Birthright

by David Hingley

  ‘What happened to the other one?’ Nathan asked Nicholas.

  ‘I got fed up waiting. He’s out cold.’

  Nathan smiled, clapping Nicholas on the shoulder with his free hand, his gaze remaining firmly on Bald. Now free, Daniel grabbed his mother close. She stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, asking if he had been hurt. He shook his head, but it was clear he was upset.

  Mercia rounded on his abductors. ‘You take this message back to Anthony and Isabel. You tell them not to play their games with my son. You tell them I will never give him up.’

  ‘They want him,’ said the old woman. She seemed unbothered by the pistol. ‘They will come for him again.’

  ‘They will never get the chance.’

  She picked up the key where Pelton had dropped it, passing it to Nicholas as she backed Daniel onto the landing. Nathan kept his pistol aimed into the room until Nicholas shut the door after them and locked it. Then they walked down the landing, stepping over the prone body of the younger Pelton, and back through the still-crowded inn to fetch their horses from the stable yard. Only when they had ridden back to Hillingdon, to take rooms at the inn there, away from the Peltons, did they pause.

  ‘So what now?’ said Nathan.

  Mercia scooped her son up in her arms. ‘Now, I will take him a long way away. I will keep him safe. I will get back the manor house. I will do whatever I must.’ She looked Nathan in the eye. ‘I have made up my mind. I will go to America.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The grey light of dawn was only just breaking through when she made them all leave Hillingdon, eager to return to London for the encounter she had lain awake all night planning. Arriving back in Queen Street while it was still early, she forewent breakfast – she was in no way hungry – and after washing her face in the bowl by her bed, she splashed rosewater under her arms and changed into her tidiest black dress, the one she had kept aside in case it was needed at short notice. Bethany helped her into her equally black bodice, tying the back loops tight, leaving just enough room to thrust her fiercest rod of whalebone down the front. She applied a tiny amount of Spanish cochineal to her cheeks, a sliver of red paint to her lips. Bethany brought out the severest of combs to fix her hair into a perfect topknot and send her ringlets cascading down her chest.

  By mid morning, the air still crisp, she was in position beside the glittering canal that cut through the newly restored St James’s Park. A group of finely dressed men were playing the popular mallet and hoop game of Pell Mell on a white alley away to her left, but she barely noticed them from behind her tree as she searched for her quarry. Soon enough, the tall figure she was hoping to meet – or rather, accost – came into view, striding briskly through the park as he always did at this hour. He seemed in good humour, greeting the people he passed with a lively nod, his slashed doublet festooned with cheerful ribbons – the King himself, taking his renowned daily walk.

  As he came level with her tree, she stepped out beside him and curtsied low. The whalebone beneath her bodice dug into her skin, but she bore the pain.

  ‘Good morning, Your Majesty.’

  He turned to look, not slowing his pace. ‘Mrs Blakewood! The park is delightful this morning, and even more so now.’

  She flashed him a demure smile. ‘May I walk with you awhile?’

  ‘Please do. Although I hope you walk quickly. My courtiers are in pursuit.’ Mercia turned to see a group of men following some distance behind. ‘They wish to discuss many things, all of which can wait, but to them they are the most important concerns in the land.’

  ‘Then I must apologise,’ she said, ‘for I have come hoping to discuss a matter of some delicacy with you, but it is an urgent one, and I hope you will not be displeased to hear of it.’

  He glanced at her. ‘Then let us discuss it – after I finish my walk. Keep up, if you can.’

  He strode off along the canal, his long legs in his loose-fitting breeches causing her some difficulty in keeping pace, but she shuffled along quickly enough. They passed through the physic garden with its orange bushes and exotic herbs, before he headed back towards Whitehall on a long pathway on the southern side of the park, the bright sun reflecting off a series of silver cages placed at intervals alongside. A low-pitched squawk greeted them as he stopped beside one of the tallest. Skittering up and down a narrow perch, two large birds resplendent in a cacophony of rainbow hues were opening and closing their pudgy beaks.

  ‘Magnificent fowl, are they not?’ he said.

  She peered in, fascinated. ‘Are they parrots?’

  He seemed pleased at her knowledge. ‘That is right. Such a bounty of colour. And look at this.’ He led her to a larger cage which gave off a musty smell. At first she saw nothing, but then a crest-topped head rose up, rocking left and right atop a long, blue neck.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

  ‘It is magnificent.’ Mercia watched the peculiar creature walk its distended black body around the cage. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is a cassowary, from the Indies. It took several men to find it and bring it here.’

  ‘And it is a bird?’

  ‘Hard to believe, but yes. See the beak, and the talons of the feet. Although this bird does not fly. Too fat, I imagine, like many of my courtiers.’ He laughed, resuming his walk. ‘Well, Mrs Blakewood. You wished to speak with me.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ She paused, steeling her courage. ‘It is a private matter. It concerns your father as well as mine.’

  ‘My father?’ He looked at her askance, his cheerful expression falling away. ‘And I was so enjoying our conversation.’ He sighed. ‘Very well. Follow me to the palace. We can talk there.’

  She told him almost everything. About the note from her father, about the paintings that were not destroyed, about the thief who had killed for them, and died for them himself, about the Dutch agent who knew of them, but who lived so far away. As she talked, he listened, appalled when she spoke of the audacity of the theft, captivated when she spoke of the events on Lambeth Marsh. When she had finished, he sat looking out over the Thames, reflecting on unknowable thoughts.

  Finally he turned to her, his face grim. ‘We spoke of these paintings when we met before. Why did you not mention this then?’

  ‘I did not know the whole story, Your Majesty. I did not want to raise false hopes.’

  ‘But you wanted to see how I would react.’ The King was no fool. His eyes roved over her face. ‘You are implying that some person of high rank stole these paintings, kept them from me, and still profits from their theft. When the whole country knows I ordered all my father’s art returned. You are speaking of treason.’

  She did not know if it amounted to that, but as far as the King was concerned the betrayal would be the same. ‘Yes, Your Majesty. I wish I were not.’

  Charles stood up, pacing the room. It was clear the news had greatly agitated him. ‘I do not know if you realise, but the Oxford Section contained some of the most precious pictures in the whole of my father’s collection. Paintings by Titian, Rembrandt, others that he just liked and … something else. Something unique. It was as though I had been run through when I was told it was burnt. I still think of it to this day.’ His all-penetrating stare scoured her soul, but she did not flinch. ‘And now you are saying it may still exist, that the answer lies in America?’ He paused a moment more, then leapt for the door. ‘Wait here. I must consult with my brother.’

  The eagle-headed clock on the grand marble table opposite showed minutes were passing, but to Mercia all time had ceased. Had she done the right thing? She had come here in a calculated gamble, hoping she was correct to tell the King what she knew. If she had acted too soon, all would be over. She sat waiting, staring at nothing, while the golden clock ticked on.

  The door opened. Mercia turned to look as the Duke of York strode into the room, the King directly behind. She stood up to curtsey, almost knocking over her chair in her haste. The Duke was shorter than
his brother, his paler face radiating with suspicion beneath his deep-brown wig. In contrast to the King’s colourful attire, his doublet was sober, its braiding and embroidery as dark as his jet-black shoes. An unseen servant in the corridor pulled the door shut.

  ‘My brother has told me your story,’ he said. ‘It is an extraordinary tale. Can you prove that you speak the truth?’

  ‘I have no reason to lie, Your Highness.’ Mercia kept her eyes focused on the floor. ‘I promise that what I have said is true.’

  ‘I have had occasion to speak with Mrs Blakewood recently, James,’ said the King. ‘In spite of holding back her story until now, she appears an intelligent and honest woman.’

  ‘And yet her father was a traitor,’ said the Duke. ‘At his execution he made a pretty speech about liberty and justice. Why would his daughter not seek any opportunity to harm you?’

  ‘Because she is a realist, and a woman in need of compassion,’ said Mercia, playing to the King’s gallantry. ‘I have nothing but respect for His Majesty the King.’ Now she looked up. ‘It is true that my father sided with Parliament in the war, but he did not sign your father’s death warrant, indeed he abhorred that tragic event. He did not want the country to descend again into war when Cromwell died, so he did not support the army when they tried to take control. He accepted His Majesty’s return, indeed was glad of it in the end.’ Her voice became strident, her eyes looking straight into the Duke’s. ‘He was a noble and an honourable man. I do not pretend to understand why he was condemned, but whatever his actions, he was no danger to this court, and neither am I.’

  The Duke stared at her for several moments. Then he glanced at his brother. ‘You believe her?’

  ‘I do not see why she would invent such an intricate tale.’

  ‘Very well. Say she is speaking true. You wish to recover these paintings?’

  ‘Of course. I have sought to re-establish our father’s collection since before I was restored to the throne.’ Charles turned to Mercia. ‘You see my brother is naturally mistrustful of those who would injure me. We have heard tall tales before.’

  ‘Mine is no invention,’ she said. ‘I have the threatening notes, the bruises, the mud-stained dresses to prove it.’

  The King smiled. ‘The question is why you would go through such trials? Mrs Blakewood, as I told you before, I will only arbitrate in the matter of your father’s manor house in extraordinary circumstances. This information is invaluable – but I will not be held to ransom.’

  ‘Your Majesty, all I ask is that you allow me to prove my loyalty. I have not brought the information in expectation that you will intervene. I know you require more. I am asking you to let me continue to prove myself.’

  The King lowered himself into a high-backed seat. ‘You have my attention.’

  She took a deep breath. She was in the presence of the King and the Duke of York, the most powerful men in the land. Normally it would be unthinkable for her to make the proposal she was about to suggest. But Daniel’s near abduction had lit a fire in her blood, and she spoke with a persuasive strength.

  ‘Then I request you permit me to travel to America, to secure the truth from the agent Pietersen. I am aware of the mood in the country. Everyone calls for war with the Dutch. It would not be surprising if a royal ship were to harry the Hollanders’ American colony, as a show of strength. A rowing boat could slip me to shore, where I could locate him and discover where he sent the paintings before anyone knew it.’

  The Duke let out an incredulous laugh. ‘My, you are an audacious creature!’

  ‘A bold plot, indeed,’ said the King, his eyes roaming her face as if seeking her truth of heart. At his side his brother studied the air, thinking. ‘You would be prepared to do this?’ Charles said at last.

  She bowed her head. ‘I would.’

  The Duke broke from his contemplations. ‘You cannot be thinking of granting her this impertinent request.’ He walked to the window, looking out on the cloudy day. ‘Although she is right. All the country, all the court is eager for war. That fellow Pepys tells me the Commons has spent weeks hearing from merchants wanting nothing else. Both they and the Lords expect you to act.’ His eyes flashed. ‘And we are ready. We have our fleet waiting to sail to Africa, to wage further raids on the Dutch in Guinea, as we have discussed in council.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the King. ‘But full-out war? The Navigation Acts, brief skirmishes at sea, they are one thing. Escalating matters is another.’

  ‘Yet I think you must act, and soon. And this woman has provided you with a ready excuse for your conscience.’

  The King looked at his brother, beckoning him to continue.

  ‘Send the Guinea fleet instead to America. We intend to strike there in any case. This merely hastens events.’ He paced the room. ‘Just last month you granted me the land above Virginia which the Dutch claim is theirs. Well I say ’tis ours. Let us send the fleet and take it.’

  The King stroked his chin. ‘We seize New Amsterdam, consolidate our territory, and capture this agent at the same time?’

  ‘Exactly that. And put those conceited New Englanders in their place while we are at it.’

  The Duke waited, expressionless, while the eagle-headed clock ticked on. Finally Charles spoke. ‘I agree. ’Tis a sensible stratagem.’

  The Duke merely nodded, keeping his enthusiasm contained. ‘Then I will see to the arrangements. You will need to award a commission. I have some men in mind, if you approve. I recommend my groom Nicolls commands the fleet. When he is victorious, he will rename the territory in your name.’

  ‘No, brother,’ said the King. ‘I awarded that land to you.’

  All this time Mercia had been listening patiently. Now she broke her silence, drawing once more on the arrogant fire coursing through her veins.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ she dared. ‘If you intend to send a fleet to capture New Amsterdam, then I wish to accompany it.’

  The Duke rounded on her. ‘Know your place, woman!’

  ‘If I may be so bold,’ she persisted.

  ‘There is no fear of you holding your tongue,’ he said. The King laughed.

  ‘I appreciate I am just a woman’ – she glanced at the Duke – ‘but there is an important consideration in all this. The man behind the theft of the paintings is most likely a nobleman, and so privy to affairs of state. It may be possible to use this plan to bring him into the open.’

  The King arched an eyebrow. ‘How so?’

  ‘The villain knows I am on his trail, and he will know Pietersen is in America. If he discovers I am on my way there too, he is bound to try to stop me. If the paintings are there as we suspect, doubly so.’

  ‘You think if you go, the rogue will follow.’

  ‘Or at the least he will send a man. He has invested some effort into keeping his secret. He will not give up now.’ She looked at the King, her eyes gleaming. ‘I assume Your Majesty wishes him apprehended?’

  ‘That is obvious,’ said Charles. ‘But I could as easily appoint a trusted advisor to interrogate this Pietersen to find out the truth.’

  She cast down her gaze. ‘That depends how secretive you wish this mission to be. So far, not many people know the Oxford Section still exists.’

  The King nodded. ‘A fair point. It would need to be very secret. I do not want anyone to know of this, especially when one of my own nobles is suspect.’

  ‘Then I offer myself as bait. I will invent a subterfuge so that nobody knows my true purpose. When the villain acts, he will be revealed.’

  The King leant back in his seat. ‘You are a courageous woman, Mrs Blakewood. I am nothing if not impressed.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ muttered the Duke. ‘My men can take care of this.’

  Charles looked at him. ‘Who is King here, brother? I shall decide how this proceeds.’ He sighed. ‘Besides, can we trust any of our advisors with such a delicate task, if one of their very number is the guilty man? Nicolls will need to know, if
he is to command, but he will have no time for this.’ He shrugged. ‘And if the task is fruitless, well – nobody will be any the wiser.’

  None of the noblemen you depend on for your throne’s stability will have cause to think you untrusting, you mean, thought Mercia. But if she was using the King to get what she wanted, he could certainly use her.

  ‘Your Majesty, I want to catch this man,’ she pressed. ‘There is not one of your subjects with my determination, my zeal.’ She knelt before him. ‘I will not deny that I wish to earn Your Majesty’s support in regaining my house. To say otherwise would be to lie.’ She looked up. ‘But I ask you – let me do this. Let me prove my family is loyal.’

  ‘Mrs Blakewood, your strength of heart is extraordinary.’ The King smiled. ‘I will not appoint you to this venture under any obligation on my part. But if you can bring me those paintings, I would gladly volunteer to assist you.’

  She kept her expression constant. ‘Your Majesty, I can ask no more.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Charles. ‘If you are truly prepared, then you have our permission to join the fleet.’ He held up a hand as his brother made to protest. ‘But I will not allow you to travel on a ship full of sailors alone. You will need female companionship, a chaperone of some kind. I will think on it. There is time enough to prepare.’

  ‘Several weeks.’ The Duke turned to her, a quiet mischief in his gaze. ‘You realise we will appoint a number of men to this invasion? Aside from leading the soldiers, we will need to survey the land, seek out the most profitable avenues for trade. Your noble criminal might not be so easy to spot in the crowd.’ He smiled slyly. ‘What do you think, brother? Perhaps I should appoint Sir William Calde to the fleet?’