Birthright

by David Hingley

  She began to climb, the bottom of her dress still burning. Only when she reached the safety of a higher branch did she stop, ripping off leaves to rub the fire from her hems. She was safe, for the moment, but the flames would soon follow, and she was sad, so desperately sad, that the paintings she had dreamt she would bring home in triumph were shrivelling to nothing beneath her, and even sadder to know the truth of who had stolen them.

  The logs amidst the straw below were now firmly caught, smoke rising ever thicker and greyer. Inhaling the noxious fumes, she was beginning to gasp for breath when she thought she heard shouts from the forest. She stared through the smoke, straining to listen over the crackling of the fire, until through gaps in the haze she saw three dark horses racing towards the house. A small light appeared from behind the palisade, bobbing in the air, a torch held by a man’s black silhouette. The horses encircled him, walking round and round before one broke clear of the rest, tearing the short distance to the burning tree. Reining in, its rider leapt from the saddle.

  ‘Mercia!’ Nathan cried. ‘Dear God! Mercia!’

  ‘I am here!’ she yelled. ‘High in the tree!’

  He looked up. ‘I can see you!’ He came nearer, recoiling against the wall of heat, but he forced himself to bear its intensity. ‘Jump!’ he shouted. ‘I will catch you!’

  She hesitated. The smoke was making it impossible to see the ground, and she was beginning to feel light-headed.

  ‘I will catch you,’ he repeated. ‘I promise.’

  She needed no more encouragement. She inched towards the end of the branch, coming as low as she dared. Then she leapt out into space. She fell, feeling the rush of the night air against her face, until Nathan caught her firmly in his arms.

  He pulled her away from the burning tree, holding her close. For a few seconds she stayed still, gulping in the sweetest air she had ever breathed, before a violent coughing took control. She staggered backwards, bending over until the fit subsided.

  ‘The paintings!’ She looked up in desperation. ‘Nat, they have burnt them!’

  He looked at the pile, now a blackened mess roaring out of control. The heat was penetrating the branches just above, and as they watched, the first leaves and twigs burst into flame. He turned to Mercia, taking in her bruised wrists, her singed dress, her dirty face.

  ‘To hell with the damned paintings. How are you?’

  She gasped in air. ‘He was going to kill me, Nat. Burn me alive.’ For a moment she stood there, shocked, uncertain whether to be angry or to cry. Then she turned towards the house, where the silhouetted figure trapped against the palisade had coalesced into the hated features of Sir Bernard, and she knew. She stormed towards him, the fury inside her raging as surely as the fire now devouring the elm tree behind.

  She struck him in the face, as hard as she was able. ‘I will see you hang for this,’ she hissed. ‘You are the worst kind of man.’ But the anger in her words rekindled her cough, and she bent to the ground, retching. Nathan put his arm around her, holding her upright.

  One of the two other horsemen looked down, his face rugged under matted blonde hair. ‘Hello, Mercia,’ he said, holding a pistol at Sir Bernard. ‘We seem to have caught your rat.’

  ‘Nicholas!’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘You came for me too.’ She looked between him and Nathan. ‘But I saw you being captured. How did you escape?’

  Nicholas nodded at the third man, still enshrouded in darkness. ‘We had help.’

  The man came into the light. ‘I know I said you were unpopular,’ he said. ‘But this is in the extreme.’

  ‘I thought you had ridden north!’ She looked on James Davids in wonder. ‘Mr Davids, once again you have helped me.’

  From the corner of her eye she saw Sir Bernard leaning forward, examining Davids’ face. Nicholas jangled his pistol, but Sir Bernard ignored him. His mouth fell open in surprise.

  ‘Dixwell!’ he exclaimed. ‘By the Lord, you are still alive!’ He looked at Nathan. ‘Do you know who this man is?’

  ‘He is Davids,’ frowned Nathan.

  ‘Oh, he is not.’ Sir Bernard’s eyes roved back to Davids. ‘So, Dixwell. You will hang now we have you.’

  ‘I think it more likely you will hang, Sir Bernard,’ said Davids, spitting out the ‘Sir’. He moved his horse around the prisoner, keeping him close against the palisade.

  ‘But this is John Dixwell,’ Sir Bernard persisted. ‘Think, Keyte! He is wanted as one of the late King’s murderers. Anyone found helping him is committing treason.’

  Mercia thought back to the London customs house where the likenesses of the men who had signed the old King’s death warrant, the so-called regicides, had been laid out. Was that where she had seen his face before, why it seemed so familiar? She looked at Davids. ‘Is this true?’

  His face glowed in the firelight. ‘It is. But believe me, I am no demon. I did what I thought was right.’ He turned to Sir Bernard. ‘They are not helping me. I am helping them. I do this gladly for the daughter of Rowland Goodridge.’ He produced a pistol of his own. ‘Now be silent.’

  Sir Bernard smirked, his head defiantly erect. Behind her Mercia realised she could feel a growing heat. She looked round to see the entire elm tree now madly ablaze. The wind was carrying burning leaves and twigs over the palisade, as far as the house itself. Some floated in through the open bedroom window, settling on the contents within.

  She stepped further from the tree, out of range of the expanding smoke that was swirling in all directions with the changing mood of the wind. Then another five horsemen burst from the forest. They cantered towards the burning tree, wielding pistols of their own. Their leader urged his horse forward, ordering his men to surround the rest. Mercia closed her eyes in resignation.

  ‘By the heavens,’ Sir William cried. ‘This is a strange affair. Why is that tree burning so?’

  Mercia looked around her. Nicholas had his gun still on Sir Bernard, while Davids was steadying his pawing horse, eyes on Sir William. Over Nathan’s head she could see an orange glow had sprung up through the open window.

  ‘Arrest this ring of murderers and spies,’ Sir Bernard shouted. ‘Especially him.’ He pointed at Davids. ‘Take a good look at his face, William. ’Tis John Dixwell.’

  Sir William nodded. ‘I know who he is.’

  ‘Then order your men to seize him.’

  Mercia waited. Beside her Nathan laid his hand on her shoulder.

  Sir William rode slowly round the group, taking time to look at each of them, his expression unreadable. Finally he turned to Sir Bernard. ‘Oh, my old friend. I think not.’

  Sir Bernard frowned. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Do you not? Then let me make it clear.’ Sir William sat up in his saddle. ‘Sir Bernard Dittering, under the orders of Governor Nicolls, I am commanded to arrest you on charges of murder and treason.’ He signalled to his men. ‘Take him. Use force if you must.’

  Mercia stared as Sir William’s men moved in on the fallen man, a heady relief coursing through her body. Briefly Sir Bernard struggled, but a hefty soldier subdued him with a well-timed punch.

  Sir William moved his attention to Davids. ‘You have been of use this night, helping us catch this murderer. So I have decided you were never here. I presume these others will act likewise.’

  ‘I thought I would have to fight my way out.’ Davids smiled. ‘Sir William, we have had our differences, but thank you.’

  Sir Bernard seethed in the guard’s grasp. ‘You cannot do this, Calde. I will tell Nicolls what you did after the war, how you passed information to Cromwell while claiming to support the King.’

  ‘While you yourself were pure, I suppose.’ Sir William laughed. ‘Bernard, you stand accused of trying to thwart the King himself. You would say anything for clemency.’ He turned back to Davids. ‘And you, Dixwell. Should I be asked, I will say the man who helped tonight was named Davids. But if you are found again, you will be taken yourself. Is that clear?’

/>   Davids nodded, taking up his reins. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Blakewood.’ He bowed to her from his saddle. ‘I hope we meet again.’

  Then he rode towards the forest, heading for who knew what new shores.

  A bang shook the air across the palisade. Everyone turned to the house. Above the gate, Mercia saw flames licking around the upstairs window. She gasped, putting her hand over her mouth.

  ‘Lady Markstone! She may still be inside!’

  ‘Millicent?’ said Sir William. ‘Why should she be here?’

  ‘She is involved in this. I have not seen her leave. Come!’

  Ignoring her breathlessness she ran through the gate. A shadowed figure was lurking behind the palisade: Lady Markstone, facing the gate to watch events unfold. Seeing Mercia approach she retreated rapidly to the house. Dimly aware of pursuing footsteps, Mercia followed her into the hall where the top of the staircase was filling with smoke, enveloping the canvas of Rembrandt’s Amsterdam. Unsure where Lady Markstone had fled, Mercia dodged one of the porphyry vases to run through the salon to the study, but it was empty, a gaping space above the fireplace, the portrait of the King’s family gone.

  She returned to the hall, colliding with Nicholas as Nathan skidded to a halt beside them. She led them to the sitting room where she had first entered the house. On the threshold of the outside door, Lady Markstone was panting, out of breath, a rolled package against her side. She looked up, the tiredness of years sapping her pained face. Then she surprised them, darting outside and slamming shut the door. A low thump signalled she had blocked it.

  Nicholas ran to bang his shoulder against the door, but it did not give. He tried again; it moved slightly, but remained closed. ‘Together,’ said Nathan, and the two of them launched into the wood, crashing it open, sending the pole that was securing the door flying into the night. They rushed through, Mercia just behind.

  The brief delay had given Lady Markstone time to mount her horse, but it could sense her nervous panic. As she struggled to fit her package into the saddlebag, Nicholas leapt at the reins, but the horse swung its powerful neck at him and he fell back. Leaning forward, Lady Markstone caught Mercia’s gaze, a transitory plea in her old eyes for – what was that? Forgiveness? She urged the horse on, but it was fearful of the elm burning over the palisade, and the fire now taking possession of the upstairs of the house. It whinnied and writhed, scared by the noise and the light, careering in random directions, not knowing where to go.

  A loud crash from inside the house startled it. It reared up on its hind legs, the action too much for Lady Markstone, struggling with the saddlebag, to control. She was flung from the horse, hitting the ground with an awful thud. Terrified, the horse sped away, but finding its path obstructed by the grove of trees, it swept around, looking for a means of escape. It saw the open gate into the field beyond, illuminated by the flames, and with no other option raced towards it. But the prone body of Lady Markstone lay directly in its path. Mercia turned away, horrified, as the horse rode over the unseen woman, trampling her with its shod hooves. It fled through the gate, its loose saddlebag tumbling to the ground.

  Mercia ran to kneel where Lady Markstone lay still. The horse had forced her breath from her body, her ribcage completely crushed. But then her fading eyes flickered, and she looked up to the sky, a spark of life catching for a last, brief moment. Slowly, she raised her arm to a tiny white light that was shining through the haze. When she spoke her voice was almost nothing, just a flutter of air.

  ‘Robert,’ she shivered. ‘Robert, is that you? Oh my precious boy. I am coming now. Your mamma is here.’

  Then her eyes closed, her arm fell, and she went to the stars to walk with her son.

  Mercia stood up, brushing away a tear. As she looked towards Nathan and Nicholas, deeply upset, she caught sight of the package Lady Markstone had been struggling so hard to take, a creased canvas tube now fallen on the ground. Bending to pick it up, she carried it to the gate where there was sufficient light to see.

  She beckoned to Nathan to help her. But even as they unrolled it, she knew what she would find. The one thing that could be used as a bargaining tool, should a deal with the King ever be needed. The one painting from the Oxford Section he coveted above all the rest, above the town of New York itself. Mercia glanced at Lady Markstone’s body, admiring her ingenuity and her guile, before she looked down to see a man, his wife, and their six children, gazing serenely out.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The sun rose on New York for the first time that morning, but Mercia did not see it, asleep in a welcome bed in Colonel Nicolls’ residence, exhausted from the night’s events. She had returned late, her strange group riding into Fort James behind Sir William Calde: herself, Nathan, Nicholas; Sir Bernard Dittering at gunpoint, disgraced; Claes van Arnhem and his men, freed from his strongroom where his dog had been pawing at the door, yowling for his master’s release. The plantation house itself was beyond saving, the whole edifice beginning to collapse as they forced the Dutch patroon screaming from his burning home.

  All through the great Manhattan forest she was silent, glancing now and then at the painting of the King’s family rolled up beside her, but more often at the horse two in front, Lady Markstone’s body stretched out across its back. Inside the fort she dismounted, sliding down the wall of a storehouse to sag despondent on the ground, struggling to take in what her chaperone – her friend – had done. But when the governor appeared, and she roused herself to present him with her prize, he scarcely seemed bothered that the rest of the paintings were lost, and that rekindled her hope. For as Nicolls said, when the King spoke of the Oxford Section it was this that he meant, the only portrait ever made of those six sorry children together, and for the woman who could deliver him that, he must surely be in her debt.

  Sir Bernard was thrown into a well-guarded cell, where he would await transport to England to face trial. Most likely he would be executed, yet Mercia felt no satisfaction that the man who had manipulated her father’s end would suffer the same fate. The realisation that Lady Markstone had been behind the theft cut her deep. But as the dead woman’s body was carried to lie in the fort’s church, she prayed for her all the same.

  She woke to find Daniel on her bed, fetched from the Redemption by Nathan. Seeing her son cheered her, and she followed him out to join Nathan and Nicholas on the New York shore, watching him play with a local boy beside Hudson’s mighty river. The flagpole over the fort thrummed its British colours in the breeze, the softly turning sails of the windmill behind them a pleasing accompaniment.

  ‘How are you faring?’ said Nathan as she sat on the grassy bank. Beside him Nicholas looked up at her, clearly worried. She had cleaned the grime from her hair and face, hidden her bruised wrists beneath gloves, but her appearance must still have been haggard.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘A little rested.’

  Nathan bit his lip. ‘I have news for you. I think it is good.’ He looked at her askance. ‘Your uncle is yet alive.’

  She turned her head. ‘Alive?’

  ‘Sir William sent men to Pietersen’s farmhouse. They found Sir Francis in the field, still breathing. He had staunched the sword wound with his doublet. The surgeon is not certain, but he thinks he will live.’

  She looked at the river flowing calmly by. ‘I hope so. In spite of what he has done, there has been too much death of late.’ She paused. ‘I know you are thinking of Halescott. But even if he were … gone … his son would step into his place. ’Tis the King’s patronage I need.’ She sighed. ‘Should he be willing to give it.’

  ‘You have found his painting, the one he yearns for. The others may be lost, but if he is as gallant as he claims he is bound to you. I hope he will be generous.’

  ‘As do I.’ Weary, she changed the subject. ‘How did you escape from the town? When I rode off, the guards were leading you away.’

  ‘We tried to fight them,’ said Nicholas. ‘But we didn’t have much chance. They marched us bac
k towards the fort, down that broad way. But Dixwell – Davids – whatever his name was, he’d told some people about the two of you, and they put themselves in our path, pretending to protest the invasion. In the confusion they brought us horses and we came back through the gate. Sir William sent his men right after us.’

  ‘They nearly caught us by Stuyvesant’s farmhouse,’ said Nathan. ‘But Nicholas rode into plain view, led them round and round and lost them in the darkness. It was impressive riding.’ He nodded at Nicholas, who smiled. ‘We assumed you had gone into the forest, and carried on.’

  ‘And Davids?’ said Mercia. ‘Dixwell?’

  ‘Dixwell was camped in the forest, hiding while he decided what to do after the invasion. It seems you rode right past him, but he couldn’t make out who you were. He worried you might have been a soldier come north, so he was watching the path closely by the time we came past. He says he followed us, although we never heard him. We stopped at the turning to discuss which way to go. He recognised my voice and came up. And then the soldiers found us.’

  ‘They pulled pistols on us,’ said Nicholas. ‘We were readying for a fight when Sir William arrived, his horse heaving like a mad beast. He’d ridden hard to follow his men fast. He’d spoken with Colonel Nicolls, you see, set everything out.’

  Nathan leant back on the grass. ‘Nicolls put it all together. He dispatched him immediately with orders for Sir Bernard’s arrest. It was quite something to see Sir William’s expression when he saw Dixwell in the forest.’ He shook his head. ‘An actual regicide. I wonder what went through his mind when he signed the paper that would condemn the King.’

  ‘Maybe he was principled,’ said Mercia, in no mood for a political debate. ‘Or maybe just naïve. I am surprised Sir William let him go.’