Tentative, nervous, she inched along the right-hand side, her body tingling with the excited anticipation that one of the doors might open. But none of them did, and as the tension grew to an almost physical barrier, she forced herself forward, towards the first room.
And then – chaos.
Without warning, an enormous explosion powered through the inn; the whole building shook, shattering the immaculate hangings. Her hearing howled in agony, her vision turned white, then black, and she found herself hurled off her feet, flying back towards the top of the stairs as the landing in front caved in.
Thrown against the wall, she lay dazed, unknowing, contused. For a moment, all was silent. And then the screaming began.
Chapter Thirty
She sat up. Her ears were ringing with pain, and the building appeared hazy, as though it were underwater. She took a panicked breath, unclear if she were still alive; the dusty air filled her lungs, and she began to cough, worsening a wrenching ache down her back and her side. She looked at her legs: intact, no blood, no damage that would not heal.
The same could not be said of the inn. What before had been perfect was now devastation, masonry hanging from the ceiling, the left-hand side of the landing collapsed to become a steep ramp to the indiscernible hall beneath. Smoke was filling every small space, and she tugged her hood around her neck to cover her stinging mouth.
The doors off the landing were beginning to open, those that could; something swift ran past her, a rushing of air, and as her vision began to clear, she looked up to see a host of guards breaking down the end door of the right-hand side. ‘Your Majesty,’ they called. ‘Your Majesty!’
A woman fell out screaming from another door on the right, limping towards Mercia to flee down the stairs, and even in her current state, she recognised Lady Cartwright, but she looked somehow different, as though her face was black. Then a guard ran into the chamber she had left; moments later he swore, and he emerged, his helmet greying with dust, struggling to drag out a misshaped bundle. Then she realised the bundle was a man, too heavy for the guard to remove by himself. And then a face appeared, bending down to address her.
‘My lady, do you live? My lady!’
She nodded, and immediately cried out in pain; the headache that coursed through her temples was more painful than any she had known. Unable to speak, she allowed the guard to aid her to her feet, and she leant on his shoulder, descending the battered staircase step by terrible step. He led her past the kitchen into the yard where she had entered, and slowly walked her to the other side.
The yard was unrecognisable. The door to the cellar was gone, a thick, black smoke rising from the hole that had taken its place. The dray in the entrance was on its side, and one of the horses was whining, its flank caved in, thrashing about in agonised panic. The other did not move at all, what was left of it. At its side, a young man lay blackened and still, his legs … she looked away. His legs were gone.
Holding her breath, she managed to reach the street, until the guard set her on the ground a short distance down, assuring her she would live. But he had to return to help others, and he left her on her own, unbelieving, uncomprehending, staring at the thick smoke enveloping what had once been the happy inn.
Then she thought of the young man in the yard. Oli Moss, she thought, and she could not get his name out of her head. Oli Moss, she thought, scolded by his father at the harbourside. Oli Moss, she thought, her uncertain accomplice who had sneaked her inside. Oli Moss, she thought. So young. So dead.
She willed herself to cry, but the tears never came. Instead a deep and violent anger took their phantom place. She got to her feet, barely remarking how she staggered against the wall, barely noticing the pain all down her back and through her head. She felt her arms – they were there – her legs – the same, still. She could see, and she could hear. She had survived.
Unlike others.
She forced herself towards the inn, stumbling amidst the downcast scene, to a frantic group of people gathering apace outside the entrance. A tall, bewigged man was pushing away a pair of guards, waving his arms in protest, but they bundled him into a waiting carriage and he was soon sped away, leaving the destruction behind. Another man followed in a second carriage, someone she could not make out, while at the centre of the growing crowd, an imposing figure was shouting orders at the guards and the people of the town who had fast become volunteers. Drawing nearer, she could see it was Sir William Calde. His face was bloody, his doublet was torn, but his spirit was utterly intact.
She looked around. To the left of the group, a young woman – a maid, she thought – had draped a shawl around a shaking pair of shoulders, her arm embracing the elderly woman in total disregard to the difference in their class. While the older woman was trembling, the maid was rocking her gently, talking into her ear. She looked up as Mercia approached; Mercia nodded, indicating the maid could see to others who were hurt, for she recognised the woman as Lady Herrick.
She sat beside her and took her hand. ‘Lady Herrick. You were inside?’
The ashen-faced woman nodded. ‘In a room near the King.’ Her eyes watered. ‘I am … I could have been killed.’
‘You are safe now. Whoever has done this will not do the same again.’
‘Thank the Lord my Stephen is on his ship.’ She took in a sharp breath and whimpered. ‘Sir Geoffrey … poor Sir Geoffrey.’
‘What happened to Sir Geoffrey—oh.’ She stroked Lady Herrick’s hand. ‘He is gone to our Lord.’
Lady Herrick nodded, then swivelled her head, as if only now noticing Mercia was there.
‘Mrs Blakewood? How are you here?’ She gulped, her throat doubtless as dry as Mercia’s own. ‘No matter. Suffice that you have not been blown to nothing by this madman.’
She bit her lip. ‘Not madwoman?’
‘Would a woman do this?’
‘If she had sufficient cause.’ Softly, she squeezed her hand. ‘Tell me, Lady Herrick, were you with Lady Cartwright? I saw her coming out.’
She shook her head. ‘I was in our room – mine and Stephen’s. Alone. I was praying, truth be told, that he would be protected in the battle to come. I did not realise I needed to pray for myself.’
‘And Cornelia, your niece?’ she said quietly.
‘Of course not. She has rooms at another inn, I am told, where her husband was staying before he went to sea with the rest.’
‘Mercia!’ Of a sudden, Sir William was standing above them. ‘What are you—are you well?’
‘I am,’ she said, looking up. ‘But Lady Herrick is not. Can she be taken somewhere to rest?’
‘The ladies are being cared for in a house just there.’ He clicked his fingers and a boy ran up. ‘Take Lady Herrick next door,’ he ordered. ‘And you, Mercia. You had best come with me.’
Handing Lady Herrick to the boy, Mercia followed Sir William across the street, but when she stopped walking, a pain shot through her head and she had to grab at the wall.
Sir William clutched her sleeve. ‘Mercia, you are not well. You should follow Lady Herrick.’
‘I need but a moment,’ she lied, trying to steady her quivering legs. ‘Sir William, Virgo must have done this.’
‘Virgo? How?’
‘She is here, is she not?’ Of a sudden a deep irritation overcame her, fuelled by the throbbing in her head. ‘A fool idea of the King’s to lure her close, was it? To lure me after her also?’
Sir William blinked. ‘I scarcely think so, Mercia. He thought there was a chance you might come, with your man in the fleet, and that bringing the women here would lead Virgo to take a risk. But she is only one of his concerns. He thinks more this day on the fleet, or else he did. And it was not his idea to come here.’
‘Yet it seems as though that risk has truly been taken.’ She held her hand to her forehead; the agony came and went, in sharp waves of dizzy torment. ‘Where is Cornelia Howe?’
‘Why her?’
‘That inn has been bl
own away by an explosion of gunpowder – hidden in the cellar, yes?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘Then even if Lady Herrick set the fuse without being noticed, she could not have returned to her room in time. And I saw Lady Cartwright come out of hers myself.’ She coughed, banging on her chest. ‘Please, where is Mrs Howe?’
He did not seem to be listening. ‘You were in the inn, Mercia?’
‘I was carrying out my task. God’s truth, Sir William, I have been out to the fleet.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind that now. Cornelia Howe – find out where she might be!’
The urgency of her words made him sweep round and hurry into the wreck of the inn. As she waited for his return, she supported herself on the wall, catching her aching breath. The smell of powder filled the darkening air, and smoke still rose high over the surrounding buildings. Everywhere she looked, people were wailing or shouting, but most were also helping: tending to those who were hurt, or forming a chain to pass buckets down the line until the man at the end could hurl water on the flames. All except a figure on the opposite side of the street, but when Mercia looked again, the figure had gone.
Sir William was back. ‘The Howes were staying at the Tar and Feathers,’ he said. ‘On the edge of town, down the street over there. I had best go for you.’
‘No,’ she objected. ‘You are needed here.’
‘Mercia, I—’
‘Look around you, Sir William. There is no time to debate it.’
‘Then I will send someone else.’ He beckoned over a guard dressed in the King’s livery. ‘Powell, I have a task for you. Go to the Tar and Feathers and see if Cornelia Howe is in her room. If she is, bring her to me. If she is not, find out where she is.’
The guard hesitated. ‘I don’t know who that is.’
‘God’s wounds, man, ask the innkeeper there! Someone will know.’
The guard saluted and set about his orders. Mercia made to follow but Sir William grabbed her arm.
‘Not this time, Mercia. The guard will see to it. And if you will not follow Lady Herrick, then sit down here and rest a while. You are not well.’
‘Sir William, I am quite …’ She held her forehead as the pain raced through the back of her eyes. A ringing was filling her ears, and a nausea was rising through her chest. ‘Very well. But five minutes only.’
‘You need five days, more like.’
He turned aside as another guard ran to seek his advice. Mercia eased herself down on the edge of the street, and as she sat, her head swam, blurring her vision. Ignoring the filthy surroundings, she lowered her head as much as she could, closing her eyes and taking deep, slow breaths. A tiredness almost took her, but she kept herself awake, and soon the nausea had passed, although the pain in her temples was stubborn.
An approaching scuffle of boots made her open her eyes, and she lifted her head to see the guard Sir William had dispatched running towards them, alone.
‘Well?’ said Sir William.
‘Mrs Howe is not there. The innkeeper said she left two hours ago.’
‘Did you look in her room?’
‘It is empty. It seems when her husband left for the fleet, she left at the same time.’
‘To go where?’ said Mercia, forcing herself to speak. ‘There was not much between here and Colchester, as I recall.’
‘In two hours, she could not ride far,’ said Sir William. ‘There are likely other inns on the road, but … I do not know.’ He nodded at the guard. ‘You may go.’
A sickening thought struck her. ‘What if … what if Cornelia left her inn, came to set the explosion, and killed herself with it?’
‘Deliberately?’ He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Not deliberately. If she made a mistake with the powder, it could have exploded when she did not wish it. She will not have been trained in its usage. Then again, she could have set the fuse and escaped in the aftermath.’
He was shaking his head. ‘I do not know the woman, Mercia, but I do not think she could have done this.’
‘Why not? Someone did.’
‘Perhaps the other spy? Gemini?’
‘I do not think Gemini was in the town.’ She rubbed the dust from her eyelashes. ‘Whoever it was, they had to get the powder into the cellar. I doubt they could have done that without collusion from within the inn itself. I should arrest that innkeeper and make him speak.’
‘I think I had best arrest all the inn.’
‘Those that live.’ Suddenly the tears came all at once; her whole body heaved as she cried out a painful sob.
‘Mercia …’ Sir William crouched down and rested a hand on her arm. ‘Oh, Mercia. Please, go to where the women are being cared for.’
She shook her head, ignoring the pain as she forced the tears to stop. ‘No! Virgo must be caught.’
‘You said yourself, she might be dead.’
‘We need to be certain.’ She pointed behind him. ‘And you have guards that require your attention.’
He looked round. ‘You are right. But please, join Lady Herrick. I will be back for you as soon as I can.’
With a squeeze of her arm, he got to his feet and disappeared into the carnage. Forcing herself up in her turn, Mercia moved away down the street to escape the roar of the fiercest noise, and began to pace.
‘Think,’ she said to herself, caring little if anyone could see her. ‘Virgo and Gemini are both in the vicinity of Harwich.’ Pace. ‘The fleet is about to fight the Dutch, and at the exact same time, the inn where the King is staying is blown up.’ Pace. ‘Gemini is meant to be aboard the Royal Charles, where the Duke of York is commanding.’ Pace. ‘Thomas Howe is aboard the same ship, and his wife has now gone missing.’
And then she stopped. On her last to and fro, a figure had appeared, blocking the way.
‘Scarcely missing,’ the figure whispered.
Obscured by the fading light, Cornelia Howe stood directly before her. She looked Mercia in the eye. And then she turned and ran.
Mercia tried to keep up, but it was impossible. Her head throbbed too much, and her legs were weak. Within two streets, she had lost her. But then a silhouette bobbed from behind a storefront ahead, and as if taunting, she waited until Mercia could resume the chase before she sprinted on.
The same happened at the city gate, abandoned of guards now the explosion had drawn them away. In the gateway itself, Cornelia hung back, waiting just long enough for Mercia to draw near. Then she ducked outside the gate, and awaiting Mercia’s approach, she strode out once more.
The pain in her head was almost overwhelming, but Mercia made herself run on, or else stumble and walk. She knew she could be staggering into a trap. She knew she should go back for the guards. But she could not put Oli Moss from her mind, and she knew she could not risk Cornelia getting away. So she willed herself on, ignoring the pulses of agony, pursuing Cornelia around the edge of the town. The setting sun was disappearing behind her, and as she rounded a windswept knoll, the shadows that had stretched over the sea before her lengthened until they were gone.
They came out onto a narrow beach to the west of the town. Cornelia had stopped on the edge of the sea, the wind whipping around her dress as the waves splashed almost to her feet. She was standing, looking on, waiting as Mercia neared. Her hands were at her sides, and she appeared tranquil. A boat bobbed in the shallows behind her. Nobody else was about.
Breathing fast, Mercia walked towards her. She made no move to flee.
‘Mrs Howe!’ she panted. The water lapped calmly on the beach. ‘My God, what have you done?’
She was close enough now to see Cornelia’s face. And yet where she had expected anger or bitterness, tears were rolling down her cheeks.
‘I am sorry, Mrs Blakewood,’ she said. Her hood was down, and her unkempt hair lay tossed about her cheeks. ‘I did not want to do this. I hope you can forgive me.’
‘Forgive you?’ A fury rose, threatening to consume her. ‘How can
I ever do that?’
But then the air sang behind her, a blow struck at her head, and the shore seemed to spin at her feet.
Chapter Thirty-One
She was more drowsy than unconscious. The blow had not hit hard. But she recalled the stones of the beach swiftly coming towards her, the blood rising painfully to her head as she was turned upside down and carried to the waiting boat. She recalled being placed gently inside, two hands taking up two oars, and a dark figure crying on the beach. She recalled the sharp smell of salt and of seaweed, and a picture of smoke rising over the silhouette of a torchlit town. She recalled the breeches, the grunts, the splashes of the oars, the vague memories of a man’s voice urging her to be still.
For some minutes, she fell asleep, or maybe an hour – there was no way to tell. Then she was jarred awake as the boat ran aground. She looked up, the scent of the sea stimulating her mind until her vision cleared. The town was now some way distant, on the other side of the black bay. A hand reached down, helping her up, and she stepped from the boat onto a pebbly shore, eyes drawn to a light in a fisherman’s hut. Not far off, the shape of a fort sat protecting the harbour, although the defences did not appear substantial.
‘Come, Mercia,’ said the man. ‘Let me take you inside.’
His voice was familiar. ‘I should have known when you brought me back. I did know, I suppose. And yet I did not want to believe it.’
‘There are more of us than you would think,’ he said. ‘Come into the hut, and we can talk. I am sorry for our deception. I am more sorry for the blow. But I did not want you to struggle. I am trained … it should not have been hard.’
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