinged waxed tablet with writing on it lay folded on my chest. I knew it to be the diptych of death. Waves of nausea ebbed and flowed like the tides off the coast of Ireland. My throat was dry and raw. The air was close and smelled both foul and damp. My hungry lungs ached.

I could not move. Even with my eyes strained to their widest, I could not see the faintest shadow. I was blind! I ran a dry tongue over my cracked lips. “Winthrop, help me,” I croaked.

Born into a family of servitude, Winthrop had been at my side for as long as I could remember. He had taken an oath to assist and protect me at all cost. I called out to him. “Winthrop. Where are you? Winthrop.” I tried to raise my hand to my face, but a barrier kept me from doing so. I struggled to push it aside with my elbow. It would not budge. I moved my other arm. It too was pressed against an obstruction. My legs wouldn’t spread. I couldn’t bend my knees. I couldn’t stretch out my feet. Barriers surrounded me.

I straightened my arms at my sides and lifted them upward, but my knuckles rapped hard only inches above my face. My chest heaved in panic. Terrified, I felt tears flood my sightless eyes and overflow down my face. Every hair, every fiber, every inch of my body recoiled in terror. I tried to thrash, but each movement was blocked. Hysterical, I tore at the confines around me. I howled and clawed like a crazed animal until the blood from my open wounds covered my face and body. I withered into a zombie-like state, holding on to only the smallest sliver of sanity.

“Winthrop? Winthrop,” I moaned over and over until there was no air left and my last link to the living disappeared.

I lay still. The weight of a hundred horses galloped onto my chest and stood atop it. I let the pain envelop me. Light and peace poured over me, wrapping my body in a silken cocoon of warmth and tenderness. Soft hands swaddled me, lifting me into a realm of perception never before experienced.

I opened my eyes. The light was exquisite. In the distance, Winthrop stood before me, his face a mixture of delight and rapture. I smiled back. He reached out, and I went gladly.

“With me you are safe, my Lord,” he said, and I breathed no more.