Birthright

by David Hingley

  ‘God is coming,’ he said. ‘I can feel Him.’ He clutched at her sleeve. ‘After all I did … the bastard … shot me.’ Although he was slipping away, his voice still managed to convey surprise.

  Mercia looked at him, torn between compassion and urgency. His head tumbled to the side. Panicking she would lose this chance, urgency won. She shook him back to consciousness.

  ‘Wake up!’ she urged. ‘Meneer Pietersen, wake up! Let me help you get justice on the man who has done this. Tell me what you know about the paintings!’

  ‘Jus … tice?’ He breathed in whistling air.

  ‘Tell me!’

  He opened his fading eyes. ‘You … were right,’ he stuttered. ‘Here … on the island.’ His eyes closed, then opened again. ‘Van … Arnhem.’

  ‘Van Arnhem? Who is he? Does he have the Oxford Section?’

  Pietersen shivered, gurgling blood. His voice was now scarcely audible. ‘His … plantation. Near … Haarlem.’

  ‘Who shot you?’ She shook him, trying to keep him awake. ‘Who?’

  But Pietersen could say no more. He slumped to the floor, all his dealing done.

  She lowered Pietersen’s head, feeling numb. But there was no time for sympathy. A rush of air darted past her. She looked up to see Nathan running through the open back door.

  ‘Be careful!’ she called. ‘Whoever did this may still be here!’

  Dragging herself from Pietersen she followed, but outside nobody was in sight. Her senses on high alert, she ran left, the air warm on her face, the soil dry beneath her boots. She rounded the corner of the barn, but still she was alone.

  Another shot rang out.

  ‘Nathan!’ she cried, running faster. She entered the orchard, searching wildly amongst the trees. It was humid, and her clothes were not light, but at that moment she cared for nothing save finding her friend.

  ‘Be alive,’ she repeated, over and over, running through the trees, her hat falling unnoticed from her head as she looked all around her. Near the orchard’s edge she screamed as a hand landed on her shoulder. She whipped round.

  ‘Nathan! Thank God! Did you hear the shot?’

  ‘I thought he had got you. Mercia, do not do that to me ever again. I could not bear it.’

  For an instant they looked into each other’s eyes. Then the sound of metal on metal filled the air. Tearing themselves away they hurried from the orchard into an open field where an astonishing spectacle awaited them. Two men in sombre court attire were battling with swords on the edge of the meadow, the barrel of a smoking pistol protruding from the yellowing grass.

  ‘By the Lord,’ she said. ‘It is my uncle and Sir Bernard.’

  The two noblemen were engaged in a serious sword fight, attacking and parrying with equal fervour. Sir Francis forced Sir Bernard back, only for him to retaliate with a swift counterattack, putting his opponent on the defensive. The two were clearly skilled swordsmen. Despite their age, neither was out of breath.

  ‘The pistol,’ said Nathan. ‘It must be one of theirs.’

  ‘Yes! But which?’

  The ringing of swords sounded loud across the open field, the elegant weapons clashing blow after blow, piercing the air with their resonant music. The men turned as they fought, moving right, forward, back, neither gaining much before the other retook the advantage. Mercia looked on amazed. She had no idea her uncle could fight like that.

  Blocking another thrust, Sir Francis came in direct view of his niece. He lunged once more at Sir Bernard, causing him to fall back.

  ‘Mercia, fetch help!’ he yelled, not taking his eyes from his adversary. ‘Sir Bernard has gone mad!’

  ‘’Tis not me who is mad, ’tis him!’ roared Sir Bernard, parrying what should have been a successful attack. ‘He has been deluding you all this time. Deluding me!’

  With an angry shout he thrust forward one final time, his sword point penetrating Sir Francis’s doublet. The wounded man staggered back, dropping his weapon. He looked up in shock as Sir Bernard pushed forward, ramming his sword into his side, and he toppled over, crashing to the ground.

  Panting hard, Sir Bernard stepped back. Blood dripped from his quivering sword.

  ‘Uncle!’ Mercia cried, animated by familial sympathy despite the animosity she felt. Eyes burning fury, she rounded on Sir Bernard.

  ‘Are you not content with my father’s death that you must kill my uncle too?’ She reached to pick up the fallen sword, swinging it at Sir Bernard. ‘I will see you dead for this!’

  Sir Bernard backed away. ‘You do not understand. He shot that man in the barn. He shot at me!’

  She hesitated, long enough for Nathan to wrench the sword from her grasp. ‘Listen to what he is saying,’ he said. Confused with rage, she held her arm in the same outstretched position, as though she were still grasping the hilt.

  Sir Bernard swallowed. ‘I saw them leaving the town. I admit, I did not trust him. I thought he might be working against me.’

  She lowered her arm. ‘What do you mean?’

  Sir Bernard blinked at her, his eyes vacant, as though he scarcely noticed she was there. ‘Pietersen – the man in the barn – I saw Francis talking with him in the fort. He knows everything about this town, this place. I suppose … I was furious. I thought Francis was trying to best me. I followed them. There was a gunshot. I confronted him. We drew swords.’

  Somehow the air grew heavy. Mercia turned her head, looking on her uncle lying on the ground. ‘No. It cannot be him. It cannot.’ She stumbled into the field, not wanting to believe it, that this man who had usurped her house, who had strived to make her a mistress, this was the same man who had stolen the paintings, who had set a killer on her, who had murdered at whim to achieve his ends. Not her own uncle. Not her own blood.

  But the dead man in the barn was not an illusion. Mercia looked to the sky and screamed an anguished howl.

  Nathan came up behind her, but she waved him away.

  ‘Why did it have to be him? I never realised before, I never wanted it to be him. I thought I hated him. I thought—God. I don’t know what I thought.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ He inched closer. ‘Please, let me help.’

  She allowed herself to turn to him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sir Bernard reach down for the dropped pistol and feel inside his pocket for a pouch. Her fractured mind reassembled itself.

  ‘Wait. Sir Bernard said he saw them leaving the town.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Them, Nathan. He said them. But they cannot have left together. Pietersen was heading for the wall while my uncle was still in the fort.’

  ‘Maybe he just got it wrong.’

  ‘Maybe. But why is he not curious about why we are here?’

  ‘It must not have occurred to him. He is troubled by the fight.’

  ‘Too troubled. He is not so impassioned as that.’ She began to walk across. ‘Sir Bernard, are you not—?’ She stopped, her face grim. ‘Of course.’

  He was pointing the reloaded pistol directly at them.

  ‘It was the other way round,’ she said, furious with herself. ‘You knew Pietersen was coming here and set off after him. My uncle saw you and followed. It was more like him to worry he might miss an opportunity.’

  ‘You are too trusting,’ said Sir Bernard, all pretence of shock gone. ‘You and your swain.’

  ‘You killed Pietersen.’

  He signalled with the pistol for Nathan to move beside her. ‘I suppose I did.’

  ‘And Lady Calde? James North?’

  He shrugged, saying nothing.

  A powerful mixture of anger and sadness filled her. ‘Do you care so little for life?’

  Sir Bernard looked at her, bemused. ‘We have lived through the greatest war our country will ever know. Do you know how many men died, Englishman against Englishman, so Cromwell could play at being King? They say one in every ten. So many friends cut down in front of me, a pistol ball tearing through their shredded flesh. So no, I do
not feel much sorrow if a handful more join them.’

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ said Nathan. ‘You cannot simply explain these deaths. And Nicolls knows why we are here. If you kill us too, he will understand why.’

  Sir Bernard looked at him as though he were a child. ‘I do not think so. You are going to put me in an impossible position.’ He waved the pistol at them. ‘Walk back to the farmhouse. You will get on your horses and ride back to the town. You will stay in front of me. Any attempt by either of you to escape, I will shoot the other dead.’

  Sir Bernard made Mercia mount first, then with surprising agility swung himself onto his own horse before Nathan could try an attack. Pointing his gun from behind, he ordered them to ride. Dusk was falling as they reached the palisade, its sentries greying in the fading light. One hand on his gun, the other on the reins, Sir Bernard called out to the guards.

  ‘Fetch Sir William! I have caught these two discussing secrets with a Dutchman. They and Francis Simmonds are traitors to the King.’

  Her back to him, Mercia laughed. ‘You think Nicolls will believe that?’

  ‘Indeed, he trusted you,’ said Sir Bernard. ‘He will be mightily angered to learn you invented your tale of lost paintings to gain passage across the ocean.’

  ‘And why would I have done that?’

  ‘To help your uncle pass secrets to Stuyvesant in revenge for your father’s death, as Harriet Calde found out to her cost. What a shame the townsfolk were so lily-livered and refused to put up a fight. The information was useless. So you thought to ride north to the other Dutch villages.’

  ‘You are mad,’ said Nathan. ‘He will see through that deception in an instant.’

  Sir Bernard scoffed. ‘I am Sir Bernard Dittering, close advisor to the Duke of York himself. I fought at the King’s side throughout the war. Later I joined him in his exile. I have been nothing but loyal in his eyes. Why in heaven would Nicolls believe this traitor’s daughter over me? And he will have no occasion to question you, Keyte, at all.’ His horse pawed the ground as he shifted his position. ‘Now, Keyte. Ride away from the wall, or I kill the woman. My pistol is aimed at her heart.’

  She stared at Nathan in horror. ‘Stay where you are. If you ride off he will shoot you. He will say you tried to flee.’

  ‘Very clever, Mrs Blakewood. But I will certainly shoot you if he does not. Turn around, the both of you.’ He waited for them to comply. ‘I have observed you, Keyte, on the Redemption. I have seen you looking at her. This is your chance to save her life. If you ride off, I will kill you, but I promise I will not shoot her. Nobody will take her word over mine. She is but a woman. She will be safe.’

  Nathan looked at Sir Bernard, at Mercia, at the fields in front of him. He gripped on his reins.

  ‘Do nothing,’ said Mercia. ‘No one will believe his ridiculous tale.’

  ‘They will when I have others to confirm it.’ Sir Bernard smiled. ‘Oh no, I am not alone in this enterprise.’

  ‘What?’ She glanced up at the wall where Sir William now stood, arms folded, looking down on the scene. ‘My God.’ She closed her eyes. ‘There are two of you.’ A wrenching despair twisted in her stomach.

  Sir Bernard ignored her, addressing Nathan. ‘I swear I will kill her if you do not ride away now. You have ten seconds.’

  Nathan bit his lip. He looked again at Mercia. His face was set.

  ‘Mercia,’ he began. ‘Mercia, I love you. You are a beautiful, amazing woman. I love you with all that I am.’ He grasped his reins towards him. ‘I have been too cowardly to admit it. Tell Daniel … I hope I have been as a father to him.’

  A look of abject sorrow crossed Mercia’s face. She looked imploringly at him, begging him not to go. But in vain.

  Nathan kicked his horse’s flanks and rode away from the wall.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  In that instant Mercia was back beneath the table at Halescott Manor, a fourteen-year-old girl once more. She stared, paralysed with dread. Then an intense feeling of anger flooded her whole body, and she remembered her brother’s face as he lay dying in her mother’s arms, and how her fear and her frailty had made her useless. The memory gave her an immense strength, clawing her back into that dusky field beneath the palisade.

  ‘Not this time!’ she cried.

  As Sir Bernard moved his aim away from her, she kicked hard into the sides of her horse to ride straight at him. At the last moment the horse swerved to avoid his, but their two flanks collided, knocking the nobleman off balance. He recovered to fire the pistol, but his aim was thrown; the ball missed Nathan by inches, ploughing instead into his horse’s hind. Its back legs failed and it went down, taking Nathan with it.

  Scared by the gunshot, Mercia’s horse shied away, giving Sir Bernard time to reload the pistol with gunpowder and ball from his pocket. But she mastered her horse, and again she charged at Sir Bernard’s mount, this time daring to seize the gun with her hands, tearing her dress as she swung to grip her horse tightly with her legs. The horses reared and tossed as if they were the waves of the storm-swept ocean, buffeting Mercia and Sir Bernard in their wake, but she did not fall. She pulled hard on the barrel of the gun, forcing it downwards. Her enemy resisted, but frightened by the tumult both horses flung back their heads and separated. She tugged with all her fury-driven might, and when the horses pulled apart, she was the one holding the gun. She pointed it at Sir Bernard.

  ‘Keep back.’

  He laughed. ‘Really, this is even better. Now everyone will think you are crazed.’

  She cocked the gun. ‘They may be right.’

  A number of soldiers brandishing pikes were pouring from the wall, six in total, half of them peeling off to encircle Nathan, who was rising from his fall apparently unharmed. The other three ran towards her.

  ‘I will have your heads for this,’ smirked Sir Bernard. ‘As I had your father’s. He should not have snooped into old business.’ The arrogance on his face was absolute. ‘I did not especially want him dead, but I had no choice. He was as inventive as his daughter has proved to be in his place.’

  A deep chill descended on her. ‘Are you saying you had him killed because he would have found you out? It was nothing to do with his beliefs?’

  Sir Bernard laughed. ‘Of course.’

  The anger inside took over. She took aim. And this time, she fired.

  It was a close-range shot. But deep down she wanted him alive to face trial, so that everyone could know the truth. Shooting blankly at his sides, the ball still skimmed the top of his left forearm. He let out a cry, clutching the wound with his right hand.

  ‘Arrest her!’ he growled at the soldiers now surrounding her. But preoccupied with his injury he failed to recognise the young, blonde man amongst them, who had been watching from his post and had run out to help.

  Nodding at Mercia, Nicholas called out loudly, just one word, so Nathan could hear: ‘Attack!’ He swung his pike right and left, knocking his fellows to the ground before they could retaliate. At the same moment, Nathan ducked away from the three guards facing him, giving Nicholas time to snatch one of the fallen soldier’s pikes and run over, dragging the ends of the long weapons across the ground.

  ‘Go!’ Nicholas cried to her. ‘We will keep them busy. Whatever you must do, go now!’

  He rolled the spare pike at Nathan’s feet as the two floored guards staggered upright to join the affray. Together Nathan and Nicholas stood, finally comrades-in-arms against men who were not their real enemy. But the vipers had incited the soldiers, who were ready to do as they were ordered.

  Mercia looked at Sir Bernard clutching his wrist, at Sir William standing hands on hips atop the palisade. The thought of abandoning her friends was abhorrent, but she knew there was only one thing she could do to sort out the turmoil that would follow. She needed proof. She needed the paintings. Praying they would endure, she turned her horse north.

  By now the sun was below the horizon. Ahead of her the cultivated land e
nded and the untamed forest began. A single shot whistled past as she galloped away, intended to frighten her into turning back. But there was no chance of that. Allowing herself to be arrested so she could explain to Nicolls what had happened was not an option; for all his and the King’s chivalry, she knew her family was still viewed with suspicion, while Sir Bernard was not. The surest way to convince them was clear.

  Onwards she spurred her horse, out of range of the guns along the wall. She was heading for Haarlem, to van Arnhem’s plantation, according to Pietersen where the paintings could be found. From Captain Morley’s vague chart she knew Haarlem was somewhere towards the island’s north, roughly by the eastern river. Wherever it was, the plantation had to lie in cleared land: once she made it through the trees, she would skirt the shore until she found it.

  At the edge of the forest, she looked back. The scene at the wall was distant now, but she could just make out two men being led away, ultimately no match for the soldiers ranged against them. Nathan and Nicholas had fought to win her the chance to escape, Nathan who had admitted his love for her, Nicholas who had put himself at risk when he could have stayed apart. One she had known a long time, the other a matter of months. But she owed it to them both to accomplish her goal.

  Steadying her horse, she plunged into the deep woods.

  The tall trees of the Manhattan wilds enveloped her. If she rode at random she would easily become lost, but she was following a well-worn Indian trail along the east side of the island, used lately by the Dutch for accessing the island’s north. Aside from the clipping of her horse, the only sounds she heard were of birdsong or of animal grunts, and once the trickle of water from a fast-flowing stream not far from the path. The warm evening air was still.

  The light that penetrated the tightly packed trees began to disappear. Pockets of the path became dark, shaded by the vast trunks and branches. She did not want to be out here at night, a lone woman with no torch, and she was worried about Daniel, but after weeks at sea she knew he would be safe on Long Island. She pressed on, encouraging her horse to go faster, climbing a hill, cantering over an open patch of grass, crossing a stream.