Taking first his seat and then the glass of wine the unknown Sir George held out to him, Faulkner awaited Clarendon’s explanation.
Having sipped his wine, the Earl made a gesture to the third man, who had now resumed his own seat. ‘Sir Christopher Faulkner,’ Clarendon said, ‘may I introduce you to Sir George Downing, His Majesty’s Minister at The Hague … Sir George, Sir Christopher Faulkner, Captain in His Majesty’s Navy and a considerable owner of his own tonnage to boot.’
The two men nodded at each other across the table. Downing’s face remained in shadow. Faulkner’s mind was racing. Setting aside the possible jibe Clarendon had made at his ship-owning, Faulkner could only associate this all-but-secret midnight meeting with the ambassador to The Hague with his wife’s presence in The Netherlands. Having drawn this conclusion he kept his mouth shut, sipping again on Clarendon’s excellent wine.
‘Now, Sir Christopher, Sir George is here with certain intelligence, and I have asked you to join us because it is both my intention and the King’s will that thou should attend Sir George to The Hague, whither he returns shortly.’
‘Forgive me, My Lord, but has Sir George, in his capacity as the King’s Minister, need of my attendance?’
The two men exchanged glances and smiled at each other. Clarendon explained. ‘From time to time circumstances find Sir George under an obligation to undertake certain tasks that fall beyond the remittance of a Minister Plenipotentiary, Sir Christopher.’
Faulkner recalled hearing at the Trinity House a vague story about a bungled attempt to secure the person of one of the Regicides, Edward Dendy, in Rotterdam. A cold apprehension closed round his heart as he felt the influence of the King. Not content to compel Faulkner to relinquish his share of the profit in his new ship, Faulkner was now to be made to act in a manner that would compromise his honour and make him the King’s creature. It flashed across his mind that Judith may have been right – he was indeed the King’s chameleon. And it was as quickly followed by a second thought, that Fate was again thwarting him from living with his beloved Katherine. Both Clarendon and Downing were studying him, as if attempting to divine whether or not he understood what was being asked of him.
‘Am I to assist Sir George in the seizure of Regicides in The Netherlands, My Lord?’
‘You are.’
‘And may I ask, Your Lordship, whether this action is—’
‘It is clandestine, Sir Christopher,’ Downing broke in, thereby avoiding any reference to the legality – or otherwise – or the proposed mission. ‘And I am sure you can guess why we have asked you to assist in this delicate matter.’
Faulkner sat back in his chair. ‘I assume that my wife lies at the bottom of it.’
‘Your wife is proving a deal of a nuisance, Sir Christopher,’ Clarendon broke in, his tone mild. ‘In fact she and her – your – son are known to be caught-up in a plot to kill the King.’
‘To kill the King!’ Faulkner sat bolt upright. It was not that he had not considered the matter but it was one thing to think the unthinkable in the privacy of his bed, when the black dog had his soul in its teeth, and quite another to have it said to his face by the King’s First Minister.
‘We have been watching them both for many months, Sir Christopher,’ Downing said. ‘They are in almost daily contact with three of the Regicides, John Okey, Miles Corbett and John Barkstead. I intend apprehending these men, and I require your assistance in seizing your wife and son. His Majesty has given orders that Lady Faulkner should be placed under your own protection, Sir Christopher …’ Downing gave Faulkner a meaningful look.
‘You are a most fortunate man,’ Clarendon added, ‘but His Majesty has an aversion to executing women.’
‘And my son?’
‘Will submit to the rigour of the law. The evidence suggests the charge will be High Treason.’
‘Dear God!’
‘Your duty is quite clear,’ said Downing, persuasively.
‘I do not need to be told my duty, Sir George,’ he growled.
‘You will take ship at Harwich,’ Clarendon said, interrupting in a smooth and conciliatory tone, ‘where the Blackamoor – Captain, Tobias Sackler – has been withdrawn from the fishery to convey Sir George back to Helvoetsluys. I have made out an order that Sackler is to take all directions regarding the conduct and management of the Blackamoor from you, Sir Christopher, as his senior officer.’ Clarendon paused, picked up and passed a paper which bore a heavy seal across to Faulkner. The seal and the name scrawled across the top of the paper – Charles R – told him what this was: a commission from the King.
‘It is dated from the commencement of His Majesty’s reign. You are indisputably the senior officer.’ Faulkner frowned. The King had dated his reign from that of his father’s execution; to be commissioned thus was a mark of singular approval – or something of a bribe.
‘His Majesty wished to acknowledge his debt to you. It is a privilege the weight of which—’
‘I feel, My Lord. Believe me I feel.’ Faulkner nodded and rolled the paper, tucking the seal inside. ‘I shall need to gather some personal effects.’
Clarendon and Downing exchanged glances and the former nodded.
‘Very well, Sir Christopher,’ said Downing. ‘Major Miles will attend you and act as escort. My coach will be on Tower Hill at dawn. I shall expect you and Miles to join me there. Please ensure that you travel light.’
‘You may go, Sir Christopher,’ said Clarendon, ‘unless, of course, you have further questions?’ Faulkner rose and shook his head. He had a score of questions, but none would be answered in this room. ‘Very well. Then I thank you for your offer of service. I can assure you that should this matter fall out as we intend, His Majesty will not be unmindful of your services.’
There was always the possibility of Royal Clemency for Henry. For a moment Faulkner felt light-headed, thinking old Sir Henry Mainwaring stood at his side. Perhaps, he thought afterwards, his shade had indeed come to Faulkner’s assistance, but he recalled his old master sufficiently to bow to Clarendon and murmur, ‘Please assure His Majesty of my loyal devotion.’
Clarendon nodded. ‘You may leave the way you came. Miles awaits you.’
Faulkner turned away from the focussed brightness of the candelabra and regarded the darkness that hid the panelling and arras. Behind him Clarendon tinkled a little hand-bell. Suddenly, a darker rectangle appeared and in it the faintly perceived and oddly sinister figure of the cavalry officer stood. Faulkner followed Miles, the door fell to behind him and they clattered down the narrow stairs, along the passages and out into the freezing night and the still steaming horses.
Part Two
Contagion
1662–1666
On His Majesty’s Secret Service
March 1662
On reaching home Faulkner found Gooding awake, wrapped in a robe and sitting beside the parlour fire which he had made up. Gooding rose wearily, about to speak until he saw the tall figure of Major Miles follow Faulkner into the room.
‘This is Major Miles, Nathan; Miles, my partner and brother-in-law, Nathan Gooding.’
Each man made an acknowledgement of the other, and Faulkner bade Miles make himself comfortable in the parlour, asking Gooding to accompany him to the room above.
‘Is your brother-in-law …?’ Miles asked pointedly, though without finishing the question.
‘Is my brother-in-law to be trusted, is that what you were about to ask, Major?’ Faulkner said, drawing the rolled commission from his doublet.
‘I have my orders, Sir Christopher,’ Miles said darkly.
‘I have mine too, Major, and this commission –’ Faulkner laid the paper on the parlour table – ‘which you may read at your leisure whilst I gather a few effects for our journey.’
‘What journey?’ interrupted Gooding.
‘I’ll tell you in a moment.’ Having silenced Gooding, Faulkner turned back to the cavalry officer who was now sprawling in the chair rec
ently vacated by Gooding, his boots out towards the fire, his feathered hat on the table and his gloved right hand drawing the commission towards him. ‘That commission makes it clear that I am, and have been for some time, a Captain in His Majesty’s Navy, so I would be obliged, Major Miles, for a moment or two to myself.’
Leaving Miles to grin sardonically, he turned and shoved Gooding before him up the stairs. Once in the room above Faulkner bid Gooding remain silent and listen.
‘I have no time, Nathan, for lengthy explanations, but the King has thrown me a line and posted me a Captain. I am to go abroad into the Low Countries to smoke out Judith and Henry. If I can get them home I think that we might be cleared of trouble, but ’tis a mighty gamble. If not, God alone knows what will happen to us, but I need you to do exactly as I say. It is now the end of February. In a week from this night, do you have old Toshack bring the Hawk to Harwich. He is to watch for a small man-of-war called the Blackamoor. I think her to be a pink, or some such vessel. If he sees her he is to await orders from me. If she does not come by the end of March and he has heard from neither of us, he is to return to his moorings. Is that clear?’
Gooding nodded and Faulkner went on. ‘Tomorrow you must send Hannah to wait upon Katherine Villiers at Leicester House. Do you know where that is?’
Gooding had baulked at the mention of Katherine’s name, but he nodded and said: ‘Near Drury Lane.’
‘Yes. Hannah is to present her compliments to Mistress Villiers and introduce herself. She is to explain that Mistress Villiers will be welcome here as soon as she is quit of her responsibilities and duties in settling the affairs of the late Queen of Bohemia –’ Gooding looked up as Faulkner drove on – ‘to whom she has been principal Lady-in-Waiting. Hannah is to tell Katherine that I have been sent by Lord Clarendon’s personal order upon a special service. You know its nature and purpose but it is unnecessary that either Hannah or Katherine is made aware of it at this time. Tell Hannah that I rely upon her to execute this instruction as I do you to ensure all this is accomplished, for I cannot do it myself.’
Gooding nodded. ‘I understand … at least I understand that which you wish me to undertake.’ He hesitated, and Faulkner was about to speak when he went on, ‘Kit, does this foray into the Low Countries have anything to do with the Regicides there?’
‘I cannot tell you that.’
‘You already have. Is Judith …? Yes, I see that too. What shall you do? You cannot despatch her in preference for this … this Villiers woman.’
‘I am not without honour, Nathan. I am simply without alternatives. You must trust me to act as best I may. I would not have Judith dead, no, nor Henry … especially not Henry, but now I must go and gather my effects. Do you go and quiz that fellow below stairs.’
‘I would rather walk to Hell on hot coals.’
‘I think that is what I am about to do,’ Faulkner said, turning his back and making for the small attic room where he threw his precious telescope, his wheel-lock, some powder, balls, his cuirass and a few other useful odds-and-ends into his portmanteau before clattering down the stairs to his bedroom; here he added small clothes. By now the house was roused, and in his haste he was aware of the inquisitive faces of the maids. Then Hannah, wrapped in a blanket, met him at the head of the lower stair.
‘Father, what is it? Why all the noise?’
Faulkner lowered the portmanteau and drew Hannah towards him. ‘I am called away on state business, my dearest Hannah. I shall be back in a week or two; your uncle will tell you all about it and what you are to do in my absence. I am sorry, but I have no time now and must be off.’
‘But where are you going, Father?’
Faulkner did not answer; picking up his traps he drew them downstairs and left them by the front door. Summoning Miles from the parlour, where he picked up his commission and returned it to his doublet, he shook hands with Gooding and went out into the night. Hoisting the portmanteau up behind his saddle, he mounted and an instant later he and Miles had gone.
Captain Tobias Sackler was a thin, pinch-faced man who seemed to feel the cold north-north-easterly wind coming off the North Sea to churn the brown waters of Harwich Harbour into a nasty little chop as a personal assault. A pendulous dew-drop hung from the end of his nose, which was unusually large, as though his Creator, in forming Sackler’s proboscis, had drawn most of its substance from his face. Thus his cheeks were drawn and hollow, his jaw pointed and his eye sockets deep-set. Only his round dome of a forehead seemed to have resisted this process, while his eyes reinforced the notion of a man permanently frozen, being of an icy pale-blue. He wore no wig, the lank wisps of hair that protruded under the brim of his plain round hat made a poor attempt at a fringe, shedding a considerable quantity of dried scurf which clung tenaciously to the shoulders of his cloak as he stood to greet his guests upon the wind-swept deck of His Majesty’s Pink Blackamoor.
Downing suggested they went immediately to the cabin, where if he expected a glass of fortifying wine he was to be disappointed. In the coming days Faulkner would learn that, whatever first-appearances suggested to the contrary, Tobias Sackler was a stickler for doing his duty and had no time for fol-de-rols. He was pure Commonwealth, through-and-through, which made him an odd choice for this mission. If Faulkner foresaw trouble in this assessment it was clear from the start that Sackler was a seaman of competence. Nor did he seem in the least aggravated by Faulkner’s presence, the purpose of which Downing made clear as he handed Sackler a written order from the Admiralty Board.
‘You will see from your orders, Captain Sackler, that you are required to place yourself and the vessel under your command at the direction of myself and Captain Sir Christopher Faulkner. Sir Christopher has a commission—’
Sackler looked up from his brief scanning of the Admiralty letter. ‘Sir Christopher’s reputation is well known to me, Sir George,’ he interrupted. ‘I am perfectly acquainted with my duty. I have the cable hove short and this wind, being in the nor’-nor’-east, will allow us to leave if we do so before it veers.’ He paused a moment, and then went on. ‘The Blackamoor provides but poor accommodation, I fear, but please make yourselves at home. I have ordered dinner, such as it is, for an hour hence, though I have no table-money.’
‘I have that if you wish to obtain some provisions,’ put in Downing.
‘It seems scarcely worth the wait. I can have you off Helvoetsluys by tomorrow evening; until then there is enough. I will gladly accept the money and provide some viands for the homeward passage.’
‘Very well,’ said Downing, whereupon Sackler left then to attend to his duties on deck. Downing looked about him. ‘Looks as though we shall be on short commons gentlemen,’ he said to Faulkner and Miles.
Short commons they may have been, but after a sleepless night and a jolting journey from London to Harwich, made at a fast clip thanks to frequent changes of horses, they were sufficient to enable Faulkner to sleep. He woke, uncomfortable and stiff, shortly before the following dawn. The Blackamoor had cleared Harwich and doubled Landguard Point before dark. In threading his way out though the sands to the Sunk, before finding deeper water, Sackler proved himself a master of his craft, reacting to the cries of the leadsman in the fore-chains as the pink’s head was set for the Herringfleet and the Dutch port of Helvoetsluys.
Sackler was still on deck when Faulkner, wrapped in his cloak, dopey from sleep and stiff beyond remedy, staggered out onto the wet deck. Sheets of spray flew inboard over the weather bow, and at first it seemed to Faulkner that Sackler, a thin figure that seemed part of the Blackamoor herself, was the only man on deck. Then he was aware of others hunkered down under the weather rail, out of the wind, and a brace of men at the tiller, their pale faces faintly illuminated by the binnacle lamp.
Faulkner moved uncertainly across the deck, staggering uphill against the heel and grasping the after mizzen shroud.
Sensing his presence, Sackler turned. ‘Good morning, Sir Christopher.’
&nb
sp; ‘Captain Sackler,’ Faulkner responded shortly. The two stood in silence for a moment, then Faulkner observed, ‘I regret I have not my sea-legs; it is some time since I was at sea.’
Sackler grunted, but said nothing more, returning his attention to the distant horizon. Faulkner was at a loss to know quite what he was doing on deck, for they were clear of the land and the off-lying shoals and, while half a dozen smacks were in sight to leeward, there seemed nothing pressing that an officer-of-the-watch might not handle.
‘You have competent officers, Captain Sackler?’ Faulkner said, provoking Sackler to turn round. The first light of dawn fell upon his odd features, causing a skeletal impression, but there was enough light for Faulkner to watch as the dew-drop fell, only to be replaced, a few moments later, by another. Sackler’s thin lips drew into a smile; even in the half-light it was a surprisingly warm smile, which struck Faulkner as odd in the extreme, appearing as it did upon the face of a man who might have passed for Jack Frost himself.
‘I prefer to remain on deck at night, Sir Christopher. My officers are very good, but young and prone to hiding from the wind. We have been some months on the fishery, and they are best in daylight when their services are most needed. Young men need sleep more than older men so I cat-nap in the daytime and, when on a passage such as this, prefer my own company on deck.’ Without any change in tone or pace Sackler added, ‘We served under Blake together, Sir Christopher. I was in his flagship off the Kentish Knock and Dungeness.’
‘Ahh. I thought you a Commonwealth man.’
Sackler shrugged. ‘Times change and a man must earn his bread, if only for his dependants.’
Faulkner thought for a moment and then threw caution to the winds. ‘What do you know of your present duty?’
‘Why, sir, to convey our Minister to the United Provinces back to his post at The Hague by way of Helvoetsluys.’
Faulkner thought Sackler’s response was guarded, and he remarked with an air of casual amusement, ‘A most diplomatic reply for a diplomatic mission.’
The King's Chameleon Page 12