by C. S. Quinn
‘With my invention,’ promised Bartholomew grandly, ‘Your Majesty will plot a faster course to the New World. You will beat the Dutch and return with riches.’
‘You mean to win a war against the greatest admiral of the age,’ said Amesbury, his voice thick with contempt, ‘by the use of an injured dog?’
Temporarily forgetting her seasickness, Frances had moved forward to pat the dog.
James turned to Amesbury. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘There is no need for negotiation with the Dutch. With the riches we’ll win from the colonies, we’ll rebuild our navy in weeks.’
‘Your Majesty,’ said Amesbury, seeing doubt in the King’s face, ‘even if this scheme were viable, it takes months to reach the New World.’
‘A ship has already been sent,’ interjected James. ‘The Loyal London set sail months ago, with its longitude dog aboard.’ He smiled at Amesbury. ‘I myself invested in the voyage. The Loyal London will return in days, laden with spoils.’
The Duke of York turned to Frances, inviting her approval.
‘A dog is a jolly creature,’ said Frances. ‘I’m sure he would greatly cheer the sailors at sea.’ She clamped her mouth shut suddenly. Her nausea seemed to be returning.
The King smiled at her. ‘We are alike in our love of dogs,’ he said, gazing at Frances.
‘We don’t need the stars or an injured dog to tell us,’ protested Amesbury. ‘We have no navy. The Dutch mean to invade and have the resources to take England. Sue for peace,’ he advised, ‘before the Dutch realise how great their advantage to be.’
Charles hesitated. Then his eyes dropped to Frances, her tiny frame swaying. She was now noticeably green.
‘I will not sue for peace,’ he announced loudly, his voice thickening with kingly grandeur. ‘The intellectual might of the English will best the Dutch.’
Amesbury opened his mouth to protest, but Frances jackknifed suddenly. Wine-coloured vomit splashed heavily on the planked floor. Amesbury’s monkey chattered in alarm and raced up the leg of the general.
‘Frances!’ Charles moved quickly to her side. ‘The lady is unwell,’ he said, his frown daring anyone to laugh at the growing wine-coloured puddle. He waved a hand. ‘Someone see to this.’
The few servants were milling uncertainly. Amesbury reached forward, tugged a cloak free from the nearest, dropped it over the vomit and bowed.
The King nodded gratefully. ‘We must return to Whitehall and see Frances cared for,’ he decided, fitting an arm around Frances’s wavering form. ‘The chill air has upset her delicate constitution. James’s longitude solution seems a sensible one,’ he concluded distractedly.
‘We’d better pray the dog works,’ muttered Amesbury to his monkey as the King retreated, bearing Frances unsteadily on his arm. ‘If De Ryker catches so much as a glimpse of our mothballed navy, we’ll be hacking our vowels and drinking gin by Christmas. Those of us who aren’t dead,’ he added.
Chapter 29
Charlie and Lily were heading towards the illegal cockfighting arena near Whitehall. High on a pike was Cromwell’s head, placed there by the King on his return to parliament. King Charles had dug up the Lord Protector’s remains and given them a traitor’s death as revenge for beheading his father.
‘We’ll set a mantrap in the cockpits,’ Charlie explained. ‘I do it all the time.’
‘To catch thieves on the run,’ said Lily, ‘not a man following you.’
‘The principle is the same,’ said Charlie. ‘Be where someone isn’t expecting.’
Flying feathers could already be seen. Several pits were filled with men and fighting birds. A loose crowd obscured the cockerels, but the loud crowing rose above the male jeers and shouts.
‘They forecast the future with fighting cocks?’ asked Lily, catching the strains of shouted bets.
‘Each pit is for a different bet,’ Charlie confirmed with a nod. ‘There they bet on wars.’ He pointed. ‘Over there is the King’s affairs, and there are smaller ones for matters of the day. No one is allowed to bet openly on the death of the King or predict unpatriotic outcomes to wars,’ added Charlie. ‘This is a harmless outlet for such talk. It’s illegal, but the authorities allow it.’
They were moving past a pit where two birds had been crudely dressed as Holland and England, each with a national flag neckerchief. Men cheered for England and shouted obscenities at the Dutch bird.
‘You disappear into the crowd when I signal it,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll draw our pursuer into the little betting shack.’ He nodded to a makeshift shed at the edge of the fighting ring, large enough to hold a few men and a bet taker. With the fight in progress it was currently deserted. A string of horseshoes to bring good luck to gamblers hung in the empty doorway.
‘How will you get him inside?’ Lily was eyeing the wooden outhouse dubiously.
‘Just be ready to make sure no one sees me lure him in,’ said Charlie.
‘What if he’s stronger than you?’
‘Good chance he is,’ said Charlie, who was wiry rather than muscular. ‘But the element of surprise is worth two men.’
‘Better hope he’s not strong enough for three,’ muttered Lily as they drifted into the thick of the shouting gamblers.
Charlie gave the signal, and Lily vanished with impressive aplomb into the net of tankard-swilling men. He waited a moment to be sure. Then he caught a flash at the edge of his vision. A man with a Dutch pipe was moving into the crowd.
Charlie nodded to himself. Crowds always gave people a sense they couldn’t be seen. He was hoping their Dutch tracker would let his guard down and come close enough for Charlie to catch a good look at him. But he was too clever for that, keeping his distance.
Charlie moved towards a pit where men waved almanacs and two ragged birds had been styled as planets. One wore a red hood for Mercury, another a green hat for Venus. As the birds fought, the astrologers gabbled excitedly about the planetary outcomes and made notes.
Charlie moved to the edge of the crowd. A row of beggars was seated hopefully on the outskirts, waiting for any generous-spirited winners once the fight had ended.
Charlie sized up a large man, lurching drunkenly from foot to foot, cheering. He took out his eating knife and gave the gambler’s side a sharp prod with the blade. The drunk man turned to the person standing next to him.
‘You should have a care with your sword!’ he accused.
The other man turned, taking a step back to assess his aggressor. As he moved, Charlie slipped behind, ducked low and threw himself down with the seated beggars.
Ignoring their looks of surprise, Charlie turned around his leather coat and put it on inside out, exposing the mouldering lining. He picked up a quick hand of mud and ran it over his face and hair. Then he waited.
For a moment he thought the Dutchman wouldn’t take the bait. Then he saw a tall figure in a large hat, a smouldering pipe clutched in his fingers.
The Dutchman was clearly looking for him. But in all Charlie’s experience, no one ever looked down at beggars. This man was no different.
His face was obscured by the hat, but Charlie could tell by his body language he was scanning the crowd. The Dutchman began slowly circling the cockpit, edging nearer the betting booth.
Back a little more, urged Charlie. A few steps more.
When he judged the peripheral vision to be right, Charlie pulled back his arm and hurled a stone in the direction of the entrance. It struck the edge of the hanging horseshoes in the doorway and they tinkled gently.
The Dutchman caught the sudden motion and turned sharply. Charlie saw him hesitate, then move towards the entrance.
He was taller than Charlie had hoped, but the plan had worked perfectly so far. Charlie raced quickly towards the betting shack. Behind him he saw Lily fall into place, ready to deter anyone about to come inside.
He stepped silently through the dark doorway. The Dutchman stood with his back to him, taking in the empty shack. There was a small covered table,
and he moved forward as if to look behind.
Then he hesitated and began to turn.
Charlie darted forward, throwing his arms around the man’s neck, but the element of surprise had been lost. He’d meant to pull the man bodily to the floor. Instead he pushed back, sending them both down.
Charlie twisted in the dirt, trying to gain the upper hand. The Dutchman turned and deployed a strangely familiar wrestling move.
In his surprise Charlie released both arms.
He was fighting a dead man.
The hat tilted back and the head came into view, a grin splitting the face.
Charlie’s mouth dropped wide open as his assailant grabbed him in an affectionate bear hug.
‘Charlie,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Good to see you, brother.’
Waves of relief shuddered through him, and a tight anguish he didn’t realise he’d been holding slowly unwound.
‘Hello, Rowan.’
Chapter 30
Judge Walters adjusted his pearly eyepatch and settled his black robes comfortably in the chair. The drowning was about to begin. His seat was drawn close to the window of a riverside tavern, a prime position to witness his justice carried out.
The view from the alehouse was of the wide Thames flowing past Deptford to Greenwich. It was known as Execution Dock. But the locals had come to call it Pirate’s Wharf. Boats had gathered on the river to watch the unlucky convict meet his end.
A muffled roar went up from the river. The Judge craned his head slightly to see that his guard had arrived. They dragged between them the half-dead body of the convict. Walters watched the pirate, still choking from his half hanging, dragged to the edge of the docks.
The Judge raised his hand and called for wine. His vista from the opposite bank was perfect for viewing the rising tide. Surrounding him were empty seats. This half of the alehouse was always deserted when the Bloody Judge came to sit.
The tavern owner arrived at his side with a jug of sweet wine. Judge Walters gestured he should pour.
‘Anything more?’ asked the tavern owner uncomfortably.
The Judge knew he wasn’t welcome in the alehouse, but the landlord was too frightened to refuse him. The Judge leaned back slightly in his chair and removed a snowy lace handkerchief from deep in his black robes.
‘The girl serving ale at the front of the house,’ he said. ‘Your daughter?’
The landlord paled. ‘That she is. A good lass.’
‘I’m sure she is.’ Judge Walters wiped his mouth carefully on the white lace. ‘Send her to join me.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘I should like some pretty company whilst I wait for the tide.’
The landlord visibly recoiled. ‘Might you choose another girl?’ he suggested. ‘There’s no shortage of willing women this side of the harbour.’
‘I don’t keep company with dockside whores,’ snapped the Judge. ‘You’re fortunate I don’t bring justice to this lawless part of the docks. Send me your daughter.’
The landlord cringed, his face pained. He vanished momentarily and seconds later his young daughter arrived. The Judge thought her to be around fifteen – the same age as Frances Stewart. Nowhere near as pretty in her plain wool dress and white cap, but her plump face and blonde hair were attractive enough.
‘My father suggested you wanted some company.’ She hovered uncertainly, as if she hoped the whole incident was a misunderstanding and he might send her away.
‘Sit.’ The Judge gestured impatiently.
The girl sat on the bench next to the Judge’s chair, perching herself uncomfortably so her body was positioned as far as possible from his. Her eyes drifted to the window. The pirate was being chained to the dockside now. Water was lapping at his knees.
The girl was staring at the Judge’s pearly eyepatch.
He tapped it. ‘When I was a naval officer,’ he said, ‘pirates caught up with our boat whilst we sailed back from Antigua. Tortured us all. They killed my brother right in front of my eyes. Hung him from his fingertips and gutted him.’ The Judge paused, as if vividly picturing the scene. ‘But I survived, as you see,’ he concluded. ‘And now I work to be sure no man will fear a pirate.’
The girl made no answer, chewing her lip uncertainly.
The Judge saw how the pirate sagged against his chains, and he smiled.
‘Once the water reaches their chest, they often say all kinds of things,’ he explained. ‘Confessions, repentings. It’s most entertaining. The sound carries, even from this distance.’
The girl swallowed. ‘I’ve never seen it,’ she said.
‘Every Londoner should be made to see justice carried out,’ opined the Judge firmly. ‘It deters crime.’ He turned to examine her face, white with repugnance at the dying pirate. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Selena.’
Her voice sounded small.
‘After the ancient Moon Goddess Diana,’ observed the Judge. ‘Do you know your stars?’
‘My father says they are heathen things,’ said the girl carefully, ‘and I mind him.’
‘You’ve heard of the Deptford murders?’
‘Folk speak much of them,’ said Selena, measuring every word.
The Judge nodded. The tide was lapping the man’s torso now. The steady nature of the death was what pleased him best. Seeing the man’s life slip away with each lap of the rising water.
He could tell that Selena was fascinated despite herself. Women were all the same. Death awed them. A ripple of power eddied through him.
‘The same bodies came nineteen years ago,’ he observed. ‘You would be too young to remember.’ He turned the tankard in his hands. ‘Nineteen years,’ he said, ‘is the exact time it takes for the stars in the heavens to make a complete revolution and come back to how they once were.’
‘You’re very learned to know such things,’ said Selena politely.
‘I’ve made it my business to be educated in the stars,’ agreed Judge Walters. ‘A man can tell the future from the skies.’ He broke off and fixed his single eye on hers. ‘What do you hope your future might be?’
Selena swallowed. There was something menacing about his tone.
‘A good husband.’ She faltered. ‘Healthy children.’
The Judge nodded slowly. ‘Yet you have not acted wisely if you wish for such things.’
Selena felt a redness creep up her neck. What could he be talking about?
‘You are friends,’ continued the Judge, ‘with a girl named Lily Boswell. A gypsy.’ He spat the last words.
Selena’s skin turned icy. Her hands prickled with sweat. ‘I don’t know who you mean, sir,’ she said.
The Judge’s gaze was fixed on the dock now. Selena found herself following it, watching the drowning man. She could almost feel the water lapping at her own chin.
‘Yes, you do,’ said the Judge. ‘Lily Boswell has been in here.’
‘Father doesn’t allow gypsies.’
‘But you do,’ said the Judge. ‘You’ve a soft spot for them.’
Selena felt panic rise up. ‘I only served her food and drink,’ she gabbled. ‘There was no harm in it.’
The Judge nodded. ‘But you saw her drunk,’ he said. ‘Drunk gypsies talk.’ His eyes flashed. ‘What did she say to you?’
‘Nothing. I swear.’
The Judge turned to look at her. ‘I would hate for your good father,’ he said, ‘to watch his daughter drown opposite his own tavern.’
Selena blanched. ‘I think . . . I only remember she mentioned treasure. Lily had heard rumours. She was looking for Ishmael Boney. I don’t know why.’
‘What else?’ demanded the Judge.
‘She needed a thief taker,’ said Selena. ‘I remember now. She said a man called Charlie Tuesday would help her find the treasure.’ She let out a breath. ‘That’s all I know. I swear it.’
The Judge turned the facts in his mind. Charlie Tuesday. He’d heard of the thief taker. But why was the gypsy looking for Ishmael Boney?
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He stored this away with what he knew. The astrologer was under the King’s protection. The Judge looked back at Selena. The stupid girl was close to fainting. He felt certain she’d told him everything she knew.
‘Come closer to the window,’ he said, his good eye glittering. ‘I think it best you watch justice done. I want to be certain you understand what I am capable of.’
Chapter 31
‘I’ve been trying to get you alone,’ explained Rowan, tipping back beer at his usual breakneck speed.
They’d retreated to an intimate back room in the Seven Stars Tavern usually reserved for smuggler deals. Lily had given Rowan one long suspicious look, then announced she’d wait elsewhere whilst they talked. Charlie felt as though he could breathe again. That a lost part of him had been returned.
The two brothers bore an obvious resemblance, with large expressive eyes and eyebrows. Though where Charlie’s nose was kinked and his lip scarred from a bucking horse, Rowan’s handsome features were unscathed. They both had slightly curling hair, thick and unruly, though Rowan’s was dark to Charlie’s dusty blond, and worn longer to disguise half an ear missing from a knife fight.
‘I’m a wanted man.’ Rowan’s eyes shuffled back and forth. ‘Can’t risk being seen in public.’
‘Why didn’t you find me before?’ demanded Charlie. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rowan. ‘Truly. I couldn’t risk it.’ His brown eyes had the same poetic quality as Charlie’s, and it was unnerving to see his own charm played back at him. ‘I couldn’t take the chance,’ Rowan continued, swigging more ale. ‘I owe money to the Oracle.’
‘The Oracle?’ Charlie didn’t bother to hide the horror in his voice. The Oracle was probably the most dangerous man in London. He was a smuggler king, living deep under Southwark in a secret black market known only to the city’s deadliest felons. The Oracle’s genius for discerning boat cargo and selling the information to smugglers had earned him his title and fame. He was also insane, vengeful and powerful. All in all, a bad man to owe money.
