The King's Chameleon

by Richard Woodman

  The two chuckled companionably, their chatter idle as they watched, at a distance, the result of the raid on Dutch commerce. ‘We must have burned a score or two of their ships,’ Clarke remarked.

  ‘Perhaps more,’ Faulkner offered. ‘At all events, let us hope it brings the Dutch to the table to discuss terms.’ Clarke agreed.

  After the Battle of St James’s Day, while Faulkner had lain in his cot, weakened and recovering from the effusion of blood that followed the reopening of his leg wound, Clarke had temporarily assumed command of the Albion. Rupert and Albemarle had cruised off the Dutch coast behind the dykes of which de Ruyter had skilfully retired with the loss of only two of his ships. However, four Dutch admirals had been killed during the battle, including a second of the Evertsen family from Zealand, signalling to the States General that de Ruyter had been beaten by a fleet thought to have been brought its knees a few weeks earlier. Although the English did not yet know of it, a vicious dispute had arisen following accusations by de Ruyter that Maarten van Tromp had deserted him, a row that would result in van Tromp’s dismissal.

  Determined to press their advantage, Rupert and Albemarle had ordered Rear Admiral Sir John Holmes, the junior flag-officer of the Red Squadron, to shift his flag into the Tiger. When Clarke had received the order for Albion to join Holmes, he had gone below to confer with Faulkner, uncertain whether or not to notify the joint commander-in-chief of Faulkner’s incapacity.

  ‘You are competent, are you not, Septimus?’ Faulkner had asked from his cot.

  ‘If you are content with my retaining command, sir.’

  ‘There is no point in troubling His Highness or the Duke. Do you conform. I am able to prop myself up on deck, if the need be. Here, let me sign the acknowledgement …’

  With the Advice, Hampshire, Dragon, Albion, Assurance, Fountain, Sweepstakes, Garland and Pembroke, together with the fire-ships Lizard, Richard, Fox, Bryar and Samuel, and the yacht Fanfan, Holmes sailed north. The squadron proceeded up the coast of Holland until, on the eighth of August, it reached the channel between the off-lying Frisian islands of Vlieland and Terschelling. Here, in what they thought was a safe and sheltered anchorage, tucked away among the tortuous sandbanks that seamed the shallows between the Frisian Islands and the mainland, lay a large number of laden Dutch merchant ships of all sizes, fearful of proceeding further south with the English fleet at sea and no news of a convincing Dutch victory. This was Holmes’s quarry. On the late afternoon of the ninth, Holmes sent in his fire-ships, accompanied by his smaller men-of-war. His own flagship, along with Albion and the other larger men-of-war guarded the approaches, sent in their boats, each equipped with combustibles and enlarged crews of men as eager as schoolboys to set fire to the enemy’s shipping.

  The raid was a success, doing immense damage to Dutch trade by burning not two score of merchantmen, but over one hundred and sixty. Unsurprisingly, the cock-a-hoop seamen named their exploit ‘Holmes’s Bonfire’, their only regret that the Dutchmen had been destroyed and not brought out of the anchorage as prizes. It was, nonetheless, a spectacular raid, its impact upon the Dutch economy greater than any other exploit during the Dutch Wars. After Holmes re-joined the main fleet, Rupert and Albemarle cruised in the southern North Sea. The annual return of the ships of the powerful Dutch East India Company was imminent; to seize even a portion of that would bring the Dutch to their knees at a stroke, and the two English commanders were anxious to crown the campaign with such a brilliant coup de main.

  De Ruyter succeeded in foiling the English after several weeks of manoeuvring; mostly out of sight of each other, the Dutch interposed their battle-fleet between the hovering English and the homeward-bound Indiamen. These all passed through the Zeegat van Texel and into the Zuider Zee; with de Ruyter bringing up the rear, they were now beyond English reach. By the end of September, Rupert and Albemarle decided nothing further could be done and ordered the fleet into the Medway, a short voyage marred by the loss of another ship on the Galloper. By this time it was common knowledge that a great disaster had overtaken the country.

  London had been burned. Fresh from their triumphs in Vlieland, it seemed to the homecoming fleet like an act of God. Faulkner recalled his argument with Gooding. ‘To me belongeth vengeance and recompense,’ he muttered uneasily, the illogical, guilt-ridden supposition that Judith had some part in the dreadful event entered his head unbidden – and lodged itself there.

  It was a month after the fateful event of early September that, in company with the fleet, the Albion picked up a mooring in the Medway. Here a short letter from Katherine awaited him: it did nothing for his peace of mind, though it was clear that the house in Wapping was unaffected, as was Hannah’s in neighbouring Stepney, from which Katherine wrote. Almost conversationally Katherine told him that among the buildings consumed by the great fire was the Trinity House, before proceeding to write a phrase that from the evidence of two deletions, she had had trouble formulating.

  We are at a Loss, she wrote at the third attempt, to Explain the Whereabouts of Your Wife or Brother-in-Law. Master Hargreaves says that Nathan was at the Warehouse then the Counting-House, from which he went Home on the Afternoon of the 2nd Instant. Enquiries of Molly have also Proved Useless.

  Dashing off a letter to inform Katherine and Hannah that he would be with them as soon as was possible, Faulkner fretted and fumed for a week while the Albion was decommissioned and laid up in the charge of her standing officers. One of these being the master, the necessity of finding a replacement for the dead Dixon delayed his departure.

  In the days that Faulkner, assisted by his officers, tended his ship, sending her masts down and her guns ashore, it became known that there was little money to pay the seamen. The King’s excesses had near ruined the Treasury, and what the King had not pilfered the fire had consumed, for all economic life in the city was at a standstill. In addition, the loss of credit from London had effectively compromised much trade elsewhere, while the destruction wrought by the flames had ruined markets, destroyed quantities of stock, and burned contracts, letters of credit and promissory notes.

  Thus when he finally left his ship, Faulkner did so without a back-ward glance. Even the dinner he had given his officers had smelled of ashes, for anxiety was writ large on every face. In the last days of de-commissioning the men had been near-mutinous, and who could blame them? The following morning Faulkner took his leave of Clarke. The younger man looked pale and ill, his arm still in its sling. Faulkner thought of Katherine and how her ministrations had cured his own infected wound. He was on the point of offering to take Clarke to London and place him in her care, but Clarke gave him a wan smile and bade him farewell. A month later Faulkner heard that he was dead.

  For his own part, Faulkner went directly to Hannah’s house, to be met by her husband. Edmund’s face looked drawn, but brightened when he saw who was at the door.

  ‘Edmund! I had forgot you were home, forgive me.’ They took each other’s hands.

  ‘I have not been here long, Sir Christopher, no more than a fortnight. The Duchess is safe on her mooring, and the voyage, though not without incident, has turned a merry profit.’

  ‘A merry profit. Well, well, that at least is good news …’

  He got no further; Katherine was in his arms, and Hannah hovered with his grandson, a fine boy who stood higher than his father’s knee. After the euphoria of greeting they sat in Hannah’s neat parlour, supping fresh tea, and broached the two subjects that hung in the air.

  ‘What of the fire?’ Faulkner asked Edmund. ‘Have you seen the Trinity House?’

  Edmund nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Most of the Brethren now in London have. Fortunately, the Clerk escaped with some at least of our papers, but much had been lost.’ He shrugged resignedly, the awesome aftermath almost too great to express in words. ‘It is as though we had just emerged from the Garden of Eden, innocent yet laden with sin, and all our work to do again.’

  After a moment of profound silence,
Faulkner enquired, ‘have you any news of Judith?’

  Edmund shook his head, and Katherine did likewise. ‘No, nothing, my dear,’ she said. We did hear that Nathan had been seen; a chandler who knew him and had done business with him saw him after the fire in a wherry heading downstream.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Off Tower-wharf.’

  ‘So he could have been heading home, or to the counting-house.’

  ‘Yes, but young Charlie would have told us if he had done so, as we have asked him to keep us informed.’

  ‘And nothing of Molly?’

  ‘No.’

  Faulkner was deeply troubled. His presentiment seemed increasingly possible. Nevertheless, he found the question difficult to frame. ‘Might she have been caught and burned in the fire?’ he asked after a pause.

  Katherine nodded. ‘It is possible, indeed likely, if she went west when she left Wapping, although, thanks be to God, relatively few people are thought to have been consumed in the flames.’

  Faulkner nodded and rose to his feet. ‘I had better go to Wapping and see for myself.’

  ‘Must you go now, Father?’ Hannah asked. ‘You have been travelling all day, and it is already growing dark. Go tomorrow.’

  ‘Do, sir,’ added Edmund.

  Faulkner shook his head. ‘No, ’t’were better done now.’

  ‘Then at least let me come with you,’ Edmund volunteered.

  Faulkner shook his head and put out a restraining hand. ‘That will not be necessary, Edmund, though I thank you for your kindness. I shall be back in two hours.’

  The house was unlocked, which surprised Faulkner, making him angry. Had Judith compounded her folly in leaving with imprudence by leaving the house unlocked? Then he stood in the gloom, reproaching himself. If she had deliberately left with no intention of returning, why should she lock the doors? He recalled giving the keys to Hannah, though he knew them to have been returned to Gooding when she married. Nevertheless, it was possible to perceive, in the act of leaving the door unlocked, some ulterior motive.

  He looked about him, moving through the other rooms on the ground floor. Though things had been moved, this was consonant with daily life and nothing was obviously missing, which was unlikely in the circumstances, not least because the burnt-out homeless were desperate, many wandering the streets in despair.

  There was something odd, though. He felt the kitchen hearth; it was cold but showed signs of recent use. He peered about him. The utensils in the kitchen hung from their hooks, but several had been left unwashed beside the sink and mould grew in some of them. There were the remains of some food, and dirty platters lay in the sink, which bore a line of grease where it had not been scoured after its last use. Indeed, there was a general air of squalor about the kitchen that was new. Leaving the kitchen he ascended to the first floor, initially entering the large room where he and Gooding had conducted their business. He opened the closed shutters to let the last of the daylight in. The degree of disorder among the papers on the table seemed normal. Pen, ink-well and sealing wax lay where a man might have laid them down. He removed his glove and wiped his finger over the table. A thick layer of dust covered it; no-one had been here for days, if not weeks.

  Then he noticed that the light showed a slight rotational movement of one of the ledgers had scuffed the layer of dust. He peered at the book; it was not familiar. He realized that it was new. He searched for and found flint and steel. A moment later he had a lit candle and was holding it over the ledger. Opening it, it was instantly recognizable as their daily Proceedings. Cursing failing eye-sight he peered at the last entry. It bore the date of the previous day. Faulkner felt an uncomfortable sensation of foreboding. He ran his finger down the page; it bore only a few lines of script in Gooding’s hand. Gooding’s hand-writing showed signs of age, for it had once been a model of legibility, but the entry gave no clue, other than marking two ships entered inwards at the Custom House. He thought it incomplete, but that signified nothing, for the Proceedings book was inevitably retrospective, and often written up the next day. But the next day was nearly over.

  Instinctively, Faulkner extinguished the candle and stood stock-still in the darkness, seized by the conviction that he was not alone in the house.

  It was impossible to move across any floor in the house in silence, even in stockinged feet. In boots he must have announced his arrival as with a fanfare of trumpets, but he still moved as quietly as possible as he edged out to the stair leading to the upper chambers. He pushed open the door of Nathan’s chamber. The room was empty and the bed was made. He found the same thing in Judith’s, though it struck him that he could smell the scent of her. True, she had spent months and months there alone and must have impregnated every hanging with her odour, but still …

  As he moved towards the upper staircase his right hand went for his sword, only to find that he had left it at Hannah’s. Not that a sword was of much use to him in such a confined space, but he thought he knew where he might now find Judith, and he paused a moment to consider what he should do. She was undoubtedly aware of a presence in the house, but it was inconceivable that she actually knew it was him. On the other hand, if Gooding was right and she possessed the second sight, or had cast a spell to draw him hither, she would be awaiting him. If so, it was entirely possible that she remained afraid of his physical superiority, though he was inclined not to rely upon such a hunch. It seemed to him, in that lonely moment in the darkness at the foot of the upper stairs, that Judith had indeed lured him to the house alone, unarmed and unaware of her new powers.

  Was the presentiment that he knew where she was no insight at all, but the very fabric of her witchery, binding him and inexorably attracting him to her? He felt his heart hammering and a feeling of incipient sickness fill his belly. This was unmanly; he was not himself; he must think clearly, for it struck him now that she wished to kill him. Drawing his breath steadily he calmed himself. What was he thinking of? He did not believe in supernatural powers; a cunning and malicious woman, yes, but that was all.

  She was luring him upstairs, of that he was certain, but only by playing on logic and knowledge of her quarry. But if so, how did she know it was him and not some opportunist thief? He thought again and something occurred to him. Was it possible that Nathan had gone downstream, not to the counting-house, but to gain intelligence of the fleet? If so he was no longer trustworthy and Judith had him in her power, but if not, if she thought the intruder an opportunist thief, then whatever she had planned for her husband, she could equally apply to any man.

  The process of thinking steadied him and he began to descend the stairs. She wanted him to go up, of that he was sure, so he would go down and sit in the parlour in the dark until she came to determine what had gone wrong – or to lock the door for the night. That she would wait in an upper room under the eaves all night was not consonant with Judith’s character.

  He retired to the parlour, relieved himself and sat, determined to draw Judith downstairs. He fretted that he had told Katherine and the others that he would be home in two hours. For some time he sat upright and alert, his every sense straining to catch any indication of movement in the house; from time to time he thought he heard something, or caught Judith’s scent. As time passed, however, he felt weary; he had been up early, had travelled from Chatham and now found it difficult to keep his eyes open in the thickening darkness. He strove not to fall asleep as he waited upon events, but fell into a light doze from which he jerked awake, disturbed by a sudden noise.

  His heart accelerated to a thumping so strong that he thought it would sound throughout the house like a drum. Anticipating a step upon the stair as a frustrated Judith descended to see what had gone awry with her plan – so had he argued the train of events that would ensue – he was confounded when he realized it was the lifting clink of the door-latch that had bestirred him. He felt relieved that his ordeal was over, but equally annoyed that Edmund had come to look for him. He half r
ose from his chair until he realized that whoever was opening the door bore a sword, for the pale gleam of it preceded its bearer. It was followed by a figure he recognized instantly.

  The Triangle

  October 1666–May 1667

  Faulkner was rooted to the spot, for the sword-bearer was none other than Nathan Gooding. It was clear that Faulkner’s brother-in-law was in a high state of nervous tension, for his movements were furtive, he was muttering to himself under his breath and his entire being seemed intent upon watching the stairs. Without looking round, Gooding closed the door with his foot and it shut with a dull thud and a second clink of the door-latch. Faulkner, whose poor eyes had long become accustomed to the dark, could just discern Gooding’s form. He watched as Gooding, holding the sword with some awkwardness, begin to ascend the stair. It came to Faulkner that Judith was indeed upstairs: she was not awaiting her husband, but her brother.

  Judith lay in wait to entrap Nathan while he was intent on … on what? Killing her? What else was the sword for?

  And what should he, Faulkner, do? He sat perplexed for a moment, transfixed by Gooding’s cautious ascent of the stairs. As his brother-in-law passed from sight on the lower landing Faulkner slowly rose to his feet. He was stiff with inaction and waited a moment for his circulation to restore itself, then he began to move across the flags of the parlour. The instant he set his foot upon the stair he heard Gooding, his voice so keyed up he thought for a moment he had made a terrible mistake in his identification.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  Faulkner drew in his breath and ran up the stairs, spinning round the newel post at the top. He lunged across the landing. Gooding was already half-way up the attic staircase, his upper body half-turned to see who was behind him.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Gooding’s voice bordered the hysterical. ‘Is that you, Kit?’ In a flurry of desperation at this unexpected pursuit, Gooding threw a glance upwards and resumed his ascent, his feet clattering on the steps. All pretence at furtiveness had gone. With a cry of, ‘Don’t stop me!’ Nathan rushed up the last of the stairs. Now all was noise and confusion.