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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Mercia Blakewood
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
May 1665. With winter passed, Mercia Blakewood is at last headed back to England from America, hoping to leave behind the shadow cast by death and heartache. She expects a welcome from the king considering her earlier mission on his behalf, but the reception she receives after her long voyage home could hardly be called warm. With the country now at war with the Dutch, the Crown has decided that Mercia is an asset to be used once again. More manipulation lies ahead as Mercia must accept a clandestine role at the heart of the glittering and debauched royal court to unmask a spy and traitor.
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Traitor
DAVID HINGLEY
For Brenda, Eliza, Bob & Bob who laughed, played and taught
Contents
Dramatis Personae
THE KING’S WAR COUNCIL
THE WOMEN WHO COULD BE VIRGO
PRINCIPAL ACTORS
THE ROYAL HOUSE OF STUART in order of succession
NAMED SENIOR MEMBERS OF THE COURT
Chapter One
‘Watch out!’ came a sharp voice from above.
Mercia pulled back as the tallest wave yet dashed itself to nothing against the ship’s weary hull. Fine droplets of mist soared into the air, the ring of gulls circling the mast shrieking their soaked disapproval. Clutching a sealed envelope against the splintered rail, she craned her neck towards the faint shoreline as another, smaller wave played out its lively welcome. Spray speckled her wet cheek anew, and she swayed on the warped deck, its planks damaged as much of the hardy ship had suffered in the storm on the long voyage home.
Home.
Briefly, she closed her eyes.
Home, after all.
‘Don’t you think you should open it now?’
A familiar presence approached from behind; she knew someone had been watching, but she had wanted to bear witness to the coalescing cliffs, the first glimpse of grass atop the jagged morass. The first glimpse for nigh on a year.
It had been a long year, these past twelve months.
‘Mercia?’
The man was as persistent as the waves. She paused a moment more, breathing in the saltiness of the ocean that seemed somehow … English, and traced the pattern of a cleft in the bluffs, listening to the pervading caw of the gulls as they scoured the sodden deck for a sailor’s charity. Finally she turned, grasping at her hat at a tug of the sharp Channel wind.
‘Careful,’ her companion warned. ‘You’ve been waiting three months to read that letter. You don’t want the sea to take it now.’
‘No, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘But I promised I would only open it when we arrived home.’
‘And you’ve been as patient as you vowed. Now break the seal.’
‘Why I allow you to—’ She shook her head. ‘No matter. Suffice that I do.’
His green eyes flashed, the glimmering edge of the sun’s unsure circle peeking from behind a ragged cloud. ‘You’ve always said I should speak as I think.’
‘Still.’ She thrust the letter into the pockets beneath her dress as a boy ran to take her hand, nimble despite the rocking deck. ‘My, Danny.’ She staggered slightly as she reached to scoop him up. ‘You are getting heavy.’
‘It was my birthday last month, Mamma,’ said the boy. ‘Don’t you remember? I’m growing up.’
His innocence charmed her. ‘That you are. Past time I brought you back home.’
The ship continued on, edging through the Channel, heading for its long-sought destination: the busy port of Southampton on the English south coast. Mercia felt a twinge of agitation as the harbour of Plymouth passed by to the north, but nine weeks had passed since they had embarked in New York; she could wait a few hours more. Besides, her impatience was mingled with excitement; the thrill of seeing her homeland again after such a long journey abroad. But finally the westernmost cliffs of the Isle of Wight roved into view, and passing along the narrow Solent, the wharves and inns of the Southampton docks began to give up their features until individual sailors and dockhands could be seen roaming the jetties or leaping through the rigging of the many-moored ships.
The industry of the docks could be heard from afar, even as the ship was still some way out, awaiting the tug boat that was rowing towards them. Positioning itself at the battered bow, the tug’s crew of two swore in jocund ribaldry at the sailors leaning down from the bowsprit, waiting to be thrown a sturdy rope to use to steady the ship into dock. Then as they manoeuvred into the harbour, a glint of sudden sunlight made Mercia wince. Arm shielding her eyes, she squinted to starboard to wonder at a floating behemoth, larger than any vessel she had seen. Its army of cannon sparkled in the bright spring day.
‘God’s truth!’ swore Nicholas, coming alongside once more as she laid a restraining hand on Daniel, the young boy leaning too far over the railing for her liking. ‘Never seen a ship that big before.’
‘Not even when you were serving yourself?’ she asked.
‘Not that I remember. And look at that paintwork all along the side, that figurehead at the bow … ’tis brand new. I’d say about ready for launch.’
Daniel squirmed under his mother’s grasp. ‘The … Royal Charles,’ he announced, reading the nameplate stretched across the expansive stern. He turned his eyes up to her. ‘Like the King!’
‘Yes,’ said Mercia, taking in the golden ostentation that peppered the length of the magnificent ship. The red, the yellow, the blue; the gleaming ironmongery; the furled white sails towering high above. ‘You are right, Danny. ’Tis just like him.’
It was the first step back on land after an arduous crossing. All around, Mercia could hear the sounds of home, breathe in the … stench, but it vanished from notice as her legs began to buckle, and at her side, Daniel fell to the ground with a bump.
‘It will pass,’ grinned Nicholas. ‘This always happens after a long voyage. People not used to it get land-sick.’
As the uncomfortable sensation dissipated, Mercia was taken by an overwhelming emotion. The events of the past months had been hard, and to be back home, surrounded by a certain familiarity—
‘England!’ she cried, sinking to her knees in the middle of the docks. ‘England, after all!’
As though unbelieving, she reached out a palm to the dirty ground, wavering her hand above the earth until with a sudden movement she drove it firm against the hard surface, compacted by so many boots. For a blissful moment she cast down her joyful gaze, then retracting her hand she drew herself up and took in her surroundings. The English people, the English port – the English frowns at the unexpected behaviour of this woman in her weather-worn brown dress.
‘Perhaps get up now?’ offered Nicholas, reaching out his own hand to help her rise.
She seized his wrist. ‘No matter what people think. We are home. And no sense in waiting.’
‘You still want to take the first coach I can find? No rest?’
‘Yes, Nicholas. I must know if the King will do as he promised.’ She looked at him, her travelling companion of many months’ standing. Now the time was near, she realised she was more saddened that soon they would part than even she would have thought. ‘Do you … still want to journey with us? You have fulfilled your obligations to me. I have no call on your service now.’
‘I’ve come this far, haven’t I?’ He smiled. ‘There and back again. I need to know how this ends.’
‘And then? You cannot defer it any longer.’
‘I don’t know.’ Looking away, he ran a hand through his blonde hair, ruffling it beyond its usual disarray. ‘Shall I see to our luggage?’
‘Thank you.’ She caught sight of a stone bench at the end of the dock, its only current occupants a pair of fighting pigeons. ‘We will wait there.’
As Daniel ran ahead, copying another boy by chasing the pigeons around the bench, Mercia watched Nicholas force his way into the crowd at the side of their abandoned ship, where a horde of grubby, disembarked passengers were clamouring with the one sailor overseeing the removal of their belongings from the water-sodden hold. Keen that Daniel exercise his legs after so many weeks at sea, nonetheless she ordered him to remain close. Then she took a deep breath and felt inside her pockets for the makeshift envelope, a sealed piece of paper folded around the letter inside.
She studied the writing on the front: just two words, her name. The initials, M and B, were written in a flourish, the whole beautifully copied out, each letter drawn with meticulous care. There had been no need for an address, the rider bringing the letter from Hartford well instructed as to who she was and where she had wintered. Beneath the words, a thick black stroke underlined the esteem of the writer in adorning the paper with her name.
She flicked the thin packet over. Now was the time, she supposed. But as she eased her finger beneath the flap, drawing her cracked nail towards the small blue seal, she paused. On the back, she looked again at the request that she not open the letter until she arrived home in England, but despite this injunction, why had she waited until now? True, she had promised herself she would comply with the writer’s entreaty, but could she really not have broken that vow in her cabin as she broke the waxen seal now?
She withdrew a sheet of pale grey paper, folded in half along an immaculate crease. Had she been scared to read what was inside? Not dared take in the words while trapped on a ship at sea, nowhere to hide if they upset her as she suspected they might?
Or had she, as she thought was her correspondent’s intent, merely wanted to wait until she was an ocean’s distance from the hurt of her recent past? Whatever the reason, now, here in England, there was no longer any excuse.
She unfolded the letter and began to read.
My dearest Mercia, my friend, my love,
She stopped before she had barely begun. Already her breathing had quickened. Should she continue to read here in the open, or wait a while longer until she could be alone indoors? But now she had started, his writing drew her to the page as surely as if he were beside her speaking the words.
When you left Meltwater, you—
She broke off once more as a shadow fell over the page, and she looked up, startled, half expecting, half hoping, to see the man who had written the letter standing before her. Certainly she did not expect to be confronted by a soldier, armed with a halberd-like partisan and a grimmer expression.
‘Mrs Blakewood?’ he asked, his voice equally gruff. Over his shoulder, a fellow pair of guardsmen stood watching.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Mrs Mercia Blakewood, of Halescott in Oxfordshire? Returned this day from America?’
A prickling anxiety teased her insides. ‘That is me.’
‘Then you are to come with us.’
‘Why?’ She looked from soldier to soldier, but their impassive faces told no story.
Their captain stood to one side. ‘On the orders of the King, you are under arrest.’
The room was light, surprisingly. Fearing a small, dark space, she was taken to the top floor of a sizeable house that overhung a broad street in the middle of town. Three windows in the street-facing side flooded the floor with the sundered rays of the sun; the bed, although small, appeared comfortable, and the truckle in the corner was a sufficient resting place for Daniel.
And yet, the door remained as locked as the soldiers’ mouths had been closed when she had pressed to know the reasons they had led her away. There had been no time to alert Nicholas; she had tried to shout over, but he had long since disappeared into the melee surrounding the ship. And so here she was, trapped in another chill room, at the behest of the King whom she thought she had served well.
‘Why are we here, Mamma?’ asked Daniel, no longer as subdued as before. ‘I thought … aren’t we going home any more? I wanted to see James. I wanted to play with him.’
‘We are going home, Danny, I promise you that. I have come too far to be denied now.’ She forced a smile. ‘Come here, on the bed.’
She sat on the sheets – as comfortable as they looked – and waited until he dragged himself over to join her. She put an arm around his young shoulders and began to stroke his hair.
‘Do not be afraid. Mamma will put this right.’ She sighed. ‘Whatever this is.’
His lower lip trembled. ‘Is it because of grandfather again?’
‘No, Danny. You must not think that.’
As she stroked his hair, she pondered the reasons for her arrest. People had died during her mission for the King in New York – was that it? Had she spoken to someone she shouldn’t have? Or had her uncle, more recently returned than she, made insinuations about her conduct that the King wanted to investigate? Despite her reassurances to her son, her father had still been condemned a traitor the year before: one of Parliament’s staunchest advocates in the civil war, he had served in Cromwell’s long-gone Protectorate, unlike her uncle who had sided with the Royalists. But surely, she thought, her recent actions were proof of her family’s loyalty?
The afternoon faded into dusk, then into gloaming; lanterns were lit outside, dotting the fronts of shops and houses with the swinging shadow of their quivering light. The prison-house stood not far from the dock, and constant shouting drifted through the thinly paned windows, lined with diagonal lead that had warped in places, allowing the cool breeze in. The port was crawling with sailors; Southampton had a great number of drinking dens, none of them nearly as restrained as those in the Puritan colonies of New England she had most recently known. And so she teased Daniel to bed, wincing every time a bawdy group swore its slow way past, until she realised one of the passing men was calling her name.
She eased open the window, wincing as it ground out a low squeak.
‘Nicholas!’ she said, leaning out. ‘Thank the Lord.’
‘What’s going on?’ he called up. ‘I came back and you’d gone. It took hours to find out where you were.’
‘I am not certain.’ She squeezed her head through the narrow opening as far as she could; somewhat tricky with the topknot she had taken pride in maintaining throughout their long voyage home. ‘Did you secure our belongings?’
‘I’ve paid a fellow by the dock to look after them. The sailors say he does it for people all the time, while they wait to move on.’
‘Can you trust him?’
‘He can trust me to take against him if anything goes astray.’
She tried to lean out further, but all she managed was a sore shoulder. ‘Nicholas, ’tis the King. He has had me placed in confinement.’
‘I got that much out of the guards downstairs. But they won’t let me see you, not even for coin, and I had to wait for dark to – hey!’ For a moment he disappeared, but he quickly returned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Some cloyer was trying to rob me. Listen, I don’t know how long ’til the guards chase me off. I want to know what I should do.’
‘I … do not know. If the King has changed his mind, I could be in trouble, despite all that I have done. Perhaps the best course is to wait.’
‘Damn it, if I were Nathan, I could speak to someone, but you’re lumbered with me. At least I know where you are now. Maybe I can find Sir William and get his help. He deigned to talk to me on the ship, but now we’re back …’
She nodded, but sucked in through her teeth as her neck caught on the frame. ‘I asked the guards if I could speak with him myself, but they refused. Can you get him a message? If you say it concerns me, he will listen.’
‘I’ll try. Stay calm. I’ll come back when I can.’
She pulled shut the window, feeling more hopeful than before. If Sir William could help, she knew that he would, unless the threat of the King’s retribution prevented even his noble person from acting. She nibbled at the remnants of the plentiful food and ale an untalkative woman had brought in, and persuaded herself to relieve her discomfort in the pisspot she found under the bed: a difficult operation in all her heavy clothes. Then she listened again at the door, hoping for any sign that Sir William had arrived, or that the guards were ascending the stairs, but all she could hear was the rolling of dice and the chinking of beakers.
A fire was burning in an alcove in the wall, lit by the untalkative woman, and she took a candle from a holder at her side, setting it down once lit. Now she was alone, and Daniel asleep, there was no reason to postpone a second attempt at the letter. She retrieved the crumpled sheet and glanced down.
My dearest Mercia, my friend, my love,
No. No reason.
When you left Meltwater, you took some of me with you. And so here, take some more, a piece of my heart waiting for you to unwrap as you arrive home. I hope you did wait to read this, for it is now that I think you will need it, but no matter if you did not. I know how you can be impetuous.
She smiled, remembering the man who had written those words. The man she had left behind.
After what happened in America, I know you are still in pain. The murders here have affected all our souls, but yours especially, I know. I hope in time you will learn to accept that none of this was your fault, and that your grief can start to lessen as once you helped me vanquish mine. For now, do as I asked when last we spoke – let yourself live, and let me into your heart, for I will find you when you need me. And if ever you change your mind to the question I asked, I shall swim the very ocean to be with you. But until that day, I shall remain in America to help the town through these still-dark days.
Now you are returned to England, you will face new trials. A merchant from New York told me how your uncle had sailed before you, and I know he will not let the matter of your manor house rest, for having once seized your family’s lands he will desire to keep them. But believe in what you accomplished when the King sent you here, and in his promise that he would restore to you your home. For yourself and for Daniel, I hope my love will add its light to God’s to keep you strong, and that we will see each other once more.
I am always yours.
Always.
Nathan
She sat back. Nathan, her friend, now so far away. At one time she had thought … but no. Lying down to rest, she plumped up the pillow, and passed into restful sleep.
A bang on the door forced her awake. As she opened her heavy eyes, a key turned in the lock, and the guards appeared in the threshold.
‘Well,’ she yawned, the grey light of dawn falling through the windows. ‘Are you speaking with me now?’
‘Not us, my lady. Someone much more important.’ The guard’s captain took a step forward, yesterday’s long partisan replaced with a shorter, less brutal sword. ‘Rouse your boy. You depart for London this morning. You are expected tomorrow at the palace.’
Chapter Two
She had planned to travel to London by public coach; at the least her captivity spared her that cramped trial. Instead the guards helped her into a spacious carriage emblazoned with the royal arms.
‘But my luggage!’ she protested.
‘Leave that to your man,’ said the captain, picking Daniel up in his turn. ‘If he comes back, someone will tell him where you’ve gone.’
After a night’s rest in Farnham, the coach made London late the following day, or rather it made Westminster, juddering down the side of the new royal park of St James. Reaching Charing Cross it sped right, heading for Whitehall, turning into the courtyard of the magnificent palace that had been Mercia’s destination in any case. Leaving her to jump down by herself, the guards handed her to a teenage page, but they told her not to worry when they insisted Daniel wait behind with a maid. Reassuring him she would return, she was led deep into the heart of the palace, if not in triumph then in … what?
Following the page through the bewildering maze of passages, Mercia recalled the first time she had visited Whitehall, on the heels of another young servant much like this one; indeed, it could well have been the same swift youth, recovering on that occasion from a celebration the evening before: the day of her wronged father’s execution. And then she wondered, as she walked, whether the object of her mission to America was yet hanging in the palace, for like her uncle it too had arrived before her, and despite her trepidation she was anxious to see it. But there was no sign of the great portrait yet.
After an age of corridors, the page reached a door in that section of the palace that perched above the Thames, but in place of the expected guard, a young lady-in-waiting was watching for their arrival. The page winked, and she shook her head, but her smile was clear enough.
‘Please,’ she said to Mercia, eyes roving her face and clothes. ‘Enter.’
She waited for Mercia to pass through to the room beyond, but she did not follow, pulling shut the door to leave her seemingly alone. The room was dim; despite the brightness of the afternoon, the sole visible window was small, the others covered with thick drapes. A fire burning in the grate was the only other aid to vision, and that was scant enough from the doorway. But then a figure stirred beneath the undraped window, and Mercia realised she was not in truth alone.
‘Good morrow,’ she offered, uncertain what to say.
The figure rested a book on an adjacent table: directly beside the window, that spot at least must have enjoyed sufficient light.
‘Welcome, Mrs Blakewood.’ A woman’s voice cut through the gloom, youthful but full of practised confidence. ‘Shall we have more light? I prefer to see those with whom I speak.’
A silhouette developed, standing and bending to the fire, at which a small flicker sprang up as a taper caught. Slowly, the woman passed around the room, lighting several candles until the whole space was well lit. Shaking out the taper, she threw the remnants into the fire and turned, revealing her notorious face.
Startled, Mercia only just kept from stepping back, instead dropping to the floor in a curtsey of sorts. Was that how you were supposed to greet this woman? In truth she did not know, but she had to hide her discomfort somehow.
The woman smiled in evident satisfaction. Her luscious chestnut hair was tied in a near-impossible topknot: a multitude of thick strands, meticulously curled at the tips, cascaded down her cochinealed cheeks. She was in her mid-twenties and intensely beautiful, her eyes aflame, her lips red and full. On her face she wore a decorative black patch, made of three pointed stars, their curious darkness a contrast to the pale radiance Mercia knew this woman employed to entrap many a willing man of the Court.
‘I … My Lady Castlemaine,’ she tried, resuming her curtsey. ‘I was not expecting to be received by such a noble hostess.’
A rustling of Lady Castlemaine’s many-folded dress accompanied a wave of her hand. ‘Oh come, Mrs Blakewood, you need not bother with such flatteries. I insist that we talk eye to eye.’
Mercia raised herself up, eager to look more on the celebrated woman, renowned countrywide as the most beautiful in the kingdom. She was entirely dramatic, her orange dress and sky-blue scarf a piercing of colour, her pearl and ruby jewels dazzling. Certainly, the King valued her splendour, for this was his most favoured mistress, partner in his bed, and more formally, thought Mercia wryly, Lady of the Bedchamber to the Queen.
Lady Castlemaine laughed. ‘You seem surprised, Mrs Blakewood. Were you expecting a mysterious spymaster, intoning brusque orders from his humourless seat, a dark secretary arms folded at his side?’ She inclined her head. ‘That would be a little … obvious, no?’
Recovering herself, Mercia blinked. This may be the King’s mistress, and de facto queen of the Court, but she had her pride, and she would hold her own in her presence.
‘Assuredly, my lady, I did not expect you. Nor my treatment likewise.’
Lady Castlemaine chuckled, a bright, pleased chord of teasing delight. ‘Of course not. But Charles – that is, the King – agreed this would be more advantageous to us, and I …’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it could amuse.’
A slight indignation rose in Mercia’s chest, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Was locking her in overnight, hiding the truth, this woman’s idea of fun? But there was little time left to wonder on the reason for her brief arrest.
‘I will be candid, Mrs Blakewood,’ said Lady Castlemaine. ‘The King was most pleased when he received the painting you recovered overseas. He truly believed his family portrait lost for all time. He would hang it near his bedchamber were it not for the thought of his mother being close during certain … private acts.’
She paused, but Mercia made sure to keep her expression constant.
‘Indeed he has come to hold you in no small esteem,’ she continued, a slight frown emerging on her forehead. ‘And so he wishes you to accept another task.’
Aghast, Mercia looked up. ‘But my lady, if I may … what of my manor house? His Majesty agreed he would restore it to me if I aided him as I did.’
‘I believe he agreed he would consider it.’ Lady Castlemaine arched a fine eyebrow, taking time to brush a thread from her bulbous silk sleeve. ‘And I will speak truth. He is troubled at how he was convinced to permit your father’s execution. But you remain his servant and he needs your mind for another matter. One, I may add, of significant delicacy. Aid the King in this, and you will be back in your manor with little delay.’
Mercia met the younger woman’s gaze. ‘May I speak with His Majesty myself?’
‘In time. For now, I am to explain the undertaking, and when you have heard me, His Majesty wants you to be free to acquiesce or to decline.’ Her smile resumed its faint mockery. ‘Of course, if you say no …’
‘Then I suppose I am to understand that His Majesty may take longer to … consider.’
Lady Castlemaine’s face twitched. ‘Less bold, Mrs Blakewood. I have said how the King is thankful, but he is the King and you are … merely you. Now pay me heed, for much has happened since you departed.’ Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. ‘Finally, we are at war with the Dutch. True war, I mean: much more than the seizure of colonial backwaters like New York that you witnessed. All Englishmen – Englishwomen – must play their part.’ She gave Mercia a penetrating stare. ‘Your uncle already is.’
‘Sir Francis?’ Despite the warm fire, a chill set in.
‘He returned from America some weeks ago now, in a foul temper no less. I fear you have much to do with that.’ She smiled. ‘I never much liked the dour man, but his injury has made him yet more intolerable. He is obliged to walk with a cane, and is always in poor humour and discomfort. The result of events in New York, I believe?’
A picture of her uncle came to mind, lying injured in a meadow, a sword wound in his side. The same uncle who had usurped her manor house and set her on her journeys in the first place.
She glanced down. ‘He was near death, it seems.’
‘Much livelier now. And eager to help the King with the matter I am about to divulge to you. As for me, I think you can do better.’
Mercia took a deep breath. ‘Does this mean the King is inclined to refuse me his support?’
‘The opposite. Let us merely say that if you help him in this, he will be inclined to refuse you little. We think you are the perfect trap.’
‘Trap?’
‘Must you repeat what I say? You proved adept at seeking out the King’s inheritance. Now he needs you to seek out a spy.’
‘A sp—?’ She felt herself reddening. ‘Surely there are men in His Majesty’s service who are trained in such … arts?’
‘Trained, yes, but competent – who can know? In this climate of war, ’tis so difficult to know who to believe and who to trust.’ There was a sparkle in her cheeks, in her eyes, as she spoke. ‘Someone at Court is passing information to the Dutch. Charles wants you to find out who.’
Mercia’s mouth had fallen half-open, but she found the wit to reclose it. ‘Why me?’
‘I shall come to that.’ Ignoring her shock, Lady Castlemaine pressed on. ‘The King debates matters of war in a specially created council. Matters he does not discuss even with me, and yet it seems the Dutch commanders know more than they should. Recently, he gave the council a report he knew to be untrue, and yet the information found its way to Amsterdam, according to our people there. This, even though it was false, and no one but the council had heard it.’
‘Meaning someone on the council had to be passing it on.’
‘So it would appear. Naturally I am not privy to the intricacies of these affairs, but you seem to grasp the problem as well as I do. Although the council is not the precise matter the King wants you to address.’
‘Oh?’ said Mercia, intrigued despite herself. ‘Then what?’
‘The traitor he seeks is not a man of the council. Not a man at all, indeed. No, the spy I speak of is a woman, Mrs Blakewood. What do you make of that?’
She paused, her slender chin jutting forward, her right eyebrow raised, and only when she could see Mercia was fully ensnared did she continue.
‘A coded message has been intercepted of late, and after some effort, its meaning has been deduced. The message is brief, but makes plain that a woman is the one gathering the information. That she has close ties to a member of the council, either as a relation or a mistress, perhaps. And that her name is given as Virgo.’
‘The virgin,’ mused Mercia, her mind already dissecting the possibilities. ‘An allusion to this woman’s chastity?’
Lady Castlemaine scoffed. ‘The only virgin here is that insufferable Frances Stewart, the vixen. And I really do not think her tiny mind could be so capable. But whether Virgo’s name is literal or no, it is from her that the reports to our enemy start. We do not know from which council member she acquires her information, or whether that man is complicit or simply deluded, but Virgo is the principal actor – or rather, actress. I have convinced Charles that setting a woman on a woman is a prudent course. And so he has been awaiting your return.’
‘Indeed, my lady.’ She swallowed. ‘Your confidence in me is most gratifying. But are there no other women to ask?’
‘Perhaps, Mrs Blakewood, but you have entrapped yourself with your success. And you have another advantage no other woman has.’
Again, she paused. Again, Mercia waited.
‘The King,’ Lady Castlemaine pursued, ‘wishes to discover Virgo by placing a spy of his own in the Court, one who should arouse a minimum of suspicion. If the worst is true, and the council member is complicit, then he is likely privy to knowledge about many of those we could use for this task, and he will seek to protect Virgo accordingly. Whereas you, Mrs Blakewood, can enter Court in an entirely different manner that neither he nor Virgo should ever suspect.’
Mercia frowned. ‘I should have thought the whole Court would view me with suspicion. Even if the King does repent my father’s death, my family has never been much in royal favour, not until my voyage to America, at least.’
‘Which is why I … why we have devised a ploy. I do not know if you will like it, but it removes all such suspicion at a stroke. It involves your friendship with Sir William Calde.’
Mercia studied her face, attempting to read there her plan, but she could think of no obvious answer, unless—
No! Not that!
Lady Castlemaine smiled. ‘Your reaction suggests you may have unmasked our scheme. Do you approve?’
‘My Lady, I do not know until you speak. But I venture to presume I have divined your intent, and I am not certain I can consent.’
‘You may have to. ’Tis the only sure means of explaining your arrival at Whitehall. And I hear you so loved the theatre when you were a girl.’ She winked: a calculated hint, Mercia thought, that she knew more about her than her childhood pleasures alone. ‘Now is your chance to act a fine role indeed. You are to play the mistress of Sir William Calde.’
She closed her eyes. ‘So I was right.’
‘You must agree, ’tis the perfect subterfuge. The whole Court knows how Sir William has pursued you these many months. How difficult is it to surmise that the two of you became close on your mutual journey to America? Particularly after the … unfortunate death of his wife.’
Mercia looked her full in the eye. To her credit, she did not flinch. ‘May we be frank, my lady? Are you saying that unless I pose as Sir William’s mistress and unmask this Virgo then my manor will be denied me?’
‘The King thinks you have more chance with the women of the Court than any man. That is why he has sent me to talk with you, to offer my guidance.’ She toyed with the tips of her fine white gloves. ‘But I have intimated your uncle knows too of this plot. Should he discover the traitor in your place, then naturally the King may be more disposed, shall we say, to reconsider Sir Francis’s own claim on the manor house.’
By the Lord, swore Mercia in her mind. Am I to find no peace?
‘Say I agree. Will Sir William expect that we …?’
‘How far the two of you take this pretence is entirely your affair.’
‘And my son? What am I to do with him?’
‘Mrs Blakewood, do this and your son will want for nothing again. He will see his inheritance restored, enjoy the best tutoring while you are at Court, mingle with the sons of the noblest families in the land. Perhaps even a title to go with his manor one day, if you play your part well.’ Her lips curled upwards. ‘Yes, I thought that might interest you. And you have a manservant, do you not? Install him in a servant’s chambers. He can wait on you here.’
Thrown by the proposal of a title, Mercia cleared her throat. ‘He is not my manservant any longer. I can scarce call on his time now.’
‘He has no choice, if you will it. And I shall furnish you with a maidservant to help you dress, provide you with the finest gowns and jewellery. You will need to convince, and you will need help with the fastenings. They are so complicated, these clothes, do you not think?’ She held up a fold of the opulent dress she must have known Mercia could never afford. ‘But keep your attentions to Sir William, do you hear? The King is inclined to younger women than you, however beautiful.’
And you, thought Mercia. How long now until you are usurped?
‘But His Majesty seems to trust that you can achieve his purpose here. Accept it for the honour that it is, Mrs Blakewood. The King has had little call to put his faith in many, besides his brother the Duke – and myself, of course.’
‘No other person?’ asked Mercia.
The younger woman’s beauty vanished into the narrowing of her eyes.
‘Lady Castlemaine? If I am to do this, I shall need to know everything of import.’
‘Just that … jackanapes.’ The grinding of her teeth was audible. ‘Hyde.’
‘The Earl of Clarendon?’
‘Him.’ She held up a quivering finger; even through the layers of her dress, it seemed her whole body had turned rigid. ‘But be sure not to trust him yourself. As Charles’s chief minister, he is free to attend the war council, and he receives its reports.’ She pursed her red lips. ‘You must be aware how he arranged for Charles to take a barren bride. He intends his own grandchildren to inherit the throne.’
Uncomfortable, Mercia looked to the fire. ‘I know, my lady, that the Earl’s daughter is sister-in-law to the King. But to be so devious as intentionally to—’
‘Devious?’ All the restraint in Lady Castlemaine fled, replaced by a rampant fury. ‘You have no idea. Not about Clarendon, nor any of the men at this Court. Surviving in the palace …’tis every bit as hard a battle as on the soldiers’ fields.’ She sighed and shook her head, as if to clear her angst. ‘I merely urge caution. And to report to no one save myself or those I say we can trust.’ Her dress brushed the floor as she turned to collect her book. ‘Now I will see you installed forthwith, so you can best your obsequious uncle and return to your manor house.’ She bestowed her with a piercing look. ‘Where you belong.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘And remember, Mrs Blakewood. You may be here on the King’s business, but I am in charge of the women of this Court. Take care not to cross me in mine.’
She broadened her smile as she swept from the room.
Mercia returned none of her own.
Chapter Three
The apartment was spacious, she would concede that. Huge, indeed, comprising three separate areas: a sitting room in which to pass the time, or to receive guests; a smaller space with a table, perhaps for dining, or playing at cards; and a bedroom, equipped with the largest silk-canopied bed Mercia had ever seen. Off the bedroom adjoined a partitioned wardrobe awaiting clothes and finery, and in the opposite corner, a sparse closet with a pot and an ample-sized hole in a wooden bench.
‘Do you approve?’ asked the richly dressed man at her side, switching his ostrich-feathered hat between his gloved hands.
‘’Tis somewhat different to the quarters we have been used to on board ship of late, Sir William. Much grander than the room I was given last night.’ She looked up at him. ‘These were not … were they?’
‘My wife’s?’ A sadness passed his face. ‘No. That would not have been proper.’
‘Well then. I suppose I shall make the most of them.’
‘This was not my idea, Mercia.’ He bit his lip. ‘I hope you realise that. I would have intervened in Southampton, had I known you had been led away.’
She ignored his beseeching look. ‘It matters not whose idea it was. I am here.’
‘Still, you must agree it is an excellent disguise for the mission at hand.’ He drew himself up, his usual confidence reasserting itself. ‘The King must value your wits indeed to grant you such a vital task.’
She approached the window to look through the diamond-paned glass. The view gave onto the Privy Garden below, familiar to her from a previous meeting with Sir William, its multiple grassy squares intersected by gravelled paths.
‘Do you suppose the sundial is still … yes, it is. I had thought the King might replace it.’
‘Oh, no. He has a passion for scientific pursuits.’
‘I meant he might want to improve it.’ She turned back round. ‘Sir William, I think we should discuss my role here. For that is what it is – a role, not a truth.’
‘It could be both.’
‘I do not …’ She took a deep breath. ‘Even if I were … so inclined … I do not think it would be appropriate beyond what will be expected to maintain the pretence. You will have to visit me from time to time, but I hope for no further expectation on your part.’
‘Mercia.’ He smiled. ‘We have been through much these past several months. May I be frank?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you should know how my opinion of you has only increased. You have aided the King in a matter of import, uncovered a murderer and saved my own life. I cannot think of you in the same way as before. Our friendship is more than that now.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I expect nothing of you, save to enjoy my company and to accept my admiration. And then we shall see where our mutual benefit shall lead us. For now, I suspect you shall want to change your attire.’ His eyes roved her drab-looking dress. ‘I am told a maidservant is on her way with an array of clothes. But Mercia, heed me when I say Whitehall can be a dangerous place. It is full of suspicion and intrigue.’
‘Lady Castlemaine said as much yesterday.’
He snorted; an unexpected reaction she had never heard of him before. ‘Indeed. She is the expert.’
‘You do not like her?’
‘She is the King’s mistress, Mercia, and so I am bound to like her. But you see how she toyed with you in bringing you here. I do not have to approve of her, and nor does all the Court, which fawns in her presence or else tolerates it.’ He sniffed. ‘But there are other, equally pretty women growing old enough now to catch the King’s eye. She meddles in political affairs. One bad move on her part may be her downfall. Separate this task from her person. Take care not to become too involved.’
‘No doubt there are those here who would work to expedite that fall.’
He replaced his hat, straightening a limp feather. ‘You learn quickly, Mercia, as I knew you would. But believe me when I say be careful. Not solely your uncle will seek to undermine your presence.’ He held her gaze: as often, a moment too long for her comfort. ‘You are an attractive woman, I will never stop telling you that. But there are others who will not welcome such a new rival in Court, whether you intend to play that game or no.’
A muffled knock sounded at the door, or rather a kick, for as it swung open a pile of clothes seemed to enter of its own accord, obscuring the person carrying them in.
‘Well.’ Sir William stepped out of the servant’s way. ‘I shall leave you, then.’ He gave Mercia a swift bow. ‘If you need anything – there may be a thousand souls living in this palace, but truly I shall not be far.’ He looked over the small tapestries dotting the walls. ‘My, ’tis good to be back.’
He disappeared into the corridor, leaving the door ajar. Mercia turned to the new arrival, watching through an inner doorway as, her back turned and head down, the maid deposited the clothes on the bed, deftly ensuring no sleeve was left overhanging the sides. Then she re-entered the principal room and dropped to a curtsey. To her immediate embarrassment, Mercia felt a flash of unintended surprise.
‘My Lady Blakewood,’ the servant said.
Recovering herself, Mercia smiled. ‘I am not a lady by title.’
The maid looked uncertain. ‘That is how I have been told to address you, my lady, and so if you please, then I must.’
As she talked, she held her eyes averted. Mercia imagined how foolish she herself must have appeared on meeting Lady Castlemaine. Fawning, as Sir William had said.
‘If those are your instructions.’ Wondering why her curious spymaster was so keen to upgrade her standing, she tilted her head. ‘You are the maidservant Lady Castlemaine promised me?’
The servant bowed lower.
‘Then please, stand up in my presence.’
The maid raised herself up. She was pretty, her brown eyes keen, her skin and hair black under a loosely-tied coif.
‘What is your name?’ Mercia asked.
‘Phibae,’ she replied.
‘And you are to serve me while I am here?’
Another low nod.
‘Well, Phibae. What have you brought me in the other room?’
‘Let me show you, my lady. I hope you approve of—’
‘Hey!’
Mercia frowned as a tumult in the corridor carried her attention to the open door. To her astonishment, Nicholas was standing in the threshold, rubbing at his arm. But instead of entering, he set his face and disappeared into the corridor.
‘Hey!’ he repeated. ‘Come back here and do that again.’
Motioning to Phibae to remain where she was, Mercia followed after him. Where the corridor turned left beside a splendid porphyry vase, two guards had halted in comical fashion, their boot heels suspended above the floor. As one they turned, but broke off their retort as they noticed Mercia hurrying towards them.
The taller cleared his throat. ‘Another parcel for you, my lady.’
‘Another what?’
‘Another parcel.’ The guard jerked his head at Nicholas. ‘Delivered on the orders of Lady Castlemaine. She said we should call him that if you asked.’
The annoyance deepened on Nicholas’s face. ‘Did she also say to use your fists?’
‘If you will permit us, my lady.’ The guards bowed, continuing on their way. Nicholas made to pursue, but she held out a cautioning arm.
‘This is not Cow Cross,’ she warned.
‘No.’ He halted. ‘No, it’s not. At least I had a chance to go back there – for all of two hours, mind. I got off the coach from Southampton, went home, and before I knew it those shabberoons turned up to bring me here.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘Did you see your daughter?’
‘Yes.’ He broke into a smile. ‘Growing bigger now. She turned five while we were away.’
‘I am so glad, Nicholas.’ A deep warmth coursed through her. ‘Truly.’
‘My old lodgings are taken, mind. That bastard Dapps stole them as soon as he could.’ He looked around. ‘My, Mercia, I’ve been to some strange places with you. New York, New England. Now here. My old mother would have died with the surprise of it, if she was living still.’
‘This will probably be the strangest.’ She lowered her voice. ‘What happened? Lady Castlemaine suggested you might be able to attend me here, but I did not think … have you been told why they brought you?’
‘Of course not. All I know is those … guards said I would be dressed up so fine I should watch my arse.’ He looked at her, his sharp expression a mixture of accusation and relief. ‘When I went back for you in Southampton, you’d already gone. I had to force my way onto the first coach to come after. Good thing I had some coin. Sir William took care of your luggage.’
‘I know.’ She sighed. ‘Nicholas, Lady Castlemaine has made clear I have little choice in the matter she has required of me. But you do. There is no need to stay if you do not wish it.’
‘I can hardly refuse the King. The guards told me that, at least.’
‘I see.’ Pleased he was there, she rested a hand on his shoulder to steer him towards her rooms. ‘Then I shall explain later. Come, meet the maid I have been given. You should see the clothes she has brought.’
Removing her hand, she led him through the door. The tiniest exclamation escaped from under his breath.
‘Nicholas,’ she said, ‘this is Phibae. Phibae, this is Mr Wildmoor. He has assisted me before and it seems is to do so again.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Nicholas.
Phibae bowed. ‘Mr Wildmoor.’
‘Well,’ said Mercia, after a brief silence in which the two studied each other. ‘Do you know where your lodging is, Nicholas?’
‘Not as such. And – damn, I forgot.’ He glanced at Phibae. ‘I just need to …’ – he jerked his thumb behind him – ‘in the corridor.’
He disappeared again, leaving Mercia to stare. ‘Phibae,’ she said as she followed. ‘Perhaps if you could hang my clothes?’
‘Very good, my lady.’
Nicholas was loitering outside the door, looking nervously back the way the guards had gone.
‘What is this?’ she said. ‘I should think a man who has seen the Indians would not be much troubled by—’
‘God, no.’ He shook his head. ‘’Tis not that, not at all. I forgot to warn you who I passed when I was being marched over.’ Then his face fell. ‘Too late. He’s already here.’
She turned to look at the reason for his discomfort. Her own expression plummeted to a darker state than his.
‘Well, Mercia,’ came a man’s steady voice. ‘Still consorting with this churl? And here I was thinking you had finally taken my instructions to heart and taken rooms near Sir William Calde.’
A sharp rigidity raced through her being. But she held herself well, unsurprised he had found her so soon. At the end of the passage, a soberly dressed man was staring from beside the porphyry vase, and behind him, an entourage of women.
Steeling herself, she took a deep breath.
‘Uncle.’
‘So the rumours are true.’ He sniffed as he approached, his perfumed gloves scenting the air. ‘You are returned, at last.’
‘As you see, Uncle.’ She glanced down at his side, at the cane he was gripping. ‘I am pleased to see you are recovered.’
‘Recovered?’ He barked out the repeated word, causing his cane to slip, and for a moment he lost his balance. Pushing aside the maid beside her, the woman hovering nearest spoke in his place.
‘I would not have believed it,’ she said, ‘had Francis not told me himself. As soon as you are back in England, you install yourself at Court. Did your father’s disgrace not dissuade you from such brazenness?’
‘Aunt,’ said Mercia, not rising to her taunt. ‘It would appear that affairs have changed.’
‘Not by much.’ Her voice was cold and slow, as much a contrast to her husband’s anger as her white hair contrasted with the darkness of her maid’s. ‘You would do well not to forget yourself, or whose patronage your uncle enjoys.’
‘I know he has powerful masters. But I count others as my own support, as you know.’
Lady Simmonds’ companions shared a worried glance. In the ensuing silence, Mercia studied her aunt’s face. Her speech was forthright, but there was something uneasy in her demeanour, however much she was trying to hide the disquiet through her bitter words.
‘I was about to change my clothing, Aunt,’ she said. ‘You see how I still wear my travelling dress. If you will excuse me.’
‘We will not.’ Recovering his wits, Sir Francis turned his head, commanding with a brisk nod that his wife’s friends leave. The younger of the two frowned, but she did as she was told, the other following close behind.
‘Go to my rooms, Nicholas,’ ordered Mercia, as her aunt dismissed her maid. ‘I will arrive presently.’
He hesitated, but then retreated through the open doorway. At the same time, the threshold seemed to brighten, as though a shadow had lifted from the opposite side. Paying it little heed, Mercia turned around.
‘What then, Uncle, did you wish to discuss?’
By now Sir Francis had drawn himself up. Lady Simmonds parted her lips, but a rap of his cane on the floor cut off her reply.
‘It would have been easier for you if I had died of that wound,’ he said, his jaw lightly trembling. ‘Alas, I am merely wounded. Forced to walk forever with the aid of this poisonous stick of wood, obliged to return from America before I could aid the King in furthering his ventures. All because you disobeyed me.’
His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip, but Lady Simmonds laid her hand on his, calming his shaking somewhat.
‘Uncle,’ said Mercia. ‘I never wished you harm, but if we cannot speak with civility then perhaps we should not speak at all.’
Shrugging off his wife, Sir Francis sidled closer. ‘You may think you have the King’s support, but His Majesty listens to his brother, and I am yet in the Duke’s favour. I will not allow you to shame me, not in this, or in anything.’ He steadied his voice. ‘I know why you are here. The Earl of Clarendon has informed me of the … problem. You may think your mind is quick, but you are no match. Keep yourself to Sir William. I am much more practised in affairs of the Court than a novice like you.’
With a ferocious glare of hate, he returned the way he had come, leading his wife out of view. Her anger stoked, Mercia rubbed at her temples, tracing her fingertips across the tiredness of her eyes. Then she raised her head and re-entered her rooms. A scuttling sounded from further along the corridor, but nobody was there when she flicked up her eyes to look.
Taking short breaths, she crossed the principal room. Nicholas was standing apart, leaning against a fine oaken table, clasping his hands as he watched Phibae through the bedroom door. Hearing her enter, he turned his head, absent-mindedly tucking a loose shirt fold into his breeches.
‘Is all well?’ he asked.
She blew out her irritation through her cheeks. ‘In a way, I am glad he came, as I was not looking forward to our first encounter. Now I can stop worrying how it might unfold, for I know it went ill. But let us not dwell on that now.’
She looked into the bedroom herself. Phibae was busy holding up dresses, examining them for defects and, finding none, hanging them in the closet.
‘My God.’ Despite herself, Mercia could not help but laugh. ‘I cannot … really, those are too splendid. But no.’ She shook her head. ‘I must remember ’tis but for a short while, as part of the disguise.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘I should find my lodgings, leave you to settle in.’
‘Let me spend a half-hour with Phibae, to wash and put on one of these fine dresses, and then I will ask that she help you find your way. Just sit down and … admire those miniatures over there.’
‘Oh yes.’ He took a seat. ‘Just what I like!’
It took a little longer than she thought, but an hour later, Mercia was staring at an armchair beside the bed draped with the drab brown dress she had been wearing for weeks. In contrast, the outfit Phibae had conjured up for her was magnificent, and she felt refreshed – properly refreshed, not the half-hearted comfort of a splash of water that had been all she could administer of late. She smelt of rose and lavender, her hair was brushed, and although not yet styled to perfection for lack of time, the ends were more finely curled than they had been for months, while the simple addition of two slender pieces of wire above both ears was holding up seamless rows of ringlets on either side of her rigid topknot. Her face was painted, made up in simple reds and whites, although she had refused Phibae’s suggestion that she don a diamond-shaped face patch, not wanting to take that step yet.
But it was her dress that enthralled her the most. It was blue, cerulean blue, as though she had wrapped herself in the very ocean she had been crossing these past two months. The stays underneath were fresh and crisp, her bodice was blinding white, and her collar was folded in a multiplicity of fabric as bright as the silver necklace that finished it off. On her fingers, beside the mourning ring for her father that she wanted to wear still, she added a second band, gold with a ruby at its centre. And this, she thought in astonishment, was merely one of many such outfits Phibae had carried in.
‘My, Phibae,’ she said, examining herself in a mirror. ‘Who is this person you have created?’
‘The clothes fit you well, my lady.’ Phibae took up the old brown dress; Mercia could see every stain, every small rip in it now. ‘Shall I take this to be laundered?’
‘Please. And would you help Nicholas find where he is to sleep?’ She turned her face, examining her side profile. ‘I should like to spend some time here by myself.’
Phibae curtsied. ‘My lady.’
Hearing them pull the door to the corridor shut, Mercia set down the mirror and wandered in her finery to the sitting room window that overlooked the Privy Garden below. If she craned her neck, she could just about see the corner of the palace where she knew Daniel was being smartly dressed in his turn, ready to be introduced to the boys of the Court. That she could see a little of his chambers was happy comfort, and unlike last year in New England, this time he was close at hand, and she could see him whenever she chose.
But for all the advantages, she knew where she would prefer him to be: home, at the manor house in Halescott, where he belonged – where she did. For all the fanciness of her clothes, of the splendour of her position at Court, all this was but temporary, and it did not feel quite right. True, she had worn fine dresses before, but never this
