The King's Chameleon

by Richard Woodman

  ‘He probably resides in Amsterdam,’ one of his companions advised him unconcernedly. ‘Or perhaps Sir George has rendered him inactive with a sweetener of King Charles’s gold.’

  After that they continued to watch the dust fall by day and listen to the mice at night. In the event, it was four days before a man the Anglo-Dutch officers knew as Captain Armerer arrived with a letter signed Nebuchadnezzar.

  Rendition

  March 1662

  After withdrawing with Armerer out of his prisoners’ hearing, Faulkner read Downing’s letter. Although Sir George said nothing of his other victims, it was implicit that although he had succeeded in securing the Regicides, this had been far from easy. Faulkner was ordered to ‘accompany the bearer of this letter and discover in the port of Delft a craft capable of conveying the assembled cargo to the place of our disembarkation’. He was to charter such a craft – ‘the suitability of which I leave to your charge’ – and follow Armerer’s directions as to where it was to lie to embark its reluctant passengers. His own prisoners were by that time to be confined on board.

  Having read Downing’s missive, Faulkner looked at Armerer. ‘Do you know the contents of this letter?’ he asked.

  Armerer nodded. ‘I am jointly responsible with you for getting these people aboard your man-of-war.’ His English was so perfect that Faulkner concluded he too was English-born, a dispossessed cavalier, perhaps, who had wound up in the Dutch service and settled here with a buxom and satisfactory Dutch wife.

  Faulkner nodded. ‘Have you any idea of a merchant house willing to charter me a suitable vessel, or is that a test of my own initiative?’

  ‘I have the money,’ Armerer replied. ‘As for the knowledge of who to approach …’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘It strikes me that this is unplanned. I had wondered how the miracle was to be conjured. Tell me, what has transpired with the others?’

  ‘Kick and Miles met in the Oude Kerke and made the necessary arrangements while Downing was at The Hague. He managed to wrest an arrest warrant out of the Stadtholder – do not ask me how he did it but your use of the word miracle is not inapt, though I think he concealed his victims’ whereabouts to frustrate any later complications. The three Regicides were at Kick’s own house in the Nieuwe Langendijk where they had been drinking beer and smoking their pipes. Corbet was on the point of leaving his companions; they had his lantern prepared when Downing and his men, Miles, Kick, myself and a number of other English officers arrived. Downing served the warrant and restrained the three men in irons, but could only get them into the Steen, the prison within the Rathaus …’

  ‘What?’ Faulkner showed his surprise. This rodomontade indicated an unravelling of catastrophic proportion. ‘This is a repeat of the Dendy fiasco,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Certainly the diplomatic consequences may be profound,’ Armerer agreed. ‘Already, the local magistrates view the affair as breaching the integrity of Dutch sovereignty. Downing is obliged to keep a constant watch on the prisoners, consisting of his own servants. Several of the burgers, having visited the men in their cells, have got up petitions on their behalf. There have been some disturbances in the city …’

  ‘Yes, we heard something of that. But surely we now have a stalemate.’ Faulkner’s tone was one of disappointment, if not desperation. His own family was one thing, but he was unwilling to lend himself to so egregious an act as springing the Regicides from a Dutch city gaol.

  Armerer shrugged his shoulders again. ‘I will give Sir George Downing the laurels for his audacity. Despite the burgers’ protests to The Hague, he himself secured an order to the Bailiff of Delft from the hand of de Witt himself …’

  ‘The Stadtholder?’ Faulkner could hardly believe what he was hearing.

  ‘So I understand. The Bailiff is now compelled to handover the indicted men. The Stadtholder, or one of his secretaries at the very least, out-flanked the magistrates. Now Downing, having spread more gold than I can carry in my hat and both saddle-bags, is ready to move, while the Bailiff fears a riot if he does so. Ergo, sir, you and I must conjure a vessel, bring it to the narrow canal behind the Rathaus and – abracadabra – the deed is done.’

  ‘Abracadabra indeed …’ Faulkner, his mind in a whirl, considered the state of affairs. Clearly, he could not alter what Downing had done, howsoever he reprobated it. He dismissed the horrid implications of the night’s work and made up his mind. The sooner he did what was required, the better their chances of extricating themselves. He nodded to Armerer. ‘Thank you for your candour. Let us make ourselves less martial. We have three or four hours before darkness, by which time my eye and your Dutch must have secured us a suitable craft. Come, I must inform your companions.’

  Fifteen minutes later Faulkner and Armerer were casually walking along the quayside. The sensation of suppressed action troubled Faulkner’s belly; he found the lax deception difficult to accomplish, but fell in step with Armerer who had the knack of pretence. Faulkner concluded that such insouciance must be one consequence of mercenary service, for Armerer and his Anglo-English colleagues had been exemplary in their obedience and efficiency.

  A number of small vessels lay alongside the quay, several desultorily working cargo. They were all single-masted and cutter-rigged, broad of beam, bluff of bow and stern, with massively heavy leeboards on either side. Gay pendants flew from their thick masts, their huge rudders curled over their sterns, often decorated with carved heads of mythical beasts and long, curling tillers. Some of their stem-posts were curved, others straight and raked. Most were well cared for with thickly rosined timbers and gaily painted iron-work. They each betrayed their origins and their purpose by their build, which the Dutch could interpret with far greater skill than Faulkner. His own cursory knowledge identified them imperfectly as schuyts, tjalks, botters, or boiers, though he knew they ran to a dozen types. What he was looking for was one which most closely resembled the Dutch yachts which, in a generous moment which would be sadly defiled by the present enterprise, the States General had given to the restored King Charles and his brother James, the Duke of York.

  Towards the end of the quay lay a likely looking vessel. No-one was on deck but a curl of smoke rose from the chimney of the after cabin and a skylight showed a light was burning below. ‘That one,’ he said pointing her out to his companion. ‘Do you go aboard and throw your gold about. Tell them there’s an English gentleman and his family anxious to charter him. Half the money now …’

  ‘And half when we reach Harwich,’ Armerer said a little testily. ‘You, I take it, are His Lordship.’

  ‘Not a Lord, Captain Armerer, but a common knight. The nobility of the gold will testify to my own proof.’

  ‘Ha!’ Armerer grinned and made his way down the single, swaying gang-plank while Faulkner, watched by some curious by-standers and three or four boys, affected an air of nonchalance as best he could. He was far from feeling detached because it struck him that the King was spending his, Faulkner’s, money. He was torn between a cool fury and admiration that the impecunious Charles had secured half the profits on the Duchess of Albemarle not least to fund this present, desperate and egregious act. Not only was Faulkner being made to pay for securing the Regicides for the King, but also his own wife and son too. It began to rain as he turned this notion over in his mind, but it did occur to him that such a payment might, if he could obtain audience with the King, buy Henry his freedom. He had not forgotten the terrifying words with which Major Miles had apprehended the foolish boy.

  Armerer had boarded the Dutch vessel, causing a curious crew-member to apprehend him. Faulkner had watched him taken aft and disappear into the after cabin. A few minutes later he re-emerged, accompanied by a stocky man in baggy trousers, wooden clogs and a short blue jacket. Armerer indicated Faulkner’s figure, and the man pulled a narrow-brimmed hat over his head, looked up at the clouds and hurried up the gang-plank. Faulkner had no doubt that this was the skipper. Armerer follow
ed gingerly as the Dutchman approached him, uttering an incomprehensible torrent of a Dutch dialect which only afterwards Faulkner knew as Frisian, but which ended with the intelligible word ‘Koom’ which was accompanied by a beckoning motion.

  ‘He wishes us to follow, to the house of his principal owner. He is the skipper and part-owner …’

  ‘Sir Christopher,’ Faulkner muttered under his breath.

  ‘Sir Christopher,’ Armerer added in a louder voice for the benefit of the idlers. Faulkner heard some unfavourable remarks about the English, and Armerer jerked his head with an air or urgency.

  ‘We are not popular in Delft, Sir Christopher,’ he remarked somewhat archly. ‘Let us not tarry for fear they make two and two into four.’

  They followed the skipper as he led them to a house some way back from the quay and a few moments later found themselves ushered into a comfortable parlour in which a man and a woman were sitting.

  An exchange of greeting followed, and Faulkner learned that he was dealing with Jacobus Goedhart. The skipper had explained why he was troubling his partner, and Armerer answered a series of questions as to who wanted to charter the tjalk. Armerer’s explanation was inventive enough, for Faulkner grasped much of it. He winced inwardly at the use of his real name, but Armerer’s flourished use of his title had an impact, even on the stolid Dutch republican.

  ‘He says you know a good craft when you see one, Sir Christopher.’

  ‘Thank him, and tell him I admired the Dutch yachts that the States General presented to His Majesty King Charles and the Duke of York.’

  The exchange took place, then Armerer asked, his face bland, ‘Are you acquainted with the King?’

  ‘Tell him I am, though I have not made the acquaintance of the Duke of York. Tell him I have been in His Majesty’s private service.’

  Once again Faulkner waited while this was passed to the old man. ‘Our friend wishes to know if you have anything to do with the scandalous arrest of some other Englishmen in their city.’

  ‘Tell him no, but I have heard of it and I am anxious to get to England with my family, having been travelling only to get here and find all in turmoil. I require a boat from Delft because it is important that I get to London in order to explain the grave insult now being offered to the Seven United Provinces.’

  Armerer passed this on, then turned back to Faulkner. ‘D’you mean to tell the King himself?’

  Faulkner nodded emphatically. ‘It is my duty to inform His Majesty exactly what is going on,’ he said, the irony inescapable.

  Again Faulkner waited; then Armerer said, ‘That went down well, Sir Christopher. He offered you a roof for tonight, but I pleaded the urgency of your mission.’

  ‘Then be so kind as to settle the reckoning.’

  There followed a haggling which Faulkner affected not to watch, smiling instead at Vrouw Goedhart. He heard the chink of coin and the involuntarily indrawn breath of the old skipper, whose name they learned was Cornelius Bouws. ‘Pray ensure you make it clear that the skipper will receive a personal bonus from me when we reach Harwich,’ he loftily ordered Armerer. Old Bouws recognized the word ‘skipper’ and pricked up his ears.

  ‘Of course, Sir Christopher,’ Armerer answered with a wry deference. ‘There; all is done,’ he added after a few moments of further argument.

  Faulkner was aware that the others were all smiling. He smiled too, then said, ‘See to it that the boat is brought to my lodgings beside the Rathaus immediately. I would get my family aboard and under way before the night is upon us.’

  ‘Of course, Sir Christopher.’ Armerer gave a mock bow and passed the instruction.

  Mynheer Goedhart chivvied Bouws, and the skipper almost ran out of the house to do the bidding of his twin masters. Faulkner made a courtly bow to the happy couple and withdrew, with Armerer following as a pretty maid let them out of the house and secured the door behind them.

  ‘You to the tjalk,’ Faulkner said sharply. ‘The minute she is in the correct spot come directly to me and I shall have all ready. As soon as we leave our house to join her, you to the Steen prison and Sir George.’

  ‘Very well.’ Armerer hurried back to the boat while Faulkner made for the house, re-entering by the rear door. The relief at his return was palpable.

  ‘We think that you may have been seen leaving here,’ he was told by the guard on stand-by. ‘There were some noises in the street and again, knocking on the door. We think they may come back, possibly with a warrant …’

  ‘Very well. We must move with absolute caution, for we are to go tonight. I will need you two until our prisoners are secured on board a vessel which I have hired. We will embark near the Rathaus. Do you know where that is?’ The Anglo-Dutch officer nodded. ‘Good. I need now to talk to them and gull them if necessary. I will relieve your companion while you brief him and make yourselves ready. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Once Faulkner was alone in the room he addressed Judith and Henry. ‘In a moment I am going to knock off your leg-irons. You will both get up and walk slowly round and round the room to restore yourselves. In a little while we shall leave this place and go aboard a small vessel on our way to England. Hold your tongue, Henry, at least while you still command it yourself.’

  Judith gave a huge sob. ‘Husband …’ she began in a tone of miserable contrition.

  ‘Be quiet! Listen to what I have to say. I can save your mother’s life, Henry, of that I am sure, for the King wants no revenge upon a woman. As for you, despite the charge of High Treason at your arrest I am convinced that the King, in his mercy, may well be pleased to spare you upon the rightful pleading of your father. The King is obligated to me, the manner of which is private but to be relied upon. If you value your life, you must trust me on this, and I must needs trust both of you to accompany me in your rightful condition as my wife and son when we embark. Everything is contingent on this; everything. If either one or both of you think to raise the alarm, you will feel the point of my dagger.’

  He had been walking round and round, alternately catching the eye of each of them, impressing upon them the desperate sincerity of his plan.

  ‘Now, should we be apprehended, this is what you must remember. We are returned from Hamburg and are on our way to Helvoetsluys to take passage to Harwich. I heard of the arrests of Englishmen and, as a former Commonwealth commander, I seek to sail directly from here in order to remonstrate with the King. That is the story that covers our movement. You may talk in low voices about that as we walk to the boat; nothing else. The minute we are on board you will be confined until we are at sea. Do you both understand?’ He looked from one to another. ‘Henry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Judith?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Believe me,’ Faulkner said, moving towards the door, ‘I have undertaken none of this lightly. Its personal cost to me is immense, remember that. Immense. Neither of you have another soul under heaven that you may trust. Do exactly as I say and we may yet win through. Now, when the time comes – and it should not now be long – act with boldness and resolution. Remember our sentiments of righteous indignation; they at least can be Puritan.’

  Almost immediately after this confident address, Faulkner was beset by doubts. As he stood silently watching Judith and Henry, their shackles knocked off, first relieve themselves and then stagger round and round the room until their dizziness and unsteadiness had passed, he felt the cold grip of terror seize him. The risk they ran was breath-taking; at any moment the watch, armed with a warrant from the Bailiff, could break down the door and apprehend them. The forthcoming walk through the street would be after curfew, and while they might plead their English nationality and offer a bribe or two, nothing could be relied upon. And at the bottom of his anxiety lay his real fear – could he trust Judith and Henry?

  The call took longer to come than he had imagined, until he considered, realistically, the task of moving the tjalk under her sweeps to the
waterside of the Rathaus. It was about eight of the clock when Armerer’s cautious tap-tap could be heard on the rear door.

  ‘All is ready,’ he said simply.

  To Faulkner’s astonishment and relief their progress through the darkened streets went unchallenged. The night was cloudy, rain threatened and a brisk wind funnelled down the narrow alleyways so that he was unclear of its direction and had no idea of his bearings. He was equally relieved that neither Judith nor Henry disobeyed him. Four days of enforced silence and immobility seemed to have conditioned them in some way, robbed them of independence and stunned their initiative. They had been kept well-fed and adequately watered, but Faulkner’s strictures on silence had been enforced ruthlessly. Consequently, they did not even attempt to feign any discussion as they were hastened along. One of the two officers preceded them, leading the way, the other followed, walking immediately behind Henry. Faulkner marched just ahead of his son, his left arm tightly linked with his wife’s right and his pace such that she, only recently liberated from her hobbled state, could scarcely keep up. Armerer had, in accordance with his instructions, returned immediately to Downing at the Rathaus.

  The officer leading them acted faultlessly, and they did not have far to go. Faulkner caught sight of the huge towering spire of a church and a glimpse down a side-street of the open space of a market-square. He assumed the Rathaus must lie somewhere close, central, complimentary to the great church. They turned a corner, and he smelt water. The canal was narrow but the pale streak of it opened up the road home and his heart leapt at the prospect. Although still consumed by anxiety, Faulkner felt that at least the first hurdle had been jumped when he came in sight of the tjalk. Bouws had lowered her mast to pass under a bridge and had moored her as close to the Rathaus as possible.