by Stella Riley
‘Why?’
‘That, Mr Fisher, is my affair. Yours is whether or not you intend to answer my questions.’
‘Wrong, my fine popinjay. It’s to find out if you’ve the resources to make it worth my while.’
‘You mean you haven’t already made enquiries about my financial status?’ asked Luciano dryly. ‘You surprise me. However, you may take it that I’m well able to pay you.’
‘Good.’ A malevolent smile revealed a mouthful of rotting teeth. ‘Then I’ll take a thousand pounds.’
The narrow brows rose a fraction but the mellow tones remained unchanged.
‘I said I would pay you, Mr Fisher. I did not say I was willing to be fleeced. Five hundred.’
‘What’s the matter? Don’t the poor bastards you feed off bleed freely enough? Or have you forgotten that I’m the only one who can help you?’
‘Not at all. But at present I’m still awaiting proof of it.’ Impatience stirred and, repressing it, Luciano continued implacably, ‘I ask you again. Did you play any part in the trial?’
Samuel Fisher spread his swollen fingers on the arm of this chair and smilingly made his visitor wait for an answer. Then he said softly, ‘Yes. I was – as your clever friend was so quick to work out – the counsel for the prosecution. And that’s all you’ll get without showing me the colour of your money.’
Something turned in Luciano’s stomach. It was what he had come to hear and he ought to have been prepared for it, but somehow he wasn’t. Drawing a long, steadying breath, he pulled a heavy purse from his pocket and dropped it on the table, saying, ‘You’ll find it the same as anyone else’s. Now tell me why the trial record was suppressed – and by whom.’
‘Ah. Know about that, do you?’
‘Obviously. Well?’
Grunting a little, the old man reached out for the purse and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. He said, ‘I wonder what it cost you to find that out? Enough, I’ll wager, to double the disappointment.’
Refusing to be deflected, Luciano said, ‘It was you, wasn’t it? But why?’
‘I had my reasons. They’re not what you’re paying for.’
‘I can speculate, though. Information about the La Rochelle expedition was indeed reaching Richelieu … and the Duke of Buckingham, your patron, was obsessed with the French Queen around that time. One can see why a scapegoat might have been useful.’ The hard mouth curled a little. ‘Am I close?’
‘I thought you wanted to stick to the point. And the point is that your father’s ruin came about through information received and evidence presented in court.’
‘Information received from whom? An anonymous source? And evidence that, after the assassination of Buckingham, I believe you came to regard as highly – if not dangerously – dubious. Which brings us back to the trial record.’
‘Yes. I imagine you’d give a good deal to see the original of that particular document, wouldn’t you? Much more, shall we say, than this paltry five hundred.’
The cobalt gaze sharpened. ‘You have it?’
‘I might have. If that possibility hadn’t occurred to you, you can’t be as bright as you look.’
‘I’m certainly not stupid enough to put my trust in veiled allusions.’ An ominous silkiness invested the courteous voice. ‘Do you have it or not?’
‘What’s it worth?’
Without a word, Luciano pulled off the great, square-cut emerald that adorned his left hand and held it up to the light where it gleamed with fitful green fire.
A change came across the puffy, glistening face and Samuel Fisher said hoarsely, ‘Let me see it.’
‘You like emeralds? But of course you do. Who doesn’t? And this one – unusually for so large a stone – is quite flawless. I myself have never seen another like it.’ He paused and smiled invitingly. ‘Your move, I think.’
The Justice’s answer was to withdraw several folded sheets of paper from the breast of his filthy coat and clutch them mistrustfully to his chest.
‘Give me the ring.’
‘All in good time. First, I’d like to point out that I have been cheated once and don’t intend to repeat the experience. You will also, of course, realise that we are alone here.’
‘Slit my throat, would you?’
‘No. But fortunately there are other options.’ The stench in the room was fast becoming unbearable and Luciano wondered briefly how much longer he could control his stomach. ‘If you took the trouble to steal the document, you must have had a use for it. In which case, how come it’s still in your possession?’
‘That’s my business. But it’s genuine enough, if that’s what worries you.’ Clumsily, the fat hands unfolded enough of the papers for Luciano to catch a glimpse of the ornate heading. ‘And it’s complete. Now put the ring on the table.’
Slowly but without hesitation, Luciano did so – and had to catch the papers mid-air as the old man threw them at him in order to dive on the emerald. He scanned the sheets rapidly before refolding them with hands that were no longer entirely steady.
Then, realising that he had to get out or risk being sick on the spot, he said evenly, ‘Our meeting may not have been a pleasure, Mr Fisher …but at least it seems to have been to our mutual advantage and, with luck, need never be repeated. Enjoy your emerald.’
And, pursued by the eerie echo of Samuel Fisher’s laughter, he was gone.
* * *
Luciano had travelled to Lambeth by boat from Puddle Wharf but he couldn’t return the same way because the tide was against him. So after he’d got rid of his breakfast in the Justice’s overgrown garden, he walked down to the Stangate Stairs to look for a lighterman who would row him across to Westminster. He felt cold and curiously detached from everything except the folded papers in his pocket. Later, he knew, he would be glad that he hadn’t had to discuss his father with that rank and vicious old man; but for the time being, it was beyond him. He only wanted to go home.
The river was remarkably busy. Indeed, a noisy and oddly assorted flotilla of gaily bedecked crafts appeared to be sailing towards them from the City and eventually Luciano pierced his chilly cocoon to ask what was happening.
‘Don’t you know?’ was the boatman’s surprised response. ‘It’s John Pym and Mr Hampden and the rest. Now the King’s run off, they‘re coming back to Westminster so we can have a proper Parliament at last.’
‘Then let us hope that it lives up to your expectations,’ said Luciano indifferently. And relapsed once more into silence.
He left the boat at Westminster Stairs and set off on foot along King Street towards Charing Cross. It was a mistake. The way was virtually jammed with cheering crowds, through which marched the London Trained Bands with colours flying and drums beating as though in celebration of a huge victory. And outside the deserted palace of Whitehall was a chant of ‘Where is the King and his Cavaliers?’
Although he was well aware of the ominous significance of it all, Luciano merely continued to elbow his way through the jostling throng and head for Cheapside. The perilous path this nation was treading could wait; today was for his own affairs.
It was much later, in the solitude of his parlour, that he was finally able to examine his prize and find it everything he had hoped and feared it would be. The precise nature of the evidence was set down in meticulous detail, along with the names of the men who had supplied it. Luciano read and re-read the pages … and then sat simply staring at them while he waited for the reality of it to strike him.
Four names.
Giles Langley, Ahiram Webb, Thomas Ferrars and Robert Brandon.
Four faceless names.
All he had to do now was find the men they belonged to.
~ * * ~ * * ~
DEBATABLE LAND
June 1642 to September 1643
The God of peace in his good time send us peace – and it the meantime fit us to receive it. We are both upon the stage and must act those parts that are assigned to us in this tragedy. Let us do it
in a way of honour and without personal animosities.
Sir William Waller to Sir Ralph Hopton
ONE
‘I wonder,’ remarked Tabitha without raising her eyes from her embroidery, ‘if anything is ever going to actually happen?’
Everyone knew what she meant but for a moment it seemed that no one could be bothered to reply. Unmindful of her silks and trailing the inevitable pearls, Gianetta Falcieri del Santi sat on the grass and continued amusing Meg Bennet’s baby daughter with a string of amber beads; Kate put the finishing touches to a sketch of her sleeping nephew whilst considering the possibility that both babies – when they began to talk – might do so with Italian accents; and the bees droned on undisturbed amongst the roses until the peace was shattered by a violent discord as Celia’s hand swept angrily across the strings of her guitar.
‘Going to happen? It’s already happening – and has been for five months! Or do you suppose the Queen’s gone to the Low Countries for her health and the King’s in York for his own amusement?’
‘No. As I understand it, she’s gone to pawn her jewels and he’s raising an army. Just the same,’ said Tabitha with a mischievous smile, ‘as the Parliament’s supposedly doing. But what I meant was – is it ever going to amount to more than a few heated words in the market-place?’
‘No.’ Gianetta put down the beads in order to move little Eve into the shade. ‘Englishmen do not fight – they talk. Always talk, talk, talk. Is very boring.’
‘Eden doesn’t just talk,’ objected Tabitha. ‘He’s recruited twenty men already and --’
‘Tabitha.’ Kate stopped drawing and looked up. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Stop ill-wishing us all for the sake of a little excitement.’
‘I wasn’t. It’s only that I can’t help wondering if Eden’s ever likely to wear this.’ She held up the tawny silk sash, lovingly worked with silver thread. ‘It will be a pity if he doesn’t.’
‘A pity?’ Celia surged to her feet in a flurry of cherry taffeta. ‘My God – can’t any of you get it into your heads that taking up arms against the King is treason?’
‘If,’ said Kate, ‘it should come to that. And we must all go on hoping it won’t. But if it does … has Eden said that’s what he’ll do?’
‘No. He hasn’t said anything. But if he isn’t planning to throw in his lot with the Parliament – where is he now?’
‘I’ve no idea. You tell me.’
‘Consorting with Lord Saye at Broughton – or counting guns with one or other of the old man’s sons in Banbury. And you can stop pretending you don’t know what he’s up to. You do. All of you. But there’s a conspiracy to keep me in the dark.’
‘And if there is – can you wonder at it?’ sighed Kate. ‘Goodness only knows you make your feelings plain enough. And none of us wants the house to become a battle-ground.’
‘And I don’t want to find myself branded a rebel! My father’s with the King and my mother’s gone with the Queen. And --’
‘And our father sits in the Commons,’ interposed Kate, her patience beginning to wear thin. ‘Can’t you realise that it’s difficult for us all?’
‘She realise nothing.’ Gianetta raised a critical gaze to encompass Celia and stated the point of view dearest to her heart. ‘She is also very bad mother.’
‘How dare you?’ Celia spun round to meet this unexpected attack. ‘Just because I don’t choose to spend my days cooing over a cradle like some Italian peasant --’
‘I,’ said Gianetta flatly, ‘am no peasant. Is just I like babies.’
‘Well, you’re certainly marvellous with these two,’ offered Tabitha pacifically. ‘Mother says she’s never seen such a well-run nursery.’
‘I enjoy,’ shrugged the other girl. ‘And Meg is very good nurse-maid. But she love her little girl.’
‘Her little bastard, you mean.’ It was a sore point with Celia that Dorothy had not only insisted on Meg’s baby being reared at Thorne Ash but also installed Meg herself as nurse to both infants. ‘It’s absolutely disgraceful that my son has to share his nursery with that slut’s by-blow.’
‘Oh don’t start that again!’ Kate got up, brushing bits of grass from her skirt. ‘Meg’s not a slut. And as for Eve sharing the nursery – I don’t see how it can matter to you. You never set foot there if you can help it. In fact, I doubt if Jude knows you’re his mother.’
‘You wicked creature!’ gasped Celia. ‘It’s not true.’
‘No?’ Kate’s attention had wandered. ‘Well, I wouldn’t lose your temper over it just now. We have visitors.’
Celia checked herself and, along with the others, followed the direction of Kate’s gaze. Then, on an incredulous breath, ‘My God – Francis!’
‘Francis,’ agreed Kate, her tone still oddly remote, ‘and Kit.’
Celia was already skimming across the grass towards her brother. Watching Kate set off sedately in her wake, Gianetta said meditatively, ‘This Kit is the man she marry, yes? Which is he?’
‘The fair-haired one,’ replied Tabitha obligingly. ‘The other is Celia’s brother.’
‘Is so?’ A pause; and then, consideringly, ‘He is very elegant.’
‘Francis? Yes – isn’t he just.’ Tabitha looked her friend full in the eye and grinned. ‘And – so far as we know – unmarried.’
Tilting her head in almost imperceptible acknowledgement, Gianetta elected to change the subject. ‘But why is it not Kate who runs?’
Just at that moment, meeting Mr Clifford’s eyes and letting him kiss her cheek, Kate would have been hard-pressed to explain her feelings to anyone. His, it was perfectly obvious, were the same as they’d been in January; but that was less a relief than a responsibility. And though she was pleased to see him, she was just as pleased to see Francis … which wasn’t particularly surprising, since Francis didn’t come imbued with the same complications.
‘My dear!’ murmured Kit, holding fast to her hands. ‘At last. Had you quite given me up?’
‘I never give anything up,’ returned Kate lightly. ‘And your letters suggest you’ve been trying to girdle the earth since we last met.’
‘Something very like it. Windsor, Dover, Holland with the Queen; then to France bearing letters and back to York with yet more. Which reminds me – I’ve one for you from Venetia. And somewhere along the way, I ran into our prodigal friend here.’
‘So I see.’ Kate withdrew her hands whilst watching Francis similarly and carefully disentangling himself from Celia and then said, ‘French tailoring, Francis? It looks expensive.’
‘Exorbitant!’ he agreed, descending on her with an all-too-familiar glint in his eye. ‘Kate, my beloved – I’m stunned. Someone should have warned me such a metamorphosis was taking place and I’d have returned forthwith.’
‘At the risk of spending a few months in the Tower? Really?’
He snapped his fingers. ‘A mere bagatelle compared to losing you to such an unspectacular fellow. However. I understand there is as yet no formal contract between you, so I don’t despair. And, as a friend of such long-standing, I really don’t think Kit can object if I salute you as such.’ Upon which he placed his hands on her waist and lightly kissed both cheeks. ‘There! Aren’t you sorry you didn’t wait?’
‘Mountebank!’ said Kit, laughing.
And, ‘I’m glad to see,’ remarked Kate dulcetly, ‘that you’ve lost none of your customary éclat.’
‘My dear – only give me time and I’ll prove to you that I’ve lost absolutely nothing. But seriously now … it seems that I’ve to wish you joy. When is the great day to be?’
‘We haven’t decided yet.’ Smiling whilst silently damning him, Kate took his arm. ‘Come and see if you can dazzle Signor del Santi’s sister? Or, alternatively, if she can dazzle you.’
His brows rose. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning,’ cut in Celia shrewishly, ‘that the vulgar creature is simply laden with jewels.’
‘Really?’ Francis evinced signs of mil
d interest. ‘How intriguing. By all means let us go immediately.’
Still sitting on the grass, Gianetta acknowledged the introduction of Messrs Langley and Clifford with nothing more than a smile and a gracious inclination of her dark head. But the quality of the smile, languidly tantalising and full of subtle promise, was enough to make Francis decide to sacrifice his blue silk; or it might, thought Kate cynically, have been the pearls and rubies. At any rate, he tossed a bantering greeting to Tabitha and then dropped artistically on one knee beside Gianetta in order to kiss her dimpled wrist.
‘Signorina - how fortuitous. I believe I can give you news of your brother.’
Kate’s heart lurched.
Gianetta, on the other hand, merely raised uninterested brows and said, ‘Oh? He is back from Genoa?’
‘Very much so. He is in York.’
‘Indeed?’ Two syllables of complete indifference.
This time even Francis looked faintly nonplussed. Then Tabitha said helpfully, ‘York? What on earth’s he doing there?’
‘Principally, asking my father a stream of – dare I say impertinent? – questions about his late lamented cousin.’
‘Cousin Giles?’ Celia stared at him. ‘But he’s been dead for years.’
‘Precisely. So one naturally wonders what the signor’s interest might be.’
Gianetta shrugged. ‘Business. With Luciano, is always business.’
‘Ah.’ Francis flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his cuff and then looked up. ‘Kate?’
‘Don’t be silly. How would I know?’
‘Just a thought. I’m told that your esteemed parent has become the signor’s very good friend.’
‘Then you’d better ask Father himself, hadn’t you? He’ll be home in August.’
‘August? But that, dear Kate, is still some six weeks away – and who knows where I may be by then? So little time and so much to do, you know.’ He paused and then, waving a graceful hand at the two sleeping infants, said ‘I thought you’d only the one, Celia. Never say I’m an uncle twice over already?’