no intention of explaining his mission, but the prospect of shared death draws men closer together than even the smallest of priest holes. “I have orders to remove all physical evidence of the plotters’ dealings with the Spanish. At Holbeach House I destroyed the documents, and here,” he waved a pistol towards the crucible, “you have just destroyed the last of that evidence.”
Owen stared into the crucible, where the silver was now fully liquefied. “Of course, the coins. They are Spanish!”
“And they are not just any Spanish coins. They are fifty reale pieces, a coin minted only at the order of the king, for special use. Each of them carries the royal crest and is as incriminating as any document seal. But now they are reduced to anonymous silver and my work is done.”
Owen was using a ladle to transfer some of the silver into the bullet mould. “Not quite I think, until … until you kill me. Should I be put to torture I am sure to mention the Spanish.”
Another bullet came crashing into the room, ricocheted off the brick chimney and smashed an earthenware jug. “At the moment, it seems unlikely that we will live long enough to be captured. But, in any case, there would be no advantage in killing you, though you might thank me for doing so rather than let them drag it out. There are those who know as much as you who have allowed themselves to be taken. They will no doubt speak of the Spanish when they are tied to the rack, but James will not go to war over testimony given under torture, not without physical evidence to bolster it.” He gave out a bitter laugh. “Indeed, should you recite all of this while on the rack, then it may do more good than harm. At least someone will be testifying in King Phillip’s favour.”
The men outside were getting closer, using the buildings to cover their approach around the sides of the yard. Quick let go another couple of shots, one of which brought down a man, but he knew there was to be no holding them back.
Owen had returned to stirring the silver. Indeed he seemed transfixed by it, staring with fixed eyes into the sluggish vortex, entirely oblivious to the ever increasing number of bullets flying around his head.
With his pistols loaded with silver, Quick pulled the door part-way open and looked back at his companion. “I am going to take the air, Mr Owen. Would you care to join me?”
“No thank you sir. I too have work to finish before this day is done.”
There was no time to ask what he meant. “Very well then, I wish you godspeed, Mr Owen.”
“And god bless you, sir.”
Quick pulled the door fully open with his foot and stepped out into the yard. He fired one of the pistols, took a step forwards and fired the other, before falling back dead with two balls in his chest.
As Quick’s body hit the ground, Owen was using the tip of an old scythe blade to scrape away at the hard packed dirt on the floor, scoring first one line and then another. The liquid silver spat and smoked as he poured it into the grooves. With the crucible empty, he smoothed the cooling metal with the flat of the blade. A quenching pale of water raised clouds of hissing steam, scorching the architect’s naked hands. Although still warm, he was able to lift out the casting, brushing away dirt from the underside before holding it out in front of him. The edges were rough and ready, reflecting the makeshift nature of the mould, but then he was no silversmith. Approaching the door but remaining behind cover, he looked out to see Quick’s body sprawled across the cobbles.
“I am unarmed’ he called out to the musketeers, now leaving the protection of the buildings.
“Then yield!” came the shouted reply. “Stand where you can be seen.”
Stepping outside, Owen stood over the body and for a moment watched the crimson channels of blood creeping between the cobbles. Then, reciting a prayer, he straightened Quick’s legs and arms, kissed the middle of the large silver cross and laid it across the dead man’s chest. He took a last look at his companion’s face, which now wore the peaceful mask of a death nobly earned. Guilty of the sin of envy for the first time in his life, he crossed himself and turned to confront his advancing captors.
Historical note
Nicholas Owen