She looked around, at the silver-barked trees, at the patches of blue sky seeping through the canopy above. A small mouse-like creature, a black stripe running the length of its furry back, scurried across the tapestry of fallen leaves beneath the hooves of her silken horse.
‘I understand, but you were born here, Percy. This is your home. As England is mine.’
‘I will change your mind yet. But come. We have to leave the path now. Our destination is well hidden.’
She raised a hand to her mouth. ‘We are not – are we?’
He winked. ‘Wait and see.’
Not far into the deeper forest, they tied their horses to a fallen trunk and set out on foot. The light was more elusive here, penetrating the dense trees in stark rays and columns, tiny floating detritus whirling in its invisible grasp. With each step Mercia’s expectation grew; she knew where he was taking her, but the confidence he was showing and the thought of meeting men who would have known her father pricked her with excitement.
‘You must not tell anyone where this is or who is here,’ said Percy, as their boots kicked through the drying leaves. ‘Not even Nathan.’
‘Percy, the trees all look the same to me. Besides, Nathan would never reveal anything. He is a true Parliamentarian – or what used to be called a Parliamentarian, anyway.’
‘That may be, but I have expended a lot of effort into keeping this place safe. The fewer people who know about it the better.’
‘Then why bring me?’
He turned his head. ‘Because they have asked for you.’
Observing as he curled in a finger each time he made a slight turn, meticulously counting off each section of his route, she soon followed him out to reach a small hollow surrounded on three sides by a series of close-linked rocks. The entrance was wide, while a narrow cleft in the back served as an alternative way out. The sound of water trickled through the gap, signifying the presence of a nearby river, probably the same that cascaded over the waterfall near Meltwater.
‘Wait here,’ he said at the entrance.
He held his palm towards her, then leapt onto the rocks to make a tour of the hollow’s crest, jumping over the cleft with ease. His circuit concluded, he jumped back down, his previous easy demeanour replaced by a serious air. Of a sudden it struck her that she was alone in the woods with a man she did not much know, from a town with an unidentified killer. She stepped subtly back, keeping a reasonable distance between them.
As she followed him into the hollow, she noticed how one of the rocks on the left side stuck out from its neighbours, hiding the area immediately behind: a feature not at all obvious even at the hollow’s entrance. Behind the protrusion, a dark space came into view, a low opening just large enough for a person to crawl through.
‘I cannot expect you to squeeze into here,’ said Percy. ‘If you wait, I will fetch them.’ He disappeared inside the opening, and she was alone in the wood.
It was the middle of the day, but the light was dim here. This was the true wild, not the forests of Oxfordshire where she could ride in one direction and hope to find a road or a track. If Percy never re-emerged, and she headed the wrong way, she could ride for days and never reach anywhere. Nobody knew how far America stretched westwards. A nervousness took her, the wind in the grasses and trees stoking her unease.
An unseen bird hooted its shrill call, making her jump. A sharp cracking from behind the narrow cleft nearly made her scream. Probably an animal, she thought, but she put her head through to check. There was nothing in sight, and then – another crack, and a deer broke cover and ran away. She let out a sigh of relief. Then a finger tapped her shoulder, and she did scream.
‘By God’s truth!’ Percy stood behind her, his face white. ‘I hope nobody is nearby, or they will come running.’
She was back in her skin. ‘Don’t creep up on people like that!’
For a moment his eyes blazed, but then they softened and he nodded. ‘You are right. I should have whispered.’ He looked to the cleft. ‘What were you looking at?’
‘What?’
‘Through the gap?’
‘Oh.’ Her heart was still pumping fast. ‘Just a deer. Nothing.’
‘All the same, best we wait a short while to be sure.’
She glanced at the dark opening. ‘They will not just come out?’
‘Not until I give the signal.’
They stood in silence, almost holding their breath. The sounds of the forest seemed amplified, each falling leaf audible as it landed on the deepening mosaic that stretched over the covered earth. After five minutes, Percy relaxed his shoulders. He returned to the hollow’s other side, walking four times in front of the cramped opening, scraping his boot on a jagged rock beside it and clearing his throat seven times, using a melody of sorts. Seconds later a scrambling noise emanated from within the cave and a man’s head emerged, followed by the rest of his body; stretching his arms skywards, he drew himself upright.
‘That call is a little convoluted, Percy,’ he said.
Mercia broke into a broad smile. The man’s creased face was dirty, his grey hair speckled with a dusty brown film, but she recognised him easily enough. She walked towards him, arms outstretched.
‘Colonel Dixwell.’ She clapped her hands quietly together. ‘I am so pleased to see you again, peculiar setting though this is.’
‘Mercia Blakewood.’ Dixwell’s timbre was no less joyous. ‘A peculiar setting indeed, but we do seem to meet in such circumstances.’ He grabbed her shoulders, shaking them in gentle affection. ‘Now,’ he said, releasing his grasp. ‘There are two gentlemen here with a great desire to meet you.’
She could not help but beam. ‘I cannot think why.’
‘Because you are the child of Rowland Goodridge, of course.’ He leant in closer. ‘But more so because I have told them of your adventures in New Amsterdam and they do love a good story.’ He corrected himself. ‘Although I suppose I should now say New York.’ He barked the last word with a scoff; his antipathy for the Duke was obvious.
Behind him, another figure was emerging from the cave, standing very erect – a man with obvious military heritage. Then another came out, taking a little longer, betraying his more advanced years, but he too stood proudly, dusting the dirt from his worn jacket. The two men looked at Percy; he nodded, and they approached.
‘Mrs Blakewood.’ The elder of the two bowed. ‘I cannot tell you how much pleasure this meeting gives me.’
‘Nor I,’ said the younger. ‘To meet Rowland’s daughter at last, albeit in these wilds, is a great honour.’ His eyes saddened. ‘I am deeply sorry for what befell him last winter.’
‘Thank you.’ She acknowledged the sympathy with a demure nod. ‘It would have given him equal pleasure to know that you are all three still alive.’
‘Allow me to introduce you to William Goffe,’ said Dixwell, pointing to the younger man. ‘And Edward Whalley.’ He nodded towards the elder.
‘The King-killers,’ smiled Goffe. ‘Father-in-law and son-in-law both.’
‘William.’ Whalley frowned a gentle admonishment. ‘But in seriousness, Mrs Blakewood, we are happy to meet you.’
‘How are you faring?’ she asked, looking towards the opening. ‘I fear there is not much of comfort in that cave.’
‘Indeed not,’ said Goffe. ‘But the alternative is death, and with God’s support we will endure it. ’Tis only for a short time, until we journey elsewhere.’ He looked at Percy, who nodded once again. ‘We will depart northwards soon.’
‘Although there, too, we must remain in hiding.’ Dixwell sighed. ‘At least, these two must. I have not yet decided what course I should take. I am not sure the safe house will accommodate all three of us.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I am rather an unexpected guest.’
‘We will think of something,’ said Percy, setting off on another circuit of the surrounding rocks.
‘You always do.’
Whalley laughed, his sallow cheeks creasing as tho
ugh he were any genial old man. And yet his mirth seemed forced, holding little real delight. Mercia looked at the cave mouth, at how small it was, and felt a deep pity. Then Percy jumped past overhead, and her pity turned to shame at the apprehension she had felt when they had arrived at the hollow. He may have been quick to put the killings onto her conscience, but what he did for the regicides was a wholly selfless act. She watched him peering over the edge, ever anxious for his charges, and she realised she was looking on him with a warmth she had not noticed develop.
Whalley followed her gaze. ‘He is a good man, Mrs Blakewood, but he will have to calm himself lest his humours grow unbalanced.’
‘He is in danger for his life if he is discovered helping you, I fear.’
‘Fortunately you are in no such danger, or I would never have agreed to this meeting.’ Dixwell brought her attention back to the three men. ‘If he did his job correctly, nobody will know you were ever here, and if anyone ever finds its location, we will be long gone.’
She recalled their circuitous route. ‘Do not worry. He did his job well.’
Whalley chuckled. ‘Shall we sit? We have found this rock here a pleasant seat.’ He walked to a light grey recess that did indeed resemble a stony chair.
‘Percy,’ shouted Goffe. ‘Sit with us.’
Percy held a finger to his lips, shaking his head.
‘You see?’ said Whalley, as Mercia sat beside him, Goffe dropping to the space at her other side. ‘But let us talk. John has told us much, but what news from England?’
They lapsed into conversation, talking of England and of New York, of the Atlantic crossings they had all endured, of the hardships, of the loss. But they spoke with good heart, and by the time half an hour had passed, the trees were strumming with the warmth of burgeoning friendship.
‘And so Sir William Calde has taken a fancy to you?’ said Goffe. ‘The preening fool. Still, he is a good man of sorts.’
‘I met him in New York, with Mercia,’ said Dixwell. ‘He … helped.’
She smiled at his hesitation. ‘He is in New England now, on a survey of the colonies.’
‘To ready them for the Duke’s dominion, no doubt.’ Goffe shook his head. ‘But these people will not give in easily. They are not used to interference from England. Many are vehemently disappointed at the restoration of the King.’
‘They may not have much choice.’
‘Maybe not, but if men like Percy have anything to do with it, they will make it hard for the Duke.’ Still standing, Dixwell rested his hands on his hips, looking down at her. ‘He has told us what is happening in Meltwater. The deaths. Are you sure ’tis wise for you to remain?’
She stared at a brittle leaf on the ground, tracing the pattern of its intricate veins. ‘I will not leave.’
‘No.’ Dixwell sighed. ‘If I learnt anything of you in New Amsterdam, it is you are as stubborn and determined as your father. But if you will take my advice, you will be careful of Godsgift Brown.’
She looked up. ‘You know of him?’
‘No, but from what Edward says I do not think much of the man.’
Whalley nodded. ‘He has visited New Haven many a time. Our host there, whose name I will not divulge, spoke ill of him. There is something in his past, something of violence.’
‘There is violence in all of us,’ mused Goffe.
Whalley swivelled on the rock, looking at his son-in-law across her head. ‘Yes, but this was different, if you remember. This was feared.’
‘In what way?’ she pressed.
‘Our host would not say. Maybe he did not know. But – just be cautious. His reputation is that of a belligerent man.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I do not suppose you know aught of the other Meltwater townsfolk? What of Richard Thorpe? Your enemy, it seems.’
‘Ah, Mr Thorpe.’ Goffe barked a scornful laugh. ‘If he knew we were here, he would scour the forests to find us if it took him all year.’
‘He works for a man in Springfield,’ said Whalley. ‘Not far from here, over the border into Massachusetts Bay land. John Pynchon, a town elder, and obsessed with hunting us down. He has agents throughout New England.’ He smiled. ‘We call them our friends, for the wit of it. Thorpe is one of his men, but an especially ambitious one, particularly since he lost his wife. We are told that when he heard of the Duke’s takeover of New York he rode straight there to offer his services.’
Mercia glanced up at Dixwell. ‘He caught us on the way from Hartford.’
‘John told us.’ Goffe’s lips curved in smug satisfaction. ‘A narrow escape, and he has you to thank for it.’
‘Rather, thank Clemency Carter.’ She sighed. ‘She was part of the group that helped you. Did she ever say anything that might help me uncover her murderer?’
A slight look passed between Whalley and Goffe. She turned from one to the other, trying to read their meaning.
‘In truth,’ said Goffe, ‘we had never heard of her until Percy told us of her death when he brought us here.’ His shoulders shrugged a little, as if in embarrassment. ‘It is deemed safer that not everyone in the group should know everyone else. Not even us.’
‘I understand.’ She must have appeared despondent, for Dixwell leant down to squeeze her hand.
‘Do not be sorrowful,’ he said. ‘You will avenge Clemency’s death, as you avenged your father’s. Justice is in your blood, and it will be served.’
‘You are one of us,’ smiled Goffe. ‘Despite everything, there is a hope that sustains you. Hope is precious, Mercia Blakewood. Be mindful always of that.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
She felt like she was being watched. She knew she was on alert: despite Winthrop’s conviction that the murders had been planned beforehand, she could not help but worry that the target might next fall on her. As she looked from the window of the cottage, she felt as though someone was observing from the street, but she could see no peripheral movement, no curious shadows to deepen the dark.
Nathan was out, invited to the tavern by Percy; he had been surprised to be asked, but Mercia was glad, wanting them to get along. Still, he had insisted that Nicholas sit at home with her, and she was glad for his presence, even if he was asleep in a chair by the fireplace, his steady breaths reassuring as he performed an unconscious balancing trick keeping himself upright on the tiny seat.
She listened to the popping of the wood as it burnt, growing drowsy with the headiness of the smoke. There was something about the crackling of a fire, its warmth, that encouraged sleep. She wished she were back in Halescott before a hearty fire, reading a volume of Donne’s poetry or some such, a mug of mint whey at her side. But the welcome image vanished as she looked again into the darkness, wondering whether she was losing her mind.
Leaning against the wall, she tried to dispel the image of whatever spectre could be out there, thinking instead of Goffe’s words about hope, but the crackling of the fire teased at her weariness, and she felt her eyelids drooping, her body crying out for rest. She jerked herself alert, but mere seconds passed before she slumped again on the wall, the eyelids making their inevitable descent.
She entered that state between consciousness and sleep, neither one nor the other, where reality was dream, and dream reality, and her worry that someone was watching led Clemency to her window, the brown curls of her hair vibrant beneath her red hood, and this Clemency, an accusing Clemency, stood there baleful, demanding to know what Mercia had done, why she still could not find her peace. And guilty, again, Mercia pulled herself round, feeling the roughness of the wall on her cheek, the gentle burn of the fire on her back, and then she gasped, as Clemency morphed into Sooleawa, the Indian woman up against the window looking in.
‘Do not worry,’ Sooleawa mouthed, a finger to her lips. ‘I have come to speak with you.’
Now fully alert, Mercia looked further out to see if Sooleawa were alone, but she remarked no one – not that it much consoled her, for she had not seen Sooleawa until
she was right before her eyes. She walked to the door and eased it open; for some maternal reason, she did not want to wake Nicholas.
‘May I come in?’ asked Sooleawa. ‘I do not want anyone to see that I am here.’
She looked over Sooleawa’s shoulder into the dim evening light. ‘Is anyone with you?’
Sooleawa shook her head. ‘Please?’
She hesitated only briefly before standing aside. As Sooleawa entered, she looked at Nicholas sleeping.
‘Where is the other man – Nathan?’
‘He will be back soon.’ Mercia frowned. ‘How did you know his name?’
‘I know most of what goes on in this town. It is not difficult.’
She waited, but Sooleawa merely stood in the middle of the room. ‘Forgive me,’ she said at last, ‘but why are you here?’
Sooleawa glanced again at Nicholas. ‘Just you.’
‘I do not think I should—’
‘It is about Clemency.’
Mercia shuddered, as though the dreamlike apparition of Clemency had taken physical presence in the form of Sooleawa, arrived with news. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will wake him.’
Sooleawa folded her arms. ‘He is awake. I can tell from the way he breathes.’
A smile spread over Nicholas’s lips as he opened his eyes. ‘I have been awake the whole time.’
‘I thought you were sleeping?’ said Mercia.
‘And let Nathan accuse me of negligence? I’ve been pretending, so you could think.’ He stretched his arms and stood. ‘I know your habits well enough by now.’
‘So it would seem.’
He drew a knife. ‘I have been ready to use this the whole time.’
Sooleawa did not seem interested in the blade. ‘Would you leave us?’
‘Of course not.’
She turned to depart. ‘Then I will leave instead.’
‘Wait,’ said Mercia. ‘Nicholas, go upstairs.’ She raised a questioning eyebrow at Sooleawa, who nodded her assent.
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