Birthright

by David Hingley

  ‘In truth ’tis what I expected,’ he said. ‘But I’ve spoken with him already. A lovely fellow. Threw a few coins at my feet, told me to seek the rest from his mother, whom he clearly loathes, by the way, by how he spoke.’ He sighed. ‘So now I’ll never be paid. Perhaps I’ll take to sea again. They say a Dutch war is coming soon.’

  ‘I have heard talk of a war,’ she muttered.

  He grew animated. ‘The Intelligencer is full of bile against the Dutch. Seems the Navigation Acts are working and now the King wants to take things further, or his brother does, at least.’

  Mercia looked at the primroses and felt a sharp pang of pity for this man who had come into her life only two days before. But the decision she had come to that afternoon arose from such sentiment, and she put the feeling away.

  ‘I didn’t know you had spoken with Leonard – the Markstones’ son. My friend Nathan knows him slightly. I could ask him to intercede, if you like.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll manage. I’m a big boy.’ He raised an eyebrow, frowning when she didn’t laugh. ‘What’s the matter? Have the victuallers let us down with the food?’ He turned towards the door. ‘I can fetch something.’

  She closed her eyes. Over the past two days, the excitement she had felt at inviting him to her lodgings had turned to nervousness at her boldness. Now it was time to speak sense.

  ‘Nicholas, it has been a pleasure to meet you. I wish you luck and hope you find work soon.’

  ‘Want to be rid of me, eh?’ he joked.

  ‘I do appreciate the help you have given me, but this is my concern. I cannot presume further on your time.’ She walked to the parlour door, pulling it open. ‘There is no food because I have not ordered any. I think it is for the best.’

  She did not realise a smile could vanish so quickly. ‘Oh.’ He played with his hat. ‘I had hoped we could talk some more.’

  ‘We barely know each other.’ She tried to inject a touch of warmth in her voice. ‘Please, I will be quite safe. And I have fulfilled our agreement.’

  He cast down his gaze, shuffling his boots. Once more she felt the pang of sympathy; once more she pushed it away.

  ‘Nicholas, I cannot keep you from your work. Besides, I am a lone widow. People would think it strange for me to associate with a man without company.’

  He scoffed. ‘With a man of my standing, you mean.’

  ‘’Tis naught to do with that. But I think it best we part.’

  ‘So I am dismissed once more.’ Again the pang. Again pushed away. Nicholas came to the door, pausing beside her, a flash of anger in his eyes. ‘I thought perhaps you were different. But I see you are high and mighty after all.’ She opened her mouth to respond, but he quietened her with a wave of his hand. ‘’Tis well. Goodbye, Mrs Blakewood. I hope you find the paintings.’

  He descended the stairs with a heavy tread. From across the small landing Bethany peered from the dining-room door, looking on her mistress with concern. Mercia just nodded to reassure her. She waited until she heard the sound of the front door shutting before she withdrew inside the parlour, feeling a solitary guilt.

  From the window she watched Nicholas disappear in the direction of Lincoln’s Inn. A bobbing light floated near him, coalescing into a small boy bearing a lamp at the end of a wooden stick. It was a linkboy, one of the many who wandered night-time London offering their light for a price. Tonight the moon was new, the sky dark, and Nicholas gestured for the boy to walk in front. Mercia watched them go until she could see them no more.

  She was taken by a strange desire to run after him, to apologise for asking him to leave. He had intrigued her and, not that she would ever admit it, she had found him appealing. Nicholas was an attractive man, despite his coarse edges, or maybe because of them. But she dismissed such thoughts as a ridiculous fantasy she knew would very quickly pass. Still, he had been kind, and she hoped his life would turn out well.

  She was in her bedroom pulling her nightshirt over her topknot when she heard a faint mumbling outside her door. Letting the nightshirt fall into place, she strained to make out the muffled noise. For a moment there was silence, but when the mumbling resumed she picked up a candle and opened the door. The flickering light sent an otherworldly glow over Bethany, casting an oversized shadow on the opposite wall.

  ‘What—?’ she began, but Bethany placed an urgent finger over her lips. Removing it, she came in closer to Mercia’s ear.

  ‘There’s someone in the house,’ she whispered.

  A shiver ran through her. ‘Are you sure?’

  Bethany nodded, her eyes wide. ‘In the parlour.’

  Motioning to Bethany to stay put, Mercia crept onto the second-floor landing and tiptoed down the top set of stairs. Halfway down she paused, listening. A cold feeling stole up her back as she stood in silence, wondering what to do. Then the floor behind the parlour door creaked. She blew out her candle and pressed against the wall, the smell of snuffed wick permeating the air.

  The door pulled slowly open, stopping halfway. A figure squeezed through the gap, but it was too dark to make out any features. Barely daring to breathe, she thought she could discern a man’s gait, but whoever it was, the figure did not stop. It crept down the lower flight of stairs until it merged into the enveloping blackness. A fluttering of crisp air raced into the house as the front door scraped open and was eased back shut.

  For a moment Mercia felt stuck to the wall behind her, but she heard nothing to suggest anyone else was in the house. Looking up towards Bethany, she pulled her arm forward to point first to herself and then towards the parlour. Gripping the blown-out candle, she descended to the first-floor landing to push open the parlour door.

  Nobody was in the room, but the darkness was near absolute. Returning to the landing she nearly cried out when she saw a light bobbing down the stairs, but it was only Bethany come to bring her a lit taper. She returned to the parlour to light the wall sconces, but looking around it seemed nothing had been taken. Puzzled, she toured the house checking windows and doors, but there was no sign of a break-in, and she was sure Bethany had locked the front door before they had retired. Locking it again she sent Bethany to bed, reassuring her all was secure. For herself, she was too agitated to go back upstairs.

  She sat in the leather armchair, looking at Nicholas’s primroses. With a start she realised that between his leaving the house and Bethany locking the front door a period of around thirty minutes must have elapsed. The intruder could have entered in that time and hidden until free to move about. But to what end?

  She was dismissing the thought it was Nicholas himself, too embarrassed to admit he had left something behind, when she noticed the piece of paper on the mantelpiece. One word was emblazoned in large letters on the front: her name. It had not been there when she went to bed.

  A prickling sensation shot through her body. Fingertips tingling, she rose from her chair, eyes fixed on the paper. She snatched up the white card, turning it over to reveal a short message scribbled in very poor handwriting:

  I know what you’re doing. Desist if you value your life. JN

  She clapped the note to her chest. JN. James North. Here in London, in her lodgings. By God’s truth, was he the man she had just seen? Her heart pounding, she searched the house again in irrational fear he had returned, but besides Bethany she was alone. She stood in the kitchen with a carving knife, breathing in and out to calm herself. Snuffing out the candles she took the knife to bed, but her agitation made it hard to sleep. Two questions kept tormenting her mind: how could North know she was pursuing him, and how could he know where she lodged?

  It was nearly dawn before she fell asleep and so she was still abed, tired, when the front door slammed in the morning. Instinctively she leapt up, opening the bedroom door just enough to peer through. At the bottom of the two staircases, a well-dressed gentleman was handing Bethany his familiar black gloves. She cursed, ducking back as Bethany climbed the stairs to announce Sir Francis.

 
She took a deliberately long time to get dressed, stopping by the kitchen for her usual cup of minted whey before forcing herself to the parlour. Her uncle was waiting at the window, looking out.

  ‘You are late to rise,’ he said. ‘If I had known you would keep me, I would have sent my man.’

  She was in no mood to be civil. ‘Why are you here?’

  Sir Francis glared at her. ‘I have warned you before about your tone. And the question is more why you are here, in London.’

  ‘My private business is my own affair. How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘I was in Oxfordshire last week. I went to the manor house to check on my new property.’ He sniffed. ‘I was perturbed to hear there had been a robbery.’

  ‘At the manor?’ She clutched her neck, feigning shock. ‘If anything of mine was taken—’

  ‘Nothing of value, apparently.’ He looked at her keenly but she kept her expression constant. ‘In fact nothing at all. Then I discovered you were not at your cottage. I went to see that man friend of yours.’

  ‘Uncle, you imply an impropriety where none exists. Nathan was my husband’s best friend, and a great comfort to me now.’

  ‘No doubt.’ The two words oozed with disapproval. ‘He was reluctant, but he told me you were here, something to do with your father. I swear, Mercia, if you are trying to cross me, I will not hold back.’

  ‘And I told you before, I will not abandon my son.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should return home and stay with him, as I ordered.’

  She folded her arms. ‘How I care for my child is up to me.’

  He scoffed. ‘Have you any idea what your mother-in-law is plotting? Keyte tried to hide him from me, but I know full well Daniel is with him. If Isabel finds out, she will take advantage of the fact.’ He flicked a mote of dust from his shirt frill. ‘She will not act yet, but when she has assembled her case she intends to petition for custody.’

  ‘What?’ Mercia went cold. ‘Then … then she will lose. She knows I will never allow it.’ She overcame her momentary shock. ‘I will do anything I must.’

  ‘I see.’ He smiled, the right side of his face arching higher. ‘So when I take you to see Sir William this afternoon you will not protest?’

  ‘By our Lord!’ She stared at him, aghast. ‘So that is your intent. You think to frighten me into obeying you by stirring Anthony and Isabel against me. You seek to encourage their repugnant custody threats through the lease of my own manor house.’ She paced the room, furious. ‘But I am my own self, Uncle. I will not comply.’

  Sir Francis’s face darkened, his jaw clenched tight. He strode across and grabbed her by the shoulders, twisting her to face him with a painful wrench.

  ‘If you were not my niece I would strike you for your insolence.’ His narrow eyes drilled into her soul. ‘I did not want to be so blunt. But if you do not do as I say, I will make sure Isabel’s petition is heard and I promise you will lose your son for ever.’

  He let go, her shoulders smarting from his grip. The anger inside was so intense she wanted to break the heavy vase beside her over his scheming head. She would have had the strength; somehow she stayed herself.

  He straightened his doublet. ‘I will return at two. Spend the morning preening yourself, or whatever you women do.’ His eyes flicked over her mourning dress. ‘And if you must wear black, try to make it look inviting.’

  They travelled through London in silence, the carriage’s leather blinds blocking out all light. The rattling of the coach jarred her mind to a madness of competing thoughts. Part of her was desperate to rush back to Halescott to scoop Daniel up in her arms, but then her rational mind asserted itself, insisting Nathan was the best protection he could have. Why was she in London anyway? Tracing North and the Oxford Section was not a whim. It was to gain the protection of the King, to save Daniel’s future. If she gave that up at the first difficulty, she may profit for now but end up losing for ever. As for North, her new fury had blown away any fear. He had miscalculated with his threatening note. There was no way she was going to give in.

  The horses juddered to a halt. She opened the carriage door, thinking they had arrived, but a flailing fist slammed it back shut. ‘War!’ shouted a zealous voice, banging on the carriage side. ‘Expel the Dutch!’ She released the blind to see a jeering crowd obstructing their progress down Whitehall, about thirty men and women screaming their bile. But the carriage forced a way through, entering the palace grounds unscathed.

  She descended from the carriage, feeling inside her pocket for Sir William’s necklace. It was stuffed carelessly between her coin purse and the malicious note; having brought it to London, she intended to use this forced opportunity to return it. Around the arch they had passed beneath, a throng of palace servants was milling about, gawping at the protestors in the street.

  ‘You!’ Sir Francis crunched the dirt as he marched towards a liveried page. ‘What is going on outside?’

  ‘’Tis this Dutch business, sir. It is getting out of hand.’ The page jerked his thumb at the heckling protestors. ‘Some lad was sodomised walking home last night. They blame Dutch sailors, though none were about. They want the King to expel all Dutchmen from the city.’

  Sir Francis shook his head. ‘Nonsense and scandal. See to your duties.’

  Mercia was surprised, for his tone was not unkind. He beckoned her follow him inside the palace. As they walked, she could see the walls were scattered with a number of paintings and portraits, the old King’s grand collection returning piece by piece.

  ‘Sir William will be finishing a meeting with the King’s privy council,’ he said as they approached a grandiose staircase. ‘Before you see him, I want to be informed of what was discussed. You saw the crowd. The city is crazed for a Dutch war.’

  She looked askance at him. ‘Were you not invited to the meeting, Uncle?’

  Letting out a long sigh, he stopped at the foot of the stairs. ‘I have worked hard, Mercia, to regain the credibility this family has lost through your father. It has taken a huge effort, but I am now in favour with the King and his brother the Duke. Yet I can only climb so high. Maybe my grandchildren will be able to attend meetings of state with the King’s son, should His Majesty ever produce an heir. Maybe your son too, if you play your part.’

  She scoffed. ‘He may find it difficult without his inheritance.’

  ‘There are other houses.’ Irritated, Sir Francis continued on, leading her up the wide marble staircase. His shoes echoed across the open space.

  ‘How is the Queen?’ asked Mercia as they reached the top, her desire to know outweighing her wish to avoid conversation. ‘’Tis difficult enough to bear a child without the constant attentions of the entire court. Doubtless she misses Portugal.’

  ‘Indeed she is pregnant again.’ Sir Francis halted beside a colourful tapestry that lined the whole height of the wall beside them. ‘Pray God she is delivered of a healthy infant this time. The court already begins to fear for the succession, with the Duke so close to the—’ He stopped himself.

  She smiled. ‘To the Catholics?’

  Sir Francis stared, his eyes questioning how she could know such things, never considering she might read the news pamphlets. Before he could reply, a door at the far end of the landing opened, a procession of straight-backed clerks filing out.

  ‘Right on time,’ he said. ‘The meeting is over. We should wait here.’

  A group of five grandly dressed men exited the room, stopping on the landing to continue their discussion. At their centre was the Duke of York, stressing his points with firm gestures; the other four surrounded him, nodding as one.

  She heard her uncle tut. ‘Those three are always together.’

  ‘Which three?’

  He jerked his head in the direction of the group. ‘Sir Peter, Sir William and Sir Bernard.’

  She narrowed her eyes, craning her neck to look behind the Duke, where Sir Bernard Dittering, the man they said was responsible for her
father’s trial, was laughing with his master. She would have loved to challenge him here in the corridors of power, but even she baulked at doing so in front of the King’s brother. Next to Sir Bernard a grey-wigged man was smiling at the Duke’s every word, his pompous expression marking him for Sir Peter Shaw, and beside him, talking animatedly, Sir William Calde. Noticing her watching, he gave her the swiftest of waves. Sir Bernard followed his gaze until his eyes met the hatred in hers, forcing him to look away.

  The final member of the group excused himself from his colleagues and marched along the landing, his fine doublet slashed to reveal the silk shirt beneath. Seeing Mercia and her uncle, he paused.

  ‘Sir Francis,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Colonel Nicolls. I trust you had a profitable meeting?’

  Nicolls nodded. ‘We may be getting somewhere with this Dutch business at last. The Duke is pushing for a more direct intervention in Guinea, Sir Bernard now, too. The King is still uncertain but I think we will convince him.’

  ‘And Sir William?’

  ‘He is with Bernard, as he often is. ’Tis only surprising he demurred so long. I think they had a long talk while at the Tower the other day.’ He looked at Mercia. ‘Is this—?’

  ‘Yes. My niece.’

  Nicolls bowed to her. ‘Then I am sorry to have mentioned that place. Your father was a principled man. He handled himself well at the end.’ Nodding a curt farewell he disappeared down the staircase.

  ‘Who was he?’ asked Mercia, intrigued.

  Sir Francis dropped his shoulders, visibly relaxing. ‘That was the Duke’s groom of the bedchamber. They say he is in line for advancement, like many of the Duke’s favourites. ’Tis the Duke who will lead this war, should it come.’

  She could not resist a retort. ‘Well, yes. He is Lord High Admiral.’