So, if it was a choice between the dangers of a sheer drop and the freezing river, and a dank cell courtesy of the Privy Council, he’d choose the drop and the river every time.
Even as these thoughts and fears were racing through his head, Nick had been testing the ropes that were heaped and coiled in the area of the wooden hoist. He was trying to select the longest by running stretches through his hands and extending his arms to either side. That amounted to between five and six feet, didn’t it? But the ropes got tangled and Nick began to lose count. Besides, he had only a vague notion of how far it was down to the water and the pier foundation. The distance from the top of an arch in the centre of the Bridge might have been as much as thirty feet at low tide. But this corner-room jutted out below the level of the nearest arch. Then it occurred to him that, since these various ropes must be used for hauling goods up from below, they would all be of about the same length.
He could not afford to waste any more precious moments in choosing precisely the right rope. He untangled one that seemed a little more sturdy than the others, looped it around the frame of the hoist and tied a primitive knot. The very thickness and bulk of the cord made this awkward. He could not see clearly what he was doing and was forced to work mostly by touch. Once he thought it was secure, he pulled at it. Pulled hard because his life depended on that knot. Tugged twice more and then tossed the rope out so that it slithered through the gaping aperture in the floor. Even then he might have hesitated before launching himself into the air but, fearing he heard renewed noises outside the door of the storeroom, he grasped the rope in both hands. Lying on his front, he edged himself feet first over the lip of the hole.
Too soon he reached the point where more of his weight was outside than in. Almost convinced that the rope would not bear his weight or the knot would fail, Nick nevertheless started to clamber down. At first his legs swung free until, instinctively, he wrapped his feet about the rope. Nick was not fearful of heights. But he was very afraid of falling. Death was certain if he did, whether he struck the loose stone blocks and wooden piles of the pier-foundation or whether he plunged into the water.
For an instant, when he completely cleared the trapdoor opening and was out in the open, feeling exposed and insignificant beside the massive bulk of the Bridge, Nick found his bare hands refusing to unclasp themselves from the ridged rope. It was as if his fingers had a will of their own, locking themselves round the thin thread, which was all that prevented him from dropping down like a stone. With a great effort, he uncurled one hand, and swiftly placed it beneath the other on the rope. Then he prised that one away and positioned it beneath the first. And so on and on, until the action became almost automatic and his fear subsided slightly as, not daring to look down to see whether he was over ground or water, he concentrated on inching down the rope.
Careful hand over careful hand, feet and calves sliding down the coarse hemp strands, gusts of air plucking at his garments, Nick risked a look upwards and was disappointed to realise he had travelled hardly any distance. The trapdoor entrance showed as a darker square against the jutting floor of the store room. At any moment, Henry Ashe would be returning with Philip Henslowe and finding the room empty. They could haul him up again, using the rope. Worse, they could simply untie or sever the cord, and allow Nick to plunge to his death. He was an escaper, he was an imposter, an enemy to the Council, whatever name he might adopt.
He started to move more quickly, much more quickly. And the rope started to sway because of his jerky movements and because he was emerging from the shelter provided by the bulk of the Bridge overhead. The swaying became more violent and Nick found himself twisting helplessly in the air so that one moment he was facing the stonework of the pier and the next confronting the open river. The end of the rope lashed around beneath him like a monstrous tail. At the conclusion of one swing his back struck the stone flank of the pier and the jarring force of the blow almost caused him to release his hold. He willed himself to be still, to keep gripping tight with hands and feet, and to wait until the worst of the swaying, sickening motions of the rope had diminished.
Only now did he look down and, this time, was surprised to see that he had less than twenty feet to go, as far as he could judge. By good fortune the rope would take him through that distance. But those twenty feet would also deliver him straight into the foamy water, whose smell filled his nostrils and whose roaring filled his ears. To one side was the edge of the foundation of the pier holding up Nonesuch House. At this instant, just when he needed to swing himself across to reach the foundation, he hung quivering, almost without motion. His arms and shoulders burned with labour, his bare hands were slick with sweat or blood or both.
One final effort. He jerked his body until he managed to gain some momentum and the rope was swaying now out above the current, now over the boat-shaped projection below the pier. At the same time he shifted himself lower. And then it seemed to Nick as though the rope began to slide down of its own accord before making an abrupt descent of some dozen feet. It jolted to a stop. The knot around the hoist in the storeroom was giving way. Or someone up there was attempting to loosen it. Without thought, and as the arc of his swing brought him back once again over the pier foundation, Nick let go his hold and, though his feet struck the top of the wooden piles, he tumbled onto solid ground. At the same moment, the rope sprang free and snaked down behind him into the water.
For some time Nick lay where he’d fallen. The noise of the river was thunderous. He scarcely dared to move for fear that he would not be able to move at all. He tested his limbs with slight flexing movements. There were some pains but nothing beyond bearing. He scrabbled in the loose stone and gravel and got to his feet. He looked up. Nonesuch House hung above his head like a Jonah’s whale brought to land. He could not see the trapdoor hole through which he had descended. There were no lights up there. Perhaps his escape was not yet detected after all.
He huddled against the elmwood stakes that surrounded the pier-foundation. He wondered what to do next. He had escaped from one predicament into another. There was no way off this place except by boat and, although there were still lights showing a little traffic on the river, no means of attracting anyone’s attention in the cold and dark. He could not even climb back into Nonesuch House since the rope that had delivered him had disappeared, presumably to join all the other rubbish in the river.
He didn’t know how long he huddled there. It was bitterly cold and his hurts were beginning to trouble him. He might even have slept for a few moments. He was afraid that the winter’s night might do for him. He staggered to his feet. Keep moving, keep warm, keep alive. He stumbled over one of the stone blocks beneath his feet. He cried out in pain and anger and crashed to the ground. He lay there, wondering if this was his last night on earth. Then he saw two figures clambering over the piles.