Birthright

by David Hingley

  Sir Francis frowned. ‘And despises the Dutch. If I can just – by the Lord, they are walking off. Wait here.’ Outside the council chamber, the Duke’s group was disbanding in the opposite direction. Sir Francis hurried to follow them, leaving Mercia alone.

  Abandoned, she dropped herself into a lavish yellow-backed chair, her mind flitting back to the note James North had left. Then an irritated shout from the meeting room startled her from her thoughts. She looked up to see another man emerging, waving away a clerk with an impatient flick of his white ruffled wrist. It was his height that gave it away, his confident bearing, that and the rich black wig that cascaded over his broad shoulders. Mercia widened her eyes as the King stormed in her direction, muttering under his breath. Hastily she stood up and curtsied as he passed. He glanced at her and managed a smile before turning out of sight.

  A bold idea surfaced. But could she be that audacious? She did not take long to decide. Life was full of unexpected chances and this was one she had to dare take.

  Chapter Ten

  She followed the King through the labyrinthine palace, pausing behind columns, darting around corners, watching everyone from privy councillor to maidservant bow or curtsey as he passed. She knew she should despise him for his part in agreeing to her father’s execution, but as she looked on the King, the man, seeing the smiles he received, the excited looks, she found it hard to feel the deep bitterness she had thought to bear on him if ever they met. Besides, she needed his support, and was it not her father himself who had suggested she seek it?

  After a hasty conversation with a liveried servant, the King finally turned left from a ground-floor corridor to pass through a covered jetty that jutted into the Thames, ascending a gangplank that took him to his private yacht. She held herself straight as she pursued him, nodding to the guard at the gangplank’s base as though she had every right. She expected to be challenged, but she was not: perhaps the guard was accustomed to strange ladies going aboard.

  Inside the boat the King bent his head to vanish through a narrow door. Mercia glanced through the gap between door and frame to make sure he was alone; he was, but she covered her eyes as he removed his wig to scratch at his real, greying hair. Overcoming her embarrassment, she took a deep breath and knocked.

  ‘What now?’ shouted the King. ‘Can I not have peace even on my yacht?’ A rustling suggested the wig was being replaced. ‘Come in if you must!’

  ‘Your Majesty.’ Setting aside her personal feelings she entered the cabin and curtsied, keeping her eyes on the floor.

  ‘My lady.’ She could hear the surprise in his voice. ‘I was not expecting such enticing company. Please, stand.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ She raised her eyes.

  ‘But you are in mourning. My condolences.’ He frowned. ‘Did I not just pass you in the palace?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘So you followed me here?’

  ‘I wished to speak with Your Majesty, if you will allow it.’

  His keen gaze flitted across her face. ‘I will if the interview is short. I have promised Barbara – that is, Lady Castlemaine – an afternoon in Hyde Park.’

  A pair of liveried groomsmen entered. Charles waved them away, but the interruption was long enough for Mercia’s attention to be captured by a series of charts rolled out on a table beside her. She quickly looked back at the King, but he had noticed.

  ‘You are interested in such things?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’ She glanced at the topmost chart, a map of the west coast of Africa. ‘The Guinea coast?’

  He widened his eyes. ‘You are a knowledgeable woman.’

  ‘These places marked here are Dutch outposts?’

  ‘The same my council would have me raid.’ He sighed. ‘But you are not here to talk of war. My lady, I would know your business and your name.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ She bowed. ‘My name is Mercia Blakewood. I wish to present a petition.’

  ‘There are more proper avenues, Mrs Blakewood, but as you are here, ask.’ Charles indicated a plush, red-velvet chair and sat across from her, his simple white stockings tightening against his legs as he lowered himself into his seat. In contrast to the stockings, his black breeches were finely embroidered; his unbuttoned red doublet revealed a magnificent gold-laced waistcoat beneath.

  ‘Your Majesty should know,’ she said as she sat, ‘that my father was Sir Rowland Goodridge.’

  ‘Ah.’ The King sucked in his cheek. She looked at him, worried he would now merely dismiss her, but his next words surprised her. ‘Then I am sorry for what you have suffered.’ He looked across at her. ‘Whatever his acts, his daughter should not be judged the same. Deliver your petition.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She swallowed. ‘Indeed it concerns my father’s estate.’ She hesitated, suddenly struck by whom she was addressing, but she cleared her throat and made herself speak. ‘When he died, it should have passed to my son, in accordance with my father’s will. But my uncle, Sir Francis Simmonds, claims my parents’ marriage settlement makes him the heir. It is not true.’

  The King nodded, surprising her once more. ‘In fact I know something of the case. Given your father’s … situation – it was discussed briefly at council. As I understand it, the matter has been settled.’

  ‘Could it not be examined again?’ she pursued, a boldness stirring within. ‘Regardless of my father’s fate, the law of England must still apply.’

  Charles raised an eyebrow. ‘You are a brave one. Was it not Good Queen Bess herself who said must was not a word to be uttered to princes?’ He waved a hand as her face fell. ‘I am teasing. As for what you ask, you can petition the courts if you wish, although I am not sure it would achieve much.’

  ‘If Your Majesty were to intervene—’

  ‘Mrs Blakewood, I could only do so in extraordinary circumstances.’

  She swooped on his words. ‘Then I will have to see what I can do. Thank you for hearing my petition, Your Majesty.’ She smiled, deftly turning the subject to the extraordinary circumstances she hoped to provide. ‘It was pleasing to have the opportunity to walk through the palace today. I see that much of the royal collection has been restored.’

  Charles nodded. ‘You appreciate fine art as well as fine maps, Mrs Blakewood. My father’s collection was his life.’

  ‘I remember when the paintings His Majesty kept at Oxford were being taken to London.’ She ran an innocent hand through her hair. ‘It was a tragedy when they were lost.’

  ‘A tragedy indeed. Ten of the best paintings in the entire collection, my father’s favourites.’ The King sighed. ‘I have sent my agents across the country. They have regained much of what was lost. But not the Oxford Section. I had hoped the stories about their burning were false, and yet no trace has been found.’

  She kept her expression neutral. ‘You have been generous to those who have helped you.’

  ‘Deservedly so.’ He shook his head, a wistful look on his face. ‘To see those pictures again, hanging where they should, I would pay dearly for that. But there is no sense in dwelling on the impossible.’ He rose. ‘And now, Mrs Blakewood, I fear I must ask you to take your leave.’ He smiled. ‘We cannot keep Barbara waiting.’

  Mercia stood and curtsied, aware the interview was at an end. She retreated backwards from the King’s presence: a difficult manoeuvre, but she managed not to trip. Once outside the cabin she pulled herself upright, ignoring the twinge in her knee as, encouraged by the King’s words, she span lightly on her feet. But her cautious good humour soon dissipated. At the end of the covered jetty her uncle stepped into her path, Sir William at his side.

  ‘What in heaven’s name have you been doing on the Folly?’ hissed Sir Francis. Despite his godly reference, his forehead bubbled as though a demon were about to stab through with its hellish pitchfork.

  Mercia shrugged, thinking to disconcert him. ‘I was talking with the King.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ Sir Francis frowned.
‘He will be most displeased you have disturbed his rest.’

  ‘He was not displeased.’ Turning away from him she addressed Sir William, knowing her uncle would restrain his temper in the presence of a man he sought to impress. ‘Sir William, I have kept you waiting.’

  Sir William pulled his grand coat around him. ‘Well, of course, if you were with the King, I cannot be offended.’ He smiled, but his worried gaze flicked towards the yacht. The action made her uncle’s face twitch, and he looked down the jetty, his darting eyes clearly assessing the possibilities. Her irritation increased.

  ‘Shall we go?’ she asked Sir William. ‘The Privy Garden perhaps?’ She led him away, leaving her uncle to contemplate and plot.

  The Privy Garden, a series of grassy squares intersected by a number of straight gravel paths, brought greenery to the southern side of the palace. Confident new statues graced the middle of each square, but the centrepiece was a hulking stone sundial, its numerous discs displaying time in a perplexing variety of ways. Unlike the surrounding statues it was in poor condition, but Mercia had little doubt that the King, with his love of science, would soon restore or else replace it.

  ‘The gnomon is casting a shadow,’ she mused, looking at the nearest disc. ‘Spring must finally be here.’

  ‘The gno – what?’ said Sir William beside her.

  ‘The shaft on the sundial that creates the shadow. See, it is long because the afternoon is late.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He grunted, guiding her away along one of the criss-crossing paths. Stopping beside a statue of a proud and naked Venus, he reached out a hand to stroke her hair.

  ‘Have you considered what I said when last we met?’

  ‘I have.’ She took a small step back. ‘And I fear I must return your generous gift.’ She felt inside her pocket, holding out the three-layered necklace for him to take.

  He smiled. ‘Stay. I know how this game works, how you women like to pretend. The necklace is yours.’

  She sighed. ‘Sir William, what of your wife?’

  The great man flushed, the furs of his coat heaving like a trapped animal. ‘Do not concern yourself with Harriet.’ He closed her fingers around the necklace. ‘I have many more gifts for you, many … pleasures.’

  ‘Sir William, I—’

  ‘I understand. You are in mourning still for your father. Perhaps you feel aggrieved his house was denied you.’ He stroked her cheek with the back of a finger. ‘’Tis no shame to think so. How could you know anything of the law? But you must not worry. I will set you up inside the palace itself. You will have your own apartment full of fashionable hangings, beautiful trinkets and clothes.’ He looked at her. ‘You know I can do it.’

  ‘Sir William, I insist—’

  ‘You are right,’ he interrupted once more. ‘I have been unfeeling. Visiting the palace can be tiring for a lady.’ He nodded as if agreeing with himself. ‘I will leave you now, but let us meet next in my own apartment. I am sure you would admire my … tapestries.’

  ‘Please, I—’

  He rested a finger on her lips. ‘There is no need to talk.’ He glanced at the pale statue. ‘Even Venus cannot best your beauty.’

  He kissed her hand and walked away, turning once to look back, his eyes lingering longest on her chest.

  She stood in the shadow of the greatest palace in Europe, life throbbing through its hundreds of rooms, the cacophony of London rising up beyond its walls. As if in contrast, a tiny sparrow landed on Venus’s outstretched finger, whistling its carefree tune. Yet all that passed scarcely noticed to Mercia, alone in the garden, the obscene jewellery somehow still dangling from her thumb.

  As she replaced Sir William’s necklace in her pocket, her fingers brushed against James North’s note. She knew most women would think her absurd to renounce Sir William, the powerful man with the ear of the King, the man who was promising her luxuries, in favour of hunting down this dangerous other, this violent soldier she was desperate to unmask. But powerful as he was, Sir William could not give her what she truly desired. Finding the Oxford Section would put the King himself in her debt. And yet her task was not simple: she was thinking of pursuing a man who had killed to accomplish his goals. Standing there alone, the freshly cut grass of the Privy Garden diffusing its scent of happy evenings past, she yearned for a friend to confide in, wishing Nathan was with her, not to hold her hand, but to talk, to assist.

  A gull called its screeching cry high above. She looked up to see the great white bird fly out towards the river, towards the sea. Into her mind floated an image of the enticing young sailor she had so harshly dismissed, the rough-edged farrier who had brought her primroses to brighten her evening. Whether she had been afraid, or worse contemptuous, she could not say. She felt an ungrateful fool. He had helped her and received nothing in return.

  Damn convention. Nathan was not there, but maybe she could have a friend, of sorts.

  She was mad, she knew it, to go in search of a man she hardly knew. Her mind spent half the night debating it, awake and asleep, when she wasn’t straining to hear if anyone was roaming the house. But only one answer seemed right. After a comforting breakfast of cold meats and eggs she put on the least assuming outfit she had brought, a plain brown skirt and woollen jacket over an equally basic bodice, all under a light-grey cloak. Aside from her mourning ring she took off all her jewellery and pinned a loose hood to her hair. The hackney driver looked at her strangely when she asked for Cow Cross, but he shrugged his shoulders and kept quiet, dropping her on the corner of St John’s Street.

  She set off down the dirty road. Two apprentices in their blue aprons stared at her from the doorstep of a tanner’s shop. One whispered in the other’s ear, making his mate laugh. Stepping out from the doorway they began to follow, calling out obscenities across the street. She put her head down and walked faster. Concerned with eluding them, she turned left, right, left again, not paying attention to her route. When she came into a wider road, and after a few seconds looked back, they were nowhere to be seen.

  Heart racing, she penetrated further into the grimy area. Despite the intense blue sky, the sun seemed to be absent here, the tightly packed houses leaning over each other as though sharing their ill-gained intelligence. A woman called out shrilly from above. Mercia jumped aside as a torrent of foul sewage rained down, the splattered mess just missing her leg.

  A man ran from an alley, nearly colliding with her before careening on past into the maze of streets. She dared a glimpse down the passageway, but it was dark, the devilish shadows tempting the unwise to explore. She thought she could discern a figure lying prostrate on the ground, but whether human or animal she could not tell, and she was not going to look.

  A sharp anxiety settled over her as she realised she had no idea where she was. Eyes darting left and right for danger, she turned another decaying corner. The same apprentices were directly in front, blocking her way. One blew a lewd kiss, the other laughed, casually untying the lace of his breeches and slipping his hand underneath, feeling himself in front of her. Alarmed, she turned around, walking quickly back the way she had come, aware of the apprentices’ pursuit. Then a severe female voice rang out behind her. She turned to see an elderly woman in a hole-ridden hemp smock dragging the vulgar apprentice by the arm, his accomplice walking meekly alongside. They were never any real threat. It would have been comical, but Mercia did not feel like laughing.

  More footsteps ground the dirt behind her. She was now paranoid, uncertain whether people were following her or just walking behind. She crossed an unkempt square and hurried down two more streets before she dared pause, stumbling into a narrow alley full of shops, their various faded signs competing for attention. She scurried to the nearest open hatch, a rickety grocers’ stand, hoping for information.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ asked the shopkeeper, eyeing her clothes. She pointed at the first thing she saw, a bunch of yellow carrots. She handed over the coins, taking care to hide the other money she had in her
pocket.

  ‘I’m looking for a farrier,’ she said. Try as she might, she could not disguise the richness of her accent. The grocer looked at her intently, as though determining who she was, where she was from, what she had to offer, all in one glance. ‘His name is Nicholas Wildmoor. He lives in these parts.’

  The grocer smirked. ‘Farrier, that all he is to you?’ He laughed, revealing a rotting set of teeth stained with all the colours of his produce. ‘I never heard of him.’

  She moved on. As she left she heard the shopkeeper making coarse jokes about her to someone behind him. She would have to do better to blend in, but she was terrible at it. Even her least attractive dress stood out here.

  Throwing the carrots into the dirt she came into a second square, the putrefying stench of overflowing waste abusing the air. A crowd of boys sat along the right-hand side. Sensing the presence of prey, they rose without looking, in a routine perfected through countless attacks. As one organism they drifted over, joining together as a terrifying mob, jostling her, their fingers everywhere, searching for a pocket, a locket, anything to steal. She shouted at them to stop, but as one they laughed, telling her not to come to their streets, if she didn’t want to share her goods.

  Frightened, she struck out, hitting one of the dirt-ridden boys. He could only have been eight or nine, not much older than Daniel. The boy fell, his mouth bleeding, sending the others wild, their nimble fingers morphing into aggressive claws. She lashed out, kicked in every direction, but the mob’s integrity held. She was in danger.

  A man shouted across the square, his words vulgar and sharp. He ran at the boys, waving a plank of wood, a dog leaping from his heels. They released their appalling grip and scattered. Breathing hard, Mercia looked over to thank him, but he merely swore at her, his dog growling through bloody jaws. Head down, she carried on.

  She was dispirited and scared, but she would not give in. Another corner turned and straight in front rose a wonderful sight, a church steeple thrusting out of the poverty, pointing to the saints in heaven. Relief powered through her as she pushed open the wooden door, but inside all was dark, and what passed for pews smelt rank, the promise of salvation broken. She did not even stay to pray for help. God seemed to have abandoned this building years ago.