Although it is Hester who initiates negotiations with him, each one of his responses is directed to Hope. ‘Yes, Mr Hope, of course. I’m more than happy to let you have a pair of horses. Will the ladies be comfortable on horseback? I can provide a small carriage if they would prefer.’
‘Do we look like the kind of women who can’t ride?’ Melis says, and Hester is obliged to apologize for her discourtesy.
Acclimatizing to her masculine role, remembering to drop her voice, Hope adds, ‘My sisters are both accomplished horsewomen.’
Two hardy-looking animals are procured immediately, to the annoyance of a party who comment loudly that they have been kept waiting more than two hours.
It is already past midday when they finally set off again. They are obliged to travel initially, a good mile in the wrong direction, keeping alert for anyone who might be on their tail. It is market day so the route is busy, making it easy for them to double back inconspicuously and loop round to meet the Burford road outside the city.
Hester is annoyed with Melis, riding in silence for some time, saying eventually, ‘Can you try not to be rude? It attracts attention and the landlord was only being helpful.’
Their quarrel is soon forgotten and they reach the Bull at Burford before dark and without event. The place is hosting a wedding party and the only room left is a tight space beneath the eaves, dominated by a large bed that is impossible to get into without banging your head on the sloping ceiling.
Hester bolts the door, top and bottom, saying that at least up in the attic they need not worry about the security of the windows, while Hope flips back the covers to check for unwanted visitors. She had heard of a woman who found a whole nest of mice under a pillow at an inn.
Despite her exhaustion, Hope lies awake, her mind cluttered with qualms, listening to the noise of carousing downstairs, the sounds filtering up through the building. Each wedding toast provokes a more raucous cheer than the one before. After a while a fiddle starts up and the guests begin to dance, drunkenly, if the erratic thumping is anything to go by.
She hears a racket on the stairs, a clash of loud laughter, and supposes the newlyweds are being put to bed. She wonders if she will ever marry, now she has been spoiled. No one wants a girl who has given herself to the first taker without a second thought.
She can hear the sharp jab of an argument on the landing and the slam of a door, after which the place falls silent. Her thoughts continue to swirl, pushing sleep further and further away because she can’t help imagining someone scaling the building, creeping in through the window and murdering them all while they sleep.
Rafe has a nightmare, sitting bolt upright with a cry. She tucks her arm around him, stroking his head and quietly singing a lullaby until he has settled.
Still she lies awake, mind swirling with jagged thoughts. Deep in the night she hears the sound of an arrival, the jangle of keys, quiet conversation and footfall on the stairs. She slips to the door to make sure it is bolted fast, though she checked it twice before they went to bed. Her heart continues its desperate thudding, even once the place has fallen silent.
She wakes Hester at dawn, telling her of the late-night visitor, and they pack quickly, creeping down the stairs. The place is dead but they find the landlady slumped asleep in a chair in the hall surrounded by debris from the wedding party. She appears not to have been to bed and wakes as they tiptoe past.
‘Where are you off to so early?’ Her breath is still high with last night’s drink.
‘We have to make Southampton by Wednesday.’ Hester constructs an elaborate story about crossing to the Low Countries where her husband is waiting.
The landlady levers herself out of the chair. ‘You’d better take some of these.’ She wraps up some victuals left over from the feast and sends them on their way.
They travel through the early morning in silence, keeping close to the hedgerows, alert for sounds, glancing back every now and again to be sure they haven’t been followed.
Felton
George is in black, a mourning pin attached to his jacket – a skull with diamonds for eyes. The atmosphere is close as he and Felton regard each other without speaking. Felton detects something different in his old friend, a small fissure in his pristine veneer that only someone who knows him as well as Felton does would notice.
‘I am sorry,’ Felton says, pointing to the death’s head, ‘about Dr Lambe.’ His words seem woefully inadequate in the face of the horror of the old doctor’s death. He wants to reach out, touch him, draw him close as he used to, but a gulf of time squats between them.
A small tic at the corner of George’s eye reveals that he has committed his feelings about the murder to somewhere unreachable. ‘Terrible business.’ He touches his fingers absently to the pin. ‘Wanted to get at me.’ George’s clipped tone suggests that it will take more than the murder of his personal adviser to ‘get at’ him but the flicker of fear in his eyes tells a different story. ‘In my position it is inevitable that I will accrue enemies … the price of power. The King is unpopular and people want to blame me for it.’
That news-sheet image springs to Felton’s mind. ‘You must step carefully.’ His first instinct is to protect his old lover. He is well aware that there are many who would like to see George meet a similar end to his adviser. People are fickle. It is not so long since he was feted.
George runs his gaze over Felton, taking in his ragged state, the threadbare coat and injured arm, wrapped in a bandage and strapped into a makeshift sling. His condition is so miserable the guard hadn’t initially recognized him: he had tried to send Felton packing as a vagrant until he’d seen the duke’s letter of summons.
‘Fiske,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t you remember me?’ Fiske had served under him at Cádiz.
‘Lieutenant Felton?’ The man regarded him for a moment. ‘You look a fright.’
‘You’ve gone up in the world.’ Felton eyes Fiske’s smart uniform, the polished sword at his hip.
‘Duke’s personal guard. Reward for bravery.’
‘I’m glad for you,’ Felton said, as Fiske opened the gate to let him pass.
He feels slightly unsteady on his feet. He is in terrible pain and trying to hide it. He finished the last of his laudanum earlier and its effect is wearing off.
‘What happened to you?’ says George, placing a hand on Felton’s shoulder, his fingers touching the bare skin of his neck.
‘Cannon shot, as we pulled out of Saint-Martin.’
‘I plan to raise more troops and return to finish the job.’
This is it, thinks Felton, waiting for George to say: And I won’t be able to succeed without your expertise.
‘I want you to perform a service for me.’
‘Anything.’ Felton is barely able to contain himself, palms sweating in anticipation.
‘You won’t be aware that I have a natural son.’ Felton is perplexed by the turn of the conversation, disappointment dropping into him like a stone.
‘I want you to bring the boy to me. I sent Worley to fetch him but … Well, let’s just say the man can be unreliable.’ He smiles at Felton – the smile that could melt the devil’s heart. ‘Not like you.’
‘I thought … I thought … I thought you wanted to offer me a martial role.’
‘A command? It hadn’t crossed my mind.’ Felton is crushed. ‘This is far more important. I don’t think I explained. It is not the boy alone I want. His mother and her sister have threatened me.’ He draws in a sharp breath, with a pained expression. ‘And they have the means to bring me down.’
‘Are you sure of this?’ It seems to Felton so implausible that two women could be bent on his destruction, one of them the mother of his bastard.
‘Look! Look at this!’ He draws a dog-eared scrap of paper from inside his jacket, thrusting it under Felton’s nose, tapping it with his finger.
It appears to be a letter in which a few sentences have been underlined. I have proof that you once committed t
reason and I am not afraid to use that knowledge, should you try to take Rafe from me. ‘Rafe is your son?’
‘Yes.’ He snatches back the paper.
‘How do you know she’s not making it up? What proof could she possibly have?’
‘That is what I wondered when I first received it but I investigated further. The women have letters, forgeries, but in the wrong hands …’ he pauses to take a sharp inhalation ‘… they could light the fuse to bring all this down.’ He sweeps an arm in an arc to indicate the splendid room, then forms his hand into a fist, banging it to his chest. ‘It could be the end of me, Felton. Those letters must be destroyed. I would hardly send you on such a – a –’ He seems unsure of the word.
‘Mission?’ suggests Felton.
‘Yes, exactly, mission. You yourself said only moments ago that I should watch my step, that I have too many enemies. Well, this is me stepping carefully.’ George fixes him with a pleading stare. ‘I need you, Felton. I need someone with your skills of subtlety for this undertaking. Those letters must be destroyed. The women stopped. I trust only you for this.’ He pulls open the front of his jacket and takes Felton’s hand to place it over his heart. ‘Hold you here!’
Felton’s disappointment melts away. He can feel George’s heartbeat, the warm skin. ‘You know you have my loyalty.’
‘I’ll pay you well. Well enough to set you up … There’s a manor north of the city, brings in a good living. It will be yours.’
‘I understand.’ A spark of suspicion ignites in Felton. Something seems awry. George’s offer is too generous. ‘And if I refuse?’
‘Why would you?’ George knows Felton too well. He is not in a position to refuse.
Besides, after so many years in the wilderness with nothing but uncertainty, he has a glimpse of a future basking in George’s favour. ‘And the promotion?’
‘Are you taking advantage of me?’ George looks to the floor, then up again with a half-smile and kisses Felton’s hand before letting it drop.
‘I could be an asset to you, with fifteen years’ martial experience.’ It is true. Felton has served under some of the most gifted commanders in Europe and George knows it.
‘You’re right. We could make a formidable team.’ George pauses. ‘Deal with the mother and her sister, get rid of the letters, and bring the boy to me. Then you shall have your captaincy.’
‘Deal with?’ Felton feels as if he has swallowed a shard of glass.
‘Make it seem accidental.’
‘I can’t do that. Women!’
Now the façade cracks open, revealing the full extent of George’s fear. ‘Those women would send me to the block.’ His expression is haunted. ‘Me … your George.’
Felton tries to tame the confusion of emotion roiling within him. ‘I don’t think I can –’
George interjects, ‘You’ve seen the threat to me in black and white.’
‘Can’t you have them imprisoned?’
‘If only it were so easy. Those two hussies will cast aspersions and I can’t risk people asking questions or those forged letters falling into the wrong hands. God knows what might …’ His desperation is clear. ‘There’s no other way. They must be silenced.’ George hooks his arm round Felton’s waist, pulling him close. ‘Remember how we were? Life was so simple then. I miss those days.’ Their foreheads touch. George takes Felton’s hand, turning it upward to expose the ugly jagged scar at the base of his thumb, opening his hand too, to reveal his own neat silver scar, pressing them together. ‘Blood brothers. Our secret. Remember?’
‘Of course I remember.’
‘It’s not as if you haven’t taken a life before.’ George’s tone has sharpened.
‘On the battlefield it is different.’
‘You know what I mean. I protected you when you needed it. You can’t have forgotten that.’
The past comes crashing back – the young man Felton killed in France, those dead eyes staring out. It had started as a fight over a game of dice but his adversary was smaller, younger, and something had come over Felton, a streak of cold violence. He had knocked the boy to the ground and booted him over and over until his head was caved in.
It wasn’t anger or any common reaction but a perverse desire to know if he was capable of taking a life. He was. Had George not sworn they were together elsewhere, he would have hanged for it: it turned out the boy was the magistrate’s son.
They are silent for several moments while Felton’s thoughts percolate.
‘It’s them or me. Just because they belong to the fairer sex doesn’t make them immune from treachery. Would you wish the fate of Dr Lambe on me, the one who loved you first, whom you loved too? You did love me, didn’t you?’ George’s eyes are vast and dewy and for a moment Felton thinks he is on the brink of tears.
‘I did, George. I do. Of course I do.’ An image asserts itself in his head of George crouching over the block, his hair falling forward. The sound of the axe thuds in his ears.
‘You know me,’ says George, ‘better than anyone.’
Felton remembers vividly the George he knew, the loyal young man who risked himself to protect his friend, and he is back in that idyllic summer with George and Bridget before they parted ways. It was the happiest time of his life. ‘I do know you.’ He might balk at the task but he is a soldier: he knows death and he knows killing. Indeed, it is all he knows. This is just another commission, he tells himself. He knows he cannot stand back and watch George brought down, George who is all that is left of his past.
The axe thuds again. ‘I’ll do it.’
George slaps him on the back. ‘That’s my man.’ He outlines the circumstances, saying that the women were last seen with the boy’s godfather. ‘One of his maidservants is in my pay, a young girl named Joan, but you mustn’t solicit her help. I don’t want her compromised. You won’t find the women or the boy still there. They have moved on. You shall have to find out where. I’ll give you directions to Littlemore Manor. Dr Cotton may be willing to speak, given the right … encouragement.’ He speaks the word in a pointed tone that makes Felton wonder, once more, what he is getting into.
‘Once you find them, don’t rush things. Inveigle yourself into their company. Befriend my boy. Seek out the forged letters and destroy them.’
‘How will I identify them?’
‘My informant tells me they bear the stamp of the Spanish ambassador and my stamp, faked by some knave. The devil only knows what libels they contain.’ He has removed the mourning pin from his jacket and is absently prodding the pointed end onto the surface of the table where it leaves small indentations in the fine marquetry.
‘Once the letters are destroyed, move on to the other business,’ he continues. ‘There is a third sister, younger, part-mulatto. Worley tells me she doesn’t know much but that she is easily manipulated – might prove helpful. But,’ he meets Felton’s eyes with a crystalline look, ‘it’s imperative that it appears to be an accident. I can’t have it coming back on me. You do understand?’
Felton nods. ‘And should I need support, is there someone I can call on?’ He is beginning to understand the complexity of the mission and the practicalities involved. ‘Someone trusted.’
‘There’s Worley, I suppose. He’s suffered a rather bad concussion lately but should be on his feet again before long.’
‘You said Worley was unreliable.’
‘He wouldn’t be my first choice. You are my first choice.’ George’s smile catches Felton, sending memories of their old intimacies running through him once more. ‘Worley may not be the most efficient of men but he’s absolutely loyal and doesn’t balk at much.’ The way George says this suggests he has some kind of hold over the man. But that is neither here nor there for Felton. ‘Bear in mind, though, that Worley is known to the sisters so they mustn’t see him.’
‘I understand. Once I know the women’s destination, I will send word for Worley to be dispatched to a place nearby, should I have need of him.’
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‘I knew you were my man. Leaving nothing to chance.’ George’s gaze is on him, intense and warm. ‘I will be ever in your debt if you rid me of this threat and unite me with my boy. My own boy! A son should be raised by his father, don’t you agree?’
‘Indeed.’ Felton imagines the child, a miniature of George.
George opens a drawer, taking out a purse, which he tosses over. It chinks as Felton catches it with one hand. ‘To be going on with. Clean yourself up and keep a tally of your expenses. I’d loan you one of my good horses but it would attract too much attention. Better you travel discreetly.’ He lists his advice as if this were a mere ordinary commission. ‘It goes without saying that this stays between us.’
‘Of course.’ Felton hasn’t a soul to tell. He has no one, no family, no lover, no children, not even a bastard somewhere in the world to seek him out. George must know this.
‘I almost forgot.’ George stands, going to a bookcase from which he slides out a slim volume. ‘I thought you might like a copy. Bacon has revised his essays.’ He holds up the book. ‘Do you remember?’
Felton is catapulted once more to that summer at Playford, lying in the warm grass, reading passages to each other. It had been Felton who had introduced George to Bacon. It would seem hard to believe for anyone encountering them now that Felton had once been the more sophisticated of the two men. ‘“It is impossible”,’ he starts, George chiming in to complete the quotation, ‘“to love and be wise.”’ They laugh and the heavy atmosphere is lifted.
‘Let me put something in it.’ George opens the book to scrawl a note inside, then hands it over, appearing not to notice the mourning pin fall to the floor. Felton stoops to pick it up and follows him to the door, where George is suddenly serious once more. ‘And I don’t want any harm to come to my son. I don’t want him frightened. I mean it.’ He brings a hand to stroke the side of Felton’s face. ‘So make things as smooth as possible for him. I don’t want him resenting me before he’s even here.’
The Honey and the Sting Page 7