The Passage

Molly had time to exchange only a few words of banter with her friend Eric at the door to the king's apartments before she returned to Lyra's rooms. She was not there when he was unexpectedly relieved of his post by a recent-recruited member of the guardroom, nor was she a witness when his throat was cut in an alcove nearby and his body deposited in an empty box-room for later disposal. If she had seen those particular bloody events, there is no doubt that she would not have been allowed to live any further herself and her story would not have turned out in the way that it did. It was especially fortunate that Alan, acting on a impulse whose source he could not readily identify but which we may as well call instinct, decided that it would be better if he were to lock and bar from the inside the doors which were now, unbeknownst to him, guarded by loyal and steadfast agents of the Church.

These events – these stealthy knifings and silent garrottings – were duplicated in corridors, halls and private rooms all along the length, the breadth and the not inconsiderable height of Palace of Westminster. The Church had laid its plans well in advance and positioned its servants many years before in anticipation of this day and the special opportunities that it would present. A robed and cowled figure entered the lobby of the king's apartments and made a prearranged signal to the guards. It was time to take drastic action.

Lyra had the king's whole attention now. 'Elizabeth told us everything she knew. She couldn't help it – not when Mister Shire had her in his gaze.'

'I still don't understand why she came to your room. Why didn't she just leave the Palace altogether?' They were both speaking sotto voce, sitting on the bed, their heads close together.

'There may be two answers to that, sire. One is that she may have realised that she already knew too much about the plot, and that the Church would try to do away with her, especially if she tried to escape from the Palace. The other one is that I think she's quite fond of you – as much as a woman like her can be fond of anyone beyond herself, that is – and she thought I might be able to help you. Perhaps I'm the only person she knows she can trust.'

'Even though she hates you so much?'

'It's because she hates me. She knows where we stand. Now listen, sire, we either have to get you out of this place somehow, or summon help.'

'I'll send Alan to the guardroom.'

'Do you trust him? Is he loyal?'

'Yes – we were at school together.'

'Hmmm… That'll have to do, I suppose. Don't call for him. I'll fetch him myself.' Lyra slipped through the bed-curtains and tiptoed across the floor to the door. She opened it slowly, only to collide with the equerry who was approaching softly from the other side. One look at his face told her that it was far too late for them to think of calling for help.

Arthur and Molly abandoned Lyra's room. They did not dare to return to their own chamber. It was becoming increasingly likely that the Church would do all it could to wipe out all its enemies, and that included anyone who had spoken out in Council in support of the king's reforms. They proceeded by poorly-lit corridors and down cramped staircases to the north-east servants' kitchen in the upper basement. If only we knew what was happening in the king's rooms, thought Arthur as he sat next to Molly on a deal bench at the long oak table which furnished the servants' hall, and drank a mug of stewed kaffee while Sal pecked at a loaf of stale black bread.

There must be something more we can do to help. But what? Think, damn you. Think!

Alan opened the windows of the king's salon and looked out. That was a bad idea! It was at least a two hundred foot drop from the windowsill to the roadway below. A ledge no more than nine inches wide ran from the bottom of the window and along the side of the building to the far corners. He turned away from the window. An ominous thumping was coming from the lobby. They were trying to force the outer doors. Soon more men would arrive, with a battering ram perhaps, and the doors would give way.

'Good man! Leave the window slightly open. That should keep them busy for a while. Come on now.' Alfred led Lyra and Alan back into his bedroom.

'Now then.' He leaned against the panelling to the left of the head of the bed. There was a slight click and the panel moved back a quarter of an inch. It slid to the left, revealing a tarnished brass handle. A quarter-turn to the left, and a whole section of panelling hinged back into the wall. A dark brick tunnel lay beyond it.

'You go first, Lyra, then Alan. I'll go last – I know how to reset the mechanism.'

'By your leave, sire. I prefer to remain here.'

'What! Don't be ridiculous, man. How long do you think you'll last? They'll be through the doors in another minute or two.'

'I will go out on the ledge and make sounds. They will be more likely to believe that you and Lady Belacqua have gone out that way if there are footprints on the windowsill and people outside.'

'No!'

'I insist, sire.'

'I think he means it.'

Alfred sighed. 'Go on. And Alan…'

'Sire?'

'Good luck. I won't forget this.'

'Thank you, sire.'

Alan left them. Eleanor and Pantalaimon followed Lyra and the king into the darkness. Alfred pushed the swinging panel back into place and engaged a wooden latch. A secret passage! thought Lyra. At any other time she would have found such an idea quite impossibly exciting and romantic. Now it was nothing more than dirt and darkness and clammy bricks, spiders' webs and the musty smell of bats. 'Where does this come out?' she asked.

Alfred's voice was hollow in the darkness. 'On the parapet, by the north-west tower. We can reach the roof from there or go on up to the top of the tower.'

'Only up? We can't go down or leave the Palace?'

'No. It probably wouldn't help us if we could. The whole place must be surrounded by Church forces by now.'

'So what do we do then?

'I'm not sure. It'll be enough, I think, if we can simply stay alive for just a little bit longer. Careful, now. There's a steep stairway going up. Take my hand.' They linked hands in the fusty gloom and scrambled, like children exploring an old forbidden house, up the dank and slippery stairs.

The Bishop of Caester walked through the doors which hung, battered and splintered, loosely on their hinges. A uniformed guard approached him. 'My Lord Bishop, we have searched the king's rooms. He is not here, but the outer window is slightly ajar. I believe that it is possible that he and his doxy have made their escape that way. There are recent marks on the sill.'

'And the equerry? Where is he?'

'There is no sign of him either, my lord.' The bishop walked across to the window and threw it wide open. He listened intently. Just audible over the night-sounds of London was a slight scuffling, and perhaps a soft voice or two.

'Edgehill?'

'My lord?' The guard stepped forward. The bishop lifted his crosier and struck the side of the man's steel-helmeted head hard with its silver-plated hooked end. 'Do not let me hear you speak of the king's or his companions again in such a manner. You must learn to show a proper respect for your betters.'

The guard put his hand up to his left cheek, which was beginning to bleed profusely. 'Yes, my lord.'

'Take two men with you onto the ledge. Bring back whoever you find there.'

Corporal Edgehill blenched. 'Out there, my lord?'

'Yes, out there. We must all follow orders, must we not? Are you not a loyal Church man?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Then go!'

This complicates matters. The bishop had hoped to find the king and his woman, and preferably the equerry too, in the rooms. Two or three dead bodies in the king's bed would have told a story that would have suited the Church's purposes very well – a story of an unworthy king and his ungovernable lusts, of sin and death, and of the terrible everlasting death that awaits the unrepentant sinner. He turned to his chaplain. 'Pavel, you have your instrument with you, do you not?' He did not need to name it.

'Bishop, I do.'

'The king and his mistress may be out on that ledge, or they may not be. I would rather know for sure where they are and what they are doing. I would like you to you use the device to ascertain exactly where the King of Brytain, his harlot and his servant are at this present time, if you please.'

'This may take some time.'

'Then hurry, fool! The longer we delay, the greater the chance that the king will elude us.'

'Sire?' Lyra and the king were crouching in the tunnel, by an iron door.

'Professor?'

'I've had an idea. You know I said that that the bishop's chaplain has an alethiometer? And that he had used it to confuse my own reading?'

'Yes.'

'If the bishop is in your rooms now he may tell his chaplain to find out where we are, using the oracle. I could ask my alethiometer that question first, and pre-empt him.'

'Would that work, do you think?'

'If the two alethiometers were close enough in space and time, yes it would.'

The king thought. 'No, Lyra. We daren't. If the chaplain tries to make a reading and it fails he'll know that we are nearby.'

'But if we don't obstruct his reading he'll find out precisely where we are.'

'Hmmm. How quickly could you get an answer if you were reading the alethiometer?'

'In about five minutes or so. Maybe less.'

'The we must assume that he will be equally as quick as you, even if it is not so in reality. How often can you ask the same question, if the answer if likely to be different each time?'

'That depends upon the degree of difference, sire.'

'We have a serious problem, then. If we keep still, Fra Pavel will track us down. If you jam his readings he will know that we are not far away from him and the Church will be able to find us by means of a simple physical search. But if we move about, the chaplain will be able to ask his alethiometer repeatedly where we are and the Church will follow us wherever we go.' Alfred considered for a moment.

'We move. Pavel may be slower than you, and Alan will create a diversion for us. We must move, and keep moving. If we stay in any one place for more than ten minutes, we're doomed!'