Traitor

by David Hingley

  She hesitated. ‘I have heard you and Nicholas talk of … of a task of yours, my lady. Perhaps I should not mention it, and forgive me if that is so, but if I can help, I merely thought, with you being kind to us, I should like to, if I can.’

  The words were garbled, but the sentiment was clear, as was that Phibae knew more than Mercia had thought: despite her attempts to be discreet, as ever the servants heard more than their mistresses often wished.

  ‘What I need, Phibae, is to learn more of certain ladies, but they seldom talk with me.’

  ‘Indeed, my lady, I recall how you asked me before. And I can tell you some of what their maidservants hear, but maids are not always in their mistress’s presence during private conversations.’ She looked across the room. ‘Unlike some people.’

  Mercia turned her head, her eyes meeting Tacitus’s sudden grin. She glanced between the boy and the maid and narrowed her eyes.

  ‘You two have been discussing this already.’

  ‘But my lady, ’tis perfect. You say you cannot speak with the ladies of the Court. I can only hear what their maids wish to reveal. Whereas Tacitus, he can go with them anywhere.’

  ‘You are not suggesting …’

  ‘Why not? Not one of them pays him any heed. He sits at their feet while they talk of all manner of things.’

  ‘And he tells you what they say,’ said Mercia. Her eyes roved Phibae’s face. Yes, she was more devious than she had thought.

  ‘I can do it, my lady,’ said Tacitus. ‘If you wish it. Lady Cartwright, my mistress, and all of her friends. I sit with them every day. I cannot much read – but I can listen.’

  ‘They ignore him,’ said Phibae. ‘They think him a mindless fool. But as you see, he is not. No, he does not ignore them.’

  A knock sounded at the door. Phibae got to her feet, but the arriving page gave her barely a civil glance as he thrust a letter in her hands and scurried away. Taking in the poor handwriting on the front, Mercia’s stomach began to churn, the ladies of the Court forgotten. Leaving Phibae with the letter, she hastened after the page, coming into the corridor just as he was disappearing from sight.

  ‘Wait,’ she shouted. ‘Stop!’

  Phibae put her head out the door, but Mercia continued towards the page as fast as she could, while he ambled back towards her at a glacial pace.

  ‘That letter you delivered to my maid just now?’

  ‘What, the blackamoor?’ he said, hands in his pockets.

  ‘Stand up smart while I address you. Who gave you that letter?’

  The page stiffened. ‘I don’t know, my lady.’

  ‘What do you mean, you do not know? Somebody did.’

  ‘Yes, but only old Henton, in charge of the mail. I don’t know who gave it to him.’

  ‘The postmaster?’ He nodded. ‘Wait here. I shall return shortly.’

  She hurried back to Phibae, taking the delivered letter from her outstretched hands. Ripping it open, she learnt her guess as to who had written it was right.

  Mrs Blakewood,

  Come to me at nine on Saturday evening with the information I require. The map enclosed shows where. Do not come, and as always there will be consequences. Come alone.

  Wilkins

  She took a deep breath. Although she had been expecting it, the letter still disturbed her. But she would not let it do so for long.

  ‘Pass me that other there,’ she instructed Phibae, indicating the letter she had written to Nathan. ‘I might as well take it down.’

  ‘Should not I—’ returned Phibae as she handed it across, but Mercia had already gone.

  ‘Take me to this Henton,’ she ordered the page.

  For a moment he was stricken with inactivity, but then he turned on his heels, making the polished floor screech. Quickening his pace, he led her through what seemed like half the palace before arriving at a windowless office adjoining a suite of stores, where an elderly man was sorting papers into piles, his wispy white hair lying thin over his haggard shoulders. In contrast, the room was the tidiest Mercia had ever seen: the recent motto of everything in its place, and a place for everything, seemed to have originated here. Stacked trays held papers where they could easily be found; pens and ink were laid alongside each other in immaculate rows. Even when Mercia coughed, the harmony of the room seemed little troubled, albeit the postmaster took a surprised step back.

  ‘My lady.’ The old man bowed low. ‘Prithee, how may I be of service?’

  ‘Arise,’ she said, momentarily bemused at his antiquated language. ‘You are, I take it, the postmaster?’

  ‘I have that pleasure at Whitehall. Since the days of the King’s late father himself.’

  ‘Even through Cromwell’s time?’

  Another sagacious bow. ‘I flatter myself I am a methodical man. Cromwell valued that. The present King remembers me from the days of his youth. He enjoyed hiding in this very room from his brother.’

  ‘A charming image.’ She passed him Nathan’s letter. ‘Could you be sure this is sent to America? Or should I find an alternative course?’

  ‘You may leave it with me, my lady. Although I find ’tis usually a lady’s maid comes with such requests.’

  She waited for him to deposit the letter on one of his various piles, then she held out the other she had brought, the letter from One-Eye Wilkins. ‘Could I ask – this was received here today?’

  The postmaster glanced at it. ‘Yes. I always send on letters as soon as I can.’

  ‘And was it delivered to you by hand? There is no marking on the front.’

  He brushed away a wisp of his hair. ‘Is it from someone at the palace? I am often handed letters to pass on. It saves the servants the bother of walking the corridors themselves.’

  ‘No, but someone at the palace may have been asked to deliver it. The sender has told me she has a … friend at Court. I should like to know who that friend is.’

  ‘But surely the letter is signed, my lady?’

  ‘Yes, but … do not ask questions, man! I know who wrote it. I want to know who delivered it.’

  ‘Very good, my lady. Let me look again at the script.’

  He took the paper and scanned the writing. Then he closed his eyes, feeling its texture, breathing slow breaths.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think this was delivered today.’

  Her heart picked up a beat. ‘By whom?’

  ‘I have been here all day. There have been three – no, four – letters brought to me in that time.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I have it!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I mean to say, my lady, I remember who brought it, but I do not know her name. I have never seen her before.’

  ‘Even in your many years of service?’

  ‘Even so. My lady, I fear I must seek your pardon. It was a young servant, dark hair as I recall, but as to her name I know it not. There are hundreds of servants here, arriving all the time.’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, deflated. ‘But if you see this woman again, find out her name if you would, and let my maidservant Phibae know. I am Mercia Blakewood.’

  ‘Sir Rowland Goodridge’s daughter.’ The steadfast postmaster smiled. ‘Yes, I know. I remember him well.’

  The thought of her encounter with One-Eye was decidedly unnerving, but she was not about to let it deter her. Her true nemesis, Virgo, had still not been unmasked, Lady Castlemaine’s wrath the perfect incentive to spend the intervening day on her trail. And the ploy she had devised was hardly unpleasing, for it gave her the chance to experience a diversion she had not enjoyed since she was a girl.

  Theatre and all its frivolity had been banned in Cromwell’s reign, but now the King was restored it had become a fashionable pursuit once more. On the bill of the King’s Playhouse today was a drama entitled Love’s Mistress, and she settled into her seat with excitement. A pity, then, when the play turned out to be a dull, obvious affair, little more than so many actors wailing laments and professing maddened love. Still, s
he barely took in the half of it, for it was not so much the play that intrigued her, as that Cornelia Howe and her husband Thomas were in the audience, with Cornelia’s uncle and aunt, Sir Stephen Herrick and his wife Anne. A family outing, all told, for which Mercia had made sure she was present, her uncomfortable seat only two rows behind.

  Not that the Howes and the Herricks were vastly more stimulating than the play. Sir Stephen was continually yawning, fidgeting in his seat; once, his wife even slapped him lightly on the arm as a command that he be still. Lady Herrick herself had to stifle her own boredom more than once, while Thomas Howe seemed to be asleep, as much as he could be when the man at his side was guffawing at anything that might pass for humour. Cornelia, on the other hand, appeared transfixed; she was leaning forward, gasping and sighing, chuckling and shaking her head, clearly enjoying the play.

  Fortunately, all was soon over, and the players took their bow. The grumpy audience shuffled out, and in the hall outside the Howes and the Herricks paused to talk. Mercia took up position behind a nearby pillar and watched.

  ‘Dear God,’ moaned Lady Herrick, resplendent in a deep-blue dress, her tended hair flawless. ‘Did you ever see anything so tedious?’

  Sir Stephen shrugged. ‘I thought it was not badly done.’

  She laughed. ‘How would you know, when you were scarcely looking at the scene?’

  ‘I liked it,’ said Cornelia, her own dress a gaudy orange affair. ‘I liked the acting. The stage.’

  ‘You like anything,’ mocked her husband. ‘Every other week we must sit through some awful nonsense.’

  Cornelia’s mouth turned downwards as she glared at him. Glancing at her husband, Lady Herrick cleared her throat.

  ‘Would you like to come to the palace, to share a glass or two? We have not seen you both for some days.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Cornelia seemed to perk up. ‘Very much.’

  But Howe shook his head. ‘I have much to do. Matters I must attend to at the docks.’

  ‘The docks again, is it?’ said Cornelia. ‘Well?’

  ‘Yes. The docks. Cornelia, these accusations grow tiresome, for your aunt and for yourself.’

  ‘Then why do you spend so much time apart? Do not lie. Uncle, I have seen him.’

  ‘You have seen me do what?’ Howe smiled. ‘Sir Stephen, I must apologise for these melancholies. It is not seemly to behave so in public, but all the same.’

  Sir Stephen gave him a look. ‘Cornelia,’ he said, ‘do not trouble yourself. Thomas is often with me. Talk of the upcoming battle and the like. Nothing that need interest or alarm you.’

  ‘Uncle, you do not know how it becomes unbearable. All I want is … are we adjourning to the palace or no?’

  ‘Thomas?’ said Sir Stephen.

  ‘I fear I cannot.’

  ‘Not even for your wife?’ frowned Lady Herrick.

  ‘I am sorry, Anne, but the company suffers with the constant depredations of the war. I have to balance many considerations.’ He took her hand. ‘Anne. You know I love you. I will come next time.’

  She inclined her head. ‘See that you do.’

  He reached to kiss his wife, but she pulled swiftly back. ‘Cornelia,’ he said. ‘We will talk later.’ Then he bowed to Sir Stephen and left, weaving his way amidst the crowds of spectators animatedly discussing the play.

  Lady Herrick sighed. ‘Cornelia, you need to comport yourself as the woman you are. If your husband must attend to his business, you should indulge it. That is what your mother would have said, I am certain.’

  ‘Aunt, ’tis naught that concerns his business. I think he sees a woman.’

  ‘Cornelia, listen to me. Whatever he does, you are his wife. You must behave as such.’

  ‘As you do with my uncle?’

  Sir Stephen rested a hand on his niece’s shoulder. ‘Cornelia, I think that is enough.’

  ‘No,’ said Lady Herrick. ‘Let her speak.’

  ‘Then I know the two of you scarcely spend time together. Is that how you think husband and wife must live? I should rather have a husband to cherish me than one who is continually absent.’

  ‘My husband,’ sniffed Lady Herrick, ‘is occupied with his duties. Duties to his King, my niece. At times he is away for months. The Mediterranean. The African coast. I endure it, because it is expected. And when he is here, mind how he advises the King and the Duke so that you and your petty husband can be safe.’

  Cornelia shrugged off Sir Stephen’s hand. ‘What does it serve us being safe? We would do well to see the war over, and soon, so we can return to some notion of order.’ She scoffed. ‘Order! Whatever does that yet mean? Fighting amongst ourselves when I was a girl, then Cromwell, then the King, and now war with the Dutch! Are they not harmless enough? Let them keep their lands and let us keep ours.’

  ‘Cornelia, this is too much, even for you.’ Lady Herrick looked around. ‘I have warned you before against your unnatural talk. And you have no idea what your uncle must contend with.’

  ‘Do you, even?’

  ‘He is my husband, child. I know well enough. But—ah.’ Of a sudden, she broke into a smile. ‘Look who is here. Did you enjoy the play, Mrs Blakewood?’

  Mercia emerged from behind her pillar. The crowds had thinned, and she could no longer so easily hide.

  ‘Not so much, Lady Herrick,’ she said.

  ‘Still, it was rather droll, was it not?’

  ‘Indeed, Lady Herrick.’ Mercia surveyed the nervous trio. ‘An interesting performance, nonetheless.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was time. While Tacitus sat and listened to the ladies’ prattle, bedecked in his smart black suit, Mercia prepared herself to return to the streets of London, donning her dour brown dress. Declining Phibae’s offer to accompany her through the dusk, at sundown on Saturday she left the palace courtyard to walk to the row of carriages waiting at Charing Cross. Skin prickling, she patted the comforting mane of a docile horse, asking the driver to speed her to the destination marked on the map One-Eye had sent her.

  As she journeyed past the maypole in the Strand, and on through the stinking streets, the carriage jolting over straw and stones, or sliding through less salubrious detritus, she sank into her seat, pondering her dilemma. One-Eye had demanded information of her, and so information she would have to provide, but could she get away with the falsehoods she planned, or would the smuggler-queen see through her pretence?

  She calmed her nerves by looking through the window at the darkening London streets. Here and there, homeowners and storekeepers were holding lit tapers to candles in their porches, wavy slivers of light dotting the swirl of mist that had descended from the hidden rooftops. Still, it was not a deep fog, the houses on either side clearly in view as the carriage thudded on its purposeful way.

  A shout from up front caused the driver to swerve, and she slid down the bench, knocking with a grunt into the side of the coach. Rubbing at her shoulder, she heard a barrage of curses, and an equally vibrant response, but no fight broke out, and the horses cantered on. Soon they passed through the city walls, swapping the closeness of London for the fresher country air, both light and din dropping quickly away.

  There was still some way to go through the darkness, but at last the driver reined in his horses and the carriage jerked to an abrupt stop. She opened the door and jumped out: an error, for the ground was muddy, and the hems of her dress became splattered with dirt. She paid the driver his fare and asked him to wait, hopeful her audience would not last long – and besides, she wanted an escape route if needed.

  She looked up. Two dim lights were shining through the wavering fog, marking a path to a low building behind. The damp grass underfoot gave way to bare earth, her boots squelching in the shallow mud as she approached the silent facade. Somewhere nearby, a stream gurgled its passage through the surrounding field, and a fox screeched its foreboding call.

  She reached the door, releasing the smell of sodden moss as she laid her hand on t
he broken wood, its unexpected springiness causing her to recoil. She took a deep breath, looking back to be sure the carriage was waiting, and she knocked, once, pushing open the door, its sinister creak welcoming her to the shadow-infested den.

  The first room she entered was full of stacked tables and chairs, and in the corner was a dresser, adorned with blue and white plates. Candles were lit, and a fire was burning, while a half-open door in the opposite wall beckoned her through.

  She passed into a smaller chamber, more sparsely furnished than the other; a fire was lit here too, and there was another, closed door in the corner. A chair had been set in the middle of the room, and around it a series of stools and upturned crates, on one of which rested a pair of flickering lanterns. Just as she reached them, the far door fell open and One-Eye appeared, flanked by her man Jink. At the same time, two others entered from the room behind, who must have been hiding outside the house.

  ‘Welcome, Mrs Blakewood,’ said One-Eye, indicating the chair. ‘Won’t you sit?’

  ‘I prefer to stand,’ she said, aware of the men behind her.

  ‘It will not do you well to refuse my hospitality.’ She nodded at Jink, who rested his rough hands on the back of the seat. ‘I insist.’

  Alone, surrounded by four smugglers, she had little choice. She sat.

  ‘I see that handsome cove of yours is not with you tonight,’ said One-Eye.

  ‘You said to come alone.’

  ‘That I did.’ She pulled up a stool. ‘But then I know he has left for the fleet.’

  ‘How do you—oh. Your insidious helper at Court.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘The one who delivers your letters, no less. Who is she?’

  Mercia observed closely, but One-Eye ignored the attempt. ‘So, Mrs Blakewood,’ she said. ‘What have you to tell me?’

  ‘There is little to tell. ’Tis not I, it seems, who am privy to the secrets of the Court.’

  ‘And yet, my dear Mercia, you have enjoyed audiences with the King and the Duke, with Lady Castlemaine and Sir William Calde. I am not sure I much believe you.’