Birthright

by David Hingley

  One Eye smiled, revealing a row of yellow-black teeth. ‘You are a bold one, aren’t you? I like that.’ She sniffed, dropping her pistol on the empty barrel. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter to me what you do. But you be careful. Such men as these don’t want to be found out.’

  ‘So where did you take them, old woman?’ said Nicholas, his hair dampening over his forehead.

  One Eye glanced at him. ‘Hoorn, young man.’ She returned to Mercia. ‘Or else Amsterdam, but always a Dutch port. They went to a rich client with a connection to the WIC.’ She sneered. ‘At least that’s what the agent said once, when he was being less discreet than he should.’

  Mercia frowned. ‘The WIC?’

  ‘The Geoctroyeerde West-Indische Compagnie.’ One Eye pronounced the words in perfect Dutch. ‘Oh yes, I’m not stupid, even if I am a smuggler.’ Mercia looked blank. ‘The Dutch West India Company, sweetheart. Did Papa never teach you languages?’

  ‘One or two.’ She tilted her head, taking a deliberate pause. ‘Who was the seller?’

  One Eye barked out a laugh. ‘You expect me to tell you that? But it doesn’t matter. I’m afraid he preferred his anonymity. Truthfully, I don’t know.’

  Mercia nodded, disappointed but not surprised. ‘Then perhaps you can tell me about his agent.’

  One Eye looked into the darkness, wisps of smoke rising from the fire beside her as the rain fell on the firewood. ‘Reckon that would be worth something to you, that information. You trace the agent, you trace the paintings.’

  Mercia smiled. ‘And you said you did not want payment.’

  ‘Not right now.’ One Eye swivelled to face her, widening her eyes; the wavering firelight gave them a demonic air. ‘I’ll make you a bargain, my girl. I’ll tell you his name, and if I ever need something, I might come to you.’ She scraped a boot on the ground. ‘Just once, in payment of this debt.’

  ‘Don’t,’ warned Nicholas.

  Mercia hesitated. ‘This agent. Is he still alive?’

  ‘As far as I know.’ One Eye waited. After a few seconds she sighed, pointing at Nicholas. ‘Jink – your knife.’

  Her taller associate bent down, resting his knife on Nicholas’s left cheek. He nicked the skin and a drop of blood fell.

  ‘Sly bitch!’ Nicholas struggled against the ropes. ‘Mercia, don’t trust her!’

  ‘Have you decided?’ said One Eye. ‘No? Jink, go deeper.’

  Jink pierced Nicholas’s skin with the tip of his blade. ‘Shall I twist it?’ he leered. He tightened his grip on the handle.

  ‘As you like.’

  ‘Wait!’ Mercia closed her eyes. ‘I agree.’

  ‘Very wise.’ One Eye smirked at Nicholas. ‘See, your mistress is kind to save your handsome face.’ Nicholas spat at her feet, but One Eye just laughed.

  Mercia rubbed at her temples. ‘Did I have a choice?’

  ‘There is always a choice, as there are always consequences.’ One Eye wiped the rain from her eyes. ‘The agent’s name was Pietersen. Joost Pietersen. Such a pretty name for such a pretty man.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘How should I know? When we did business he was a WIC negotiator up in London. But I haven’t seen him in a long while.’

  ‘And the paintings? After you delivered them, where did they go?’

  ‘They could have gone to hell for all I cared. I had my money.’ One Eye stooped to pick up her hat. ‘But I’ll tell you this. I saw young Joost a few years later about something he wanted for himself. We talked a bit of old times, as you do. I made a joke about the salons of Amsterdam being adorned with the King’s art, to test my suspicions. The bastard laughed, said they’d travelled a lot further than that.’ She pulled on her hat, tipping it to one side. ‘An ocean away, was how he put it. But now I think our business is concluded. Leave, Mrs Blakewood, and don’t come back.’

  As if responding to an unspoken order, Jink’s unnamed mate punched hard into Nicholas’s stomach, making him groan in pain. Then the smuggler-queen walked away, vanishing into the night.

  By the time the boat cast off to row them back, the rain had turned into a torrent. Thunder split the skies, lightning flashing at steady intervals across the stars. Mercia huddled under a tarpaulin with Nicholas while he rubbed at his arms, stiff from being tied.

  Another Dutch connection had emerged tonight, the English enemy, the King’s pet hate. But Mercia was only thinking about one Dutch man. Joost Pietersen, she thought. The pretty boy. I lost James North. I will not lose you.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mercia returned to her lodgings completely wet, but she did not much notice the rain. After the discovery of North’s body she had faltered, but once again she felt there might be hope, that if she could find Joost Pietersen she would uncover the truth about the paintings. And if he did not want to talk, well. She would find a way to make him.

  As she entered the parlour Nathan looked up. The relief on his face at seeing her return was evident. ‘How did it go?’ he said. ‘You look wet through.’

  ‘I am.’ She pointed to the book he was reading. ‘Shelton’s translation of Don Quixote. Which bit are you at?’

  ‘He has just promised Sancho lordship of an island.’ Nathan held the novel up, looking at its creased spine. ‘I have been reading this since I put Daniel to bed and I am barely on from the beginning.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Who, Don Quixote?’ He smiled. ‘No, Daniel loves being here. But you did not answer my question.’

  ‘I got what I wanted.’ She took off her mantle, dripping water on the floor. ‘Nicholas was right about One Eye being the smuggler of choice. It seems she did spirit our paintings away.’

  Nathan leant forward. ‘She?’

  ‘That is not what’s important here.’ Sitting down, she recapped her evening, omitting her agreement with One Eye, knowing it would worry him. ‘So now I need to find this agent,’ she concluded. ‘If he still works for the WIC, let’s hope he is not too far away.’

  Nathan came over and knelt at her side. ‘Mercia, do you think perhaps you should reconsider this? James North is dead, and Stephen Fell too, maybe in an accident, maybe not. What if they come for you?’

  ‘They have come, and they did not harm me.’ She took his hand. ‘Nat, why should Daniel suffer because my uncle plays games and my father was unjustly condemned? I have to follow this through. You know why.’

  He sighed. ‘I know. And I will be here to protect you.’

  ‘You are too good to me.’

  ‘You deserve it.’ He looked into her eyes a moment longer, then stood. ‘You said the paintings were bought by someone connected to the Dutch West India Company, correct? And this agent, Pietersen. He worked for them too?’

  ‘Yes, to both questions.’

  He stroked his chin. ‘Well, tomorrow is Sunday, but on Monday I know where we should go.’

  ‘Where?’

  He affected a dramatic tone. ‘The very heart of world trade.’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘The Royal Exchange.’

  Come Monday, Nathan spent his morning in the nerve centre of British commerce, where orotund men argued over prices and shook hands on profitable deals. Mercia spent it shopping, in the adjacent arcade. She said she wanted to fit Daniel for a new outfit, but really she wanted to browse for gloves for herself. By the time Nathan found her, Daniel had conquered his boredom by forcing his mother to a shop full of wooden toys.

  ‘Make any good deals?’ she asked, shaking her head at Daniel who was holding up a pair of shaved-off stilts.

  ‘Mmm. I bought ten bushels of Kentish wool.’

  ‘Doing your own business, eh?’ It was a gentle rib.

  ‘No, yours. I asked the WIC men if they knew of anyone back in Holland who might have bought paintings in the fifties, but they wouldn’t talk to me.’

  ‘I am surprised they are still in London with all this talk of a war. And Pietersen?’

  ‘Now there I did have luck.�
�� He picked up a spinning top and twirled it round on the counter. ‘This Kentish wool merchant, for instance. Once I agreed to buy his wool, he introduced me to a friendlier Dutchman trying to make deals despite the Navigation Acts.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘He sells tea.’

  ‘I hear the Queen likes it.’ She looked over his shoulder. ‘Daniel, I said no.’

  Nathan craned his neck. ‘He would have fun with those.’

  ‘Don’t start. What did you find out?’

  He groaned. ‘A lot about tea. It comes from the East. I pretended I was a potential buyer and the Dutchman talked. And talked. How anyone can be so interested in a drink made from tiny leaves, I do not know.’

  ‘Nathan. What about Pietersen?’

  ‘I’m sorry. The tea merchant works for the VOC, the Dutch East India Company, which operates in Java. And he does know your man. According to him, Pietersen is famous.’

  An excitement stirred. ‘Famous how?’

  ‘It seems Pietersen is ambitious – the sort of person who treads over everyone else to get to the top. He is notorious for it, amongst his colleagues – and amongst his enemies. So when I asked, this merchant was more than happy to talk.’

  She frowned, for despite his words his expression was bleak. ‘So why the glum face?’

  He leant on the countertop. ‘Well, Pietersen does still work for the West India Company, doing very well for himself.’

  ‘West, east, they go all over the world, these Dutch.’ She mouthed at Daniel to put down the stilts. ‘Is he in Amsterdam? Is that why you seem worried? I confess, I do not relish the prospect of travelling there, but needs must. We are not at war yet.’

  Nathan bit his lip. ‘’Tis not that. Pietersen works for the WIC, but not in Amsterdam or London or anywhere near.’

  ‘Where then? If not Amsterdam then—’ She closed her eyes. ‘Oh no.’

  He nodded. ‘He lives in one of their colonies, Mercia. In New Amsterdam, in America.’

  She buried her face in her hands. ‘Why is life never easy? But – wait a minute.’ She jerked her head back up. ‘North lived in New Amsterdam too.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He looked at her. ‘And there is something else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘After confiding in me what a bastard Pietersen was, and how I shouldn’t trust him if I ever had to do business with him, the merchant told me that when Pietersen left for America a few years ago, it was all very strange.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It seems he returned to Holland just a few months later, as if he could have spent no more than two or three weeks in the colony. Then almost immediately he went back to America.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, ’tis a long way to come just for a forgotten coat.’

  ‘You think he was up to something else?’

  ‘He had to be. Now this is the best bit.’ He leant in closer. ‘One of the WIC agents stationed in New Amsterdam brought back an odd story about Pietersen’s second arrival there. Apparently he took ashore a large chest with a great number of locks on it, but when he opened it, it was totally empty. He claimed it had been full of a personal supply of food and ale that he had hidden from the rest of the passengers. Like everyone else, the merchant believes that must be true, because – how did he put it? – it was the damn sort of bastard selfish thing that miserable shit would do.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But what if the chest had something else inside? Something valuable, that actually merited such a protected casket?’

  Mercia gasped, realising the implications. ‘Then why was the chest empty?’

  ‘Obvious. Before he left the ship, he smuggled the real contents into the colony somehow.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth, Nathan. What you are saying—’

  He nodded. ‘’Tis not just Pietersen who went to New Amsterdam. I think the Oxford Section may be there too.’

  ‘So what happens next?’ said Nicholas, strolling with the other two through the Moor Fields under a warm afternoon sun. It had been his suggestion to meet in the mostly open space, presumably, as Nathan had teased Mercia, so he could easily spot any constables who might be lurking about. Still he did seem anxious, his eyes frequently darting around. Daniel was back with Bethany, practising on the stilts he had finally harassed his mother into buying.

  ‘I am not sure,’ said Mercia. ‘It seems everything has to do with New Amsterdam.’ She counted out points on her fingers. ‘Whoever acquired the paintings from North, he sold them on. Pietersen was his agent, and Pietersen lives in New Amsterdam. When Pietersen moved there he took a well-protected chest with him, which may have held the Section – remember what One Eye said, Nicholas, about the paintings being an ocean away? And the buyer is connected to the West India Company, which owns the colony. Well, ’tis possible he moved there himself. A rich man could retire there, or seek to make yet more profit.’

  ‘Not forgetting that North lived there too,’ added Nathan. ‘A coincidence?’

  ‘So what are we saying?’ said Mercia. ‘That I have to board the next ship out there? Aside from the distance, by the time I arrive we may be at war.’

  Nicholas stopped, bringing them all to a halt. ‘I’ve never known anyone so determined as you are about finding these paintings. You say they may be in New Amsterdam, that this Pietersen is your best link to them? Then that’s where you need to be too.’

  ‘I hate to agree,’ said Nathan, ‘but if you want to pursue this, he might be right. Pietersen is the only one who knows where the Section is and who stole it. Else we stay here and uncover the nobleman, but I cannot think how we do that.’

  She looked at him, surprised. ‘I thought you would not want me to go?’

  ‘I would be concerned. Travelling the ocean is not an everyday venture. And there is no guarantee the King will be as generous as you hope.’

  ‘No. But he is desperate for those paintings.’

  In the distance, she saw a small girl being carried on a man’s back, presumably her father, laughing and screaming. It sent an image flying into her mind, a memory of her own father, his study, The Fairie Queene, the tales of Britomart, the desire awakening in her childhood self to be like her heroine, to see the world. Had she forgotten those dreams?

  She resumed their stroll. ‘And I wonder. Perhaps there is a way of using this to scare the nobleman into the open. If he learns I am going for Pietersen, he will have to intervene or risk exposure. By heaven, I would love to unmask that fiend.’

  Nathan blew out his cheeks. ‘Mercia, that sounds dangerous.’

  ‘Life is dangerous.’ She paused, thinking. ‘I would have to take Daniel with me. ’Tis not safe for him here with Isabel on the hunt. But still, ’tis an incredible notion.’ She looked at the fields of London around her. ‘Too incredible, perhaps. But my house. Danny’s house. I cannot give up on it.’

  They fell silent for a moment. ‘If you did go,’ said Nathan eventually, ‘I could not let you go alone. I would come too.’

  The kindness of his gesture overcame her. ‘You would do that?’

  ‘For you, I would do anything.’ He spoke with friendly humour, and yet she thought she could hear something more in his words. Over his shoulder, Nicholas raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  ‘Nat,’ she said, ‘I could not make you go all that way. What of your farm? Your obligations?’

  ‘Sir Jeremy did say he would do anything to help you. Besides, my brother can take care of the farmland, ’tis about time he—’

  He did not get to finish his sentence. A loud zing flew past Mercia’s head, a nearby birch tree vibrating with a low thud. They all looked round at the shaking trunk.

  ‘Is that – an arrow?’ said Nathan, squinting to focus.

  A second zing tore past.

  ‘Lord above! Some rogue is shooting at us!’ He scanned the area behind them, his soldier’s training coming into immediate use. ‘There he is. Come on!’ He signalled to Nicholas and began to run.

  Staring after them Mercia saw a dark-clothed figure dart from beh
ind a tree, holding some sort of large object. ‘My God,’ she exclaimed, realising it was a crossbow. Not pausing to think, she set off herself.

  The assailant was a fair distance ahead, but Nathan was sprinting and gaining fast. Aware of the chase, the bowman dodged right, barging into two finely attired women who were taking a walk on the fields. One of them tripped, stumbling to the dirty ground; Nathan had to slow down to run round her, causing him precious seconds delay.

  Checking the land ahead, Mercia shouted to Nicholas to run right, while she went left in a sort of flanking action to try to keep the bowman in Nathan’s path. It was open fields here, and the grass was long, hindering her in her bulky dress. But she was indignant. Someone had shot at her and she wanted to know who.

  Encumbered by his weapon the bowman began to slow. Mercia cried out, calling at him to stop. Still running, he turned his head towards her; she caught a glimpse of a tanned face and thick black eyebrows, his hair equally bushy. Seeing her attempting to cut him off on the left, he swerved to the right, straight into the path of Nicholas. But he was a way in front and so had a chance to run left again, although by now Nathan was nearly at his back.

  They were running at him from the north, forcing him towards the lower part of the fields, close to the city wall. There were more people down here, and they were beginning to take notice of a man wielding a dangerous weapon running crazed in their midst. Nathan was now nearly on him, but the bowman reached in his pocket to pull out a crossbow bolt, throwing it blindly at Nathan’s feet. Nathan jumped aside, causing him to drop back. The bowman took advantage to run towards the Moor Gate, pushing his way through the startled crowd. Now level with Nathan, Nicholas rushed on in pursuit, but he slipped where the grass gave way to gravel, and by the time he reached the wall the bowman had fled through the gate, vanishing into the streets. A swerving cart was the only indication of the route he had taken to escape. Nicholas swore a loud oath as Nathan reached him, skidding to a reluctant halt.