by C. S. Quinn
‘I would never have converted,’ said James. ‘But I wasn’t expected to be King at the time. Charles had just married. We didn’t know then that Catherine of Braganza couldn’t . . .’
Arabella sat up a little. ‘So the problem is with her then?’
James looked shocked. ‘Of course. Charles has five children.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ said Arabella. ‘I thought . . . Talk at court is that Charles doesn’t like his Queen. That he can’t bear to bed her. She is strange.’ Arabella was picturing the pint-sized Queen. ‘She looks like she’s in mourning. She stinks of incense and garlic. You can smell it a mile away. And that hair. I can’t see how a man would get close.’
‘Charles likes her well enough,’ said James, settling back. ‘Well enough for that anyway,’ he said.
Arabella laughed. ‘Men amaze me,’ she said. ‘Could you do it? With the Queen?’
James thought about it. ‘If I were King,’ he said. ‘And it was my duty.’
‘You wouldn’t struggle to perform? Garlic breath?’ prompted Arabella.
‘I’d turn her the other way,’ said James. ‘The Queen is such an innocent she wouldn’t know any better. But I’d need a drink inside me.’
Arabella tipped back her head and laughed.
‘What of the King’s other women?’ she asked, her eyes sliding to his. ‘Which of those . . . ?’
‘Barbara,’ said James unhesitatingly.
‘I heard you had an eye for false hair and cleavage,’ suggested Arabella archly.
‘Lucy Walter?’ said James. ‘Everyone has had Lucy. I was lucky to escape with my life.’ He shook his head.
‘Every dress she wears is a present from the King of Spain,’ said Arabella. ‘Surely such regal connections must appeal?’
James laughed, then his face turned serious. ‘Lucy’s lies are a joke,’ he said. ‘But Monmouth is beginning to take after her. He’s spoiled.’
‘He’s ambitious and arrogant,’ said Arabella. ‘Protestant too.’
She tapped James’s rosary meaningfully.
‘English people might prefer a bastard to a Catholic,’ Arabella observed.
‘Monmouth knows his place,’ said James uneasily.
‘Is he really Charles’s son? There is talk.’
‘He might be. Charles thinks he is. But Charles is a romantic. Lucy was open to most comers at that time.’
‘You are no gentleman,’ smiled Arabella, ‘to talk of your lover so.’
James leaned closer, running a hand along her slim body. ‘I’m not,’ he admitted moving closer. ‘And that’s the way you like me.’
Chapter 37
‘What should we do now?’ asked Lily as they made into the wide courtyard of the Fleet Prison. ‘Nile Street is all burned. And we don’t have the marriage register.’
‘You never told me you were in prison,’ said Charlie. ‘What was your crime?’
‘Trusting the wrong person,’ said Lily, in a tone which made it clear she’d answer no more questions.
Charlie picked at a patch of his dusty-blond hair which had been scorched in Torr’s cellar.
‘We know that Blackstone made two weddings,’ he said.
‘Fleet Weddings,’ added Lily. ‘Not proper church ones.’
‘And perhaps to the same woman,’ continued Charlie. ‘One during the Civil War and one after. Why?’
‘Dowry?’ suggested Lily. ‘Amesbury said that Blackstone spent his wife’s dowry on the royal cause.’
‘You can’t claim a dowry twice,’ said Charlie. ‘No matter how many times you marry a woman. Once it’s spent it’s spent.’
He tapped the scar on his lip. ‘You said they married at sea.’ Charlie thought for a moment. ‘Aboard ship and free of port. No noble marriage is made that way.’ Something else occurred to him.
‘Blackstone’s marriage was the same year as the date on your handkerchief. And Blackstone’s chest is a Dutch sea chest.’
Lily shrugged, taking the handkerchief out of her dress. ‘So the mermaid signifies his marriage?’ Her face suggested the improbability of this.
‘Not a marriage,’ Charlie said slowly, touching the image. ‘I think this mermaid could be a ship’s figurehead. Women embroider them for good luck, before a ship sets sail.’
Lily looked again at the handkerchief.
‘So she commemorates some ship’s voyage?’ said Lily, tapping the mermaid.
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘And the bearer sailed on the ship.’
‘So Blackstone’s ship was called the Mermaid?’ Lily sounded intrigued. ‘But what can that tell us?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘It could tell us nothing. Or it could tell us a great deal. If we can find the ship’s captain, or a fellow passenger, perhaps they will remember Blackstone.’
Lily looked disappointed. ‘How could we know that? The ship sailed seventeen years ago.’
Charlie rubbed the kink in his nose.
‘We can find out about the ship. If we go to the most dangerous man in London.’
Lily smiled at the description. ‘What does he sell? Black powder?’
‘Information. The Oracle,’ said Charlie, ‘is a legend in the shadow trade.’
‘The shadow trade?’ asked Lily.
‘Smuggling, piracy,’ said Charlie, waving an airy hand. ‘High-profit trades and a risk of a painful death. The Oracle keeps information on every ship and cargo to leave and enter London. He is famed for it. It is said his records are better than the papers made by Customs House.’
‘Why does he keep records of ships?’
‘He sells information,’ explained Charlie, ‘and makes predictions which he sells for profit.’
‘What kind of predictions?’
‘Whether the price of lace or brandy will rise or fall,’ said Charlie. ‘Which goods will be the most profitably smuggled. Smugglers visit The Oracle before planning their time on the tides.’
‘Won’t he have fled London from the fire?’
Charlie shook his head.
‘The Oracle is in the Shadow Market. The entrance is under Pickled Herring steps.’
‘The south side of the river?’
Charlie nodded. ‘The bad part of town. No fire there. The Shadow Market is in the tunnels beneath. You can only get in by river.’
‘Do you know him? This Oracle?’
‘I had some dealings with him a few years ago,’ said Charlie. ‘I think he’ll remember me. But he’s . . .’ Charlie tapped at the side of his head.
‘Insane?’ suggested Lily.
‘Not Bedlam insane. But prone to visions. And bad fits of temper.’
‘You say he’s dangerous?’
‘He’s powerful and unpredictable. Which makes him the most dangerous man I know.’
‘You’re sure he’ll remember you?’ said Lily uneasily.
‘He’s still got the scar.’
Lily adjusted the knives under her skirts.
‘Wonderful,’ she said sourly.
‘First we need to get to him,’ said Charlie. ‘The only way is by river. Every man jack in London will be trying to get a boat.’ He thought for a moment.
‘We should walk to Charing Cross steps. They’re the furthest public wharf up river. More likelihood of a boat.’
Chapter 38
Clarence’s fat little legs propelled him down the muddy slope.
‘Why is the barge readied?’ he said. ‘There was no order . . .’
Barbara Castlemaine slid from behind the nearest boatman.
‘I gave the order,’ she said. ‘Monmouth was indisposed.’
Clarence drew himself up to his full height. Though even by that stretch Barbara was a clear head taller.
‘You have no authority,’ he said smugly. ‘The Royal Barge is under Parliament’s purse. We must have clear writing from the Keeper of the Barge.’ Clarence permitted himself a little chuckle. ‘From what I hear,’ he added, ‘Monmouth has no great love for you, Lady Castlemaine.
’
‘Young men are changeable in their affections,’ said Barbara. She took out a roll of paper and tapped Clarence with it. ‘See for yourself.’
Clarence unrolled it to see Monmouth’s signature and seal. His lips tightened into a thin angry line.
‘I thought you said Monmouth was indisposed,’ he managed.
‘Oh, he is,’ said Barbara. ‘Too much strong wine. You know how young boys are. Monmouth and I are better friends nowadays.’ She winked at Clarence, put a slim finger in her mouth and sucked it suggestively.
Clarence fought to keep the shock from his features. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t have.
‘I hear you’ve been meeting with Louise,’ said Barbara with an affected yawn. ‘But you have a lot to learn about ruthlessness. Ah. Here’s Amesbury. He can school you in that art.’
She smiled widely as Amesbury’s thick boots tramped through the mud of the Royal Wharf. He wore thick leather boots to mid-thigh, and a heavy military cloak. He looked as out of place as was possible before the decorated barge.
‘Lady Castlemaine sent for me,’ said Amesbury, at the unasked question on Clarence’s face. ‘You seem to have forgotten I’m to be present in military matters.’
‘This is hardly a military matter,’ hissed Clarence, glancing at Barbara and then Amesbury in fury at the ambush. ‘A little fire is all.’
‘Lady Castlemaine,’ Amesbury bowed, ignoring Clarence. ‘You’ve prepared us a feast for the eyes.’ He regarded the Royal Barge with its huge swags of red and gold velvet. ‘Striped tulips,’ he added, looking at the deep floral displays on deck. ‘Very rare I’m told.’
‘You can’t keep the disapproval from your voice,’ laughed Barbara. ‘But you are cleverer than Clarence for trying to hide it. Yes, the tulips are rare. And very expensive. As was the velvet. I’ve also ordered the finest French wines, dressed sides of meat, poached fish and hot-house fruits. Oh, and ice to keep us all cool. From the icehouse which Clarence spoke against in Parliament.’
She gave a beatific smile.
‘I think it so important that His Majesty is seen to be King,’ she said. ‘That is what the people want from their monarch. Majesty and fine things.’
Amesbury said nothing.
‘Where is the fire now?’ asked Barbara. ‘Oh, not you,’ she added as Clarence opened his mouth to speak. ‘I can’t trust a word you say. What intelligence do you have, Amesbury?’
‘The King comes,’ said Amesbury. He nodded in the direction of the Palace. ‘Better you don’t hear it before him.’
Barbara’s eyes flickered. She gave a slight smile, adjusting the low-cut shoulders of her dress.
‘See how well he looks,’ she said approvingly as the King approached.
Charles was attired valiantly with a silver-handled sword attached by a slash of shining leather across his chest. His enormous curling wig was topped with a rakish wide-brimmed hat.
‘Like a dashing highwayman and a romantic cavalier all at once,’ said Barbara.
‘Better you’d dressed His Majesty as an English King,’ observed Amesbury. ‘Rather than a Frenchie one. If you seek the love of the people.’
‘This is fashion,’ said Barbara. She eyed Amesbury’s boiled-leather coat. ‘I could hardly expect you to understand.’
Chapter 39
Charing Cross steps were in chaos when Lily and Charlie arrived. The wide, muddy steps down to the river were thick with frightened people loading goods.
‘It looks as though Bedlam has emptied on to the river,’ observed Lily, looking at the turgid river. ‘There’s no boats to be had.’ She pointed to a group of desperate people hurling their belongings into the Thames. ‘Those folk hope their possessions will float down river and might be fished out later.’
Charlie was looking up to where smoke was blotting out the sun.
‘It’s midday,’ he muttered, ‘the sky looks dark as dusk.’
Wind blowing from the water was so strong that the women were fighting to keep their skirts down, and Lily was nearly blown off her feet as a gust swept her petticoats high over her head and then buffeted them back around her legs like a disapproving mother.
‘Seven magpies,’ said Lily, counting a line which had settled near the riverbank. ‘Seven for a secret never to be told.’ She added glancing at Charlie. ‘A bad omen.’
‘Or,’ said Charlie, ‘it signifies that the Hatton Garden berry bushes are full of refugees fleeing fire. I don’t believe in omens,’ he added.
At the water steps the burning city smell was intermingled with roasting meat. Butchers from Smithfield were griddling chops which would be spoiled before the markets reopened. Hungry Londoners were queuing to buy them at half price.
‘People bury their goods,’ Lilt observed as two sweating men worked with shovels to dig a pit.
‘Every boat, cart or wagon for twenty miles is used,’ explained a woman with a wide basket of fish on her head. ‘Only the rich can afford it.’
She tilted her basket hopefully towards them, but Charlie shook his head.
‘How far is the fire along the river?’ asked Charlie.
‘They stopped it at London Bridge,’ said the woman. ‘Firebreaks. But it raged all along Cheapside. They try and hold it back at the Fleet. But it goes north to Lothbury and the Stock Exchange makes a bonfire tall enough to carry sparks all over the city. Now they fear the London Stone. And everyone knows what happens if the stone cracks.’
Lily looked to Charlie.
‘The city will fall,’ he said. ‘It’s an old legend. The Stone was put there by the Romans to protect London.’
Lily raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in omens.’
Charlie looked at the river steps jammed with frantic refugees loading hastily bound goods from boats. ‘How many houses do they say?’ he asked.
‘Three hundred and more besides,’ said the fish-wife, resettling her basket and looking past them for possible customers. ‘And still it burns bad. All of Fish Street and Cannon Street are burned, and it makes its way along Thames Street like a great rampaging monster with this fierce wind behind it. You’ll not get a boat unless you’ve gold,’ she added, glancing to the water. ‘This last half hour the people turn frantic.’
‘It’s hopeless,’ said Lily, staring out on to the crowded river. ‘Those boatmen are only taking people with huge purses of money.’
They watched as a scuffle broke out between two families surrounded by household goods.
Charlie assessed the steps. Bickering Londoners surged and elbowed. He estimated over a hundred people fought for ten boats.
Charlie looked along the riverfront.
‘Ferries are all taken,’ he muttered, ‘but there’s another docking area for commercial boats.’
Lily watched a handful of sweating men heaving wine, animal skins and lengths of timber at speed across the wharf.
‘We don’t need a row boat,’ Charlie decided. ‘We can stow on a lighter-craft. The kind shunted by a pole,’ he added, pointing to the flat-bottomed boats.
‘The wine lighter is too valuable to risk passengers,’ he said. ‘And the timber is too heavy. But the animal skins . . .’ He watched as heavy bales of furs and leathers were tossed on to the deck. ‘There would be enough room for a few passengers.’
‘The lighters won’t take commoners,’ said Lily, eyeing the gold crest on each boat. ‘Only guild merchants or nobles.’
Charlie was looking thoughtfully at the gold embroidery on Lily’s red silk dress.
‘You should have learned to wear shoes,’ Lily was saying. ‘Your coat is fashionable cut. Wide cuffs, flared at the bottom.’ She mimed the shape. ‘It covers your cheap shirt so we need only borrow a pair of stockings.’
‘My legs are too thin,’ said Charlie. ‘And bare feet are useful.’
‘What possible use . . .’
‘You don’t look noble either,’ interrupted Charlie. ‘But a mistress of a noble. Perhaps.’
&nb
sp; His eyes were roaming the crowd. They settled on a wealthy man in a blue doublet. A lord or a duke, Charlie thought. He was holding up a weighty purse, pushing past a slew of poorer people.
‘Something might be done for passage,’ Charlie decided, watching two harassed-looking servants follow the lord with a chest and several bundles. ‘Could you distract that lord? Work a deceit on him?’
Lily’s eyebrows arched.
‘I forgot,’ said Charlie mockingly. ‘You are London’s best trickster.’
She nodded, a faint smile on her lips.
‘You truly think you could convince that lighterman to take us?’ she asked.
Lily looked at the scrum of people waving coins at the boats and again at the lighters.
Charlie was looking at the riverbank, where old barrel hoops and broken cart parts lay caked in dried mud.
Charlie’s eyes moved back to Lily.
‘That depends,’ he said.
‘On?’
‘How clean are your underclothes?’
Lily’s eyes widened.
‘Clean,’ she managed, ‘and too expensive for your concern.’
‘Good,’ said Charlie. ‘You need to take them off.’
Chapter 40
Blackstone eyed the woman.
In the darkness of the street, she had seemed to look very much like Teresa. She had long blonde hair, like his wife on their wedding day. But in his candlelit cellar she looked more like what she was. An ageing whore with a cheap wig and cork cheek-plumpers to pad out her sunken face.
‘What is thish?’ asked the woman, manoeuvring the cork balls in her mouth with difficulty. ‘Witchcraft?’
There was a hint of terror in her laboured consonants.
Blackstone followed the direction of her gaze. He supposed Teresa’s cellar did look intimidating to the initiated. The dank room was filled from floor to ceiling with her talismans. Corn dollies. Sheaves of ash and elm steeped in rank water. Bloody ribbons and tattered feathers.
‘Put this on,’ he said, handing her a crown of leaves in reply.
The woman took it and settled it over her rats-tail wig. She seemed relieved at having a more obvious role.
