Death's Bright Angel

by Death's Bright Angel (retail) (epub)

  Charles nodded silently, but smiled. Recollection of Tristram Quinton, the shambolic, brilliant, unlikely Master of Mauleverer College, Oxford, invariably made those who loved him smile. Regrettably, much of the rest of mankind greeted any mention of his name with scowls; or else, at worst, with sheer horror. Even good Protestants had sometimes been known to cross themselves as he passed by.

  ‘All the almanacs for this year prophesy calamities beyond belief, that’s true,’ said Aphra Behn. ‘But then, of course, they always do. Who would buy an almanac that claimed a year would see nought but crops being harvested and planted, the sun shining, rain falling, babies being born, the old dying, and men and women swiving?’

  She looked at me frankly, but I glanced away at once. I was not accustomed to women who spoke so brazenly of the act of hymen.

  ‘The seamen,’ I said, ‘make much of the fact that there have been both solar and lunar eclipses these last few months, and several comets in the last year and a half. True, your English seaman is a superstitious and credulous creature at the best of times, but the heavens have been strangely active, that’s for certain. I’ve witnessed it myself.’

  ‘And all of that has encouraged the discontented,’ said Aphra Behn. ‘There was the Rathbone plot back in the spring, for instance.’

  ‘I heard of it,’ I said, ‘but only at second hand. I was busy paying off the Cressy after our Gothenburg convoy, and then engaged in manning the Royal Sceptre.’

  Colonel John Rathbone, an officer of the old republican army, had conspired with others to restore the old killjoy Commonwealth; by no means the first such plot since the King’s blessed Restoration.

  ‘God be praised, we discovered Rathbone’s conspiracy in ample time,’ she said. ‘He and seven other ringleaders were executed, many hundreds arrested. But they are only a drop in the ocean, of course. There are still thousands of sectaries and old rebels hiding throughout the length and breadth of the land, and especially so here, in London. They cry up how much better things were in the old Commonwealth days, waiting for their chance to come. All they need is a leader – and a sign.’

  Throughout our discourse, Charles had listened silently, recovering his breath. Now, though, he raised himself again.

  ‘These last few months,’ he said, ‘since Rathbone’s execution, there has been especially worrying talk. The same tale, coming from several places at once, from reputable sources. It tells of some great act that will be committed on or around the third day of September. A date England knows well, of course. A date I know well.’

  I nodded. Oliver Cromwell, that walking curse, had died on the third of September, eight years earlier; and on the same day, seven years before that, my brother had very nearly lost his life fighting against the future Lord Protector in the Battle of Worcester.

  ‘We do not know the nature of this act,’ said Aphra Behn. ‘Lord Arlington thinks it might be a plot to kill the King or the Duke of York, or both, but then, regicide is always an aim in all these plots, as it was in Rathbone’s. And he planned to strike on the third of September. The most auspicious date, in the most auspicious year.’

  ‘Two names are always spoken of in connection with this mysterious act,’ said Charles. ‘The first is Mene Tekel. A common choice of name for these sorts of people, but a potent one.’

  That it was, for I knew my Book of Daniel as well as any man. The story of Belshazzar’s feast, in the great, corrupt, ancient city of Babylon. The disembodied hand inscribing words into the stonework.

  Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.

  The writing on the wall.

  ‘But,’ said Aphra Behn, ‘the rumours say that our Mene Tekel is merely preparing the way for an even greater figure – the real threat to the King and the realm. Just as I am Astraea and My Lord, here, is Lord Percival, so this person, this new Messiah to Mene Tekel’s John the Baptist, has an alias to conceal his identity. He is called the “Precious Man”.’

  ‘The Precious Man?’ Despite myself, I could not resist scoffing at the notion. ‘It is hardly a name to strike terror into hearts, Mistress.’

  ‘Perhaps not, Matt,’ said the Earl. ‘Except that, thanks to Lady Astraea here, we think we know who he and Mene Tekel are. Tell the story, Mistress Behn. Weave the words for my brother.’

  I did not grasp, then, what Charles meant by Aphra Behn weaving words; but I realised at once that she told a tale well, and held a listener’s attention. But that might have been just as much to do with the softness of her voice, and the fetching way in which she tilted her head as she spoke.

  ‘Over twenty years ago, Sir Matthew, when you and I were little more than babes-in-arms, the whole of Europe was at war. Protestants and Catholics had been slaughtering each other in Germany for years. France and the Dutch were at war with Spain, the Swedes at war with the Empire.’ Dear God, a woman – aye, a woman! – who knew of such things, and spoke of them so confidently. ‘And then, of course, these isles of Britain, almost the only lands that had stood apart from the carnage, were suddenly plunged into civil war. All those wars, all those armies – so there were opportunities galore for young men from many lands to come together, to fight, and to discover countless new ways of killing people.’

  ‘Mercenaries,’ I said, with contempt for those who fought for money rather than honour.

  ‘As you say, Sir Matthew. Several groups of men developed particular reputations,’ she said. ‘Among them, four men, two Dutch, a Frenchman, and an Englishman, who came together by chance in some foreign regiment or other during some obscure campaign beyond the Rhine, and discovered they had a common interest. A common passion, perhaps. They became more and more expert in their chosen field, until their reputation was known from Muscovy to Portugal. They revelled in it. They even gave themselves a name: the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.’

  ‘The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,’ I repeated, shaking my head. ‘The Writing on the Wall. The Precious Man. We’re not dealing with notably modest souls, then. But, Mistress, this chosen field of theirs – what was it?’

  ‘Fire,’ said Charles, before Aphra Behn could answer. ‘Explosives. Gunpowder. They became experts in inventing new ways of bringing down great walls, of firing impregnable fortresses. Burning entire towns, come to that. Master gunners and officers of ordnance, brought up on the same hoary old manuals and the same methods of instruction, were hidebound by traditional thinking. Not these men. As their successes multiplied, so their value increased. They became highly sought after.’

  ‘But then, of course,’ said Aphra Behn, ‘during the course of ten years or so, all the wars ended. Peace returned to Europe. It seems that one of the Horsemen, the Frenchman, was already dead by then, or so it was said, and their leader was repentant of all the death and devastation they had caused. He was one of the Dutchmen – Anton Schermer by name, by far the most skilled and inventive of them. He persuaded the other two survivors, an Englishman named Shadrach Goodman and the second Dutchman, de Wildt, to go with him to start a new life in a distant land, to set up as honest farmers. They went to Surinam, in the Americas. But Goodman soon tired of it, and returned to England. When the present war began, de Wildt went home, too, and took service in the Dutch fleet as a mere master gunner, having lost his money in Surinam. Where Schermer is, no man seems to know.’

  It was extraordinary to hear a woman speak of such things, in such a way. I wanted to know more of this Mistress Behn; wanted to know her better.

  ‘I do not see,’ I said, ‘how these men are connected to the great plot that is meant to come to fruition next month. And what could just three men do? What sort of fire – or explosion, come to that – could possibly cause so much harm to England?’

  ‘As to that,’ said Charles, ‘there are many possibilities. Parliament is not sitting, of course, and probably will not sit until November, so we need not fear an attempt to surpass old Fawkes. And as you know better than I, the fleet will not have come in from sea by the beginning of September, s
o they can hardly scheme to burn it at anchor, as you recently did at the Vlie. But burning all the trade in the Thames, below London Bridge, might be a different matter – vengeance like for like, as it were. Whitehall Palace, too, could be a target – or the Tower arsenal, come to that, which Rathbone planned to seize. And if their associates succeed in killing the King, and perhaps the Duke of York too, at the same time…’

  I nodded. Our uncle Tristram had taught both of us enough history to know that monarchs often fell victim to random murderers. Both Kings Henri the Third and Fourth of France had perished in that way, as had the first William of Orange, while England’s own Queen Elizabeth spent much of her reign fearful of the countless Jesuit daggers and pistols that were ready to despatch her, if only the opportunity arose. In that year of 1666, if both Charles and James Stuart fell, and the throne passed to an infant, would monarchy really be able to survive in England? And even if the old Commonwealths-men did not succeed in restoring their miserable, pedantic, holier-than-thou republic, who was to say that chaos and confusion in London might not lead the Dutch to invade and install a puppet king: the next closest male in blood to the King and Duke of York, namely William, Prince of Orange?

  A Dutch King: it was inconceivable to me, then. Thank God my youthful self was spared a prophecy of our line of lumpen Germans.

  ‘Goodman has become a leading figure among the sectaries and malcontents,’ said Aphra Behn. ‘There is good evidence to suppose that he, in fact, is Mene Tekel, and that he is seeking to reunite the remaining Horsemen. De Wildt is in England – his ship was taken during the Saint James day fight, and he is said to be in Chelsea College, where hundreds of Dutch prisoners are being held. We can be certain that Goodman will attempt to get him out.’

  ‘And Schermer?’ I asked. But even as I formed the words, I realised the answer. ‘Schermer is the Precious Man?’

  ‘We believe so,’ said Charles. ‘And that is why you need to become Lord Percival, Matt. As you see, I cannot move, and the task demands a man who can travel – and wield a sword, if necessary. De Wildt needs to be identified in Chelsea College and then imprisoned more closely. Goodman must be found and apprehended. We believe him to be in hiding in a notoriously disaffected port in Essex by the name of Leigh, where we have precious few loyal men, and no intelligence of his exact whereabouts. And if Schermer is in England, perhaps hidden away with Goodman, you must find him and take him. Or kill him, if needs be.’

  ‘But My Lord, how will I find these men when I know so little about them – not even what they look like?’

  Charles and Aphra Behn smiled.

  ‘That is why the King chose to recall My Lady Astraea from her current mission in Antwerp,’ said the Earl.

  ‘I lived in Surinam for over a year, before the war,’ said Aphra. ‘It is where my career as an intelligencer began. It is a huge country, Sir Matthew, but the colonies were relatively small, and I travelled extensively in the governor’s retinue.’ I wondered exactly what role in such a retinue might be performed by a nubile young woman in her early twenties, but thought better of it. ‘So I have met these men, you see. I know their faces. I can identify them.’

  ‘So it all depends on you, Matt,’ said Charles. ‘Will you play my part for me, and help Mistress Behn here hunt down these men before they can cause God knows what havoc in this land?’

  I looked from one to the other. Of course, my brother already knew what my answer would be. After all, I was a Quinton.

  ‘Lord Percival is at the service of his King and his brother,’ I said.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Aphra Behn, Phineas Musk and I set out westward in the state coach of the Earls of Ravensden, bound for Chelsea College along the road that ran from Westminster through Tothill Fields and the open country beyond. Musk, who had often assisted Charles in his role as Lord Percival, had been admitted to the secret purpose of the mission and to Mistress Behn’s true identity the previous evening, shortly before ‘Lady Astraea’ and I supped at Ravensden House with my wife Cornelia and Captain Ollivier.

  This did not go well.

  It might have passed off rather more smoothly if Francis Gale had been there, able to amuse and divert the company with his stock of anecdotes, but he had been summoned back to Bedfordshire by my mother, the Dowager Countess. There was some talk of the arch-dissenter Bunyan being released from Bedford Gaol, and she wished Francis to second her in ensuring that no such calamity occurred (my mother detested dissenters more than head lice). As it was, Captain Ollivier related tales that ranged from the splendours and scandals of the French court to the customs of the naked savages of the Carribee. There was a little too much repetition of the word ‘naked’ for my liking, and rather too many knowing glances toward my wife. For her part, Cornelia seemed to take an instant dislike to Mistress Behn, who traded stories with both Ollivier and I, calling upon her own recollections of Surinam just as I did upon my voyage to Guinea and the Gambia river, some years before. My wife, who had never been anywhere more exotic than Rotterdam, listened intently to the Frenchman and dutifully to me, but she scowled and fidgeted throughout every one of Mistress Behn’s discourses. She knew enough of my brother’s secret life not to enquire too closely into why he should want me to work in harness with this person. But Cornelia was, at bottom, a woman, and a noticeably pregnant woman at that, who might well have wondered if her husband’s attentions would stray toward this alluring and significantly less rotund new dish.

  So there were glances. And sighs. And more glances.

  ‘You are a widow, then, Mistress Behn?’ asked Cornelia, glancing.

  ‘My poor husband – he was German – fell victim to the plague,’ said Aphra. ‘We were married only a matter of months.’

  ‘How tragic. How very tragic.’ Cornelia sighed, and nibbled thoughtfully upon a piece of mutton, but sympathy was evidently not her principal emotion. ‘And you say you wish to become a writer?’

  ‘I do, Lady Quinton. Why should a woman not become a writer? If we can now act upon the stage, why should we not write for it?’

  Cornelia could clearly think of dozens, if not hundreds, of reasons, but kept them to herself. Her own writings, even of household accounts, mangled the English language beyond all reasonable measure, and her native Dutch only a little less when she wrote in that, so the notion of a woman doing such a thing for a living was evidently quite beyond her comprehension.

  ‘Not so strange, perhaps,’ said Captain Ollivier mildly, flashing one of his smiles at Cornelia. ‘Why, in France, we have the likes of Mademoiselle de Scudéry and Madame de Villedieu… ’

  For once, Cornelia ignored him, cutting across Ollivier to address Aphra once again.

  ‘And you hope the Earl will be your patron in the theatre, perhaps?’

  Ollivier looked at me and raised his eyebrows, as if to say: Is it usual for such anarchy to prevail in English households?

  ‘We have not discussed the matter,’ said Aphra, ‘but Charles’ interest in the stage is of very long standing, and we are old friends. Who knows what the future might bring, Lady Quinton?’

  The revelation that this strange creature was somehow an old friend of my brother came as news to both Cornelia and me. But I could see from my wife’s face that her mind was already building an entire edifice of supposition upon that one simple fact, and although this edifice was probably preferable to the other – that Aphra and I were about to fall into bed together – it was only marginally so. Charles Quinton had already been tempted into marriage once, albeit very much against his inclinations. What was to say that, if he lived and prospered, he might not return to the matrimonial altar, this time with a bride entirely suited to him, who shared his twin worlds of intelligence and the theatre, rather than the murderous harlot he had wed before? And if Aphra Behn became the new Countess of Ravensden, she would immediately displace Cornelia as mistress of this household.

  Who knows what the future might bring?

 
; * * *

  Chelsea College was a large, square building, rather like an Oxford college, with a single quadrangle, a tower framing its gateway, and grounds stretching down to the Thames. It had been a pet scheme of that most curious King, James the First, who had wanted it to become a hothouse where great theologians and controversialists would be trained to do intellectual battle with the rampant Jesuitical legions of the Pope. Regrettably, very few had shared his enthusiasm for the project, so the college soon withered. My uncle Tristram once told me that he and John Thurloe inspected it during the days of the Rump Parliament, with a view to it becoming a training college for intelligencers – a school for spies, in other words. That, and all the other projects for making some new use of it, came to naught, so in due course it was demolished, and the present hospital for retired soldiers was erected on its site. But back then, in the year Sixty-Six, its thick walls and large rooms made it an ideal prison for some of the thousands of Dutch prisoners we had taken during the war, others of whom were lodged in the likes of Leeds and Portchester Castles.

  ‘De Wildt, you say,’ said the Keeper, as he led us along the loggia on the east side of the quadrangle. ‘There is no man of that name on our musters, Sir Matthew.’

  ‘He will have adopted an alias,’ I said, parroting the words Aphra had spoken to me in the coach. ‘But our intelligence out of Holland states that he was aboard the Tholen.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Keeper, ‘the Tholen. Forgive me, Sir Matthew, but was it not your ship that captured her?’

  ‘That it was,’ said Musk, on my behalf. ‘After a damned hard fight.’

  This was not strictly true; the Tholen had been severely damaged before we came upon her and forced her surrender. Nevertheless, she had been the Royal Sceptre’s prize, and Phineas Musk was not a man to shirk from taking credit for anything at all.

  The Keeper summoned half a dozen of his turnkeys to our backs: large, vicious-looking rogues with a range of cudgels and blades at their belts. Then he led us into a high, square, poorly-lit room that must once have been some sort of lecture theatre, and we were thrust at once into a circle of Hell.