Queen's Ransom

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  I said diffidently: “I suppose she was only behaving as she had been taught.”

  “Aye. That Wilkins has a lot to answer for,” Arnold said, and Mark Sweetapple, his mouth being full at the time, nodded agreement.

  “She said she wanted to be a martyr,” said her guardian brusquely. “She longed to die for the faith—she told us that at Douceaix, remember? Sanctimonious nonsense. We’ll hear less about that from now on.”

  He sounded grimly satisfied. I made no comment. I was still too tired and too anxious about Dale. “Where’s Jenkinson?” I asked.

  “He and Longman went out while you were still abed. They’ve gone to see if there’s room on the Britta for myself and Harvey here. I meant it when I said I would come to St. Germain.”

  Jenkinson and Longman reappeared an hour or so later, looking weary but pleased with themselves.

  “We found the captain of the Britta,” Jenkinson said. Our meal had trailed on and we were all still lounging about in the kitchen and nibbling desultorily. Jenkinson helped himself to cold meat pie and a glass of wine. “We’d have needed to talk to him anyway. One or two things have occurred to me. One was that our friends the Levantine Lions, who turned up at the Leaping Fish, may think of making inquiries among sea captains in case I’ve booked a passage to anywhere. I wanted to make sure that Captain Ericksen wouldn’t tell them anything. They were ahead of me. They’d spoken to him already.”

  I had been sitting in relaxed fashion on a settle. I shot upright. “What?”

  “It’s all right. Ericksen is one of Gresham’s captains and he takes good care of those Gresham recommends as passengers. He is discreet. He told them he’d never heard of anyone called Jenkinson, Van Weede, or Blanchard and if I hadn’t gone to see him this morning, he would have been in touch with me to know who they were and what he should say if they came to him again. I explained them to him. He has heard of the Lions. He will continue to deny all knowledge of us. But there’s more. It struck me last night or rather this morning, as I was dropping off to sleep, that our friend Wilkins will presumably be making his way back to France, just like us, and how embarrassed we would all be if we found that he was traveling on the Britta, too.”

  We all stared at him, appalled. Mark Sweetapple swallowed a piece of cheese the wrong way and started to cough. Longman banged him on the back.

  “But we couldn’t!” I said. “We couldn’t sail on the same ship as Wilkins! Even if I stayed in my cabin the whole time to avoid him—I can’t bear him—the real treasure would be there on the ship as well!”

  “Quite,” Jenkinson agreed. “But you need have no fear. I asked Ericksen outright if Wilkins had approached him. I said we knew Wilkins and that there was a dispute between us and that it wouldn’t do for us to travel together. I added that we needed passages for two extra people, which might, as it were, make up for any loss of business if he turned Wilkins down. He said we needn’t worry. Wilkins was ahead of us, too. He approached Ericksen this morning, apparently, and asked about passages—”

  “Oh, God!” said Blanchard.

  “—but Captain Ericksen didn’t care for the trio of cut-throats who were with him. Captain Ericksen is very respectable as well as very discreet.”

  I burst out laughing. “Riffraff!”

  “Quite. That’s what our good captain thought. He told Wilkins that he had no room for any more passengers, and recommended him to try a ship called the St. Margaret, which is sailing two days after us. She’s not a very seaworthy vessel, I understand.” He gulped some wine. “Maybe,” he added dispassionately, “she’ll sink.”

  Jenkinson had had a further errand while he was out. He had found a buyer for two of his little gold bird brooches. Though so small, they were valuable, sufficiently so to provide us with some spare money as well as the wherewithal to repay Gresham. If we had not found the real treasure, I would have given Jenkinson the imitation one in return. Since we did have the genuine treasure, I settled with him by handing over the ruby pendant and a gold figurine, which we reckoned came to roughly the same value. We had not dared to try selling those in Antwerp, because they had presumably been stolen from someone or somewhere there in the first place.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jenkinson said when we discussed these fiscal adjustments. “I can take them to England and I’ll certainly make a good profit on them there. Meanwhile, you’ll have your collateral back by tomorrow. I’ll enjoy selling these far more than I would have enjoyed selling cheap gilded plate. It’s truly a pleasure to do business with you, Mistress Blanchard.”

  When all this was over, everyone went off to rest a little more, although we got up again for supper. The daylight was fading and Klara had lit candles. We were all still tired and did not talk much as we ate the soup and dumplings she provided. Harvey took a tray up to Helene and Jeanne. Afterward, we all wandered into the kitchen where Longman and I helped Klara to scrape platters and put them in hot water to soak.

  “I think,” I said as we were drying our hands, “that I must go upstairs soon and have some more sleep. I shan’t feel myself again before tomorrow morning.”

  “We all need a good night’s rest,” Jenkinson agreed. “And we’ve earned it, what’s more. But I don’t think we can go to bed just now. I can hear oars outside. I think we have callers at the back door.”

  We all cocked our heads. He was right. There were low voices just outside, and boots were scraping on our landing stage. Someone tapped on the door. “Klara van den Bergh? Are you within?”

  Klara, grumbling under her breath, went to the back door and opened it. Then, in violent contrast to the gentle tap and the quiet call, a crowd of men crashed through into the room. Klara shouted indignantly and tried to bar their way but one of them picked her up bodily and threw her aside. She struck her head on the handle of the open door, and slid moaning to the floor. The rest of us sprang up, tiredness forgotten. Jenkinson, Sweetapple, and Harvey all instantly produced daggers. Blanchard shouted: “Who are you? What do you want?” and groped for a sword hilt that wasn’t there because he wasn’t wearing it.

  Then he desisted and so did the others, because the foremost of the intruders made straight for me, jerked me in front of him, and held me there with a knife blade against my jugular. Just, I thought crazily, as Charpentier had done, back in Le Cheval d’Or.

  “Back against the wall!” said my captor. “All of you. And sheathe your weapons if you value this woman’s life.”

  They all obeyed at once, but as they angrily sheathed their daggers, Sweetapple said in furious tones: “And would these gentlemen, by any chance, be calling themselves the Levantine Lions?”

  * * *

  There had seemed at first to be at least a dozen intruders but there were actually six. Four looked like local hired bullies. One of these was holding me and from the smell of him, his more regular employment was gutting fish. The other two were different, however. They were well dressed and well armed, with velvet caps and sword hilts tooled with gold, and the big man with the heavily handsome face and the dark curling hair was surely an Italian, while the lean brown fellow whose eyes were brown, too, but not, somehow, the European shade of it, and whose beard was not clipped in the European fashion either, was just as surely a Turk.

  I was not, therefore, unduly surprised when the Italian, in heavily accented but fluent English, said to Sweetapple: “You are right, my friend. But to reach that conclusion, you must have heard of us and most likely were expecting us. In which case, you have had dealings with one Anthony Jenkinson.”

  No one answered. The hand gripping my chin jerked my head back a little farther. I considered scraping my heel down his shin but there are degrees of ruthlessness and one can sense them. This man was more dangerous than Charpentier had been.

  Klara moaned again and the lean brown Turk noticed her. He went to her and helped her quite gently to her feet, saying something in what sounded like an awkward version of her own language. He seemed to be apologizing. He
examined her bruised head, added a few words in a comforting voice, guided her to the basket chair, and put her into it.

  The Italian, meanwhile, was addressing me with what could almost have passed for genuine sorrow. “We regret the need for this, signora. But alas, you are the only means by which we can keep this meeting from turning into a brawl. It will not please us to cut your throat, and I pray that God and Mother Mary will keep you and all your companions wise and quiet, so that we do not have to.”

  Blanchard made a peculiar noise, halfway between a snarl and a snort. Mark Sweetapple shot me an anguished look and ground his teeth loudly enough to be heard. Harvey muttered a swear word. The others remained quite still. We waited.

  The Turk said: “We waste time. I, too, regret the disrespect to the young woman, although in my country, a woman who wishes to be respected is not found thus in the company of men. If it comes to the point, Signor Bruni, I will give the order if you wish.”

  “Thank you, Morelli.” So these were indeed the two who had inquired for Anthony at the Leaping Fish. The Turk had masqueraded as a Venetian. “But let us trust,” said Bruni, “in the chivalry of Signor Antonio Jenkinson. He has set out to endanger the prosperity of our countries, and he has killed some of my friends, but perhaps he would not care to kill one of his own, and a lady at that.” He gazed inquiringly at the row of men against the wall. “Well? Which of you is he? Speak out, Signor Jenkinson!” He could not keep the hatred out of his voice. The signor was a sarcastic courtesy.

  My sleepiness had been banished but I was still tired. There are, however, times when tiredness is almost an advantage. When the brain is too weary to be its usual busy and officious self, deeper knowledge and sounder instincts sometimes rise to the surface and take charge. In that brief quiet moment, I recognized and saw how to use the fact that had just been vouchsafed to us all.

  Jenkinson, talking of the Lions, had described how he and his men had disposed of many of his pursuers, on the Caspian Sea, in Rome, and in Marseilles. In the stableyard of Le Cheval d’Or, the leader, Portinari, whose proper business was to point Jenkinson out and leave the rest to his underlings, had taken a hand himself, presumably because he had run out of underlings. Jenkinson believed that a second set of hunters had followed the first, and it looked as though he was right. Here they were, Bruni and Morelli. Jenkinson thought that Portinari had left messages for them, to help them follow quickly, and no doubt he had. They apparently knew he had been using the name ofVan Weede. But a few important details had been missing.

  These were surely the two who had inquired after Jenkinson in St. Germain, and certainly the two who had asked for him at the Leaping Fish. In neither place had they given a description of him, and no wonder. They did not know what he looked like. He was here in front of them now, and they had not recognized him.

  “Jenkinson?” I said in tones of loathing. “Him!”

  “Him?” Bruni echoed my tone precisely, with a query in it. “You sound less than loving, signora. Well, which is he?” He waved an arm, indicating the silent row of candidates.

  I saw from the gleam in Jenkinson’s eyes that he had guessed the tack on which I was steering. But I did not let my glance linger on him, or on any of them. I looked instead at Bruni.

  “If you want him, you can have him and welcome but you won’t find him here. By God, you won’t!”

  “Really?” Bruni’s voice was disbelieving and my captor’s grip tightened.

  “Tell this man to let go of me!” It was easy to let it out as a pathetic wail. “Of course Jenkinson isn’t here! That . . . that bastard has made off with goods that I own, worth several hundred pounds—and I meant them to ransom a servant of mine who is a prisoner in France! I can’t rescue her now. My poor Dale!” The frightened shake in my voice was real. Fear for Dale was ever-present in me. I had only to give it utterance. “And if you’ve been asking for him under the name of Jen-kinson orVan Weede,” I said, “then it’s no wonder you’ve not found him. He’s calling himself Ignatius Wilkins and making out that he’s a doctor of theology or something of that sort. God knows where he is now!”

  They had all understood by now. “The lady is right,” said Harvey forcefully. “He is no better than a thief and we’ve been after him ourselves. He’s probably going to make off by sea, but we haven’t found out yet which ship he’s going on.”

  Klara, sitting in the basket chair, still with a hand pressed to the side of her head, asked a question in her own tongue. Sickening terror went through my stomach. Klara might not have followed the conversation. She might not understand what we were about. And she was old and frail and could easily be frightened. If they distrusted us and asked Klara if she could point Jenkinson out; if they threatened her . . .

  Longman started to answer her, in short, rough tones, but before he had spoken three words, Bruni snapped at him to be silent, quelling any attempt by Longman to transmit information to Klara. The Italian then addressed Klara himself. He spoke her language very haltingly, but she could follow; she was answering. She nodded once but then clutched at her head as though the movement had hurt her. I heard her speak the name of Jenkinson. I dared not look at him.

  It was my father-in-law who cleared his throat and asked: “What’s she saying?”

  Bruni turned to him and shrugged. “She bears you out, more or less. She says he was here—well, that we guessed. We knew he was traveling with a Master Blanchard, and we knew this house was taken in Master Blanchard’s name. We have inquired among landlords, who often know one another’s business. But Klara says she has not seen Jenkinson since yesterday. She says she thinks there was some dispute between him and you.”

  I breathed a silent, thankful sigh. Klara, bless her heart, was no fool. She had heard the hatred with which Bruni spoke the name of Jenkinson and she had heard me reply, uttering the same name in tones of loathing and rejection and she had a little English, too. She had grasped the essentials: that these men were after him but didn’t know him when they saw him, and we didn’t mean to give him away.

  “She may be lying.” The Turk considered Klara thoughtfully. “How can we be sure how much English she knows?”

  “There’s an easy answer to that.” Signor Bruni was capable of gallantry but not apparently of humanity. He gave an order to one of his henchman. I didn’t understand what he said, but I understood well enough when I saw the man put a poker into the fire. I gulped in horror. Bruni actually smiled at me. “Jenkinson is reputed to have a gentleman’s manners. If so, he will not let me hurt her. Now will he?”

  My inside churned again with nausea. I pressed a hand to my stomach and felt, through my skirt, the dagger that was hidden as usual in the pocket just inside my overskirt. I could grip the sheath from the outside and slide the other hand in, and draw . . .

  It would be a terrible risk. My throat might be cut before I could get my blade out and stab backward. But either way, I would no longer be any use as a hostage and the men might have a chance to get their own daggers out and attack the enemy. I could see Jenkinson bracing himself to surrender. Heart pounding, I closed my fingers on the sheath.

  Klara heeded none of this. She had been sitting propped in the corner of her chair, leaning her head on her hand. Now she sighed, so that all eyes turned to her. Then she slumped forward and slithered untidily to the floor. Bruni uttered a startled exclamation and the Turk, moving quickly, knelt down beside her and lifted her head. Blood ran from her ear, and I saw to my distress that one side of her face was distorted, as though a hand were pressing on the flesh and dragging it downward.

  The man holding me was leaning forward to see. For a moment, his attention was not on me and his grip slackened. I caught the eye of Longman, who was nearest to me. He understood and in the same moment, he leapt at us and seized my captor’s wrist. With the knife gone from my throat, I twisted free and threw myself aside as the scene dissolved into pandemonium. Daggers appeared as if by magic. In a moment, the two sides would be killi
ng each other.

  That wasn’t at all what I wanted. I knew what I wanted. I knew how to get it, too. I’d found that out in the stableyard of Le Cheval d’Or on the night of the fire. It had worked on Dick Dodd. Last night, Klara had threatened the hysterical Helene with it. The pail of water was in its usual place by the hearth. I picked it up and threw the contents over the fight.

  “Stop that!” I screamed. “I hate the very name of Jenkinson! I want him dead! He isn’t here! We can’t find him! If you can, Signor Bruni, then for God’s sake go and do it and kill him for me!”

  They all stood there, a lot of very wet men, gazing at me in astonishment. My father-in-law’s jaw had dropped so far that he actually looked funny. Jenkinson was grinning broadly. “Go, Signor Bruni,” I said, “and find the man who is calling himself Dr. Ignatius Wilkins, and let him out of this world before he does any more damage to decent, innocent people! Go!”

  Signor Bruni removed the velvet cap that throughout all this had sat firmly on his head. Holding it in his hand, he bowed to me. “There is great passion in your voice, signora. I almost believe you.”

  “You would do well to believe her!” barked Blanchard. “Jenkinson would steal a rattle from a baby if it happened to be gold!”

  “And he’s as slippery as an oiled eel,” I added. “We know he hasn’t taken a passage on any boat for England. We think he might set off for somewhere else, to throw us off the scent. Go after him and save us the trouble! Please!”

  There was a short, tense pause, during which Bruni and the unsuitably named Morelli conferred. We waited. My father-in-law, using his imagination, said roughly to Jenkinson: “I told you to keep watch at the back door. Why do you never do as you’re bid?” and Jenkinson said: “I’m sorry, sir,” in tones of humble apology.