Lady Markstone was a prisoner in the Tower of London, and so there was no escaping a return to that terrible place. Despite recent memories, Mercia forced herself to the castle gates the next morning to enquire after an audience. She walked swiftly over Tower Hill, her face veiled by her loose hood of mourning black, the cloth billowing in the gusting wind. At the site of her father’s execution she offered up a silent prayer, the sorrowful locale now bereft of voyeurs. No one was to be sacrificed at that vengeful altar today.
When she pulled the hood from her face at the Tower entrance the guard smirked.
‘Good morning, Mrs Blakewood. Come to strike Dicken again, have you?’
Recognising him from her previous attempt to gain entry – the day she had finished in a cell – she kept her composure. ‘I was hoping to see Lady Markstone,’ she said, holding the guard’s gaze. ‘It would be some comfort to me, as I was denied a meeting with my father.’
His cockiness faltered. ‘I’ll see if I can … I’ll have to ask the Lieutenant.’ He bit his lip. ‘Can you come back tomorrow to get his answer?’
‘I can.’ She was about to leave when a thought struck her. ‘Has anyone else been allowed to see her of late? Anyone close to the family?’
The guard’s smirk returned. ‘She poisoned her husband, Mrs Blakewood. There’s not many want to visit, though folk come and go. Some folk lower than others, if you take my meaning.’
She waited for him to continue. ‘Such as?’
The guard laughed. ‘The only fellow who’s wanted to see her this week was some princock claiming she owed him wages. I soon kicked him out on his arse.’
She frowned. ‘So he worked for her?’
‘For her husband, I believe.’ The guard grinned, tossing his spear-like partisan from side to side. ‘I don’t know, and I don’t much care. All I know is he said he’d see me in the Anchor any afternoon I wanted.’ He drew himself up. ‘I said there was no problem with that.’
‘I see.’ Ignoring his swagger, she passed the guard a sixpence and walked away, thinking.
By afternoon she had made up her mind. Whispering an apology to her father she changed from her mourning dress into a less noticeable grey jacket and skirt. She felt guilty, but her black petticoat was still visible through the skirt’s front slit, and she was wearing the mourning ring she had first put on at the funeral, made of black enamel wending through gold. The inscription on the inside was simple but heartfelt: RG – 1664 – Always with me in Hope.
It was time to look forward. Pulling shut the town house door she went into the street, waiting only a few moments before a hackney carriage came into view around the corner. She called out to the driver and he swerved across the cobbles to pull up beside her. Peering down from his perch, his hair fell so low over his eyes she was surprised he knew where to steer the horses.
‘Where to?’ he mumbled, brushing the mop aside.
‘The Anchor, please.’
‘Which one love?’ He stared at her smart outfit. ‘There’s two in town, neither of them much welcoming. You sure you got it right?’
She decided it would be more polite to lie than to tell him to mind his own. ‘I am to meet my brother outside a tavern with that name. Only, he did not tell me where it was.’
The driver scoffed. ‘I’d leave him there. Bunch of drunken sailors in those hives, whichever it is.’
‘Still, I need to go. Try whichever is closer to the Tower of London.’
He looked at her and sniffed. ‘The Anchor then, my lady. But you’ll pay me in advance.’
Fifteen minutes later she was standing in a dingy street set back from Pudding Lane: more like an alleyway, the bulging roofs of the surrounding buildings cut out most of the light. Directly opposite, she could just make out a faded anchor on a lopsided sign that hung above what passed for the Anchor tavern door, its lintel half-caved in. Further down the sorry row, a mangy crowd of cats was screeching over a trapped discovery, pawing at a pile of rotting wood.
And yet Mercia did not hesitate as she pushed open the collapsing door. Inside, the light was dim, but as her eyes adjusted to the gloom she was surprised to see the decoration was not as dilapidated as the exterior would suggest. The tables and chairs appeared new, the walls recently painted. The clientele were a different matter. Despite the afternoon hour several unshaven men were already indulging in drink, smoking tobacco or gambling at dice. The place reeked of stale beer, her boots sticking to the floor as she walked towards the serving hatch. She was the only woman, aside from the two shifting their weight between the laps of leering men, and they were not here for the ale.
The door banged shut behind her. Of a sudden the entire room was silent, some of the men roving her body with lascivious eyes. The two whores jumped from their prey, ready to evict this interloper from their personal domain. Mercia held her nerve, but she felt increasingly uncomfortable the further she came from the door. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a pair of men nod at each other and stand. She glanced around, looking for another exit should the need arise, but there was none save the door she had entered by.
‘Strange place to see a lady,’ said the innkeeper from behind the hatch. He leant over to one of the two customers sitting in front of him, not taking his tiny eyes from her. ‘I wonder, John, if she ain’t wandered’ – he chuckled at his pun – ‘into the wrong establishment?’
‘Seems that way.’ The man called John looked her up and down. ‘What’s your business, love? Not often we get such a rum mort here.’ When she looked blank he sniggered. ‘A pretty lady, love.’
Mercia ignored him, addressing the innkeeper. ‘I am looking for a man.’
He laughed. ‘There’ll be plenty here looking for you.’
‘A particular man, then.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well then, what’s he look like?’
She felt herself reddening. ‘I don’t know.’
The innkeeper glanced at John. ‘By the Lord, what do you know?’
‘Only that he is owed money by Lady Millicent Markstone.’
‘Hangs around with high-born folk, does he?’ The innkeeper leant in closer. ‘Who would you be to want to find him?’
‘A friend, I hope.’
He began to reply, but his eyes flicked over her shoulder and he turned away, busying himself with wiping an already clean tankard. She looked round to see the two men who had risen from their seats standing directly behind her. The larger of the two rested his hand on her shoulder, caressing it with his tobacco-stained fingertips.
‘Now then, my pretty ladybird,’ he said, ‘how ’bout we go round the alley? You can help me and my mate out.’ He smiled, toying with a ringlet of her hair.
Her back to them, Mercia stood completely still. ‘I am not such a woman.’
The stocky man laughed, the smell of stale smoke reeking through the gaps in his teeth. ‘Well this is far from home, love, and what I say to you is what you does.’ He pressed himself against her and groaned, running the tip of his tongue over her ear. ‘Christ, I need this.’
She closed her eyes, determining her response. She felt an iciness inside, a rising fear, but she had reason to hate men such as these, and in no way would she be cowed by them. Bringing her right hand to her mouth she let out a faint whimper, feigning timidity. Then she slammed her elbow backwards into the man’s stomach, shocking him into a quite different groan. She tensed, sliding away while the man’s angered friend leapt round and pulled back his fist to strike.
He did not get the chance. As he was about to swing, the second customer at the hatch jumped from his stool, sending it tumbling to the floor. He grabbed the man’s forearm with his left hand, bringing his right up in a fist to connect with the man’s cheek. Blood sprang from the wounded man’s mouth as he screamed in pain, a loose tooth clattering to the dusty inn floor, and he staggered backwards, giving Mercia’s defender time to pick up the stool and swing it.
One hard thrust into the larger man’s stomach was enough. The two fled from the tavern in shame, crying retribution.
Breathing hard with excitement, the man who had come to her aid thumped down his stool. He was fairly young, messy blonde hair running across his brow. When he turned to look at her, the intensity of his green eyes was startling.
‘That was a smart trick.’ He pointed at her elbow. ‘How did a woman learn to do that?’
She held his gaze. ‘I know a few things.’
‘I’m sure.’ He ran a rough hand over his hair. ‘Now why don’t you tell me what you want with me?’
‘What I want with—? Ah.’ The edges of her mouth creased into a constrained smile. ‘You are the man who wished to see Lady Markstone.’
‘The same.’ He glanced around. ‘But before we talk, let’s get out of here. Not everyone will appreciate my fighting skills.’
She hesitated, uncertain whether to trust him. The pause was long enough for one of the whores to snatch up a tankard of beer and throw it in her direction. The glass was full but the aim was poor, and in mid flight the beer spilt over a group of hooded men playing at dice. As one they leapt up and drew knives. It was all the convincing Mercia needed. She followed the young man into the street.
A grey patchwork of clouds had gathered in the sky, rendering the street still more depressing than earlier, but at least the mewling cats had moved on. Mercia’s companion led her to the main road, away from the tavern and anyone who might run after them. Her would-be assailants were nowhere in sight.
‘Thank you for your assistance,’ she said as they walked. ‘I am grateful.’
‘Don’t thank me. I helped because you said you were looking for me, something about Markstone.’ He looked wistfully back down the crowded street, his fingers thrust into the loose belt that encircled his knee-length coat. ‘That was one of my favourite drinking dens. Thanks to you, I don’t think I’ll be welcome there again.’
She felt a twinge of guilt. ‘I am sorry.’
He stared at her from under his close-fitting hat. ‘You clearly had no idea what a place like that is like. I mean, look at you. I bet you even have money hidden in that fine dress.’
She did, in her pockets. She stepped away, almost tripping over a young fruit seller passing by with her basket.
‘By the Lord!’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to rob a defenceless woman.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Although not so defenceless. That elbow must have hurt. Come, how do you know such a move?’
She looked away down the street; a soot-covered sweep had stopped the fruit seller and was examining her produce. ‘Because once I was powerless,’ she said at last. ‘And I promised myself I would never be so again.’
His brash demeanour softened. ‘Let’s keep moving. We don’t want anyone coming after us. Then you can tell me your business.’
‘Agreed, if you tell me your name.’
He held open his arms in a gesture of introduction. ‘Nicholas Wildmoor, friend to the crazed. Now come, before you cause even more havoc.’
Mercia watched as her new acquaintance devoured a huge plate of pork chops and peas. Her smaller dish of boiled carp was already just bones, and she found his appetite fascinating. The remnants of the oysters they had already eaten – Mercia’s three and Nicholas’s seven – lay discarded at their side. Finally, Nicholas wiped his chin and looked up.
‘Cannot keep your eyes off me, eh?’ He reached for his tankard. ‘And plying me with drink. I doubt your motives, my lady.’
She smiled. ‘I am a widow, Mr Wildmoor. My motives are straightforward. I merely want to ask some questions.’
He looked around at their comfortable surroundings: several tables, mostly empty, were laid out in the white-walled room, the dim light of dusk coming through the simple window beside them. ‘Is this a regular place for you?’ he asked. ‘’Tis a step up from the Anchor.’ He held up a two-pronged utensil. ‘They even have forks here. Where I eat, we only get a knife.’
She shuffled in her chair. ‘Do you live in the city?’
He nodded. ‘Just outside the wall. To the north, round Cow Cross. I don’t recommend you go there.’ He looked her up and down, sucking the last morsel of meat from his fork. ‘Well then. You seem to know the Markstones owe me money. Will answering these questions help me get it?’
She hesitated. ‘I’ll see if I can talk to Lady Markstone on your behalf. She is a friend of my family.’
He set down his fork. ‘Then ask away.’
‘Let’s start with how you know Lady Markstone.’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t particularly. I did farrier work for her husband, the man everyone is saying she did in. I didn’t get paid before he died.’
‘I see.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘So you tried to get to his widow instead. Given her situation, that seems a little unfair.’
He looked at her askance. ‘She owes me. Maybe you don’t need money, but I have rent to pay.’
She glanced down, embarrassed at her thoughtlessness. ‘I’m sorry, I should not have—’
‘Don’t worry. Please – carry on.’
She smiled at him, grateful. ‘How long did you work for Sir Edward?’
‘Depends how you look at it.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘I first knew him on the ships, when I looked after the horses we took on board. I used to be a sailor, you see, back when Cromwell was in charge. Sir Edward was captain of the Hero, the same ship I served on.’
She studied his face. ‘You must have been young.’
‘Old enough. Then, like most of the lads, I didn’t get what was due me after we were let go. Story of my life, it seems.’
Feeling sorry for him, Mercia gestured to the serving girl to bring more ale. The girl ignored her, persisting in her conversation at another table, until Nicholas whistled across and smiled, at which she sped into swift service and brought over the drinks.
‘Thanks.’ Nicholas took a sip, returning to his story. ‘Start of last year I ran into a soldier friend from the Hero. He said he’d done some work on Markstone’s estate himself, that the noble sir was a charitable fellow, and why didn’t I see if he had a job for me? So I approached him, cap in hand. He said he’d be pleased to help an English sailor. Not that he remembered me from before, of course. He never dirtied himself much with us tars.’
‘Tars?’
‘Sailors. Short for tarpaulin, the clothes we wore.’ He took a glug of the deep-brown ale. ‘But you didn’t come to hear about me.’
‘No, but ’tis an interesting story.’ She sipped her own drink, setting it down on the rickety table. ‘So,’ she said, trying to sound nonchalant, ‘when you worked for Sir Edward, did he ever talk about his past?’
He peered at her over the rim of his tankard. ‘What part of his past?’
She thought back to her father’s letter. ‘Around the time of the battle at Worcester. That would be thirteen years ago – 1651.’
He considered. ‘Well, I know he fought for Parliament in the war. Course, when I was his farrier he was all for the return of the new King, raving about how wonderful he is.’
‘A lot of people who fought for Cromwell changed their minds.’ She smiled. ‘Whether they are truly converts to the cause, or just because of convenience, ’tis not always easy to tell.’
Nicholas laughed, chinking his tankard against hers. ‘True. But really, I had little to do with him or his wife. They owned horses but didn’t ride out much.’ He looked at her. ‘Why is ’51 so special?’
She hesitated, unsure how much she should reveal to a man she had only just met. But the drink had loosened her tongue enough that she was happy to talk.
‘In 1651 your former master helped to investigate a robbery. Some paintings were stolen. I am trying to discover what happened.’
He pushed aside his ale. ‘What paintings?’
‘King Charles. Charles the first. He owned a huge art collection.’
‘Everyone knows that.’
>
‘Well then, the Oxford Section.’
‘The Oxford what?’
‘Come, you must have heard of it. The King’s favourite paintings that he kept at Oxford. They were supposedly burnt on their way to be sold.’
He shook his head.
‘What?’ She stared at him. ‘It was famous. The most cherished paintings in the whole collection.’
‘1651, you say.’ She nodded. ‘In 1651 I was thirteen years old, living in no more than a pit. I didn’t have much interest in paintings. I was more interested in staying alive. Look, what is this about?’
Mercia tapped at the tabletop. What had she to lose by telling him what she knew? In truth it was hardly anything, and the thought of confiding in this rough-edged man was somehow – enticing. She rested her elbows on the table and leant forward. ‘Your old master was part of a cover up. Everyone was told the Oxford Section was burnt, but it wasn’t. It was stolen by one of the soldiers who was meant to be guarding it.’
‘Devious!’ Nicholas leant in nearer. ‘But I still don’t see what this has to do with me.’
‘Maybe nothing.’ She could see right into his eyes; realising how close their faces were, she sat hastily back. ‘I know ’tis unlikely, but did you ever come across anything relevant when you worked for Sir Edward? Anything about paintings, or a theft perhaps?’
He tilted his head. ‘If you’re a friend of the family as you claim, why all these questions now?’
She began to regret her candidness. ‘I only found out about it recently. My father investigated the robbery with Sir Edward at the time, but nothing was discovered.’
He frowned. ‘So why not ask your father?’
She looked away, any cheerfulness she had felt evaporating. ‘I cannot.’
‘Why not? Who is he? And while I’m the one asking questions, who are you for all that?’
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