by Mark Keating
Chapter Thirty-Four
Walpole did not wait for the sleepy servant to get up from his stool. He pushed open the double doors of the prince’s chambers and framed himself dramatically in the doorway like a bloodied soldier announcing the death of a king.
Timms and the prince looked up unimpressed. Walpole was dressed like a clergyman after mass. Dull black coat and scarf, round hat, no imperious wig, the same half-gaiters since the afternoon. Walpole’s reaction to what met his eyes was very different: he stared wide-eyed at the prince, who had apparently gone through his dressing-up box for his finest pirate gear. Or at least a prince’s version of it.
Deerskin breeches and ruddy deerskin coat to match. A red silk sash that trailed to his calves and, discordantly, a black jockey’s cap bouncing in his hands. Boots were clearly unsuitable for any evening so whale-skin buckled shoes and black stockings would suffice.
The prince slapped his thigh as he rested his foot on the window seat. ‘We three are well met!’ he cheered, as innocents do before they die.
Walpole walked in, found a glass this time and helped himself. ‘We shall leave shortly, Your Highness.’ He glanced at Timms in his funeral cloth. ‘You will accompany, Timms?’
Timms was dry and coughed that he would. ‘But no arms, Minister. I will observe only.’
Walpole snorted. ‘We will all observe, I hope. I will carry no arms.’
The prince went to his desk. ‘But I shall. As befits.’
He opened a maplewood box and stuffed about his sash two silver and ebony Acquafresca pistols: Italian genius with Parisian styling. They had been a gift from the Duke of Tuscany but never fired. Now they were at last being loaded, by candlelight, by a grinning prince.
‘This will be a fine night! What is our plan, Walpole?’
Plan? Walpole thought. This was no plan, this was an aberration run up a mast for an idiot’s salute.
‘His Highness will appreciate that his safety is foremost in my mind. To that end I will take precautions. We will not be alone on the water.’ He sank his wine, and secretary Timms felt braver at his words. ‘We will meet the pirate on the river. We have our bag of gold,’ he slapped the pocket of his coat and a soft jangle rang out. ‘He has our diamond. If he has some notion to cheat us I will cut him down.’
The prince placed his cap rakishly over one brow. ‘And once we have the gem? We let him go with our gold?’
Walpole walked back to the wine, poured just enough to steady his hand and dared to speak to the prince with his back still turned. ‘That depends on how grateful he is for our allowing him to assist us.’
Timms cleared his throat. ‘And what of Albany Holmes?’
Walpole’s neck clicked as his head went back to swallow his glass whole. ‘He would understand I’m sure,’ he wiped his scarlet lips. ‘And do not underestimate Albany Holmes, Mister Timms. The pirate and he have a history that I would dread wished upon even you. I chose him for that very reason. They will not part with the shaking of hands.’
The hoot of an owl drew all their pale faces to the night outside.
The prince slapped his thigh again. ‘An owl in Leicester square! Bless my soul what an omen, no?’
Walpole spoke kindly to the Prince of Wales. ‘A group of owls is called a parliament. That may be fitting.’
‘Did not the Romans perceive owls as the warning of death?’ Timms touched the nearest wood to him.
Walpole slammed down his glass. ‘Depends if you read Latin or Greek, Mister Timms.’
The prince cocked his ear to the haunting sound as it bounced off the walls of the square again. His education was superior to both of theirs.
‘Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night. The time when screech-owls cry, and ban-dogs howl, and spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves.’
Walpole sniffed and tightened his scarf about him. ‘I have always found Shakespeare to be nonsense.’ He noticed the letter of the pirate lying near the wine.
There should be no trace. Nooses could be fashioned from paper.
He snatched it up. Three steps and he had thrown it to the great fireplace; he poked it as the letter crackled.
‘Come. His Highness will permit me to lead. We will meet the pirate.’
Timms blew out the lights in the room, and their footsteps echoed through the house as they descended the winding stairs in silence, the sconces on the walls casting dancing shadows before them until Walpole opened the door and the night snatched them away.
Devlin studied the diamond in his hand then closed his fist around its sparkle, still apparent even in the dark. He had heard only of the death concerning the diamond’s origin, and did not believe in curses; but he knew nothing of the regent’s loss of his beloved daughter. And then Bill had died and men had been wounded although compensated in silver for their pain, as was the pirate’s way. And others – himself – scarred forever, still bleeding through their shirts. This night he would be rid of it. He buried the stone in his pocket, paid it no more mind.
He offered Albany a chew of his tobacco, affecting to forget that Albany’s hands were tied, his mouth gagged. Then Devlin went back to his watch of the river.
They waited by the wet waterman stairs off Cherry Gardens on the Surrey side where there was no lamplight to cast a glow on them.
Devlin lounged against the slimy stair wall and sliced tobacco with his ebony-hilted dagger, its blade just as black. Once he had neglected to pack it about him and had been as lost as a carpenter without a nail, almost dying at the hands of Hib Gow in a garden in Charles Town two years before. Never again.
A noise drifted over the river, that of water screwing away from the sweep of a pole, the pleasant sound of London still at work, and out of place for Devlin’s work to come.
He whistled low and the oar pushed again bringing the bow of Edwin’s wherry into view; it bumped against the steps a second later. Devlin saw that Edwin had turned his red jacket inside out, as soldiers do when they desert and become ‘turn-coats’. Wise man, he thought, but he was amused at Edwin’s crude attempt at a mask made of sackcloth: two holes poked through a nose-bag, as if hiding a disfigured head. His wife had probably insisted on such now her husband was a man of means with a gold coin buried in a pat of butter. He made a ghoulish form emerging from out of the cold fog rising off the river. Perfect, Devlin thought. Good man. Walpole will shit when he sees us. I’m escorted by Charon himself across the River Styx.
He stowed his dagger at his back where it sat against his stitches and held out his arm to Albany, pulling him by his cuff down the steps.
‘It’s time, Albany,’ he said, and they went to the boat. ‘This is when you leave me.’
They entered the ethereal world of the Thames at night, with the stroke of the damp fog curling along the strakes of Edwin’s wherry, the flip and gold-green sheen of scales as sturgeon hunted safely now that the fishermen had retired for the night. Birds drifted half-asleep on the water, one cautious eye open as the boat rolled by. The giant ships were anchored three or four abreast, chained together – the sound of the gaol as the chains bobbed with the tide, their lights winking at them as they passed. And the bridge.
Progress now: a false horizon of amber light and sea-coal smog, the sound of the water churning through the nineteen arches growing louder as they approached the Tower and Devlin leaning forward to pick out his quarry.
The streets and bustle of London were far away, the river unreal as a dream, the foul smell and its snickering tide raising every hair on Devlin’s nape as he listened for company upon her surface.
Walpole eased open the front shutter of his lamp and at the bow fish splashed and leapt away. High tide; their man’s oar sank deep as he rowed. They had joined the river at the Tower stairs, and at the sighting of the lamp two other punts began to move away from the walls of Traitor’s Gate just ahead of them; but deliberately slower, as if wading through molasses, with the soldiers keeping low in the boats.
Th
e prince checked his silver guns. No moon. Pity. The guns would have looked splendid in the moonlight. He tried to pierce the fog with his gaze but it danced and teased and only the cross-trees and sidelights of the dozens of sleeping ships arose clearly from it.
‘Where is he, Walpole?’ he hissed to the man straining himself over the bow. Walpole heard but said nothing. He thought of his bed, where he should be. This intrigue demeaned him but he had once been a prisoner of the Tower they now passed and he knew feuds and hate because of it. He would not be debased by a pirate. He would take the diamond, save the Company, raise a king and become the First Minister and the most powerful man in the kingdom, under the noses of those who had thought him beaten. He could forego a little damp for that reward.
Timms was the first to hear it, for the edge of his fear had sharpened his senses. He grabbed the ferryman’s hand to still his oar as the sound of wood in the water plied closer.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Devlin unbound Albany and tossed away the moist rag that had stopped his mouth. ‘You be a good boy, now.’ Devlin patted his shoulder and Albany winced where the bruises Devlin had dealt him smarted beneath his silk.
Devlin had punched him with the key poking from his fist. It was with the aim to hurt, to weaken his arms and legs so if Albany suddenly became heroic he would first have to fight over that.
On the tartane, before Paris, he had spoken to Albany about life, about suffering, the waiting for the sword to fall. If lucky, it was only the small things. A small beating would count sure enough.
Albany did not give Devlin the pleasure of seeing him grateful for his freedom. He had his sword, for Devlin had no fear to keep it from him and was well aware that he would return his baggage as he found it.
He had his sword. A small thing, but one that would count sure enough. And the dagger within that the pirate did not know of.
‘Do you see them?’ Albany asked. He was at the stern. Edwin, in his mask and Devlin in his stillness, were leaning over the bow. Devlin did not reply – there was no need as the fog parted and the figures appeared, as if floating on top of it, Walpole’s light spreading wide over the brume.
‘No closer!’ Devlin called and waved Edwin to stop. Edwin braked as if he had hit a wall and Devlin held fast as he lurched forward. ‘Stay where you are!’ he called to the boat ahead.
Walpole signalled for their man to halt and the boat bucked as the man with lesser skill grunted and struggled, the prince muttering a German curse as the cold filth of the water splashed his silver pistols.
They could see Devlin and Edwin now as the tide rocked them and belched against the wood and echoed back from the moored ships along the shore. Walpole could not hear the soldiers’ boats and prayed that Devlin was denied the same. Engaging him in conversation might assure that continued.
‘What now? I have come as requested!’ He held up his lamp, stood clumsily, one hand to the gunwale. ‘I have your money!’ Surely the pirate’s only concern.
‘I have your man!’ Devlin called back, his voice seeming to create a wave that rolled under their keel and heeled them back like a wind, their pilot battling against it.
Walpole swept his lamp to the voice and Timms gasped at the grotesque image of Edwin in his mask, the pirate beside him less fearsome. ‘And the . . .’ Walpole thought on his choice of words. ‘Issue? You have the conclusion?’
Devlin stood, held his hand over his eyes against Walpole’s beam. ‘I have what you need!’ Something in the tone of his words was mocking but Walpole took it only as conceit. Another wave rolled beneath them, larger, and Walpole staggered, his lamp swaying madly, and the soldier’s boats began to speed towards them.
Walpole gathered himself again, their man pushing them closer where they had lost ground. He opened another shutter on his lamp and Devlin glowed before him, a strange viridian smoke now mingling with the fog behind. Walpole was enchanted by the mystery of the river at night. Perhaps he was after all in his bed? But dreams are not cold.
‘Shall I come closer? Pass our goods between us?’ A friendly voice.
Devlin cupped his hand to his mouth. ‘Can you see me?’
Another wave surged beneath them. The prince cursed and Timms gripped the gunwale for mercy. Walpole was sure now that he could hear the creak of the soldiers’ boats, the rattle of their brass, the river distorting the sounds to appear all around, the creaking of wood and cordage getting closer and larger. Perhaps this was the way of the river, its nature to magnify sound; and so he called louder.
‘I can see you.’
The prince appeared at Walpole’s shoulder, his voice lower than Walpole had ever heard it, a lover’s query.
‘I can hear music ahead?’
Walpole dismissed the question, its utterance pointless – did the fool have no mind as to what was occurring?
‘The river is banked with countless taverns, Your Highness,’ he whispered kindly. ‘The river is carrying the sound.’
‘At this hour?’ the prince looked about him. The fog was now impenetrable, but Walpole could feel some massive presence in the air in front of them, as if another bridge had suddenly sprung across the river ahead.
‘No,’ he said. ‘They would be shut up, no?’ He caught the whimsical music now. A fiddle in front of them and far away, behind the pirate.
The notes formed a question on the night like a blank tombstone, but his craning after the noise was broken by the pirate’s shout.
‘If you can see me that is good enough! Now see this!’
Devlin’s hand rose above his head, Walpole’s lantern-light bounced off the unmistakeable diamond balanced on his fingers.
Walpole did not know what else to scream.
‘Devlin!’
The pirate thrust an accusing fist at the horrified face. ‘To hell with your schemes!’
For Bill, for Trouin, for Dandon.
For the blood.
He brought his arm back, the point of the diamond biting into his fist as he leaned to throw it over all their heads, but he froze at the scrape of a scabbard and Edwin’s panicked warning from behind him.
‘Cap’n!’
Devlin gripped the stone and turned. Albany’s sword was coming on.
‘You will not!’ Albany whistled the blade. ‘You will not!’ Its point raised high. ‘Give that to me, dog!’
Devlin planted his feet, ran the stone through his palm. He could toss it still, but they might find it if they saw it fall. He wanted to plant it deep. Deep where it hurt. High and far through the fog where mudlarks would dream of it forever as their lucky day.
He drew his antler-hilted hanger, but kept the diamond in his hand so there was no dagger poniard for his other fist. His pistols he thought of for the moment after he killed Albany, for there was no chance Walpole travelled alone. His kind even hunted foxes in packs and they had only teeth. He could pull his pistols now . . . but where would be the game, the punishment, in that?
‘Come on then,’ he called Albany on with his beckoning blade. ‘Come on, Eton. Come on, Oxford.’ He grinned him in. ‘Let’s see it.’
Albany stayed back just enough to unscrew the dagger from his sword’s hilt and pulled its black blade free, holy joy at the look on Devlin’s face as realisation dawned.
Dandon.
Dandon on the Shadow trying to warn Devlin of the shot. Dandon stabbed. Peter Sam swearing that Albany’s sword never moved. Albany challenging Trouin’s marines over their guilt.
Albany circled both his blades. ‘I got him good, didn’t I?’ He yelled to the boat. ‘Walpole! I have him! But they—’ His breath was cut dead as Devlin’s hanger slammed down against the eighty-five guinea blade – his own rule to always go for flesh blinded by the need to destroy.
Go for meat. The regret of the dead to clash at swords.
Edwin moved quickly. Perhaps it was the boats with the chink of muskets coming out of the gloom; perhaps it was his wife’s arms enfolding him close when he had left for the
night drawing him back home; perhaps it was the madness rocking his wherry as blade counted against blade – but he began to show the mettle that won him his prize Doggett coat.
The fastest man on the Thames he was, and there was no coin that Walpole could throw that would find a better, worthier man.
The wherry moved like a whip, a magical withdrawal, and Walpole grabbed for it foolishly as Devlin and Albany pitched like drunkards.
‘Get them!’ Walpole roared to the black shapes now raising their muskets, even the swift waterman not faster than lead; but the soldiers took their time to aim at the blur whispering off into the thick fog.
The prince sank back to the soft form of Timms beneath him, scolding the secretary’s cowardice and ordering their waterman to the chase. He could hear the clash of steel on the boat that arrowed away, men fighting aboard it, and wished himself upon it too. At least the music was heroic, growing louder and bolder all the time. The stench of brimstone was surely not in his imagination but somehow linked to the green glow looming heavier every moment.
Devlin and Albany. No room for honour. No knights across a battlefield. On his first day back in London Devlin had seen dogs fighting over a horse’s pizzle. Themselves now. Heads rutting, kicks and punches, brows clashing. First the hilts and guards of their swords and now their fists and Devlin’s stitches were rent open. Albany had his dagger stabbing; Devlin swept it away every time but it would find its mark.
Devlin’s fist was still wrapped around the cursed diamond.
Drop it. Release your hand and pull your own dagger. End it now.
The diamond had only ever known blood. But if he died and the stone became theirs? Nothing gained. The dead wasted. If he took it with his dying body to the water they might lose it still.
Hold on. Keep standing. You’ve fought in gutters with less space.