Here was the moment he’d anticipated. Dreaded.
‘What are we looking at, William?’ Sarah had leaned away from him when they halted. Her eyes were not filled with tiredness now but alertness. Her voice was stage sharp.
He assumed that she would probably have already guessed. But he said it as a surprise anyway. ‘Our house.’
Her gasp was gratifying. ‘What? How?’
While she had rehearsed her plays in their two rooms, he had practised a speech. But he was not trained as she was, and all he wanted to say came out now a-jumble. ‘The joist is there, about to be raised. The second payment is due. The house may be finished in a month. There’s a privy office upstairs. We can move in shortly thereafter. Not into the privy. We –’ He swallowed. Damn me, he thought, give me a pistol at a roadside and a lord to rob any day. Then he remembered – there was a movement he’d practised to precede the next words.
He dropped suddenly, to kneel in the mud at her feet. ‘Will you marry me?’ he said.
—
They weren’t a shock, his words. The house was – and the sudden surge of delight it brought was immediately washed away by fear. Who was she, Sarah Chalker, born in the lowest parish in London, St Giles in the Fields, a tenement urchin who’d struggled from the filth to stride the playhouse stage, to own a house? A new one too, brick-built, with – with a privy upstairs, is that what he’d said?
She began to laugh, raising a hand to stifle it. His face! Looking up at her, a hank of his thick, black-silver hair plastered to his forehead, raindrops running through his moustache. The appeal in those grey eyes, the ones whose deep pain she’d noted from their very first meeting, the ones she had not allowed herself to love until later because she’d been married then, though her husband was killed, cruelly killed, shortly thereafter. And even though she knew she loved Captain Coke, loved him in a way she had not loved John Chalker, she had not thought to marry again. The life within her had not changed her in that opinion. It was neither the playhouse nor the St Giles way.
And yet? Here he was, the best man she’d ever known, kneeling before her because that’s what he’d seen her stage lovers do. More, doing it before the house he’d bought to shelter her, shelter the life inside her that they had made. What could she say, as she had so often said upon the stage, but – ‘Yes.’
‘Huzzah!’ he cried, but then did not move when she expected him to stand and sweep her into a kiss. Another movement made her start – and remember that he had planned all this, and was not done with his scheme yet. For Dickon was suddenly there, wide-set eyes afire, mouth spread in a grin. He held a thumb up as if to cheer them, and she saw something glittering upon it. Coke reached for it now and, lifting her left hand, placed the ring upon her third finger.
‘Dickon is our ring-bearer now. As he will be on Sunday.’
‘Sund—’ she began, incredulous, but then he was indeed up, catching her in his arms, stopping her words with a kiss. Beside them, Dickon cried joyfully and began to caper about. Within it all, she was aware of many things: the rain, ceasing as suddenly as it had come; the sun coming out, dazzling them, like a shift of mirrors behind the wings of the theatre. It made her laugh again, joyously, within his kiss, so she broke away and laughed too.
There were so many surprises to discuss, she began with the most recent. ‘But how can we be married this Sunday? The banns must need be read the two Sundays preceding.’
‘They have been.’ Coke’s expression changed, a young boy caught out in some mischief. ‘I knew your reluctance, ma’am. I thought to circumvent it with haste. Not to give you a chance to change your mind.’ He looked sheepish. ‘Was I wrong?’
‘You were certainly assured, sirrah!’ she said, with a touch of asperity. ‘A woman likes to make certain preparations for such an event and you have given me little time.’
‘I believe Mrs Pitman has taken care of many things you may require,’ he mumbled.
‘Oh, so all the world knows of your plans aside from me?’
‘Not all. Dickon, the Pitmans –’
‘Truly?’ Something about the day came to her. ‘Wait! This Sunday? Are you not about an enterprise with Pitman on Saturday?’
‘I am.’
It was not the sun vanishing again into a cloud, withdrawing its heat, that made her shiver. It was the ghost of a memory – and the memory of a ghost. She no longer saw him there as he was, cloaked and booted, but as he had been upon the stage two weeks previously – barefoot and in rags.
As she swayed, he reached for her, and she gripped his arm hard. ‘Postpone it, sir. It…it seems an ill venture to me.’
He frowned. ‘How so? You know nothing of it.’
‘It is…just a feeling. I –’
‘I cannot. I am pledged.’
‘Withdraw. Please, sir!’ She dug her fingers in. ‘I fear you may make me a widow ere you make me a wife.’
His eyes narrowed and he reached his free hand up to run thumb and finger either side of his moustache. After a moment, he shook his head. ‘Madam, much as I respect your…feelings, I cannot. Pitman and I…this is what we do, after all. And both of us need the rewards it will bring. For with his Bettina pregnant too, as you know, he will soon have five mouths to feed. While I –’ He looked first down at her, then about. ‘I am committed here, to provide shelter to our joy.’
‘But –’
‘Nay, Sarah,’ he said sharply. ‘I cannot be argued out of it.’
For a moment she saw a hardness come into his eyes. This was a man, she knew, who had not only fought throughout the late king’s wars and endured long years of hard exile after them, he had also earned his living as a highwayman. And though what she mainly saw in their daily contact was her gentle William, she knew he was something else as well – and that this look could not be gainsaid. So she took a breath. ‘Very well, sir. If you promise me –’
‘Sure, it’s none so dangerous. Some rogues is all. Pitman always says that, in the event, they come as quiet as lambs.’ He smiled, the hardness displaced again. ‘With our customary good fortune, their fleeces will provide the other payments on this house.’
She could not smile. Was there a softer way she could yet win this argument? But she was forestalled in trying by another voice.
‘Mr Coke! Come to chivvy us for our slow progress?’
Sarah turned to see a heavy-set man in a much-stained apron.
Coke stepped away from her and spoke. ‘Ah, sir! Not at all, I think what you have achieved so far is remarkable. May I present, ah –’
‘Mrs Coke, certain.’ The man swept off his cap and bowed. ‘Samuel Tremlett.’
‘Not certain. Though now I suppose I have little choice.’ Sarah smiled at the man’s querying frown and nodded in greeting.
‘May I show you, ma’am, sir, what we have achieved so far? It is quite different from seeing it on paper, I assure you.’ He squinted up into a sunbeam. Behind him, steam rose from wet piles of brick and mud. ‘The Lord smiles on us now, sure, and we can be speedy again. I warrant we’ll raise the joist on Saturday.’
‘And may I bring you the payment on Monday, sir? I am somewhat –’ Coke glanced at Sarah, ‘engaged this weekend.’
‘Monday will be fine, sir. Please!’ He led them through the open doorway. For the next quarter hour, as they moved from one marked-off or half-finished room to the next and Tremlett described the modernity that would soon stand where they did, Sarah leaned on Coke. His solidity gradually dispersed the shade of him she’d recalled. Finally, and for the first time in an age, standing in a house she would soon live in, give birth in, she felt entirely well. More than that, she thought, for the first time since John Chalker was buried, I feel entirely content.
8
THE RAID
‘Brother Isaiah, will you lead us in the prayer?’
‘Right gladly, Brother Simeon.’ The hefty tanner stood and raised his hands, palms up. ‘Our Father –’
All rose and Simeon
walked from his place at the table’s head to stand behind his comrade. He rested a hand on the man’s shoulder and thought about how long he’d known Isaiah Hebden. He recalled how they’d waited patiently in the ranks of Christ’s army as the king’s cannoneers and musketeers slaughtered their fellows. How they’d charged and slaughtered in their turn. How they’d knelt and prayed and wept among their dead. How, on the battlefield at the very moment of victory they’d received the true word that the Fifth Monarchy was nigh. And how, in all the years of oppression since they’d striven side by side in the Council of the Six to hasten the day of reckoning, that day had been brought ever closer by their good works, by all that had been discussed and decided tonight. Sad then, thought Simeon, after all that, and when we are at its gates, that only one of us will enter the New Jerusalem.
With that thought, and in the moment between the ending of the prayer and the first Amen, he slipped the garrotte over his friend’s neck.
He knew what he was about; he had done this before. He knew that the man would always reach for the cord that he had no chance of undoing instead of using his last of breath to fight. And though Isaiah was a large man, Simeon had strength that came from God, not his trade. So he turned, bent down and heaved the tanner onto his back, as if he were a sack of coal, or a pig’s carcass in a slaughterhouse; facing away, dragging the rope down, taking small steps to steady himself as his brother jerked and bucked and strove to break free, kicking the table and sending the tankards crashing to the floor – though the smell of spilled beer was swiftly overlain by something foul. Through it all, through the frantic tugs that diminished gradually to shudders and then to nothing at all, Simeon held tight. He tried to pray for the sinner as he died. Yet he found it difficult. For the thought kept intruding: that Isaiah Hebden was another of his puppets, dangling on a string, playing before a crowd.
He turned to that crowd now, as he loosed the cord and stepped away, letting the body slip to the ground. ‘Amen,’ he said, finishing the prayer, though none of the surviving Six joined in – the two colonels, Rathbone and Danvers, Chambers the lawyer’s clerk, More the chandler. Their faces were all aghast. He looked at the other men there last. The youth’s big face was stretched by an excited grin. His father’s face betrayed nothing, neither joy nor horror. Only, after a moment, as their eyes locked, did Captain Blood give a small nod.
Silence had held sway until then. Now the room exploded with oaths and questions. Simeon, used to commanding from a pulpit or in a playhouse, ended them with a loud command. ‘Quiet!’ As the hubbub lowered, he continued, ‘Brother Hebden was a traitor. He was observed in conference with agents of that demi-imp Sir Joseph Williamson only yesterday by our new comrade. Then I found hidden papers, silver. Not quite thirty pieces. Not much less.’ He gestured to the Irishman. ‘Captain Blood offered to deal with the man himself, somewhere dark. I told him that the Council of the Six would deal with their own Iscariot, and in the light.’ He gestured to the corpse, curled over and reeking on the floor. ‘Witness how we have.’
Horror had held them all immobile. Now they all moved at once. ‘Betrayed?’ Colonel Rathbone yelped, and reached for his cloak across a chair back. ‘We must flee.’
‘Aye,’ cried Danvers, seizing his cloak too.
‘The back stairs,’ cried Chambers, taking a step.
‘No cause.’ Simeon’s voice was softer, but it halted them and he continued, ‘As you know I changed our meeting place to the Bell Inn only this morning – and I made sure that Brother Isaiah never left me, though he desired it, at any moment.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘He must have thought it odd, that I pissed every time he did.’
‘But what are we going to do…do with the body? It’s too far to the river and –’ the lawyer’s clerk, who had never served in the army, was looking down, his jaw loose.
‘That’s another reason I chose the Bell. The landlord is a sympathiser. And he keeps pigs.’
It took the clerk a moment to understand. When he did, he staggered to a corner and vomited.
Somewhere close, a church bell began to toll the hour. Simeon looked again at Blood. The man had told him that he and his son would ride for Harwich and take a ship for Holland straight after the meeting’s business was concluded. ‘God’s speed on the road, Captain,’ Simeon said. ‘I look forward to our reunion. In September.’
Both men knew what was meant. ‘In September,’ Blood echoed. He had put a monocle into his left eye to study some papers. He had left it in to witness a death. Now he tucked the glass into a doublet pocket. But then, as he reached for his cloak, he paused. There were footsteps coming fast up the stairs, though the landlord had been up not ten minutes before to replenish their jugs.
‘Who’s there?’ Simeon called.
—
When the bells of St Matthew’s began their slow toll to ten, Pitman checked that his pistols slid easily from their holsters, spat on the cobbles and stepped out of the shadows.
As he crossed, he looked up. Captain Coke flashed a thumb before disappearing into the gloom. Pitman hoped that the position he’d assigned to his friend would not be tested; that the conspirators would take the backstairs that led to the small yard where most of his men waited in ambush. The window that gave onto Coke’s roof was small, not an obvious exit if they panicked. With fortune, the captain would not even need to draw his rapier – and the bridegroom’s skin would stay intact for his wedding on the morrow.
Surprise and speed were required – and numbers. At least he had the latter – ten hard men, constables and former soldiers too, all from Parliament’s army in the late deplored wars. Ten roundheads then – and one cavalier, he thought, licking dry lips as he entered the tavern’s side stairs.
Like the highwayman who jerks open the carriage door, going in the front was always going to be the most dangerous act. But Pitman was the leader, and he had the armour, such as it was. Bettina had had one of her ‘turns’ and insisted he wear his old breast-and-back plates. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that these rarely stopped a bullet at close range. He also had the blunderbuss which he pulled off his back now. ‘Follow me,’ he said to the two waiting men, Allsop and Friar. He took the stairs two at a time, but they were still half a dozen steps away when the door above was flung open and a large man stepped out. He had a pistol.
‘Drop it!’ bellowed Pitman, but the man did not. Instead, he pointed and pulled. There was the spark, the flash and the report loud in the narrow, wood-lined stairwell. Pitman ducked but Allsop did not, crying out and reeling back. Amidst the gun smoke, Pitman saw the figure slip inside again and heard the man’s cry, ‘The watch!’ With the landing clear above, Pitman pulled his trigger. He had loaded it with scrap, for the sound and the fury. He wanted them alive. Justice required it. His purse did too. Sir Joseph paid more for men he could question.
The hot metal tore great chunks from the wainscot at the stair head. Laying down the blunderbuss and coughing in the smoke, Pitman drew one pistol and charged up the remaining stairs. He knelt and shoved his face around the door jamb. As he had hoped, the back door was open, and men were already crowding it, trying to flee. One turned and raised his arm. Pitman threw himself back as another shot came and wood exploded in splinters above him.
Friar knelt beside him. ‘Allsop?’ queried Pitman.
‘Shoulder,’ replied Friar. ‘Think the bullet passed through.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Do they take the lure?’
‘I think so, aye,’ Pitman cocked his head. ‘As long as our friends below bide –’
Dick Cleethorpe, who’d stood next to him in the push of pike on battlefields across England and never flinched, was in charge below. They were well sheltered down there, behind the beer barrels. Now he heard his comrade’s cry, ‘Surrender! You are surrounded!’
More shots spoke to this, more replied, and the room that had gone quiet filled with noise again. He risked a look, saw three men rush back into the room. One had a blunderbuss much like his own an
d discharged it at them now; the door slammed back, coming off its hinges to fall onto the constables crouched there. The sound of smashing came, glass first then wood. Pitman uncocked his pistol, holstered it and grabbed one end of the door. ‘Take it up,’ he cried, and Friar did. Holding it before them like a shield, the two men moved into the room.
Shot slammed into the door. Pitman heard a shout of ‘With me!’ Risking a peek, he glimpsed a smaller man slipping through the window. The other two were big, one a youth, one older. This was the man who’d shot at him. He had little doubt now as to who he was.
‘Halt!’ he cried, throwing off the door, drawing and uncocking a pistol. The father snarled, turned back and raised a gun even as the son disappeared. Then suddenly the room was filled with men again, as four conspirators burst back in, blocking Pitman’s sight of the window. He swung his muzzle, as did Friar beside him, and all the men’s hands went high, one of them crying out, ‘Don’t shoot!’
Pitman did not – but Captain Blood did. Aiming at the thief-taker, he hit one of the men there, his body hurled forward onto Pitman. At the same time, the rest of the constables ran in from below.
By the time Pitman had disentangled himself from the body and the crowd, Blood had disappeared through the window.
Captain, he thought to cry, but didn’t. He hoped Coke would have the sense of any bridegroom and lay low on the eve of his wedding. At least until Pitman could push through this crowd and aid him.
—
When one man came through the smashed window, Coke drew his cudgel. When the second did, he exchanged it for a pistol. When a third joined them, he added his sword. ‘Hold there!’ he cried, stepping forward so the weapons in his hands would be clear even in the murky light. And they did, for a moment, all three staring at him. ‘Drop the gun,’ he yelled.
With a snarl, one man part-obeyed – he flung his weapon hard towards Coke. Coke used his own pistol to bat it aside but pulled the trigger in error. The gun fired, the bullet flew above the three men who, held now only by bared steel, all drew blades of their own – two rapiers and a short-bladed cutlass between them.
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