Birthright

by David Hingley

  ‘We just passed the new playhouse,’ he said. ‘You need a distraction. How about going to see the King’s Company tomorrow? It must be years since you’ve been.’

  He was right: it had been a long time. Parliament had banned the theatre at the start of the war, and even though the drama-loving King had now reinstated it, Mercia hadn’t seen a play for over twenty years, not since she was ten years old. The thought made her nostalgic.

  ‘What is on?’ she wondered.

  He ran to look. ‘Something called The Carnival, by Thomas Porter.’

  ‘I have heard of him,’ she said, continuing to walk. ‘Yes, why not? Maybe not tomorrow – it is Coronation Day – but perhaps next week, if we get the chance.’

  They turned into Queen Street. Outside the town house, a ragged boy was tracing pictures in the road with a twig, the few loose cobblestones scattered about him pulled up to expose the earth below as his improvised canvas. Bethany was staring down from the top-floor window, visibly aggrieved.

  ‘Hey!’ Nathan folded his arms. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting,’ said the boy, not looking up from his drawing. The crude picture was of a cockfight: quite good, thought Mercia, although the birds were larger than the pit.

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘For the lady, all right?’

  ‘Which lady?’

  ‘Merce.’

  ‘What do you want with her?’

  The boy looked up. ‘Who are you, her husband? Eve told me she weren’t married. I’ve to speak to Merce.’

  Her hand on Daniel’s shoulder, Mercia cleared her throat. ‘My name is Mercia. Are you looking for me?’

  The boy jumped up, throwing his twig to the floor. ‘I’m to give you a message,’ he said, rubbing his hands on his threadbare trousers.

  She frowned. ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Eve Standish. I’m to say her brother’s hiding from the constables at her place.’

  ‘I do not know an Eve.’

  ‘Well, you know her brother. Nick Wildmoor. He’ll meet you tomorrow night at Lion Quay, eight o’clock, but don’t try to find him ’til then. They want to arrest him.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Arrest him?’ Nathan looked at Mercia. ‘By the Lord, I knew he was trouble.’

  She was still staring at the boy, confused. ‘Why do they want to arrest him?’

  He stayed silent, keeping his hand outstretched. She let out an exasperated sigh and rummaged in her pocket. ‘Here is a penny. Now answer.’

  The boy shrugged, kicking at his drawing with his bare feet. ‘Killing a man. Or something. Ask him.’

  He snatched the penny and ran.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Had Nicholas really killed a man? Mercia spent an agonising day fretting over what her new acquaintance might have done. Her anxious thoughts led her mind onto Fell’s death, questioning whether the hulking gunsmith had met his end by fouler means than a mere accident, or whether her new-found paranoia was besting her natural judgement.

  As the sun set and London vanished into dusk, she left Daniel with Bethany to ride with Nathan to Lion Quay. His protective attitude galled her as he insisted she wait in the carriage while he jumped out and scanned the area. At length he strode towards the corner of a darkened warehouse; she leant out the carriage window to see Nicholas skulking behind a battered post. The two men began to argue, the occasional unintelligible shout drifting over with the wind.

  ‘Damn this,’ she muttered. Asking the driver to wait, she got down from the coach and marched towards them.

  ‘I haven’t.’ Nicholas was seething. ‘She’s in no danger.’

  Nathan threw back his head. ‘You want me to let her go with you now?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said, storming in.

  ‘I told you to wait,’ said Nathan.

  She glared at him. ‘Nicholas, what’s happened?’

  ‘The constables are looking for him because he fled from a crime,’ answered Nathan. ‘With you.’

  ‘Lord above, Lambeth Marsh!’ She rounded on Nicholas. ‘I told you we should have spoken with the constable!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Nicholas. ‘They don’t know who you are.’

  ‘Well how do they know who—Christ! You told that boy Tom your name.’

  Nicholas gritted his teeth. ‘I know.’

  ‘And for once the constables have done something about it,’ said Nathan. ‘They want to accuse him of the murder, it seems. Which is what that boy meant about killing a man. He had it confused.’

  ‘But North’s body was months old!’

  ‘You know how it works. They just want someone to accuse and be done with it. And apparently our boy here is not the most law-abiding of folk, which is why he wanted to avoid the constable at Lambeth.’ He scoffed. ‘Even though he doesn’t live there, it seems the Southwark constables know of him. Gambling, illicit trading, that sort of thing.’

  She looked at Nicholas. ‘I knew none of that.’

  ‘Come, you’re not naïve. And now he wants to take you to see more of his freebooting crew?’

  ‘And what?’ Nicholas thrust his face into Nathan’s, his eyes quivering with suppressed rage. ‘Look at you, your trim clothes, your pretty hat.’ Nathan narrowed his eyes. ‘Some of us don’t have such an easy life. Some of us have to fight to make what money we can, and if that sometimes means dodging the laws your sort make to keep people like me down, what of it?’

  ‘My sort?’ Nathan was angrier than Mercia had seen him for a long time. ‘What the hell do you know? You think because I talk differently to you, because I wear slightly finer clothes that I have things easy? I’ve fought battles, seen friends die. Good friends. I’ve seen my own wife and daughter die! If it wasn’t for Mercia I’d probably be dead myself.’

  Nicholas stepped back. ‘You had a daughter?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘Nothing. Just … that I’m sorry.’

  ‘It happens,’ said Nathan, his expression neutral. ‘Children die.’

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ said Mercia. She knew the extent of his grief. She had held him all those days he had raved and cried.

  ‘No.’ Nathan sighed. ‘No, of course I don’t.’ He sucked in his cheek. ‘Mercia, I don’t think you should go tonight. You are dealing with people you cannot trust.’

  ‘She can trust me,’ muttered Nicholas.

  Nathan ignored him. ‘He says I cannot go with you, that these – smugglers – are only expecting the two of you.’

  ‘’Tis understandable,’ she said. ‘And we already agreed you would go back to Daniel. I do not like him being alone here with only Bethany at night.’ She touched his forearm, the unexpected gesture making him look down in surprise. ‘Nat, you know I have to try. I need to find those paintings. And if that means meeting people who do not much respect the law, so be it. Please, go home to Daniel. Nicholas will look after me. I am sure of it.’

  ‘I will.’ Nicholas glanced at the river. ‘But we really must go. The boatmen will be waiting.’

  Nathan glowered. ‘Very well,’ he conceded. He jabbed a fingertip into Nicholas’s chest. ‘But see you bring her back safe, or I will hold you to account.’

  The sound of gentle water lapping against the flanks of the small boat soothed her uneasy spirit. A brackish seaweed scent, disturbed by the smooth oars, released a salty tang onto her tongue. At the riverside, candle lights flickered in unseen houses and taverns where people were eating an evening supper, or else preparing for a welcome bed.

  Mercia was surprised. She had expected to hate this journey, but other than the discomfort of sitting on a hard bench in a dress not designed for boating, all was calm. She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the sensations from voyaging down the river at night. Her heightened senses picked up a bird trilling its call from a riverside tree, searching for a partner to share the lonely night.

  ‘’Tis peaceful, is it not?’ whispered Nicholas. ‘A different wor
ld. It was like this sometimes on the ships, sailing across the waters. Of course, other times it was the opposite, waves rising, wind roaring. But not here.’

  ‘A good thing we are not on a ship, then,’ she said, her voice laced with annoyance. ‘Although I must admit to feeling a little … uneasy.’

  ‘Don’t worry. All will be well.’ He paused. ‘I am sorry. About … you know.’

  She sighed. ‘It should be I who is sorry. ’Tis my fault you were on the marsh.’

  One of the hitherto silent oarsmen hushed them quiet. Mercia went back to staring across the black water. The night flowed by as surely as the river itself.

  An hour or so later, the boatmen brought them to a rocky landing place tucked away in the mudflats some short distance past the great docks at Blackwall Yard. The City of London was now far behind them, back beyond the Isle of Dogs where the eighth Henry was fabled to have reared his hunting hounds. They came ashore near the mouth of the River Lea. There was no one and nothing about.

  ‘I thought you said we were to meet in a tavern?’ said Mercia.

  ‘I did.’ Nicholas turned to the nearer boatman. ‘Why are we here?’

  ‘This is where you’ll met One Eye,’ he shrugged.

  ‘On the beach?’

  He pointed into the darkness, his arm just visible against the cloudy night. ‘Over there.’

  ‘But ’tis dark. We can’t see a thing.’

  He set down his oar. ‘We’ve rowed you here. You’re not going back ’til you’ve seen One Eye.’

  Mercia looked at Nicholas. They were trapped out here. But her determination stayed any fear, and she motioned to him to climb from the boat. They were still some way out; cold water penetrated her skirts, seeping up against her shins as she splashed to a pebble-strewn shore.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Nicholas when they were out of earshot.

  ‘There is nothing we can do about it. We are caught in a situation of our own making.’

  She heard him exhale deeply. ‘I’ve brought you here,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, for this and for—’ He stopped. A tiny light had appeared to their left, not far off, moving from side to side.

  They made their way towards it, stumbling over the shingle until a narrow path appeared in a grassy knoll behind the beach. As they followed the path, an orange glow that seemed to emanate from the ground itself gradually intensified until the tip of a quivering fire came into view within a concealed hollow. A dark figure at the top of the recess blew out the candle that had summoned them and motioned for them to descend from the rim. Nicholas held Mercia’s arm as they slipped down together, sliding on the flat-leaved plants that clung to the hollow’s edge.

  Two black silhouettes were sitting astride barrels set back from the fire. Their accomplice skidded down to join them, the firelight picking out the folds of his long coat, but it was insufficient to illuminate the others. As Mercia craned forward to make them out, the closer of the two leapt from his barrel and landed on the earth with a soft thud, sending embers flying skyward.

  ‘What business have you here?’ he said, his tone gruff.

  ‘Martin Oakes has arranged for us to meet One-Eye Wilkins,’ said Nicholas. ‘But it was to be in a tavern. Why have you changed the arrangement?’

  ‘We have agreed to meet. Does it matter where?’

  ‘No,’ said Mercia. ‘As long as we can speak with One Eye. Our business is with him.’

  He laughed. ‘Then go ahead.’ He indicated the third figure, who was still cloaked in night.

  Mercia drew her mantle around her as she approached. ‘You are One-Eye Wilkins?’

  There was a pause, then out of the darkness a woman’s voice spoke. ‘I am. I understand you have questions for me.’

  Nicholas let out a startled laugh. One Eye jumped from her barrel and walked into the light. She was a woman of some years, the creases and lines of an outdoor life marking her tanned face. It was not so much that she was a woman that surprised Mercia, but that One Eye unmistakably had two glinting eyes reflecting in the firelight.

  ‘So,’ said One Eye. ‘Mercia Blakewood, daughter of the late Sir Rowland Goodridge.’ She took off her broad-brimmed hat, revealing a clutch of short white hair. ‘Oh yes, I know who you are. ’Tis only because I am intrigued why you would want business with me that I agreed to meet.’ She tossed her hat to one of her men and inclined her head in greeting.

  ‘I thank you for it,’ said Mercia. ‘In spite of the altered surroundings. But I am curious how you know me.’

  ‘I had to give Martin your name,’ admitted Nicholas. ‘Although he told me nothing of – her.’

  Mercia threw him an accusing look. The smuggler merely laughed.

  ‘Allow me to introduce my associates.’ She indicated the two men, who doffed their hats. Then she made a fast sweeping motion with her hands. Her men leapt forward, the one grabbing Mercia’s arms painfully behind her back, the other punching Nicholas on the jaw, momentarily stunning him. The smugglers dragged them to the now vacant barrels and threw them to the ground. Recovering, Nicholas crouched to jump up, but One Eye had a pistol on him.

  ‘I think not,’ she said. ‘Boys, tie him.’

  Furious, Mercia watched as the men roped Nicholas to a barrel, looping a thick cable three times around his chest. Nicholas sat subdued, his narrowed eyes like soulless slits.

  ‘I should have known,’ he said. ‘Smugglers can’t be trusted.’

  One Eye laughed once more, the firelight casting deep shadows across her furrowed face. ‘And you can, Nicholas Wildmoor?’ She turned to Mercia. ‘Now, what business do you have? Speak quickly, or I’ll let them at him.’ She nodded at her men; the taller kicked Nicholas in the stomach, making him cry out.

  Mercia dragged herself up, rubbing at her aching shoulder. ‘You need not tie him. Even if your word means little, mine does not. Nothing you tell me will be reported to the constables.’

  ‘You can say what you like to the constables. I am known by the one eye I always keep on them.’ She smiled. ‘But of course, you thought I was called that for a different reason. My dear, it is never wise to assume anything with me. Now speak.’

  Mercia glanced at Nicholas shifting in his bonds, trying to get free. Years of copying her brother as he amused himself tying and loosening all kinds of knots had made her just as competent as he had been, and she remembered the techniques still. But that knowledge meant nothing while One Eye’s men were watching. Instead she thought how best to phrase her questions, hoping Nicholas would be freed once their business was concluded.

  ‘I am searching for some objects stolen many years ago,’ she began. ‘A collection of paintings acquired for a man of high standing. They may have been shipped abroad. I understand you would have taken care of such matters at the time.’

  One Eye remained impassive. ‘And what time would that be?’

  ‘Sometime in the fifties. Not before the end of ’51.’

  One Eye came up to her, staring unblinking into her eyes. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  She did not flinch. ‘I want to retrieve them.’

  ‘Were they yours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why should I help?’

  ‘I am prepared to pay a reasonable sum for your … kindness.’

  One Eye jeered. ‘I don’t want payment. I’ve earned enough, and these boys take care of things now.’ She lunged at her men. ‘When they’re not gambling and whoring, that is.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  One Eye began to circle Nicholas, fingering her pistol. ‘The satisfaction of my curiosity? I want to know if this concerns what I think it might.’

  ‘How does she know what you think, old woman?’ growled Nicholas. The men clenched their fists, but One Eye held up a staying hand, continuing to circle.

  ‘Bold cove, isn’t he?’ She looked at Mercia. ‘Your night-time amusement?’

  Mercia held her gaze. One Eye’s prior words had opened a chink of hope, but
she kept her face straight. ‘Why?’ she jested. ‘Do you want him?’

  One Eye cackled. ‘And you’re a bold woman.’ The first drops of a light rain began to fall. ‘Tell me more about these paintings. You ask what I want? I merely want the truth.’

  Mercia nodded. ‘I think we understand each other. We are both the inquisitive sort.’

  ‘I am waiting.’

  She summarised her deductions, hoping she was right. ‘They were paintings from the King’s own collection, stolen at gunpoint, delivered to a man of the court, and sold on for profit.’

  ‘How beautifully treacherous. You think I got them out?’

  ‘The seller would have wanted the best,’ bluffed Mercia. ‘That had to mean you.’

  The smuggler continued to pace, oblivious to the strengthening rain. Finally she stopped. ‘There was an unusual cargo around that time. A consignment of paintings, as you say. Nine, maybe ten, spread over a couple of years. Around … 1653, I’d say. I didn’t ask questions. The payment was extremely enticing for me to keep my mouth shut.’ She scoffed. ‘I knew the stories, of course. Those paintings that were supposedly burnt. I’d heard too many rumours about them, too many tales of an unknown gentleman with something secretive to sell. I was sure it was them.’

  Mercia’s heart raced. ‘How did you smuggle them?’

  ‘I prefer to say “liberate”, my dear, from the bonds of tariff and trade.’ One Eye laughed. ‘The seller had an agent, always the same. He brought the paintings rolled up in tubes, tied with string and waxed shut. The buyer’s men at the other end had orders to report back if I broke the seal, so I left all as it was. But I always suspected they were the King’s. Bloody thieving hypocrite, I was glad to get one over on him, headless though he was by then.’

  Mercia ignored her politics. ‘Where did they go?’

  One Eye tutted. ‘You haven’t said yet why you want them.’

  She thought how to phrase it in a way One Eye would approve. ‘Someone at the King’s court has stolen my life from me. I want to use the paintings to get it back.’