The King's Chameleon

by Richard Woodman

  After an estimated half an hour Faulkner beckoned to the girl, called for a pipe and tobacco and paid the reckoning. Having lit the clay pipe and settled his sword he gathered Miles’s saddle-bags and his own portmanteau and stepped outside. The yard was empty, though he could smell the adjacent stables, and rain was again falling, turning the isolated horse turds into a mire upon which a single lantern shed an intermittent light. The wind was getting up too. Sackler would be having a none-too-comfortable time of it offshore. Setting the bags down, he drew on the pipe and leaned against the masonry, half concealed by the shadow of a turn in the wall. An ostler crossed the yard at a lope, avoiding the rain and running for shelter.

  Faulkner wondered where Miles had gone and concluded he was checking up on the whereabouts of Judith and Henry – his family, as they had been emphatically characterized. Well, that was true enough, and he was master of that family. The notion that in order to redeem his honour he must be thus placed began to work upon him as he waited in the wet and windy darkness of the yard. And then he recalled Judith – Judith of the changed name, the purified, puritan Judith – Judith bringing him succour when he had been imprisoned in The Tower.

  Faulkner ground his teeth with fury at having been so put-upon and the pipe stem broke in his mouth. Just as he spat the severed mouth-piece to the ground a figure crossed the yard. Miles’s long strides were accompanied by a clinking noise the source of which remained unrevealed as the cavalry officer hissed: ‘Come!’ and turned about to lead him out of the yard. Faulkner dropped the remains of the pipe, picked up their traps and followed.

  Faulkner had no idea where they were, nor whither they went. The wind and rain drove into their faces for some yards until they turned down a side street and obtained some shelter. Further turns followed as they passed numerous houses from which chinks of light threw shafts on gleaming rain where candle-light caught the lancing downpour as it escaped the shutters. Noise, laughter and even music came and went as they hurried along, though the over-riding sound was the hiss of the rain, the howl of the wind amid the roof tops and chimneys and the squelching of their un-spurred boots. Then Miles stopped with such abruptness that Faulkner all but ran into him. He was aware of another man, of three other men, who had all been waiting for them in an alley. What little light there was fell upon something gleaming, and Faulkner again heard the chinking sound. Miles had acquired sets of manacles, and as if to confirm his fell intent, he turned to Faulkner and bent his head. The rain accumulated in the wide brim of his hat ran spouting into Faulkner’s upturned face.

  ‘We take no chances. These are Kick and a brace of his men. We’ll seize your people before they see who their gaoler is.’

  ‘Watch the boy,’ Faulkner said.

  ‘Of course,’ Miles responded coldly. ‘Leave those things,’ he said, indicating the baggage, ‘and draw your sword.’ There was a dull rasp as Miles’s own weapon left its scabbard. Then the men moved forward, turned a corner and within ten yards stood before a door. On either side the windows were shuttered, though a faint gleam escaped one of them. Faulkner was about to edge along and squint into the room but he had no time as Miles, divining what he was intending, grabbed his arm, restraining him and pushing him back against the wall.

  Faulkner heard Kick or one of his men knock on the door. It was a light knocking, that of a friend arriving late and unannounced rather than a party of assassins. There was no response, and the knock was repeated. A moment later Faulkner could just make out an enquiry from within. It was a man’s voice, speaking in English – and he recognized it.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Abraham Kick, Harry. I’ve John Barkstead with me. Open up in the Lord’s name, ’tis pouring out here!’

  Faulkner’s heart was racing as he heard the bolts withdrawn. The opening door flooded the wet street with light and then, without a note of protest from the startled Henry, the light faltered, flickered and went out. He would have recognized Kick, whom he presumably trusted, while the presence of Barkstead, one of the Regicides, was pure deceptive fiction. In a rush the men pressed forward, and a moment later Faulkner found himself in a short hall-way and Miles was hissing at him: ‘Get the bags inside and close the door!’

  Having done as he was bid, Faulkner turned back to the hall-way, which opened onto two rooms. The door on the left-hand side was wide open: within came the dull noise of a moment’s confusion; a rustle of struggling bodies, of gasps; and then, as Faulkner passed through the door, silence. He was confronted by his son Henry, pinioned in a chair, his arms behind his back, a silk scarf shoved into his mouth and one of Kick’s men kneeling at his feet slipping irons about his ankles. The links dragged on the floor-boards and chinked on each other. Not a word had been said, and the man Faulkner would come to know as Abraham Kick stood behind Henry in his chair, smiling at Major Miles, who stood before the prisoner. Without taking his eyes off Henry he asked Faulkner over his shoulder, ‘Is this person Henry Faulkner, Sir Christopher?’

  The light of recognition gleamed in Henry’s eyes as he saw his father loom over Miles’s shoulder.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Your wife is a-bed. I suggest you go up immediately and apprehend her.’ He nodded towards the stairs, and Faulkner turned about. Two men followed him, one carrying the second set of manacles. As they mounted the stairs Faulkner heard behind him the voice of Miles laying the terrible indictment.

  ‘Henry Faulkner, in the name of King Charles the Second, King of Great Britain, Ireland and France, you are charged with High Treason. I bear a warrant with the King’s sign manual for your arrest and close confinement …’

  Faulkner was on the landing now. Three doors led from it, and he was about to try one when another was cracked open. Instantly, the first of Kick’s men raised his leg and booted it open. There was a cry as the door struck the room’s occupant in the face as she attempted to peer through the crack. She fell back, and the man was through the door, bestriding her, his sword-point at her throat.

  ‘Not a word, woman!’ he snapped as a terrified Judith, on her back, her nightdress half-way up her legs, shuddered with fear. She was gasping for breath but might scream at any moment; Faulkner stepped quickly forward, dropped his sword across her belly, knelt at her side and clapped his gloved right hand over her mouth. The third man grabbed both her twitching ankles and manacled her.

  Faulkner looked down at the woman who had caused him so much trouble. For a moment she was too shocked to recognize him, but with his left hand he swept his hat off, throwing rainwater across her face. It was as though the droplets awoke her to the true nature of the living nightmare in which she now found herself. Like her son a moment or two earlier, her eyes opened wide with the dawning of comprehension. She attempted to bawl at him, and he felt the frustrated exhalation hot on the palm of his hand through the leather of his gauntlet, then the attempt to bite him.

  In a sudden vicious reaction, he compressed her open mouth between thumb and fingers so that he could feel the bony junction of her upper and lower mandibles. The ferocity of the grip and the pain it caused forced her to subside. He bent towards her. ‘I may yet save you if you keep your mouth shut!’ he murmured into her ear, retaining his cruel grip upon her face. ‘Do you comprehend what I am saying?’

  Looking down he saw tears of pain, humiliation and failure well up in her eyes. She closed them and managed, despite the constraint of his fist, to partially nod her head.

  ‘I am going to remove my hand. These men will leave the room and you will dress decently as if to travel. You are forbidden saying a word on pain of instant death. If you refuse my terms I shall have you charged with High Treason, the consequences of which are well known to you. Co-operate, and you will live.’ Her eyes were screwed up tightly now. He relaxed his hand, giving her enough room to indicate her agreement when he asked, ‘Do you accept my terms?’

  Very slowly he withdrew his fist and, never taking his eyes off her, he took up his sword and stood up.
‘Thank you,’ he said to the others in the room, ‘do you please wait below.’

  The two men withdrew, and Faulkner stepped back, allowing Judith to struggle to her knees and then, grasping the bed, to her feet. The irons rattled about her ankles. He kept his sword point implacably levelled at her. A mere extension of his arm would pierce her. She staggered, shuffling, her leg-irons chinking, half fainting from her fright. Still he did not trust her.

  ‘Do not think to extinguish the candles,’ he said sharply, surprised at his own ruthlessness. She stood, her back to him, half leaning on the bed, both arms straight before her braced against the mattress, her back heaving with the effort to draw breath evenly. ‘Do not waste all night in doing as I wish,’ he added as she quietly nodded and reached for her gown. He cast his eyes about the bed-room for any sign of a pin or knife. Still with her back to him, she slowly drew the nightdress over her head. She seemed to hesitate indecisively and then turned. She was naked and exposed herself to him in invitation. Once it might have worked, but he had tasted Kate Villiers’s lips and knew that nothing sweeter existed under heaven. He was filled with an utter contempt.

  ‘Do you seek now to transform yourself from Judith to Jezebel?’ he asked, his mouth in a merciless grin. ‘You are wasting your time – for one chameleon knows another. Get you dressed for pity’s sake.’ He finished with a short upward flick of the sword-point. Judith flinched; he had made his point.

  She dressed as he had instructed and when she had finished he ordered her to put into a small bag such necessaries as she would need for a short voyage. This done he drew backwards, opened the door behind him and stepped onto the landing, jerking his head for her to follow. Judith shuffled her feet; the chain links between the iron rings about her ankles were just sufficient to allow her to descend the stairs one at a time if she clung to the bannister. Below men’s faces looked up and watched as she came down the staircase and, passing between them, entered the room where her son sat, trussed in his chair.

  In Faulkner’s absence upstairs, Major Miles, Abraham Kick and his men had refreshed themselves from the house’s larder. Miles indicated a platter of cold meat and a pot of beer for Faulkner. He made to shake his head and then decided he needed meat and drink and quaffed what was laid out. Judith, meanwhile, had sat down.

  ‘Back to back,’ Faulkner said sharply, his mouth full of ham.

  ‘You learn fast, Sir Christopher,’ Miles said approvingly with a lop-sided grin.

  ‘There are some things that I learned before making the acquaintance of you and the Lord Protector’s Scoutmaster-General, Major,’ he riposted, referring to Downing’s former appointment in an attempt to confuse the prisoners.

  Miles nodded, unfazed by the mild rebuke, appreciative of Faulkner’s dissembling. ‘I wonder what Okey will make of it all,’ he remarked, turning towards Faulkner, his voice low and confidential.

  ‘Okey? Why so?’ Faulkner asked, frowning.

  ‘You do not know?’ Miles’s tone remained confidential, but his surprise was evident. ‘Why, Sir George was regimental chaplain to Colonel Okey’s own regiment.’

  Faulkner raised his eyebrows. And he had thought himself the only chameleon in the King’s service; it seemed they were everywhere.

  Kick’s men had by this time arranged the prisoners’ chairs so that they were back to back and separated by a foot or so. Miles introduced Faulkner to Kick, and Faulkner caught the look of pure venom Henry threw at Kick, a man he had thought his friend.

  Miles ushered them all out into the hall-way. ‘Abraham will leave these two men at your service,’ he said. ‘They are both English officers who have been in Dutch service and speak the language fluently. I shall leave with Abraham and you must wait here until you hear from “Nebuchadnezzar”. You may be here some time but rest assured you must remain here in patience, and you must not make contact with anyone outside these four walls.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘There is enough food in the house for a week. After that one of the officers will obtain more. I hope that it will not be that long – but it may. Only ensure that that pair in there make no noise, nor gull you when they wish to void themselves.’

  Faulkner nodded.

  ‘Kick tells me they have few servants: a maid and cook who live out. His men will buy them off when they appear tomorrow.’ Miles looked about him. ‘They rent this place but I have no idea how they pay. Let us hope that we are out of here before the reckoning is due.’

  When Miles and Kick had left them, Faulkner went into the room and faced first Judith. ‘You will make no sound,’ he said. ‘The only thing of which you may speak is to ask for the piss-pot. Nothing else. D’you understand?’ She nodded; he noted she seemed calmer.

  He then confronted Henry. ‘Did you hear what I said to your mother? Nod your head if you did.’ Henry remained motionless and without further ado Faulkner removed his glove and struck it across his son’s face. Henry gasped with the shock as much as the sting of the leather. ‘Do not play with me, boy. Did you hear what I said to your mother?’ Faulkner repeated. His eyes filling with tears, Henry nodded miserably.

  Faulkner leaned forward and drew the silk from Henry’s mouth. The lad swallowed hard, trying to work saliva into his mouth. ‘I witnessed your expression when you recognized Kick for a turn-coat,’ Faulkner said, almost conversationally. Henry croaked inaudibly, trying to master the sensation of near throttling caused by the silk gag. ‘Now,’ his father went on, ‘you begin to comprehend treachery, and of that I am glad.’ Faulkner paused and let all the implications of this sink in. From the sheen of sweat forming on Henry’s face he concluded the young man had assimilated some of them. ‘Now listen,’ Faulkner went on, lowering his voice, ‘if I am to do anything for you, you will obey me to the very letter. Do you understand that? To the very letter?’

  Henry nodded and swallowed hard. Faulkner watched as tears ran uncontrollably down his cheeks and he began to sob, his body wracked by it. No right-minded man likes to see another weep, least of all his own son; Faulkner turned away.

  Long afterwards Faulkner recalled the days that followed as the worst of his life. Men of Faulkner’s stamp find charged idleness the worst ordeal that fate can ordain they undergo, for the responsibility they bear while remaining inactive is likely to drive an active fellow mad. Fortunately, he had the staunch and unflinching support of the two Anglo-Dutch officers, who better understood the complications of the situation in which Downing and his fellows must of necessity operate. They knew little of the detail, being mercenaries bound by honour to their current paymaster, but they understood that the extraction of those under the protection of the States General was illegal and impossible, without some form of warrant.

  ‘Your Sir George Downing is as slippery as an eel and as cunning as a fox,’ one of them remarked, ‘but he will lay-out gold and succeed in time.’

  Time. That was the trouble. The two Dutch house-servants arrived early the following morning and were met and dismissed – not without a suitable fee to help them delay opening their mouths prematurely. After this brief flurry of excitement, boredom competed with a necessary vigilance, so that it seemed that the five inhabitants of the rented house existed only to watch the motes of dust descend slowly through the air from wherever they came. Faulkner and the two officers set up a roster, one man constantly watching the two prisoners, who were allowed to walk about the room one-at-a-time and were fed twice a day. They were allowed to relieve themselves behind a screen as necessary, and the door to the room was kept locked. It had only one window, which let onto a small courtyard in the rear of the house, and this could be barred. A padlock was applied to the bars. The chief danger was that the guards would fall asleep out of boredom. The two officers could leave the house if they did so discreetly from the rear, but Faulkner was confined like his prisoners, though he had the liberty of more rooms, and unfettered feet. No weapons were kept exposed in the room itself for fear of either Henry or Judith getting
hold of them, but each of the three guards carried a dagger in his waistband under his doublet, which would be difficult to extract even if he dozed off. Outside, three bared swords lay ready on a table and three wheel-locks lay alongside them, fully charged. At the slightest noise from inside, those without could enter fully armed and, while one man was on guard inside with the prisoners, another was obliged to sit in a chair in the hall-way, ready to answer a call for help, or investigate a suspicious noise. Each man did four hours within, four without and was allowed four hours in bed. In this way three days passed.

  On the fourth morning there came a great knocking on the street door. Faulkner and the English officers were instantly on their feet and the light of hope kindled quickly in the prisoners’ eyes. Faulkner, his sword drawn, went in and joined the officer on guard.

  ‘Not a word,’ he snarled at the prisoners. The man on stand-by went to the door and laid his ear against it. Faulkner could hear voices outside, but after a further knocking, the voices faded. Their visitors had gone. As Faulkner went out into the hall-way, re-confining the prisoners, the officer at the door turned towards him.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ he said in a low voice. ‘From what they seemed to be saying amongst themselves, I gathered that they had come as friends of the others to warn them –’ he nodded towards the room with the prisoners – ‘that something was afoot.’

  ‘Downing must have picked up the Regicides,’ Faulkner remarked.

  ‘It seems so, because I distinctly heard a man say: “Perhaps it was the young Englishman who betrayed them and he and the woman have already gone.”’

  ‘It would be a timely irony if they thought that,’ Faulkner said.

  Something was certainly afoot because a day later more people assembled outside and once again the officers eavesdropped. There was some disturbance in the town, they gathered, and there were those who wished to break into the house until someone reminded them all that it belonged to a Mynheer Maarten de Vliet, a name that seemed to deter them from further action. Who or what Mynheer de Vliet was, Faulkner never knew, though knowing their landlord’s name made the threat of his sudden appearance more of a reality. No-one apparently alerted de Vliet to the probability that his tenants had vanished, or at least not for the period that Faulkner and his associates occupied his premises.