A Crowning Mercy

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Lead me, woman! My business cannot wait!”

  A voice shouted from above them, muffled by a door. “What is it? Goodwife?”

  “Master?” She shrugged. “He’ll be angry.”

  “Go on, woman!”

  She led him on to a wide, waxed landing. A door opened, held inches from its jamb, and a face peered at them. “Goodwife?”

  Devorax pushed past her. He leered at the face in the door’s crack. “Reverend Hervey?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I come, sir, from the Commons, with good news.”

  Faithful Unto Death, who had only had time to throw a robe about his naked shoulders, frowned. “I will be out in a moment, sir.”

  Devorax quoted magnificently from the Psalms. “‘Make no tarrying!’” He pushed the door open, forcing Hervey back, then stopped. “My dear Mistress Hervey, my dear lady, my apologies.”

  In the bed, facing him, clutching a sheet over her obviously naked body, was a dark-haired, pretty young woman. Devorax looked at Hervey. “I had no idea you had taken a wife.” He looked again at the woman, bowed low, and swept his hat off. “Dear lady, I have urgent business with your husband, will you forgive me?”

  The woman, terrified, nodded. Her husband was a lieutenant in Parliament’s northern army, she had come to this house to fetch her certificate that guaranteed her body free of a witch mark. The Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey, so eager was he to give satisfaction, had demanded several visits to make sure. Sometimes his devout searching of her flesh lasted a whole night. Devorax looked about the room for a robe to give her. He could see none, only her clothes on a chair. He picked up her cloak and tossed it to her. “Wait downstairs, madam, my business will not take long.”

  He turned his back on her as she pulled the cloak over her shoulders. She cast one terrified look at her other clothes, then decided discretion was the best part of valor. She scuttled past them, going to wait till the stranger left.

  Goodwife made to follow her, but Devorax shut the door. He needed a witness. If the woman in the bed had not been so pretty he would have kept her as a second witness, but one was enough. “You stay, woman.”

  The Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey had watched this in confusion. He was gripping the edges of his robe together, in no position for bold action, but now he frowned as the big man turned the key in the lock and pocketed the key. “Sir! You said good news from Parliament?”

  “I did?” Devorax nodded. “Indeed I did.” He tipped the absent woman’s clothes from the chair and set it for Goodwife. “Sit down.”

  Goodwife frowned at Faithful Unto Death Hervey, but sat obediently. Devorax smiled at the minister. “May I suggest you seat yourself, Reverend?”

  It was a comfortable room that bore witness to Hervey’s considerable success. Opposite the shuttered and curtained windows was a whole wall of books while a solid table and chair stood on a great rug before the blazing fire. The table was obviously Faithful Unto Death’s desk, piled high with books and papers, and lavish with three great silver candlesticks. More candles burned on the mantel and on two low tables beside the bed. Searching for witch marks needed illumination.

  This was the most difficult moment for Devorax. In his left sleeve he had concealed a length of rope which now, as Hervey’s back was turned, he whipped free and looped about Goodwife’s body. She screamed.

  “Keep your mouth shut or I’ll scrape the tripes out of you.”

  “Sir!” Faithful Unto Death had turned. He stared at the huge man who yanked the rope tight about his housekeeper. Devorax’s growl had terrified Goodwife, yet the soldier knew she might begin to struggle at any moment.

  “You’ll be dead meat if you make a sound.”

  “Sir!” Hervey still clutched the robe over his nakedness. He hovered, irresolute and appalled.

  Devorax’s voice came strong. He was stooping to tie Goodwife’s ankles, then her wrists, one to each arm of the chair. “The business of the Commons is strange, sir, but all will be explained.”

  He straightened, went behind Goodwife, and took a handkerchief from his pocket. He had her trussed now, tighter than a roasting chicken, but for good measure he gagged her. It had been easier than he thought. His threats had kept her still, and now her small, red-circled eyes stared in fright at him. He walked toward Hervey, a smile on his face. “I come for knowledge, brother.”

  “Knowledge?” Hervey backed away.

  “Indeed.” Devorax smiled, reached out a hand then pulled the robe from Faithful Unto Death. Hervey clung on, but Devorax yanked it with all his power, jerking it free, then laughed at the naked, white minister. “Sit down, bastard.”

  Hervey clutched two hands over his manhood. “Explain yourself, sir!”

  Devorax’s knife hissed out of its scabbard, whipped round in a blur of candle-reflected light, and pricked at Hervey’s chest. “Sit.”

  Hervey sat. He crossed his thin legs and kept his hands cupped at his loins.

  Devorax laughed at him. “Do you shave your chest, Hervey?”

  “Sir?”

  Devorax sat on the corner of the table. Goodwife watched through wide, terrified eyes. The big soldier smiled at Hervey. “You’re not married, are you?”

  Hervey did not reply. He was watching the blade of the knife with which Devorax idled. The knife blade suddenly swung toward him. “I asked if you were married.”

  “No, sir. No!”

  “Finding texts in someone else’s Bible were you?”

  Hervey was in sheer terror. He could not take his eyes from the horridly pointed steel. Devorax’s voice was amused. “A whore, is she? Her price above rubies?”

  “No!”

  “Oh! A volunteer. Giving it away.” Devorax laughed. “They’ll be the ruin of a perfectly good profession one day.”

  Hervey summoned his courage. He pressed down with his hands, drew up his knees, and frowned. “What do you want, sir?”

  “Want? I want a talk with you.” Devorax stood up and walked about the room, peering at books, at ornaments, glancing at Goodwife tied to her chair. He could think of no better way of proving Aretine’s supposed presence in Europe than this public punishment of an avowed enemy of Aretine’s daughter. He needed the witness to carry what he said to Sir Grenville Cony. He stopped, turned to the scared, naked minister and raised his voice. “I came to talk to you about Dorcas Slythe.”

  He saw pure terror in Faithful Unto Death’s eyes. “You remember her, Hervey?”

  Faithful Unto Death nodded.

  “I didn’t hear you, Reverend.”

  “Yes.”

  Devorax kept his voice loud, kept it slow. “My name, Reverend, is not Barlow. Nor do I work for that rat-hole you call Parliament. My name is Christopher Aretine. Does that mean anything to you, Reverend? Christopher Aretine?”

  Hervey’s pale face shook. His Adam’s apple shot up and down. “No.”

  Devorax whipped round on Goodwife, the blade pointing at her. “Christopher Aretine! Do you know the name?”

  She shook her head. Her eyes watched him. He knew she had heard. Devorax strolled back to the table and perched himself on the corner. He tapped the knife blade into his palm. “Where was her witch mark, Reverend?”

  Faithful Unto Death Hervey stared at the grim face. He did not understand what was happening, but the stench of a horrid danger was all about him. “On her belly, sir.”

  “Her belly.” The knife blade still tapped into the palm. The steel edge was eighteen inches long. “Show me on the excuse you have for a body, Reverend.”

  “Sir?”

  “Show me!” The blade moved like a snake striking, suddenly appearing before Hervey’s eyes.

  Hervey moved his right hand slowly. He pointed to his solar plexus. “There, sir.”

  “Bit high for her belly, Reverend. Did you search her breasts?”

  Hervey was shaking with fear. He was not a brave man.

  “I asked you, Reverend, if you searched her breasts.�
�

  “Sir?”

  “If you don’t answer me, scum, I’ll spit out an eyeball on this blade.”

  “I did, sir! Yes, sir!”

  “Why?”

  “It is normal, sir, normal!”

  “Explain it to me.” Devorax pulled the knife blade back. He had made the question conversational, almost reassuring.

  Faithful Unto Death Hervey swallowed, his Adam’s apple going up and down while his right hand returned to his crotch. “The witch mark, sir, is a teat. One expects a teat in the area of the dugs.” He nodded vigorously, as if to confirm the truth of his statement.

  Devorax smiled at him. He tossed the knife into the air so that the blade cartwheeled in the candlelight. The handle smacked back into his right hand. His eyes had not left Hervey. “What’s my name?”

  “Aretine, sir. Christopher Aretine.”

  “Good, good. Did you enjoy searching Dorcas Slythe’s breasts?”

  “Sir?” Hervey’s fear flooded back. For a moment he had thought that he was turning the conversation into a reasonable course, now the torment was starting again.

  “I asked if you enjoyed searching Dorcas Slythe’s breasts.”

  “No, sir!”

  The knife blade began to describe vague circles and figures of eight before Hervey’s eyes. “I think you did, Reverend. She’s very beautiful. Did you enjoy it?”

  “No! I do a necessary task, sir. I search out God’s enemies, sir. One does not seek enjoyment!”

  “Tell that to the whore downstairs. Did you stroke Dorcas Slythe’s breasts?”

  “No!”

  The knife blade was within an inch of Hervey’s right eye. Faithful Unto Death had put his head back, but he could see the glittering spark of light looming at his eyeball. Devorax’s voice was very soft. “I’ll give you one more chance, scum. Did you stroke her breasts?”

  “I touched them, sir, I touched them!”

  Devorax chuckled. “You’re a liar, Hervey. You probably wet yourself as you did it.” He pushed the blade forward till the steel rested on the skin below Hervey’s eyeball. “Say goodbye to your eye, scum.”

  “No!” Hervey wailed and, as he did, he lost control. His bowels loosened in sheer terror and a foul stench filled the room.

  Devorax laughed, leaned back with his blade unbloodied, and shook his head. “I’ve seen nicer things than you fall out of a hog. Don’t move, Reverend. I’m going to tell you a story.”

  He stood again. The room stank, but Hervey dared not move. His eyes watched as the big man paced slowly between the shuttered windows and the bookshelves. Goodwife watched, too, her ears avid for the big soldier’s words.

  “Years ago, Reverend, I was a poet in this fair city. That was before scum like you turned it into a cesspit. I had a daughter and, do you know? I’ve never seen her from that day to this. But I know her name, Reverend, and so do you.” He grinned at Hervey. “What do you think it is?”

  Hervey did not reply. Devorax grinned at Goodwife.

  “You know who it is, don’t you?”

  She knew. Ebenezer had recently told her that Dorcas was not his sister, but she had never known, till this moment, who the girl’s father was. The Slythes, keeping to the promise they made to Martha Slythe’s parents, had kept Dorcas’s illegitimacy a secret all their lives. Goodwife watched, horrified, as the black-haired soldier turned back to Faithful Unto Death Hervey.

  “Her name, Reverend, is Dorcas Slythe. Or was. She’s married now, she’s a Lady.”

  Hervey’s head was shaking. “No. No.”

  “I’m going to kill you, Reverend, and everyone will know that Christopher Aretine came back to take his revenge on you.” He grinned. Hervey was quivering in his own filth. Devorax raised his voice, making sure Goodwife heard every word. “And not just you, Reverend. Tomorrow I’m going to Amsterdam, but I’ll be back in two weeks and then it will be the turn of Sir Grenville Cony. Do you want to know how I’ll kill him?”

  Hervey summoned all his bravery, which was not much. He knew death was coming, and he tried desperately to fend it off with words. “You’re mad, sir! Think of what you do!”

  “I do, Reverend, I do.” Devorax was walking slowly toward Hervey. “And you think, as you die, why you die. You die for what you did to my daughter. Do you understand?”

  “No! No!”

  “Yes.” The knife blade was levelled, going toward Hervey, and Devorax’s voice was as unforgiving as the winter wind. “She is my daughter, filth, and you used her. You played with her.”

  Goodwife watched. The Reverend Hervey, not daring to move or fight, had tipped his head back away from the blade. His Adam’s apple was still, his eyes wide, and his lank, straw hair was on the table top. Devorax held the knife vertically above the priest’s tilted face. “I hate you, Reverend, and I’ll see you in hell.” He began pushing the blade down.

  “No!” Hervey shouted, and the blade went between his lips, his teeth, and he clamped his bite on them, but the big man laughed, pushed, and Faithful Unto Death’s last scream was choked off as the blade went into his mouth, down, forced down, until Devorax was grunting as he pinned the head to the table top.

  “You’ll be dead soon, filth.”

  He left Hervey there, his naked body arched above the fouled chair, one hand reaching for the blade. The noise was awful, but Devorax ignored it. He walked to Goodwife, whose eyes showed a horror equal to that of the dying man. Devorax blocked her view. “Were you unkind to my daughter?”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  “I hope not, but I’m sure she’ll tell me, and I’ll be back in two weeks. Tell that to Sir Grenville.”

  She nodded.

  The noise had stopped. Blood soaked the table top, dripped on to the rug. Devorax walked to the dead man and jerked the knife free. It scraped on teeth. The lank hair, bloodied now, flapped as the head jerked up and Devorax pushed it free. He wiped the blade on the curtains, sheathed the knife, then turned again to Goodwife. “Give Sir Grenville my regards. Tell him Christopher Aretine does not forget.”

  He scooped up the woman’s clothes, unlocked the door, and went downstairs. He found the woman in the parlor, shivering beneath her own cloak and one she had taken from the hallway. Devorax grinned at her. “I wouldn’t go upstairs, love.”

  She looked at him, nervous.

  He smiled. “What’s your name?”

  She told him, then her address. Devorax tossed her clothes at her feet. “Your husband with the army?”

  She nodded.

  He grinned. “You wouldn’t want him to know about this, would you?”

  She shook her head. “No. Please!”

  He put a finger to his lips. “No one will know, except you and me. And I’ll find you soon.” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. She laughed. Devorax kissed her cheek. “And remember what I said, don’t go upstairs. Promise?”

  She nodded. “I promise.”

  He left her, thinking what profit she was for a night of evil, and then hurried through dark alleys until he saw Mason waiting with the horses in an entry near Aldgate. Devorax laughed as he swung himself into his saddle. Mason grinned at him. “Colonel?”

  “Nothing.” He laughed again. “You go to kill a man and find a woman, not bad, eh? Drink?”

  Mason laughed as he handed over a stone bottle which Devorax tipped to his lips. He drank deep, and felt the brandy sear down to his belly. “God, that’s good. Clothes?”

  Devorax stripped off the black jacket, kicked off his square-toed shoes, and pulled on his leather jerkin, his tall boots, and finally strapped the sword to his side. He laughed again.

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing, John.” He was thinking how scared Sir Grenville would be in the morning when Goodwife brought the news, how the fat lawyer would be convinced that Aretine was back. He drank more brandy, then turned to Mason. “You’re to go to Mr. Slythe, John.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Tell him to meet us on the
coast Monday night. Seven o’clock at the latest.”

  Mason repeated it.

  “And tell him that if he’s got no news of Aretine by ten tomorrow morning to send a patrol to the Reverend Hervey’s house. He’ll know where it is.”

  “Sir.”

  “And you’re to meet me at the girl’s house in Oxford tomorrow night.”

  Mason seemed to think nothing of such a journey in such a short time. “Oxford, tomorrow night, sir.”

  Devorax laughed. “The cat’s in the dovecote, John. Tooth and claw! Off you go!”

  He watched as Mason turned his horse, listened to the hoofbeats in Leadenhall Street, and then urged his own horse forward. He left the shoes and jacket in the alleyway, then bullied his way through Aldgate. He shouted at the guards to hurry, called the captain a whoreson piece of filth, then urged his horse into the brief, stone tunnel.

  He turned left outside the gate, planning to circle London to the north before joining Oxford Street at St. Giles. After a murder it was best to be outside the city gates.

  He let his horse gallop across Moorfields. He could smell rain in the night wind, but he did not care. He put his head back and laughed at the cloud-shrouded moon. “Kit Aretine! You bastard! You’d have been proud of me! Proud!”

  He laughed and rode west into the night.

  Thirty-one

  Sir Toby Lazender was tired. He had spent a fruitless day leading a hundred men in a chase beyond Walling-ford. Roundheads were said to have raided a village, stripping the barns of the winter’s grain, but the stories turned out to be false. He came back to Oxford tired, wet and irritated, only to find that new problems awaited him. His mother met him in the hall. “Toby!”

  “Mother?”

  “There’s an extraordinary man here. My dear boy, you’re soaked. He insisted on talking to Campion alone. I don’t like him. He was quite rude to me. You’re to find out what’s happening.”

  Toby pulled off sword, jacket and boots. He looked up from his seat on the hall chest as James Wright took them away. “Who is he, mother?”

  “Devorax.” Lady Margaret sniffed, “I know he saved her life, Toby, but that’s no reason for drunken rudeness. He positively barred me from the room! I can’t imagine that he’s related to that nice Sir Horace Devorax. Do you remember him, Toby? He ran very good hounds in Somerset.”