‘Governor Winthrop, this is Mercia Blakewood,’ Nicolls introduced. ‘As I explained, she is on the King’s business and is to be allowed wide discretion. Mrs Blakewood, Governor Winthrop has joined us from the Connecticut colony.’
The governor bowed so low he revealed the worn top of his black hat. ‘I have met you before, Mrs Blakewood.’
It was news to Mercia. ‘Then I must apologise, for I do not recall it.’
Winthrop smiled. ‘You will not. It was in the thirties, when you were merely a babe. I stopped at your father’s manor house in – Halescott, is it? I had been at Broughton Castle to discuss the founding of the Saybrook colony with Lord Saye and Sele.’
‘Indeed?’ Mercia nodded. ‘Broughton is not far from Halescott. I have been there myself.’
‘I was told your father was a man of learning, interested in certain pursuits I too enjoy. He showed you off in a cradle crying away, very proud.’ His smile faded. ‘I am sorry for his death.’ He glanced at her mourning ring. ‘He was a quick-witted and understanding man.’
‘Thank you, Governor. I am glad you were able to know him.’
Winthrop studied her from over his long nose. ‘You yourself are a woman of some learning, I hear.’
The comment pleased her. ‘I like understanding things. It gives meaning to God’s world.’
‘Then perhaps you would care to visit me in Hartford when your business here is done. I have some remarkable instruments I think you would admire that reveal the very heavens.’
Nicolls cleared his throat. ‘This is a charming and unexpected reunion, but there are important matters at hand.’ He held out a piece of paper to Winthrop. ‘Here is the letter with my terms. Try to make him see reason.’
Winthrop grasped the paper. ‘It will depend how the townsfolk think. Stuyvesant is proud. He will not easily give in.’
‘Then convince him.’ Nicolls’ eyes burnt into Winthrop’s. ‘The King is relying on you.’
A stiff silence fell as Winthrop held the colonel’s gaze. Then he bowed. Turning away, he indicated to Mercia that she should descend again to the boat. She nodded to Nicolls and followed Nathan back down the precarious ladder, the small vessel rocking as she eased herself in. Nathan removed his hat to lie down alongside her, the two of them hiding beneath a pile of blankets thrown down from the ship. The boat moved off, the oars plying the choppy water, each stroke heightening the anticipation she felt.
‘Hold up the white sheet,’ she heard Winthrop say. A few minutes later the boat jolted to a halt, banging against a hard structure on their left. She rolled lightly against Nathan.
‘We come to talk,’ shouted Winthrop. ‘Fetch the governor.’
For a time Mercia could only hear anxious breathing and the lapping of water, but soon she made out the rhythmic sound of men marching in jangling armour, the metallic noise growing louder until it ceased close to the boat. One of their number broke off from the rest, his footsteps alternately sounding a dull clunk and a peculiar thud.
‘Governor Winthrop.’ The man spoke English in a thick Dutch accent. ‘I trust you have come to explain that these ships are merely resting in my harbour.’
‘Governor Stuyvesant. It is a pleasure to see you again. May we talk?’
‘I think we should.’
‘I will leave one man here with the boat, if that is allowable.’
‘It is.’
One by one Winthrop’s group disembarked, shaking the boat, but Mercia stayed as still as she could, Nathan gripping the blankets tightly around them. With much muttering on both sides, the men on the shore walked off, their footsteps gradually fading away.
‘Mrs Blakewood,’ whispered a voice, evidently the man left behind. ‘There are two guards nearby. I will distract them, then I suggest you move quickly into the town.’
The boat rocked again as the unseen man climbed out. ‘Beautiful day,’ he said a few seconds later, this time more distant. ‘Is it always like this here?’ A curt reply came in Dutch. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Let me teach you some English.’
Mercia peered from under the blanket, squinting as bright sunlight assaulted her eyes. The boat was stationed at a pier, moored beside a three-runged ladder that led to a dusty waterfront. To her right, the man had his arms around the two guards, keeping them faced away from the boat. In the other direction a stone bridge led across a canal to a side street: if they moved quickly, they should be able to slip into town unnoticed. Signalling to Nathan, she wriggled out of the blankets and ascended the short ladder, alert for witnesses to their subterfuge, but the few people about did not seem to notice. They hurried over the bridge into the side street where she stopped, leaning against a brick wall.
‘Nathan!’ she exclaimed. ‘We are on land! American land!’
‘I know. I hardly dare believe it.’ He balanced himself against the wall. ‘But three months at sea. My legs are about to give way.’
She laughed before realising she felt unsteady herself. They spent the next few minutes reacquainting their legs with a ground that did not continuously sway. It was a strange feeling, and for a time she felt nauseous, but the sensation quickly passed.
‘Shall we explore?’ she said when they were ready.
‘After you.’ Nathan gestured in front with his hat. ‘New Amsterdam awaits.’
Tall houses rose up on either side as they made their way down the shadowed street. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted from a doorway where a man in a broad-brimmed hat stood staring at them, but they put their heads down and walked on.
‘I just thought,’ whispered Nathan. ‘Will anyone here speak English?’
‘That is where this will help.’ Mercia stopped, surreptitiously pulling the corner of a notebook from her pockets. ‘I compiled a list of the Dutch words Captain Morley knows. There are not many, but it may help. I call it my phrase book.’
‘Most ingenious.’
‘I have my moments.’
They came into a large, open space dotted with scurrying townsfolk. The presence of the fleet was clearly having an impact. People were hurrying across the square, talking on its corners or else ducking down the adjoining streets to the safety of their homes. Some looked suspiciously at the two strangers in their midst, but for the moment nobody stopped them: New Amsterdam was a thriving trading post, with new arrivals all the time. Directly in front loomed the low-rise fort Mercia had seen from the ship. Several heavy British guns were currently trained on it: she was thankful Nicolls was not about to fire while Winthrop was trying to negotiate the town’s surrender.
‘Let us make a quick circuit,’ she suggested. ‘This town is so small we should be able to walk it in an hour.’
But it took even less time than that. Skirting right at the base of the fort, they immediately came to a very wide street that led up to a wooden palisade at the edge of the settlement, clearly designed to repel a land-based attack from the north, but, thought Mercia wryly, rather useless against a maritime invasion from the harbour. The wall stretched the breadth of the settlement, standing twice Nathan’s height and oozing with soldiers, but they were not once challenged as they walked alongside it, the soldiers intent on their own chatter.
Reaching the end of the palisade they turned south, the broad east river between Manhattan and Long Island flowing by on their left. Passing houses and storefronts they walked purposefully in front of a large, guarded building before once more meeting the canal where they had come ashore. The man from their boat noticed them pass, but he pretended not to know them. They crossed the same stone bridge, this time keeping to the waterfront, before rounding a promontory to curve back north and so arrive beneath two windmills turning behind the fort. Back in the marketplace the church clock within the fort complex showed only three-quarters of an hour had passed.
‘Well, if we cannot find Pietersen here, we will never be able to find him anywhere,’ said Nathan. ‘This place is barely larger than Halescott.’
&n
bsp; ‘Do not forget there are other Dutch villages further upriver. He may yet flee.’
‘So where do we start?’
‘The best place to seek out information,’ she smiled. ‘The tavern, of course.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
For a small town, New Amsterdam had an alarming number of taverns, although many were closed with the threat of invasion. The few whose doors swung open were mostly empty. It seemed the inhabitants were preferring to gather with family and friends at home, occasionally sending one of their number into the streets for the latest news. On every corner, small groups of people were talking hurriedly – men, women, Africans, Europeans. Most spoke Dutch, but Mercia recognised Spanish too, and there were a host of other languages she did not know, unsurprising in a trading hub such as this.
She was beginning to despair of finding anyone with whom they could have a meaningful conversation, her phrase book not being up to much more than asking where the inn was, or whether she should turn right or left, when outside a large warehouse they came across a pair of traders arguing in English over a pile of crates labelled Beverwijck. After some curt pleasantries she asked whether they knew Pietersen.
‘Course we do,’ one said, a thickset middle-aged man. ‘You want to do serious business here, you have to deal with Pietersen at some point.’ He glanced towards the harbour. ‘At least you used to.’
Her breathing quickened. ‘I need to speak with him. Is he in town?’
‘No idea. But he’s probably nearby, with all this going on.’
‘I see.’ She sucked at her lip, thinking. ‘Then … do you know James North, by any chance? He was a carpenter here.’
‘English, was he?’ He shook his head. ‘I never met him. But try Marta’s tavern down Bridge Street. Davids should be there today.’ He winked. ‘He knows everyone.’
‘What did I say?’ said Mercia. ‘The tavern.’
‘Why did you ask about North?’ said Nathan, as they were walking in the direction they had been shown.
‘Why not? If he lived here, then people will know him, and they may know about his past. Such as, what happened to certain paintings.’
He nodded. ‘Just – be careful. Presumably nobody here knows he is dead.’
‘No, but—’
‘Wait!’ A shout rang out behind them, making them halt. They turned to see a man running up, jerking back with his thumb.
‘Those two,’ he said. ‘They told me you were looking for Pietersen.’
His accent revealed him for English, although it was hard to discern his features. His head was enveloped in a large grey hood, darkening his face.
Nathan frowned. ‘Who is asking?’
‘I know where to find him, is all. If you want, I can take you.’
‘That would be welcome. But why the hood? ’Tis very warm to cover your face.’
The man leant in. ‘I don’t want to be seen,’ he murmured. ‘Some of the Dutch are starting to take a dislike to anyone English with the fleet out in the bay. You might want to conclude your business and leave town yourself.’
Nathan glanced at Mercia. She considered a moment, sharing his suspicion. The man was wearing English clothing, for one thing, rather than the more local fashions they had observed. But he may just have brought them from back home, and they needed to find Pietersen.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We will go with you.’
The man shifted on his feet. ‘As I said, I don’t want to be seen. Perhaps you could compensate me for the trouble.’
She sighed. ‘I am sorry. I have no local coin.’
‘Not even a bit of wampum?’
She disguised her ignorance of what that was with a simple no.
The man tutted. ‘Never mind. I’ll take you anyway.’
They set off, soon halting outside a white door in a nearby street. A dusty sign painted with some sort of crest rattled above. Satisfied nobody was watching, the man knocked and beckoned them enter.
Inside it was dark and hot with a strong smell of hops. The gloom made it hard to make anything out, but a well-established fire was burning further in. The sound of bubbling liquid penetrated the darkness. As Mercia blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust, the door slammed shut, a bolt hastily drawn. She heard a heavy object being scraped across the floor, and then the smashing of pottery. Beside her, Nathan crashed down with a surprised cry.
She whirled around. Now able to see, she could tell they were in a brewhouse, beer bubbling in a large copper pot above the fire, a mash tub full of soaking malt alongside. But she was more interested in their supposed guide, who was standing over Nathan with his hood drawn back. He fished inside his pockets before turning to face her. He was a young man, dark-blonde hair flowing down to his eyes. The dagger in his right hand looked sharp.
‘Who are you?’ she stalled, almost certain she already knew.
‘It does not matter.’ His voice was confident now, all but mocking.
‘Then let me guess. You work for whoever is pursuing me. Don’t you – Jerrard?’
‘Maybe.’ The man smiled, his youthful cockiness spreading over his smug face. ‘You will never know.’ He brandished the dagger, taunting her with it, turning it deftly in his hand. His arrogance gave her the second she needed to dash behind the mash tub. She dared a quick glance at Nathan’s prone body. Shards of a pot were scattered around him, but his chest was rising and falling rhythmically. The young man slid around the tub, forcing her towards a corner. His hand was steady on the dagger.
‘You cannot do this,’ she said. ‘Colonel Nicolls knows I am in the town. Tell me who ordered you to attack us, and I will forget you were here.’
He scoffed. ‘I will never betray my master, not like that bastard Wildmoor did. If he hadn’t gone soft, you would’ve been scared away by now and this would not be needed. Believe me, my master does not want you dead. But he cannot allow you to find the paintings.’
She edged against the wall behind her. ‘So they are here.’
‘If you say so.’ He took a deliberate step forward, grinning with provocative relish. ‘You won’t soon care, lying dead in the brewmaster’s outhouse ’til I can throw you in the river.’
‘Wait.’ Amidst his threats, his voice seemed somehow familiar. Of a sudden she realised from where. ‘It was you who attacked me in London.’ She looked at his ungloved hands. ‘But … your fingers?’
‘Four and a thumb?’ he jeered. ‘’Tis easy to pretend you are one finger short.’ With his dagger-free hand, he lowered his index finger and made a squeezing gesture. ‘You were meant to think I was North. If only you had given up then.’
He moved closer. Fearful, she looked around. On a table beside her lay a hooked pole, some sort of beer-making instrument. With no other option she grabbed it and thrust out. The pole was much longer than his dagger, and she managed to twist the hooked point into his clothing, penetrating to his skin. With a sharp jerk she wrenched the pole right. He cried out as the hook ground into his belly, making him drop his knife.
While he doubled over she tried to dart past, but his wound was not severe. He recovered to grab at the folds of her dress, stopping her short in front of the copper pot. The heavy vessel was wavering on its chain, suspended off a point above the fire. Praying she would be agile enough she pushed forward on the pot as hard as she was able, and with an outraged howl dragged herself from Jerrard’s grasp before it began its backwards swing. The pot disturbed the air as it flew past her arm, colliding with Jerrard’s shocked face. Some of the boiling water splashed out, and he fell to the ground, screaming.
She rushed to Nathan, rubbing his cheeks in an attempt to rouse him. His eyes were flickering to life when she was hauled back by the shoulders, her assailant once more on the attack. This time he threw her against the mash tub and she fell to the floor with a cry. But the force of the copper pot had dazed him, and when he bent for his knife he stumbled, staggering into the side of the tub.
Out of the corner of her ey
e Mercia saw Nathan sit up, confused, but the sight of her in trouble must have given him strength, for he rose to his feet, lurching towards the tub as Jerrard scooped up his dagger. Nathan drew back his fist, punching Jerrard’s face hard, while on the floor Mercia lashed out at his legs. He swung at her with the knife, but Nathan struck his wrist, sending the blade flying into the fire, and for a moment the two men were locked together, hands around each other’s necks.
Jerrard’s fingers clenched as he squeezed tight, but Nathan thrust up with his elbows, flinging his arms aside. Unrelenting, Jerrard returned to the attack. A fierce anger in his eyes, Nathan pushed down on his opponent with a powerful strength, forcing his head into the mash tub. Jerrard flapped his arms, making weak, muffled groans, but in his rage Nathan persisted, suffocating him in the viscous malt until his trembling abruptly ceased.
‘Stop!’ shouted Mercia. ‘You will kill him!’ She grabbed at Nathan’s shoulder. ‘Nathan, stop! We need him to tell us who he works for!’
Nathan looked at her, a horrified expression on his face. He pulled the limp man from the tub and dropped him to the floor. Mercia bent down to revive him, but it was already too late. His breathing had stopped. Jerrard was dead.
Nathan collapsed against the barrel, clutching his neck. ‘Mercia, are you hurt?’
‘No, but – are you?’ She looked at their assailant in shock.
‘I will be fine.’ He gasped, taking in deep breaths. ‘I should have pulled him out sooner, I know I should, but I could not let him harm you. By God’s truth, Mercia, he wanted to kill us.’
She stood for a moment, calming herself. ‘Whoever is behind this has moved on from trying to frighten. He knows now we are here we will not give up.’ She glanced again at the dead man, feeling sick. ‘He must have found this place empty and gambled the brewmaster would not soon return.’ She paused. ‘Unless …’
Birthright Page 27
