by Stella Riley
Laughing, Ashley said, ‘And you’re a shit-stirrer. I’m surprised he didn’t hit you.’
‘No, no. He’d be afraid I might hit him back.’
‘Which, of course, you would.’ Ashley was perfectly well-aware that Sir William’s effete manner was only skin deep and that below it lay a dangerous and, when necessary, ruthless man. ‘And what of the Verneys? Something not quite right there either, I fancy.’
‘You were awake, weren’t you?’ came the admiring reply. ‘Can’t you guess? The fair Celia is Verney’s mistress – but not, alas, Mistress Verney.’
‘Ah.’
‘Exactly. One understands that Hugo still has a wife in England, clinging tenaciously to the family estates and rearing a son … and similarly, Celia is still married to one of Cromwell’s up-and-coming officers. So what we have here is caps over the windmill and the world well lost for love. All very well in its way … but one wonders whether having the right body in bed is sufficient compensation for social leprosy.’ Will’s mouth curled wryly. ‘One may be a threadbare exile – but one has one’s standards.’
‘A lady conducts her affaires with discretion and a gentleman doesn’t inflict his whore on polite company?’ recited Ashley. And then, ‘How nice that some people still have nothing better to think about.’
‘It would be if it were true.’
‘And isn’t it?’
‘Oh no,’ came the gentle reply. ‘Most of our compatriots here have lost everything except their pride – and that, they preserve at all costs. One can’t really blame them. After all, you and I do it too. The only difference is that we’ve grown so used to banging our heads against the wall, we don’t know how to stop.’ He paused and gestured to a shallow flight of steps. ‘My humble abode – within which lie a couple of bottles of reasonably palatable burgundy.’
Ashley paused. ‘Louise?’
‘Visiting her family. Fortunately. I am aware that she likes you far too well.’
Moving on up the steps and laughing a little, Ashley said, ‘You should marry her, then.’
‘I daresay I will when I can support her adequately. Shall we?’
Sir William’s lodgings comprised three neat rooms on the first floor. While his host busied himself with the wine, Ashley dropped into a carved chair by the hearth and attempted to poke some life into the almost dormant fire. Then, when Will handed him a glass and sat down opposite him, he said bluntly, ‘You’ll have guessed, I daresay, that I’ve come from Scotland. To cut a long story short, I’m gathering information in an attempt to assess the chances of a second invasion succeeding where the first one failed.’
Sir William’s brows rose.
‘Excuse my asking … but do you really think there’s the remotest chance of the Scots ever fielding a viable army?’
‘Meaning you don’t?’
‘No. I don’t. However. Let us put that aside for the moment. What do you want to know?’
‘Hyde says Tom Coke’s been arrested. I need to know how much he knows – and whether he’s likely to make Cromwell’s spy-master a present of it.’
‘Oh dear.’ Will sat back in his chair and contemplated his wine-glass. The fire was burning brighter now and its glow was dully reflected in the silk eye-patch, giving its wearer an appearance of demonic menace. Finally, in a tone of acid finality, he said, ‘Thomas Coke will have spilled his guts on the first time of asking and, in all probability, has gone on babbling ever since. As for what he can reveal … I have to say that, in common with the rest of our agents, it’s too damned much. That has always been our problem. If no one knew more than they needed to, we’d be a great deal more efficient than we are.’ He paused briefly and looked across at Ashley. ‘The unfortunate truth is that you are careful and I am careful. But the rest of the buggers treat espionage like a game of Blind Man’s Buff.’
‘I know.’ Ashley sighed. ‘I’ve worked with a few of them, God help me. But what about Coke? Do you have any idea what he may have been involved with? Or who?’
‘Oh yes,’ returned Will, wryly. And told him.
At the end of it, Ashley stared into the fire without speaking. Then he said, ‘Oh bloody hell. And there’s not a thing we can do about it, is there?’
‘There’s nothing anyone can do about it.’ There was another long pause. Then Will said, ‘This invasion fantasy of yours. Tell me about it.’
‘It’s less of a fantasy than you might think. The Scots want Cromwell out of their country so much they’ve crowned Charles and are letting the Engagers back. They have an army of sorts. Admittedly, it’s neither huge nor well-equipped and it’s far from well-trained … but, to a degree at least, all those faults might be mended.’
‘I do so admire optimism. But pray go on. Who is commanding?’
‘Well, David Leslie, of course. And --’
‘Ah yes. Canny, cautious old Leslie. The general who, despite knowing the ground like the back of his hand, managed to get wiped out at Dunbar. Next?’
‘Edward Massey.’
‘The hero of Gloucester? Well, one can’t sneer at him. It’s a pity, though, that his best successes occurred whilst fighting for the Parliament. A number of good English Royalists may balk at serving under a former enemy.’
Ashley eyed him with foreboding. ‘Hamilton.’
‘The parsons like that family less than the devil. They’ll be snapping at his heels like terriers. Still … I suppose he may be luckier than his late brother. Any more?’
‘The Earl of Derby.’
Sir William laughed.
‘Oh – please! That man never got anything right in his life. The only thing he’s any good at being quarrelsome – and, in the company you’ve described, there’ll be plenty of opportunity for that.’ The laughter faded and, in a different tone, he said, ‘I’m sorry, Ashley. I’m desperately sorry … but I don’t think you’ve a cat in hell’s chance. And it’s not just the lack of good leadership. Very few Cavaliers will fight beside the Scots – and none of the Scots will have anything to do with the Catholics. What hope can such a clutch of ill-assorted factions have against the New Model? Cromwell will chew it up and spit out the pieces.’
The time the silence yawned like a cavern. Then Ashley said ruefully, ‘I hope you’re wrong … though I suspect you’re not. But you see, Charles is set on it, if only the Scots will agree. And what other option is there?’
‘Truthfully?’ Will’s smile was faintly twisted. ‘None.’
‘None,’ agreed Ashley. ‘So even if failure is guaranteed, I can’t just wash my hands of it, can I?’
‘Actually, that might be the most helpful thing you can do. You and everyone else who has both a brain and enough field experience to recognise when the writing’s on the wall.’
‘It’s not that simple, Will. I can’t just abandon Charles. Not only because if an invasion does take place, he’ll go with it – but because, if he’s to make a better job of kingship than his father, he needs the right sort of men around him now. Englishmen without a religious axe to grind … and ones who don’t keep their brains in their breeches. You see?’
‘Only too well. You’ll go with Charles and, if necessary, you’ll die for him … but not for any of the excellent reasons you’ve just put forward.’ Sir William paused and reached for the bottle. ‘You’ll do it because you’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t. And so, having established that point, we may as well get drunk.’
* * *
While two English gentlemen were setting the world to rights over their second bottle, Athenais de Galzain was being taught the error of her ways.
Assistant-Manager Froissart lectured her on the self-discipline required by good stage-craft. An actor, he said, was supposed to stick religiously to the play as it had been rehearsed and not plunge headlong into impulsive changes. This basic rule was for the protection of all because if everyone took it into their heads to do what they liked, no one would know whether they were coming or going.
Athenais accepted this with meekly downcast eyes and was therefore unaware that Monsieur Froissart’s stern tone accorded ill with the glint of amusement in his face. She just made numerous sincere apologies and promised never to do such a thing again.
The second, inevitably, was from Marie d’Amboise.
‘You stupid little slut! What the hell do you think you were doing? Trying to get a laugh at my expense?’
‘No. It was just that the audience wouldn’t shut up and --’
‘Then you wait until they do.’
‘I did wait. If I’d waited much longer, half of them would have gone home.’
‘Don’t get smart with me, girl. Who the hell do you think you are?’
Your successor, I hope, thought Athenais. But had the sense not to say it. Instead, knowing that annoying the leading-lady further was only going to store up trouble for herself, she adopted a humble tone and lied. ‘I’m sorry, Madame. It was a mistake.’
‘Don’t make it again,’ snapped Marie. ‘Not if you expect to get another role after this one.’
And finally, when everyone else had left the theatre, Pauline Fleury gave her a shrewdly considering stare and said, ‘Presumably tonight has taught you something?’
Athenais sighed. ‘God, Pauline. Not you as well.’
‘Me as well. So?’
‘So I’ve learned not to get creative in performance,’ came the long-suffering reply.
‘Anything else?’
‘If I get myself into a hole, it’s up to me to dig myself out of it?’
‘Exactly. The one lesson no one else can teach you.’ Pauline grinned suddenly. ‘Well done.’
Athenais looked back warily. ‘You’re not annoyed with me?’
‘Not as much as I would have been if you hadn’t turned your mistake into an advantage. Using the feathers was both clever and funny. The audience liked it.’
‘Monsieur Froissart didn’t.’
‘You’d be surprised. He was bound to issue a reprimand. But he’s just seen you make the audience take notice. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll be taking particular notice himself from now on.’
* * *
Colonel Peverell arose next morning with mill-wheels grinding inside his head and the aggravating knowledge that he only had himself to blame. Gritting his teeth, he washed, shaved, dressed … and decided he was never going to drink again. Then, unable to face breakfast, he went off to reclaim his hired horse from the stables where he had lodged it.
It was only then, whilst paying his shot, that he found the crumpled playbill from the Théâtre du Marais still in his pocket … and, by process of elimination, worked out that the stunning red-head who’d played the maid-servant rejoiced under the name of Mademoiselle de Galzain.
He was half-way back to the coast before it occurred to him to wonder why he’d wanted to know.
~ * * ~ * * ~
THREE
In Scotland, the weather remained bleak enough to stop Cromwell advancing to Fife – which was a huge relief to everyone in Perth. But after General Monck took Tantallon Castle, the persuasions which the King had addressed to ministers in Aberdeen and elsewhere finally began to bear fruit. General Middleton went on a massive recruiting drive … and the trickle of Engagers turning up to take their turn on the stool of repentance suddenly became a flood.
The Scots Parliament assembled on March 13th. By the end of the month, a new committee had been appointed to manage the army and the King had graciously been given permission to command it. The northern clans who’d fought under Montrose – scandalously executed the previous May – were no longer prohibited from serving and the thorny question of repealing the Act of Classes was broached, if not completely resolved. All in all, remarked Francis to Nicholas Austin, it began to look as if His Majesty might get his invasion force after all.
Meanwhile, although Monck repeated the triumph of Tantallon at Blackness Castle, a combination of inhospitable spring weather and Cromwell’s rumoured ill-health prevented the English from finishing what they had started and gave the Scots time to prepare. Throughout April, Major Langley and Captain Austin drilled daily with their men – and, by the beginning of May, had progressed to testing their skills in a series of surprise raids on the English lines.
It was after one such skirmish that Francis, en route for a tub of hot water and some clean clothes, walked slap into the last person he’d expected to see.
‘My God,’ remarked Colonel Peverell, looking him over with gentle astonishment. ‘Have you been working?’
‘Merely relieving one of Noll’s outposts of its colours and a field-piece. And we can’t all spend our time riding about paying house-calls.’
Ashley spared a thought for the two corpses he’d left rotting in a Limerick bog but said merely, ‘Jealous? Don’t be. It’s not nearly as much fun as you might think. And I was about to offer to buy you a drink.’
‘After last time,’ drawled Francis, ‘I’m not sure that’s good idea.’
He was bluffing, of course. Even his urgent desire for a bath wasn’t enough to make him pass up the chance to hear whatever information Colonel Peverell’s travels might have made him privy to. So he allowed himself to be led to the nearest tavern and, when the pot-boy had served them with ale, said lightly, ‘Very well. I’m listening. What have you been up to these last three months?’
‘Putting my ear to the ground,’ came the laconic reply. ‘I also met Captain Titus on his way back with the Queen’s views on the Campbell marriage. And – whilst not questioning Lady Anne’s eligibility – Her Majesty feels that her son shouldn’t marry at all without first consulting his loyal English subjects.’
‘Very tactful. She must have changed substantially since I last met her.’
‘Yes. Well, she’s learned a few hard lessons in recent years. And though they won’t stop her trying to do the King’s breathing for him, they may remind her to hold her tongue when he refuses to let her.’
‘We can but hope.’ Francis was well-aware that the Queen’s besetting sin was a tendency to shout her grievances from the highest roof-top. But because he was also aware that Colonel Peverell had avoided answering his original question, he said, ‘You’ve been to Paris, then?’
‘Briefly.’ Ashley re-filled his cup and grinned. ‘The Théâtre du Marais has a new attraction. A delectable little red-head, who – judging by the reaction of the male half of the audience – won’t be playing bit-parts for long.’
‘Fascinating.’ Francis crossed one leg over the other and refused to be diverted. ‘You’re not very forthcoming, are you?’
‘No.’ The gold-flecked green eyes looked back austerely. ‘I find that I – and others – live longer that way.’
‘Ah. Cloak-and-dagger stuff again.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘I see.’ Francis decided it was time to put Colonel Peverell straight on a few things. He said, ‘You’re not the only one to do this kind of work, you know. In the summer of ’47, I took letters from the Queen to various loyal gentlemen in the midlands and north.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘I delivered them, too – though it was touch and go at one stage and I was forced to spend three extremely uncomfortable nights in a Knaresborough cellar.’
The Colonel’s gaze sharpened.
‘Not … not underneath the Widow Jessop’s shop?’
Francis sat up.
‘How do you know that?’
‘It was my network.’
‘Yours?’
‘Yes. I set it up and kept it functioning. The only thing I don’t understand is how you passed through it without my knowledge.’ He stopped and then said slowly, ‘Or no. Perhaps I do. Did Venetia Clifford have a hand in it, by any chance?’
Francis’s eyes widened.
‘Yes. You know her?’
‘I used to. She was betrothed to Ellis Brandon but married his half-brother instead.’ Ashley’s smile was tinged with acid. ‘Aside from the fact that the other fellow was
a Colonel in the New Model, it could only have been a change for the better.’
‘It was certainly better for me,’ agreed Francis, leaning back again and re-crossing his legs. ‘I won’t bore you with the details, but – if it weren’t for Gabriel Brandon, I’d probably still be languishing in the Tower right now. He’s a decent fellow.’
‘I know. I met him once.’ Colonel Peverell laughed. ‘But that’s another story.’
‘And Ellis?’
‘Ellis,’ replied Ashley flatly, ‘thought himself suited to what you call ‘cloak-and-dagger’ stuff. In reality, he was a damned liability. He and those like him are the reason I don’t talk about what I do.’
‘Which brings us neatly back to the beginning of this conversation,’ observed Francis. And, holding up one hand, ‘I’m not asking for state secrets. But giving me a general picture of how matters stand in England wouldn’t be any risk to your neck, would it?’
There was a brief silence. Then, on a faint explosion of breath, Ashley said, ‘Very well. That far but no further. The truth is that the government is extremely nervous and damnably efficient. A good many of our friends have recently been arrested and a ban on race-meetings is making it difficult for those still at liberty to continue to meet in any numbers. Sir Henry Hyde was executed in March for seeking help from the Sultan of Turkey. John Birkenhead – one-time editor of Mercurius Aulicus but now a rather useful agent – was captured and his papers seized by the Council of State. These led to the arrest of Thomas Coke – who will by now have offered every name he knows in the hope of saving his skin.’ He paused, then added flatly, ‘And the results of that could be cataclysmic.’
‘I see.’ Frowning slightly, Francis looked up from his tankard. ‘It’s not very encouraging, is it? And ill-timed, too, since the army here is shaping up so well. Nick and I were beginning to look forward to a small invasion.’