Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  There was a long, heady silence and then Giles crossed the room saying abruptly, ‘Let me see.’

  Without taking his eyes from his cousin’s face, Alex handed over the letter and Giles moved away, reading as he went. Then, passing it to Arlington, he looked back at Simon, his eyes filled with disgust. ‘You bloody Judas,’ he said contemptuously.

  Simon, his attention fixed on Alex, did not bother to look round.

  ‘Dear me,’ he said mildly. ‘What a meddling nuisance you’ve become, Cousin. I believe I really must relieve you of those letters.’

  ‘You think I’m going to give them to you? And to what end? Three people in this room have read them and a fourth outside it.’

  ‘I don’t consider that an insurmountable problem. But first … first dear Alex, I seem to have no alternative but to clear you from my path.’

  Alex smiled. ‘Ambition should be made of sterner stuff .. but, since the way to the door lies through me, I was rather hoping you might like to try.’

  The effete face flushed and changed so rapidly that it might have belonged to another man.

  ‘Try?’ echoed Simon gratingly, as he drew his sword. ‘Try? I’ll do more than try. I’ll cut off that prying nose and rip out your heart. But first let’s even the odds a little.’ And with a swift, unexpected movement, he was at Arlington’s side, twisting the hand that held the incriminating letter high against his spine whilst laying his blade close along his lordship’s throat. Then, gesturing to Giles, ‘You. Take off your sword.’

  ‘Or what?’ asked Mr Beckwith, unmoving.

  ‘Or I slit his lordship’s gizzard. Take off your sword and throw it into that corner. Now.’

  Arlington swallowed and a thin line of blood followed the bright edge of the blade.

  ‘Do it, Giles,’ said Alex quietly. ‘This was always going to be my fight.’

  ‘He’s bluffing,’ said Giles. ‘He won’t do it.’

  ‘He will.’ Anger flared in the light voice; anger directed, not at Giles or Arlington, but at himself for not foreseeing this eventuality. ‘He doesn’t care who dies - and he has nothing to lose. So just do it.’

  ‘How wise,’ purred Simon. ‘How very wise.’ He watched Mr Beckwith reluctantly discard his sword and slide it along the floor, then looked back at Alex. ‘I wonder, my foolish failed hero, where you have put your sword … for I am very sure you didn’t come here without it.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Alex. Two seconds were all he needed to snatch the weapon from its resting place in the shadows of the aumbry but, as long as Simon held Arlington, it was useless to him. ‘No. And it’s at your disposal.’

  Simon laughed softly and was about to reply when the unexpected happened. With a brief, muffled moan, the Secretary of State grew suddenly lax in his hold and he found himself supporting what was swiftly becoming a dead weight. Lord Arlington, it appeared, had fainted.

  Simon did the only possible thing and let him fall, the tip of his sword sweeping down to maintain its threat. But even as he moved, Giles seized the moment to hurl himself forward and Simon, startled, whipped up his guard and side-stepped. Off course and unable to do anything about it, Giles crashed harmlessly past him; something ice-cold seared his left arm and he hit the floor harder than he had expected before rolling less than gracefully to his feet. Then he smiled.

  As an attacker, he had been an unqualified failure; but as a diversion he had achieved all he had hoped. Thirty-five inches of steel gleamed in Alex’s hand and Arlington, remarkably spry for a fainting man, had seized the chance to scuttle crab-like to safety. The wheel of advantage had turned full circle. Then he heard Alex say, ‘Well done. But you’re making a terrible mess on Mr Pepys’ carpet.’ And looked down, vaguely surprised to see blood trickling over his fingers from a deep gash in his upper arm.

  Alex’s light, compelling gaze rested on his cousin with a remoteness that was mere illusion. He said, ‘Your leverage is gone and your path still lies through me. Will you fight?’

  Simon smiled and his fingers flexed on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Trial by combat, Alex? How archaic of you. But yes, my winsome cousin. Of course I’ll fight.’

  Despite his reddened throat and dishevelled appearance, Arlington suddenly became every inch the Secretary of State.

  ‘I find the case against Simon Deveril proven beyond any reasonable doubt and, as a trusted confidant to the heir presumptive of this kingdom, consider him a serious political threat. The Duke of York’s popularity is too weak to withstand the scandal of this sort. It is therefore necessary to dispose of the matter privately – here and now. But the law states that every man is entitled to stand his trial and, in view of this, I grant Alexander Deveril the privilege of defending his sovereign in single combat against this traitorous felon. My only proviso is this. That since Simon Deveril’s life is forfeit to the Crown, Alexander Deveril shall justify the honour granted him by claiming it.’ He paused, for it was a huge risk and he knew it. Then, ‘Are my terms accepted?’

  Simon laughed derisively but said nothing.

  Silence stretched out on invisible threads before Alex said crisply, ‘They are accepted. Giles – shove that desk out of the way; my lord, pull your chair into the corner and get yourself behind it. We’re going to need some room.’ And when it was done, with a slight bow, ‘I believe we are ready, my lord.’

  ‘So eager,’ murmured Simon. ‘So full of confidence. What a shame it’s misplaced.’ And immediately opened the attack with a thrust in high tierce which Alex met without apparent difficulty, stepping back to disengage and following through with a riposte that forced Simon into a swift, sideways parry.

  Giles found himself watching Simon’s sword-play with professional interest. He was good – very good, in fact – which was surprising for, since he must practise in secret, it was hard to know where and with whom he could have done so. But practised he undoubtedly was, for his wrist was flexible, his footwork neat and his knowledge of strokes and techniques remarkably extensive. Indeed, he once produced a sweeping pass which Mr Beckwith had never seen before and which nearly cost Alex the tendons of his left wrist. Giles frowned a little, wondering what Alex was doing; and then, thinking that he knew, smiled to himself whilst trying to stop his arm dripping on the carpet.

  ‘Finger by finger,’ purred Simon, ‘and hand by hand – like so.’ And he sent his blade skimming along the till its point reached the guard and slid off to score the back of his cousin’s knuckles.

  Alex did not even glance at it. With a swift hard, flick, he forced up the attacking blade and in the same fluid movement, delivered a low thrust that forced Simon to retreat part-way across the room.

  ‘I could maim you or I could kill you,’ mused Simon. ‘Which would you prefer, I wonder?’

  He made a sweeping cut that might have sliced through Alex’s thigh had he not seen it coming in time to avoid it.

  ‘I’d prefer that you stopped talking,’ returned Alex dryly. ‘Unless you want to bore me to death?’

  Relentless, untiring, the fight went on. Simon attempted a daring flanconade and his point slit Alex’s sleeve before it was deftly parried. There was a confused scraping of blades and Simon disengaged to recover his guard. He was panting a little from the exertion of delivering a constant attack that he plainly hoped would provide him with an opening but somehow never did.

  Blood began to drip steadily from Alex’s arm but the sword remained an extension of his body and his defence never wavered. Simon lunged, Alex replied with a counter-disengage and Simon was forced to retreat. He circled, his point darting playfully at Alex while he strove to recover his breath.

  ‘Is this the best you can do?’ he taunted. ‘I expected better of one of Rupert’s puppies.’ And, leaping forward, his blade slashed down towards the bones of Alex’s hand.

  Alex snatched it back and forte met foible.

  ‘The stars move still, time runs, the clock must strike,’ he said quietly.

  �
�Oh please.’ Simon’s teeth gleamed in a feral grin. ‘How tediously predictable.’

  ‘Not exciting enough for you?’ asked Alex. ‘Really? Perhaps I can help with that. The devil will come and Faustus must be damned.’

  And with the words, a change came, as Alex finally chose to exert the full sum of his skill. Suddenly hard-pressed, Simon lunged and met an opposition of such force that it drove him breathlessly down the length of the room.

  The light eyes were brilliant and Harry Deveril’s sword was wielded with supple dexterity in the hand of his son as it pushed Simon back and back down the room. Simon had no breath now for words, none even to waste in attack; he could only parry automatically to protect himself.

  And then, as Alex feinted inside the arm, he thought he saw an opening and lunged. It was a mistake – his last, he thought, reading his death sentence in the cold purposeful eyes. He saw the thrust coming, in high quarte and destined for his heart; then, strangely, it checked briefly before fractionally altering its direction. Simon looked again into the pale gaze and then Alex’s point bit deep into his shoulder. His sword dropped and very, very slowly, he followed it to the floor.

  His hands shaking a little, Alex wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked down at Simon lying crumpled at his feet with the blood soaking through his elegant violet satin. But it was Giles who went to kneel at his side and, after a brief examination, removed Cromwell’s incriminating letter from his pocket.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said, glancing up at his friend. ‘An inch lower and you’d have killed him.’

  ‘I know.’ Alex’s voice was oddly muffled. ‘I know.’

  ‘Do I understand that he isn’t dead?’ demanded Lord Arlington frigidly.

  ‘You do,’ replied Giles, busy trying to staunch Simon’s bleeding.

  ‘Why not? Why isn’t he dead? I made my instructions quite plain.’

  ‘Because I’m not an executioner,’ said Alex. He looked down at Mr Beckwith. ‘And because I wanted to kill him. More, in fact, than you can possibly imagine.’

  ‘I did congratulate you,’ Giles reminded him. And to his lordship, ‘You don’t have to bring him to trial. There are any number of ways to be rid of him.’

  Lord Arlington was not visibly mollified.

  ‘It is not at all satisfactory – and I am sure Prince Rupert will agree with me when you report to him.’

  ‘Prince Rupert,’ said Mr Beckwith, coming to his feet, ‘is realist enough to find it quite sufficient that his services return to normal.’

  The Secretary looked sceptical and turned back to Alex, now engaged in a somewhat unsuccessful attempt to bind his forearm with a handkerchief. Then the door opened and Mr Lewis walked in. His face was marked and his knuckles badly grazed but his expression was unusually cheerful.

  ‘God,’ he said to no one in particular, absorbing the fact that everyone in the room was bleeding from somewhere. ‘The mammet must’ve been a hell of a fighter.’

  Mr Deveril abandoned his attempts to tie a knot with the aid of his teeth and held out his arm for Matt to deal with.

  ‘Moderate,’ he said and his voice had recovered its usual tone. ‘Did you get Vine?’

  Matthew finished bandaging and looked up.

  ‘Aye. It was easy enough – though we’d a bit of a scuffle. Queenhithe’s littered with battered sailors and I doubt Captain Vine’s feeling so well either.’

  Laughter stirred remotely in the light eyes and Alex said, ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.’

  ‘And I’m glad,’ said Lord Arlington tartly, ‘that something has gone according to plan.’ It had been a long night. He felt tired and old and he looked on Alex with vague discontent. ‘I shall need the written evidence to show to the King when I report this affair. I imagine that you can explain to Prince Rupert without it?’

  Mr Deveril gazed back with an expression that boded ill for the civility of his reply. Then the blue gaze travelled to Giles.

  ‘I rather think it’s my turn to do some work,’ said Mr Beckwith pleasantly. ‘I’ll go to His Highness.’

  ‘No.’ The Secretary’s voice was sharp. ‘Mr Deveril can make a much more accurate report and I wish him to do so. The fleet is still in Sole Bay but it may put to sea any day now so the matter will not wait.’

  Alex stared at him wildly but, before he could speak, Simon drew attention to himself by moaning feebly.

  ‘If he’s not attended to,’ observed Matt in a tone that suggested he didn’t much care either way, ‘he’ll die of blood loss.’

  ‘Or old age,’ snapped Alex acidly. He ignored his lordship and looked at Matthew. ‘It seems I’m going to Sole Bay.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No. I want you to stay with Chloë.’ He paused, an odd look crossing his face and then said, ‘If she asks about tonight – and I expect she will – you can tell her everything. In fact, I’d like you to. And tell her - -‘ He stopped again, his mouth curling crookedly. ‘Or no. Perhaps not.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Matthew all-too-knowingly. ‘I’ll make your excuses and your explanations. But that’s my limit. And you’d a tongue in your head last time I looked.’ He grinned. ‘So get yourself home and use it.’

  ~ * * * ~

  PART THREE

  THE SONG

  London

  August and September, 1666

  ‘Yet we will be loyal still

  And serve without reward or hire,

  To be redeemed from so much ill

  May stay our stomachs, though not fill:

  And if our patience do not tire

  We may, in time, have our desire.’

  Alexander Brome

  {1620-1666}

  ONE

  At about the time that Mr Deveril took the decision to ride to Sole Bay, his wife – who had retired expecting to pass a wakeful night – was just falling asleep. It was therefore not until just after eight when she came downstairs to find Mr Lewis awaiting her in the parlour, that she discovered that Alex had returned briefly for a change of clothes, prior to setting off at first light for the coast.

  Heavy-eyed and anxious, Chloë stared at Matt.

  ‘You mean he’s gone? Just like that? Without even an hour’s rest? He’s mad! Does he think nothing can be done that he doesn’t do himself?’

  Matthew grinned. ‘Yes. But he didn’t want to go – that pot-faced Secretary made him.’

  ‘Arlington? What has he to do with it? I thought you and Mr Deveril went after the man who – who – ‘

  ‘We did. And caught him too. You’d better sit down. It’s a long story.’

  ‘You mean I’m allowed to know? Really? I’m honoured!’

  ‘And cheeky,’ retorted Matthew. ‘Sit down.’

  Rather to his surprise, Chloë listened without interrupting while he described the suspicions and events that had led up to the previous night’s successful capture. The brown eyes widened when he named Simon Deveril but still she did not speak, allowing him to continue his narrative undisturbed; and even when he came to the end, she sat for a long time without saying anything.

  Then, ‘He – he’s all right, isn’t he?’

  Matt did not pretend to misunderstand. ‘Aye. A bit of a scratch, no more.’ He did not tell her what he had learned from Mr Beckwith – that Alex had been lucky not to lose the use of one of his hands. ‘You don’t think that Mr Alex can’t deal with a mere dog in a doublet like Simon, do you?’

  She smiled. ‘No. What I think is that, since Simon isn’t what he seems in any other way, it’s reasonable to suppose that he might also be rather more of a swordsman that one would have thought.’

  Mr Lewis regarded her with bitter satisfaction.

  ‘He might be. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘But you know.’ It was not a question.

  The seamed face split in a curious grin.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘God,’ said Matt disgustedly. ‘You’re a bone-headed
lass. Why can’t you ask a normal question like why Simon isn’t dead?’

  ‘Because I know why he isn’t dead. And I’m glad.’ She looked into the shrewd black eyes. ‘And so are you. Because the truth is that if Mr Deveril had killed him, he’d have spent the rest of his life wondering whether he’d done a service for his country or committed murder. And he’d never have been free of it – or of Simon.’

  Matt looked back thoughtfully, pleased with her but unwilling to say so.

  ‘If you really want to know,’ he offered at last, ‘Mr Giles says Simon’s swordplay was good but dirty – and that he was no match for Mr Alex when he chose to exert himself. You’ll know that Mr Alex is pretty fair with a blade.’

  ‘I do know. I’ve seen him.’ Chloë sighed and the smooth brow creased in a frown. ‘How long do you think he’ll be gone?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ Matthew watched her, thinking it was a pity that Alex had gone at all because it was high time the two of them put an end to the nonsense between them. ‘Five days, maybe. It’ll depend on His Highness. Meantime, I don’t doubt you’ve plenty to do.’

  ‘I shan’t pine, if that’s what you mean. I’m in attendance every afternoon and evening for the next week and I’ve the arrangements to finalise for selling the silk and velvet. Fenton’s on Cheapside are taking most of it and Bennett’s the rest. I sent a length of the sapphire velvet to Mr Penny at Saint Dunstan’s to make up for Mr Deveril – and I thought to send some of the black brocade as well. What do you think?’