Stuyvesant looked out to sea, at the fleet, at the soldiers and the guns. He sighed a sigh of the years of pain.
‘I held you overnight so you would worry what I might do to you. I was going to threaten you, coerce you, anything to get you to talk of the strength of your forces, about your plan. I wanted something I could take to my council, to prove that we could prevail. But I know in my heart you cannot give me what I need.’ He let out an anguished roar, striking the battlement with his fist. ‘But I am not willing to give in yet.’ He pulled a letter from his pocket, handing it to Nathan. ‘Return to Nicolls and give him this.’
He stepped back from the cannon, motioning into the courtyard for a soldier to come up. ‘One of my council,’ he said after a pause, ‘would have you both hanged atop these battlements for your commander to see.’ He glanced at Mercia. ‘Tell him to consider that before he stoops again to sending women to act as his spies.’
Pietersen, she thought, but before she could delve further the soldier appeared.
‘Row them back under a flag of truce,’ Stuyvesant ordered. ‘And summon the council. There are matters still to discuss.’
The guard saluted, leaving Stuyvesant to return to staring out over the harbour. He led them down the steps and across the restless courtyard. As they approached the gate, Mercia halted before two priests standing in the doorway of the fort’s church.
‘Go speak with him,’ she said, looking up at Stuyvesant. ‘I do not know if you can understand me, but he needs your guidance today.’
The elder of the priests bowed. She resumed her course, the gate grinding open with a cacophonous thud, releasing them back into the streets. As they passed through, she looked back. The sun was shining fiercely now, illuminating the men of God as they climbed to the man of war.
The guard marched them across the marketplace, aiming for the river. He walked quickly, but as they approached the square’s edge he staggered backwards, lurching right. A jagged rock dropped from his helmet to the ground. Startled, Mercia looked up to see a fast-approaching group of screaming townsfolk hurling stones and wood in their direction. She raised her hands to protect her head from the onslaught.
‘Quickly, down here,’ shouted Nathan, pushing her towards the nearest street. A larger rock missed her head by inches and she began to run, Nathan directly behind her. They made it into the side street, but behind them the guard fell to the floor, struck down by a flying piece of wood. He got up and ran for the fort, but another rock caused him to stumble, and the mob was upon him.
‘We have to help him,’ cried Mercia, watching the mass of people in horror.
‘They will leave him. They will see he is Dutch. But they will pummel us!’
Another figure came into view, not part of the mob’s raw fury, but individual, calculating, searching. His eyes swept down the side street and focused on Mercia. He raised his head and smiled.
‘Daar zijn ze!’ cried Pietersen. She did not need to understand Dutch to know what he meant. The next instant a horde of angry townspeople flooded towards her. She turned and ran.
Chapter Thirty-One
One look back at the angry mob forced her onwards. Behind her, Nathan overturned an empty cart as he passed, but to little avail – their pursuers merely leapt it. Left they turned, then left again, trying to run an untraceable path, but New Amsterdam was not a large town, and there was no doubt if they stayed in the streets the mob would catch them.
‘Did you see him?’ she shouted as she ran. ‘Pietersen? This mob is meant for us.’
‘Yes,’ Nathan panted. ‘But how did he know we would be released?’
‘Perhaps one of the guards told him, or Stuyvesant. Does it matter? He has them all worked up.’ She ran across a bridge, ducking left. ‘Now where?’
They were running along the canal in the direction of the palisade, townspeople not involved in the hunt staring in surprise. Mercia briefly recognised the blurred face of the serving maid from Marta’s tavern, but when the baying mob appeared, she vanished into the streets.
‘I cannot run for much longer,’ she gasped. ‘These clothes are too heavy, and these boots.’
‘Just a bit more,’ said Nathan. ‘I have an idea.’
Turning into the next street, he tried the nearest doorway. Unlocked, it pushed easily open; Mercia followed him into a comfortable family home, warm-coloured wall hangings and a fading tapestry of a hare coursing party decorating a well-kept sitting room. A little girl sitting cross-legged in the corner looked up at them. Mercia smiled, holding her finger to her lips. The girl giggled and copied her. Nobody else seemed to be at home.
A great commotion whirled past in the street. The barking of dogs had now joined the shouting, but after a few moments the noise faded away. Nathan peeked out the door.
‘They’ve gone,’ he said, indicating to Mercia to follow him out. She returned to the street, rolling her eyes at the girl, who laughed. ‘They turned right at the end of this road. Let’s get back to the fort. Strangely, I think it will be safer there.’
Mercia limped after him, her feet sore. For a moment all was quiet, but when they emerged into a wider road a loud shout betrayed the renewed presence of the mob. Dispirited, she prepared herself to run again, but an urgent voice caught her attention.
‘Down here. Quickly!’
‘Davids!’ she hissed. She made a quick calculation of which was the greater risk. ‘Come on, do as he says.’
Davids was waving at them from the corner of the street. They swerved in his direction, pursuing him into a nearby town house. He locked the door behind them barely in time. From a window Mercia watched a group of men hurtle past, brandishing sticks and rocks, still fired up by their chase.
‘You are not very popular,’ said Davids. Shedding his coat he sat down, bidding them do the same. The serving maid they had passed at the canal stood beside him.
‘We have not had the kindest welcome,’ Mercia agreed.
He looked at her intently. ‘And why do you suppose that is?’
‘A simple misunderstanding?’ While Nathan stayed standing she squeezed herself into an uncomfortable wooden chair, fit more for a skinny child than a sweating woman in a dress.
Davids laughed, signalling to his companion to bring forward a plate of biscuits. ‘Try one of Frida’s koekjes. They are excellent.’
He pronounced the Dutch word ‘coo-kees’. Mercia picked one and handed it to Nathan before choosing her own. She took a bite. It was delicious, crumbling in her mouth to leave the taste of quinces. ‘Heel goed,’ she said. Very good. Frida smiled and set the plate on a high-backed wooden sideboard before retreating to the back of the house, leaving the three of them alone.
‘Why are you helping us?’ asked Mercia.
Davids tugged his doublet straight. ‘Because you are not who you say you are.’
‘Am I not?’ She smiled in feigned nonchalance. ‘Then who am I?’
‘You are not from New England, that is certain. Rather, you are a woman who is prepared to endure a crossing of the ocean to achieve her aims.’ He took a sip of beer from a bulbous roemer, waiting for her to reply, but she chose not to react. ‘Well, then. At the least you are a woman with an interest in James North. Would it surprise you to learn I am an acquaintance of his?’
‘Not especially. This is a small town.’
He set down the glass vessel. ‘I knew of North long before he came to New Amsterdam. Back in England, before he went missing and reappeared here. Now, no more deceptions. You have the appearance of someone I once knew. Someone who has reason to investigate North. Someone with a daughter of about your years. Shall you tell me your name, or shall I guess?’
Mercia looked into his inquisitive eyes. He knows me, she thought, and I want to know how. She decided to take the chance. ‘Very well. I am Mercia Blakewood. I am the daughter of Sir Rowland Goodridge.’
He leapt up. Nathan stiffened at her side, but Davids merely grinned. ‘I suspected it when we talked at
Marta’s. You are so like him.’ Overcoming his enthusiasm he retook his seat. ‘We were both in Cromwell’s government. We had different tasks, but our paths crossed from time to time. We shared views. We got on.’
Still cautious, Mercia studied him. ‘If that is so, how have you come to be here, in New Amsterdam? Why all this ambiguity, if you knew my father?’
He supped at his drink. ‘Come, you lived through the war. You know how families were riven by betrayal.’ He raised a grey eyebrow. ‘And you have arrived here with the King’s own fleet.’
She shook her head. ‘That is merely an expedient. I am not here as the King’s spy, if that is what you fear.’
‘I do not fear it. I think you are here because of a mystery.’ He stared at her. ‘The Oxford Section.’
She held his gaze, but his face was inscrutable. ‘Why do you say that?’
He leant forward in his chair. ‘I suppose you could say I set matters in trail. I am the one who wrote to your father.’
‘You?’ Mercia thought back to her father’s letter, hidden inside her picture at Halescott Manor. Much had happened in the months since she had broken into her own home, but she had not forgotten his words. In the letter he had hinted at a source of information, someone who could be in danger if his identity was revealed. Could this be Davids, her father’s alleged colleague who had also known North? But the glass of ale beside him recalled her experience in the brewhouse. For all she knew, this was another trap.
‘Convince me,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you know.’
Davids laughed. ‘You are certainly Rowland’s daughter. I will tell you, and then you can say how the Section has led you back to me. I am madly curious.’
‘That is reasonable.’ She outstretched her palm, biding him continue.
He scratched the back of his head. ‘I know the Oxford Section never burnt, for one. That your father was ordered to keep North’s theft of it secret. He discussed it with me at the time. He thought the whole affair peculiar.’
She nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘He and Edward Markstone were never able to trace North. They always suspected someone had hired him, and then was hiding him. But Cromwell did not like to be made such a fool. In the end they had no choice but to drop their investigation.’
It fit with what she knew. ‘Did my father ever say who he thought was responsible?’
‘Oh, he had a grand list of everyone he felt could have been, with points in their favour and against ranged neatly alongside. But it did no good.’
‘That sounds like him.’ She bit her lip. ‘Did his list include William Calde or Bernard Dittering?’ She paused. ‘Or Francis Simmonds?’
Davids frowned. ‘He may have mentioned Sir William, in amongst a host of others. But Sir Francis is his brother-in-law, is he not, and Sir Bernard went into exile with the King straight after Worcester. Why? Do you suspect one of them to be behind the theft?’
His hand on the back of her chair, Nathan coughed. She recognised it for what it was, a signal to be careful. ‘You did not answer her earlier question, Mr Davids,’ he said. ‘How is it you are here, in New Amsterdam?’
Davids looked up. ‘As you ask, my friend, it relates to this whole affair.’ He reached to the sideboard for a cookie. ‘When Cromwell’s son was Lord Protector back in ’59, there was a rumour, I don’t remember from where, that North had been seen in New Netherland. Mercia’s father remained keen to pursue it, but then war threatened anew, the King returned, and everything fell apart. I fled to Europe but my enemies were closing in.’ He bit into the cookie. ‘Then I remembered the rumour. I thought if someone like North could be safe in Dutch America, why could not I be too? And I admit, I thought if I could get him to tell me about the Oxford Section, I might glean some information I could use to bargain with the King.’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘But then I realised, nothing could help me do that.’
‘Nothing? Fled to Europe?’ She frowned. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am James Davids. I am unimportant.’
She sighed. ‘So you came to New Amsterdam and found the rumours were true, that North was here. Did you discuss the Oxford Section?’
Davids shrugged. ‘I asked him about it once, when he was drunk as he often was, but he grew violent and had little to do with me afterwards. Bit by bit he lost all his money, what little he had left, to the sailors who came into port. His wife was always lashing him with her foul tongue for it, but one day he boasted to all and sundry that it mattered not, that he would return to England to get more from a worthy gentleman who had paid him a great deal in the past. He had to be talking of the Oxford Section.’ Finishing his cookie, he took a sip of his drink. ‘When it became clear he did mean to go back, I wrote to your father. I thought it might provide him with the chance denied me, that if he could discover the truth from North it might restore him to favour. I am glad to see the message must have arrived.’ His story done, he leant back. ‘Now tell me what you hope to accomplish sailing all the way here. Has Rowland sent you?’ He grinned. ‘The old dog could not face the journey himself?’
She rubbed her temples. He didn’t know.
‘What is the matter?’ he asked. ‘You seem pale.’
A sudden emotion prevented her from responding. Nathan answered in her stead.
‘Sir Rowland is dead. He was executed in March.’
‘Executed? Why?’ Davids sounded genuinely horrified. For the first time Mercia felt she could truly believe him.
‘They said he had dangerous ideas.’ A sadness fell upon her. ‘But they wouldn’t let me see him. I spent a night in Newgate when I protested it too forcefully.’ Nathan reached over to squeeze her shoulder. In the silence that followed, she thought she heard knocking from down the street.
‘So many good men,’ said Davids, staring forward. ‘So many dead, in battle or revenge. On both sides.’
Mercia looked sharply up at him. ‘North is dead too.’
‘What?’ He blinked. ‘How?’
‘He was murdered in London,’ said Nathan. ‘By his old paymaster, we presume.’
‘My God. Poor Greet.’ Outside the knocking grew louder, accompanied now by shouts.
‘We are here because everything points here,’ said Mercia. ‘North lived here, as does the agent who smuggled the paintings out of England. Joost Pietersen.’
‘So that is why you were asking about him.’
She nodded. ‘We think he brought the paintings to America.’
‘The paintings here?’ Davids creased his forehead. ‘I suppose if North, and Pietersen … but how? I have never heard anyone speak of them.’
Frida entered the room, looking worried. She leant down to whisper in Davids’ ear. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. When she nodded, he rose frowning from his chair.
‘Frida tells me Stuyvesant’s men are searching for you all over the town. It seems you have a letter he wants delivering to Nicolls. Tell me I have not made a mistake in trusting you.’
‘We do have a letter,’ said Nathan. ‘But only because Stuyvesant finds it convenient to use us to deliver it.’
Davids scrutinised him. ‘As you say.’
‘It is the truth,’ said Mercia.
Davids buttoned his doublet. ‘Then I believe you. But we must part in any case. If Stuyvesant’s men find me with you, he may decide I am some kind of spy, which is as far from the truth as you could possibly imagine.’
Mercia stood. ‘Please, tell us who you are.’
‘Let us just say I cannot be in town when Nicolls invades.’ He picked up his coat. ‘I will have to hide for a while. Perhaps for ever.’ A loud banging reverberated through the walls. ‘And now I really must go. You should wait for the guards.’
He held out his hand to take Mercia’s, kissing her fingertips before clasping Nathan by the arm. ‘Look after her, silent protector.’
‘And you, look after yourself,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘I always do. It is second nature now.’
&nbs
p; The front door shook. With a nod of farewell Davids vanished into the back. As he went, Mercia looked at this man who claimed to have known her father. A sense of her past swirled around her, so intensely she felt she could touch it. It was strange, she thought, that even here on the other side of the ocean she could feel its presence.
The townsfolk watched with quiet malevolence as Stuyvesant’s soldiers marched Mercia and Nathan through the streets. A boat was waiting to ferry them back to the fleet. As they departed the pier they saw Pietersen himself, his arms folded, watching them leave.
Nathan directed the oarsman to the Guinea, closer indeed to shore than the previous day. Not quite reassured by the white flag of truce, four soldiers on deck raised their pistols at their approach, but Nathan dared to stand in the rocking boat to shout out who they were, and the soldiers lowered their guns. Once they were safely back on deck, the boat returned to the town.
Nicolls seemed unbothered by their night in the fort, firing questions at Nathan after perusing Stuyvesant’s message. Mercia was more preoccupied with Winthrop, who had come out on deck to greet them, once more in his dark frock coat.
‘Why did your man pretend not to know us?’ she asked.
‘I am sorry,’ said Winthrop, his hat bobbling in the breeze. ‘The situation was delicate. There was no possibility of rescuing you, so I thought if we disowned you it might confuse them as to why you were there. I relied on your ingenuity to keep you from harm.’ He smiled. ‘I see my faith was not ill placed.’
‘In the event we were merely locked in the fort and run out of town.’ She gave him a look, but it was benign. ‘I see your reputation for cleverness is well deserved, Governor.’
He bowed. ‘You flatter me. And please, forgive me.’
Taking her leave, Mercia crossed to Nicolls. ‘No success then, Mrs Blakewood,’ said the commander.
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