‘Captain Fly-by-night, I should call you,’ Betsy said, as she put on her shoes. ‘Not that I’ve much experience of fleeing from inns without paying – but it was smoothly done.’
Having saddled her horse, Mullin was busy saddling his. ‘My conscience is clear, madam,’ he said. ‘The safety of the King’s at stake. When all this is over, let His Majesty pay the reckoning – provided he’s still alive, that is.’
Betsy straightened up. ‘Don’t jest about that, Mullin,’ she muttered.
‘Do you truly think I do?’
‘No,’ she admitted, after a moment. ‘And if I were a devout woman, I’d pray that we get there in time to act. As it is …’
‘As it is we must trust to Dame Fortune, and the horses,’ her companion replied. ‘Now, if you’d care to put your foot into my hands, I’ll hoist you up.’
For another long day, the countryside swept past. By the time the sun rose Betsy and Mullin had reached Maidstone, crossed the River Medway and pressed on to Malling, where they halted. Here she unwrapped her breakfast and discovered that it consisted of a hunk of rye bread. But even that was welcome, washed down with weak beer from a horseman’s flask Mullin had somehow acquired. Then they were back in the saddle, moving ever westward. In Reigate they halted briefly for the horses’ sake, before crossing the River Mole and bearing north-west. Then at last, with darkness closing around them, they reached Chertsey by the Thames. By Mullin’s calculations, they had ridden more than fifty miles.
‘Splendid progress,’ he said approvingly, as the two walked their tired animals through the town. ‘Just a little further and we’ll be in Egham, where comfort awaits us. Does that cheer you?’
Bleary-eyed, Betsy faced him. Yesterday’s ride had been an ordeal; today’s was pure torture. She and the horse had become one creature, to the extent that she didn’t think she would ever be able to dismount. In fact, sleeping in the saddle seemed a blissful prospect.
‘Why Egham?’ she asked. ‘Can we not stop here?’
Mullin shook his head. ‘The inns are larger and busier. To attempt the strategy I employed in Lenham would be too great a risk, whereas in Egham we have no need. I’ve a regular haunt there – and an old friend, who will offer us hospitality.’
Despite his own tiredness, the captain was looking somewhat smug, Betsy thought. ‘Would this old friend be of the female sex?’ she enquired wryly.
‘Indeed, yes.’ Mullin eyed her. ‘As are all those who lodge with her. She keeps a bawdy-house – but there may be a bed free. Do you have objections?’
But all Betsy could do was bend to the reins again. Just now, she thought, even a hard floor would feel like a feather-bed.
The captain’s old friend, however, was something of a surprise. Instead of the ageing bawd Betsy had expected, Mother Curll was a pleasant enough woman of middle years, still attractive despite her large girth. And the moment she opened her door to the travellers, holding up a lantern to view them, she broke into a smile.
‘Danny, my duck!’ She grabbed Mullin and drew his face down to kiss. ‘It’s a while since you paid us a visit … what have you been about?’
Mullin returned her kiss and, holding the woman by the shoulders, favoured her with a grin. ‘Too long and tedious a tale, Mother,’ he said breezily. ‘Yet I’m here now … could you spare a corner or two, where a couple of weary travellers may rest for the night?’ Stepping aside, he indicated Betsy. ‘This is Beatrice – my cousin. She’s had a very taxing ride.’ Then he half-turned and whispered in Betsy’s ear. ‘Here I’m Daniel Dark, cavalry officer – don’t forget.’
Mother Curll looked Betsy up and down. ‘You look ready to drop, my dear,’ she said. ‘Come inside, and I’ll call one of the girls …’ She peered past Mullin. ‘Are those your horses? Take them to the stable. I’ve a new man working for me, who will look to them.’
‘Mother, you’re a saviour.’ The captain was already moving off. ‘I’ll see them bestowed and be back,’ he called. Then he was gone, leaving Betsy in the hands of their new host. Walking stiffly, portmanteau in hand, she entered the house.
‘It’s most kind of you …’ she began, then paused; Mother Curll was eyeing her shrewdly. ‘Cousin, eh?’ she said.
‘Er … I assure you,’ Betsy stammered. ‘The captain … Daniel and I are not—’
‘Save your breath, my duck,’ the bawd broke in. ‘It matters naught to me …’ She sighed. ‘I never knew a man who lives by the seat of his breeches as does Danny Dark – then you know it too, I’d wager.’
Wearily, Betsy nodded. And ignoring the sounds of revelry coming from other parts of the house, she was soon content. Having undressed and washed herself, combed the dust from her hair and eaten a bowl of curds, she was given a tiny attic chamber at the top of the house. There she fell into an exhausted sleep that lasted until morning.
She was woken by loud knocking. Blinking, she looked round to see Mullin enter, stooping under the low ceiling. He, too, had cleaned himself and rested – in fact, he looked like a different man, Betsy thought. With a groan, she sat up.
‘Please don’t tell me I must get up and ride,’ she begged. ‘For I swear I cannot!’
But Mullin shook his head. ‘No, I think you should stay here for the present. I’ll ride to Datchet and see what’s what – it’s barely three miles. This will make a good base for us, if only for a short time.’
At that Betsy fell back on her pillow in relief – then she saw the look on Mullin’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Nothing, I hope …’ The captain was thoughtful. ‘It’s Mother Curll’s new servant – the man who looks after the stable, and other things. He’s the one who throws out troublemakers and minds the door – her Cerberus, you might say.’
‘What of him?’
‘I’ve seen him before.’ He frowned, glancing through the tiny window. ‘My difficulty is, I can’t remember where. I’ve a mind it was in London … but perhaps not. He calls himself Blunt, but I think it’s no more his true name than mine’s Daniel Dark. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?’
‘How am I to do that?’ Betsy countered. ‘And when you say you’re going to find out what’s what—’
‘Your pardon, did I omit to mention my news?’ Suddenly Mullin was smiling. ‘It seems we’re not too late to save the King: in fact, we’re too early.’
‘What?’ Abruptly, Betsy sat up. ‘Explain, Mullin – and stop looking so pleased with yourself!’
‘The races,’ the other replied. ‘Mother says they haven’t begun yet. The King arrives tomorrow, I’m told, and will stay at the Manor House at Datchet. So we can draw breath, and thank Dame Fortune for her bounty.’
Betsy stared at him … and felt a great weight lift from her shoulders. Their ride had not been in vain: the King was safe. Indeed, he was still in London.
‘Then, what should we do now?’ she asked.
‘Wait,’ came the reply. ‘I’ll ask around Datchet – it’s a tiny place. Any strangers hereabouts will stick out like tulips in a midden.’
‘As will we, won’t we?’ Betsy said. ‘What disguise will serve us best?’
‘Well now …’ Mullin was smiling again. ‘When he comes to the races, His Majesty makes merry. I hear he often takes a house in Datchet for one of his mistresses. I thought, now we’re here …’
‘Now we’re here, what?’
‘Why, we join the party. How else will we get close to the royal personage?’ For the first time, Mullin looked positively cheerful. ‘Our clothes are travelstained and unfit, of course, but it’s likely I can get my hands on something suitable, while the trulls here will be delighted to dress you, I’m sure. They seldom have a gentlewoman in their midst – shall we be Sir Girvan and Lady Mullin this time?’ As he warmed to his idea, his smile broadened. ‘We’re keen race-goers, who have come down from the North Country. Not a bad little scheme, wouldn’t you agree?’ And before Betsy could answer he stepped to the door, pausing with a hand
upon the latch. ‘Do you think you could mimic Williamson’s ghastly accent?’ he asked, and was gone.
Whereupon all she could do was groan again, and pull the bedcovers over her head; but it didn’t help.
Chapter Twenty
IN THE MID-MORNING, Betsy rose and took a dish of porridge in Mother Curll’s kitchen. Apart from a taciturn servant, nobody seemed to be up yet and the house was quiet. Not wishing to stay indoors, she ventured outside to look around.
The house, she now saw, stood on the edge of the little country village of Egham. There was a stable at one side, and a pathway leading off through some trees. Betsy took it, finding herself at last by the Thames, which flowed gently eastward. There were small boats upon the water, and men fishing on the far bank, while in the fields beyond sheep and cattle grazed. The place was tranquil, yet she was uneasy. Slowly she began walking by the riverside, pondering the bizarre set of events that had led her here. She was still deep in thought when hoof-beats behind startled her. Looking round, she saw Marcus Mullin riding towards her.
‘Here you are!’ he called, as he reined in. ‘I thought I’d find you indoors.’ He dismounted, then dropped the halter. The horse dipped its head and fell to cropping grass.
‘Indeed?’ Betsy said. ‘And how long would it be before someone assumed I was for hire, like the other occupants?’
‘Nonsense,’ the captain retorted. ‘It’s a perfect hiding-place …’ His gaze wandered to the river. ‘Anyway, I have tidings. Let’s take a stroll, shall we?’ So the two of them began walking, while Betsy listened to his news.
‘Windsor is abuzz with those here for the racing, at Datchet Mead,’ Mullin told her. ‘Across the water in Datchet village it’s the same. Plenty of trade for the locals – especially the ferryman, who takes people back and forth. I was glad to find him a talkative fellow. Like everyone else, he can’t wait for the King’s arrival. So I ventured to ask him if he knew of any odd-looking group who may have rented a house nearby – and I was lucky. In short, I believe Prynn and his fellows are here already!’
Betsy started. ‘Won’t they be using false names?’
‘No doubt they are,’ Mullin replied. ‘But they stand out from the usual sporting men. A party of three or four strangers, the ferryman says, have taken over a near-derelict cottage opposite Black Potts – that’s an island in the river, where the King sometimes goes fishing. They’ve been here for days, yet they don’t fish – and one of them sounds to me as if he might be Thomas Prynn.’
‘Then why delay?’ Betsy was anxious now. ‘Surely you must inform the nearest authority—’
‘What, some dim-witted constable?’ Mullin gave a snort. ‘That could ruin everything! We have to be sure of our ground – which means waiting until they show their hand. Only when the scheme is laid bare can I make a move and spoil their game, otherwise where’s the evidence?’
‘You mean, wait until the assassin breaks cover?’ Betsy said, aghast. ‘But that would mean putting the King’s life in danger. Anything might happen!’
‘It might.’ Mullin looked behind to where his horse was quietly grazing. ‘But I see no other way. Once I’ve managed to get a look at Prynn’s little “family” as Venn called them, I don’t intend to let them out of my sight. All through the races I’ll be close by the King – and the moment one of them tries to get near him, I’ll be ready.’
‘Mullin, listen.’ Betsy faced him. ‘You can’t do this alone. Even if Wrestler’s told Mr Lee everything by now, he may not be able to help us. The King will be on his way here already—’
‘Yes, yes …’ The captain sighed. ‘But come what may, I have to stop the assassin.’ He hesitated, then, ‘Let’s say it’s become a matter of pride.’
‘Well … then what about our disguise?’ she asked, seeing there was no persuading him. ‘Are we still to be Sir Girvan and Lady Mullin?’
‘Ah – I’ve had thoughts about that. It would mean moving to Windsor or Datchet, where either of us might meet people who know us – especially you. Supposing the King has Nelly with him? She’d soon recognize you. She may be as coarse as a heifer, but she’s no fool.’
At that Betsy fell silent. There was no doubt that, as a woman of the stage, she was recognizable – as she and Nell Gwyn, the former actress and now one of His Majesty’s mistresses, were acquainted. Moreover, among the collection of noblemen, gallants and hangers-on who followed the King about, there would likely be others who knew her. She tried to think of some solution, when suddenly Mullin brightened.
‘By God, I have it: I’ll become a jockey!’
‘Well, that might serve,’ she replied, in some surprise. ‘You’re a good horseman, if somewhat tall for the role.’
‘No matter – it’s perfect!’ Quickly Mullin warmed to his idea. ‘That way I can be in the thick of things without attracting attention – and for that matter, so can you.’
‘Me? How do I fit in?’
‘You can be the horse’s owner – or rather, his wife. Fashion a tale about your husband being too ill to attend … You’ve come in his place, to cheer your horse on. Think of a new name – wear a lot of paint and powder, perhaps. I don’t need to advise you on your appearance, do I?’
‘Not if, as it would appear, you’ve decided upon it,’ Betsy said drily. ‘Perhaps you’d better find me a large hat, whereby I can keep my face hidden—’
‘And I’ve another idea,’ Mullin broke in, without listening. ‘You should lodge in Windsor or Datchet after all. A jockey can stay anywhere, but a gentlewoman needs a good room, and a maid to attend her. Provided you remain discreet and stay clear of people you recognize, you should fare well enough.’
‘And how do we pay for that?’ Betsy enquired. ‘I’ll need new clothes.’
‘That’s my idea!’ The captain wore a look of triumph. ‘My horse isn’t a true racer, of course, but he’s the better of the two. Your mare, on the other hand, we can sell!’
‘But … she isn’t ours to sell,’ Betsy faltered. ‘What if—?’
‘Oh, the devil with that!’ Mullin waved a hand. ‘Once it’s all over, Williamson can pay.’ He gave a shout of laughter. ‘Just to see the look on that skinflint’s face, would be worth any risk! Now, I’d better go back to Mother’s stable and get your horse. Are you coming?’
Back at Mother Curll’s house, however, Betsy was unwilling to go inside. She couldn’t help but think she would be in the way – and perhaps take up a chamber that was needed for other purposes. She waited while Mullin tethered his mount, then accompanied him into the stable … where both of them stopped.
A man in shirtsleeves stood with his back to them, grooming a sleek, dappled-grey horse. Hearing footsteps he turned round and Betsy stiffened. She realized this was the person Mullin had meant, who seemed familiar to him. She saw a slim, well-proportioned man in his thirties, who peered at her from a pleasant, if weatherbeaten, face. When she put on a faint smile, he spoke up.
‘You didn’t mention that your companion was such a beauty, Mr Dark,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Your cousin, I understand. Is that not so, madam?’ And he returned Betsy’s smile, while with his eyes he let her know that, like Mother Curll, he didn’t believe that tale for a moment.
‘We’re here to fetch the mare, Blunt.’ Mullin addressed the other man haughtily. ‘Don’t let us detain you.’ He stepped past him to the furthest stall, and busied himself saddling Betsy’s horse. But the man who used the name Blunt continued to pay attention to her.
‘What brings you to this spot, madam?’ he enquired.
‘I’m merely passing through,’ Betsy answered. She, too, was suspicious; as whorehouse bullies went, this man looked an unlikely sort for such a job.
‘To the races?’ Blunt went on. ‘Indeed, it’s the best time to be here. I’m trying my luck with this one – Silverfoot, I call him.’ He patted the grey horse affectionately, at which the animal tossed its head.
‘You mean, you’re a jockey?’ Betsy was t
aken aback. Over by the stall, she knew Mullin was listening.
‘Of a kind,’ Blunt answered. ‘There’s to be a race at the end of the first day, open to all comers. It’s a new event – The Roman Plate. The King himself will reward the winner with a silver platter. Worth a try, eh?’
With that he grinned, turned away and resumed brushing the horse. But Betsy’s heart had jumped, and when she glanced towards Mullin she caught his eye: The Roman Plate.
Once again, she saw Venn’s haggard face in the prison yard, as he spilled his testimony. Williamson had not understood that part, but now, the intelligencers knew better. The Roman Plate was a horse-race, open to anyone – and the King would present the prize. That was when the assassin would strike.
She turned quickly and went out. A moment later Mullin appeared, leading her horse. They looked at each other, but no words were needed. And very soon, after the captain had helped her into the saddle, the two of them were riding the short distance upriver to Windsor. After a while they spoke of Blunt and what he had said, and were in agreement.
But though he racked his brains for a memory, Mullin still couldn’t remember where he had seen the man before.
By the end of the afternoon, all domestic matters had been settled.
Once again, Betsy had to give credit to Mullin for his speedy work. In a matter of hours he had sold her hired horse to a dealer in Windsor, who, by good fortune, was too near-sighted to notice the brand on its flank. He had then brought her baggage from Mother Curll’s and, newly in funds, hurried about purchasing second-hand clothes for the two of them. So it was that, by evening, Betsy was established in the last available chamber at the Five Bells Inn in Datchet. Though she had talked Mullin out of hiring a servant: even if one could be found at short notice, that was an extravagance too far.
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