by Davies, J. D
‘Most audacious, mistress,’ Musk shouted back. ‘But why did you take a second ledger? We only needed the one. It is only the one name that we seek.’
Cornelia glanced across at him and grinned. ‘You should see some of the names in the second book, and some of the things they like to do! Who knows how such knowledge might be useful?’
The two finally reined in some five miles later, when they were certain that Anderson had not ignored their warning and sent out a pursuit. They dismounted by a stream, watered their horses, and finally discarded the personas of Sir Venner and Lady Garvey; in Musk’s case, this meant losing his periwig, a fashion that he had never understood and suspected he never would. He ran his hand across his bald head, hoping to dislodge any lice that might have strayed from their lodgings in the vile adornment.
He and Cornelia sat down side-by-side on a grassy hummock, and Musk opened the saddle bag that contained the ledgers. ‘Well, then, mistress’ said Musk, ‘let us see what Mistress Anderson can tell us.’
Gradually, the thrill of the chase evaporated. Cornelia Quinton looked away, down the torpid little stream, with an intensity that suggested she was trying to spy its destination, the distant sea. As Musk read avidly, Cornelia was increasingly subdued and thoughtful.
‘Oh, Musk, do we do the right thing?’ she said. ‘Suddenly, I know not why, I feel guilt beyond measure.’
‘Guilt, mistress? Taking these books can’t be a sin, I reckon. The people listed in them and the Andersons, they’re the ones who’ve committed the sin.’
‘No, Musk. I mean Matthew. Hiding what we do from him. I feel I have become but an adulterous wife, one of those brazen harpies who lies to her husband as a matter of course.’
As gently as he could, Musk said, ‘Mistress, you know My Lord’s reasoning upon this – that is, as to why Captain Quinton must not know what we do.’
She nodded reflectively. ‘Ja. His argument is sound, I think. Poor Matthew has concerns enough without being further weighed down by becoming privy to our business. And even if he knew of it, he would be proud of what I have done here, and in what cause. Of that I am sure.’ And of that, indeed, she was entirely right: as I sit here, all these years later, I still feel the pride and love (aye, and something of the alarm, too) that surged through me when I first learned of Cornelia’s momentary transformation into a veritable Wicked Lady.
Cornelia thought further upon her condition. ‘But if my brother Cornelis could see me… What would he think, Musk? His twin sister, a spy for England and her mysterious Lord Percival, holding a man prisoner at gunpoint!’
Musk sought to distract her from a further descent into guilty self-doubt. ‘You hold a pistol most expertly, Mistress,’ he said.
‘And could have fired it just as expertly, Musk!’ said Cornelia. She sighed. ‘But my brother would not be proud, I think. He would lecture me on the unsuitability of it all, as he always did even when we were but children and I wished him to teach me how men fight. The older he gets, the narrower his views become, and he can only see Dutch women as meek mevrouwen. Even his sister.’ She shook her head, lamenting Captain Cornelis van der Eide’s limitations. ‘Not that he would get so far as such a lecture, for he would already have disowned me for serving England in a war against our native land. My dear brother has ever seen the world in black and white, those two shades only.’
Musk was still thumbing through the ledger, scanning the endless lists of names and paying relatively little attention to Cornelia’s ruminations. Suddenly, he stabbed a stubby finger at one entry. ‘Look, mistress! I think this might be the name that we seek.’
He passed the ledger over to Cornelia. ‘Yes, Musk, you might be right. So we return to London, then, and to this address?’
‘I think we have had enough drama this day, mistress. No, I must lay this information before My Lord, to request his further orders, and he has left town for some days upon – upon the other matter that concerns us.’
‘Ah, this so-mysterious “other matter” of yours, Musk. The matter that cannot be confided to a mere woman, of course. Cornelia Quinton will serve to play the part of dear Liz and to wield a pistol if she must, but entrust her with as few secrets as possible!’
Musk shuffled uncomfortably and turned his eyes from her. His thoughts were still partly upon the information in the ledger, and not entirely upon the words he uttered. ‘That is not the case, mistress. We seek only to protect you and – well, to protect you.’
‘Protect me and – ? Who is the “and”, Musk? Who else? It is Matthew, is it not?’ She was urgent now, and reached out to grip his wrist tightly. ‘Your other matter concerns him. Does it put him in danger, Musk?’
Musk silently cursed himself for his indiscretion. ‘No greater danger than he is already in, mistress, aboard a fleet about to sail into battle.’ Musk cursed himself again, this time for sounding more callous than he had intended to be.
Cornelia began to cry, and Phineas Musk cursed himself a third time.
* * *
It is customary for flag officers to entertain the captains of their division to dinner, and thus on our last afternoon at the Gunfleet the Bachelor’s Delight took me across to the Royal Oak, Sir John Lawson’s new flagship in the stead of the exploded London. She was anchored close to the Cork Sand, almost directly off Harwich and Landguard. As Roberts steered me under her stern to the larboard entry port, I considered her as a potential opponent for the Merhonour. The odds would not be good, I decided at once, and surely cast grave doubt upon Lord Arlington’s confident assertion that the Merhonour could obstruct any treachery on Lawson’s part and successfully defend the Duke of York against an attack by the ship I now boarded. The Oak was brand new, indeed was over a century younger than the ancient Merhonour; she carried seventy-six guns; and she had a crack crew of volunteers from Lawson’s Yorkshire, a county vast enough swiftly to make good the appalling losses on the London. True, I had fought a Commonwealth turncoat in a larger ship once before, but that had been less of a mismatch than any fight between Royal Oak and Merhonour would surely be.
Thus I was a somewhat troubled man when I went into Lawson’s cabin, and my mood was not improved by the sight of my fellow captains, already arrayed around the table. Without exception they were old Commonwealth-men, the likes of Jordan of the St George, Clarke of the Gloucester and Abelson of the Guinea, who was some sort of kinsman of Lawson’s. I would have had a more comfortable meal in the centre division with the likes of Marlborough and Beau Harris or even in the rear with the supposedly suspect Will Berkeley. They all fell silent as I entered, exactly as if I had interrupted them in the midst of some treasonous discussion about how to restore Tumbledown Dick Cromwell as Lord Protector. In truth, though, the silence might have been a consequence of my appearance. I had become accustomed to wear my finest attire upon such occasions, and Cornelia had recently insisted that I should purchase a new close-kneed suit for a campaign fought under the Duke of York and in the company of much of the nobility of the realm. Thus I must have been something of a spectacle in emerald-green with gold trim, crowned with a periwig that made my head unique among all those in the room. For in terms of fashion, at least, all of Lawson’s other captains were still true to the principles of the godly republic. They were bare headed and wore nothing more flamboyant than their day-to-day buff tunics; thus I felt, and looked, like a peacock among pigeons. It is to avoid such embarrassments, they say, that today’s sea-officers cry out, ‘ah, we must have a uniform!’ Utter nonsense, of course. In truth, it is so that they can appear equal to the grandees of the army and cut a greater dash among the ladies, who ever swoon away at the sight of a red coat. May God grant that even our idiot Hanoverian masters never concede such an effeminate and un-English frippery as a naval uniform.
As it was, my discomfort increased when I realised that Lawson had placed me next to him at table, reflecting both my rank in society and the fact that Merhonour was, notionally at least, his second in the m
ighty duel to come. He greeted me fulsomely enough, but I prepared for the sort of dinner that must be served in purgatory.
Yet the fare was good enough, when it arrived. Lawson knew how to act the part of an admiral, and his galley supplied carp, mutton, lobster, oysters, together with puddings in profusion. Inevitably, we drank Hull ale, for Lawson had once lived in that garrison city and was stout in its defence during the civil war; stout on the rebel side, that is. Perhaps as a tribute to his adopted home, Lawson seemed determined to consume a prodigious quantity of its product.
The victuals might have been substantial, but that was more than could be said for Sir John’s conversation, which rarely interrupted the steady flow of ale into his gullet. He was either one of those men who finds convivial discourse difficult or one of those godly souls who believes such levity to be beneath a Christian man, even a remarkably thirsty Christian man. Quite suddenly, though, he turned to me as I was chewing upon a tolerable piece of mutton and said, ‘Well, then, Captain Quinton. Your ship. Well manned, you think?’
I nearly choked upon the meat. Lawson was breaking one of the unspoken rules of naval tables by discussing matters of business; worse, he seemed to have led me into a trap. Of course my ally and superior officer would be interested in the fighting qualities of the Merhonour. But so, too, and for very different reasons, would a potential opponent.
I determined upon truth: after all, the inadequacy of my crew would be apparent to all in the division once we weighed, so there was little point in dissembling. ‘I have many good men, Sir John. But the most recent drafts are likely to be troublesome. Many landsmen, Welsh and other such dubious creatures. We have had fewer men run than some others in the fleet, but I think that is only because they are less experienced in the ways of deserting a man-of-war. I pray I will have time to mould them into a good fighting crew that can face any foe.’
‘Ah, then, let us hope that you shall prove the truth of the second letter of Paul to the Corinthians, Captain. Chapter twelve, verse ten.’ My face must have borne the confused expression of a young man whose education had been disrupted by civil war and who had subsequently slept through too many ineffably dull sermons in his local parish church. “When I am weak, then I am strong.” A principle that I have ever found useful in my own life.’ Lawson finished his tankard and had it refilled at once by his attendant. ‘Consider the time when his present Majesty was about to come in. Should I not have been at my weakest, Captain Quinton? John Lawson, as firm a man for the republic as you could find in England?’
I looked about me uncomfortably, for at any dinner table in the 1660s such discourse of the old divisions was considered anathema. ‘I do not know, Sir John.’
‘Aye, I should have been.’ There was not a little Hull ale in Sir John’s speech, but there was something else, too; for some reason, this was something he felt he had to say to me. ‘But I thought upon Corinthians, Captain, and realised that in truth, I was strong. The king needed the navy. Only I could deliver him that navy without a fight. And so we came to an accommodation, the king and I. Thus here I am today, a knight of the realm and vice-admiral under the heir to England himself.’ He was slurring a little, his eyes glazing over. ‘Does my story shock you, Captain? Does it smack of selling your soul? Some would say I sold it, you see. Some of my old colleagues, that is, who still hold firm to the Old Cause, without kings or bishops. John Lawson, bought for ten thousand pounds… But now that we have had five years of kingly rule, would ten thousand pounds be enough to buy John Lawson’s soul back again?’ The corner of his lip curled a little; it was what passed for a smile upon the Yorkshireman’s grim face. ‘I tell you this, though, Matthew Quinton. Ten thousand would be nowhere near enough to buy you twenty captains.’
But, nearer home, thy pencil use once more
And place our navy by the Holland shore.
The world they compass’d while they fought with Spain,
But here already they resign the main.
~ Edmund Waller, Instructions to a Painter
Phineas Musk was returning to Ravensden House in good cheer. Admittedly, the matter of the twenty captains was as opaque as ever. Despite Sutcliffe’s best efforts, the members of Harvey’s conventicle at Barking remained tight-lipped on what, if anything, they knew of the conspiracy. But Lord Percival’s other matter was well in hand. Moreover, Musk had consumed a most acceptable rabbit pie at the Vulture on Cornhill, noticeably quieter than usual as the more timid clientele sought to avoid any risk of infection; he had contemplated the merits of several tankards of prime Wapping ale, and found them satisfactory; best of all, Good-wife Marten, cheerily unconcerned by plague and her marriage vows alike, had proved very willing to entertain him for an hour or so. True, he had seen a beggar drop dead in Portsoken and heard those who ran to attend the corpse proclaim in terror that it was the pestilence, but one less beggar was hardly a matter of much concern. Moreover, Musk had never been within twenty feet of the cadaver, so in his estimation the plague could not trouble him. Besides, it was well known that drinking prodigiously was one of the surest defences against the pestilence. Phineas Musk was doubly secure.
According to Musk’s account, he thus returned to Ravensden House refreshed and ready to embark upon an arduous round of domestic duties. Aye, time for a slumber, more like, you mendacious old villain!
Yet the house was not right. The front door was almost never used, and Musk entered at the back, as was his wont; but there should have been no lantern burning in the pantry, and there certainly should have been no noises emanating from the eighth earl’s parlour, which had been sealed up since the old man’s death twenty years before. There should have been no noise anywhere in the house, other than the occasional familiar transit of a rat across the floorboards. Musk went to the cupboard that constituted his personal armoury, drew out a pistol and a cudgel, and moved toward the parlour.
Musk prayed that his approach would be silent, but it was the very devil to succeed in this. He was not a light man, and the floorboards of Ravensden House were known for their perverse groans and screeches. And the hall was dark. The front windows were never unshuttered, and the lanterns were unlit. He trod carefully, slowly, toward the door of the parlour.
The room was at the front of the house, to the left as Musk approached it from the rear passageway. The room in which Earl Matthew had died was a grand affair; or rather, it had been grand once, when the earl was in his pomp. Musk had been inside perhaps half-a-dozen times in the last two decades. As he approached the half-open door, though, he could hear furniture being moved within. Musk confesses that a sudden, irrational vision of the irate ghost of Earl Matthew came into his mind, and he shivered.
He cocked his pistol, pushed the door open and stepped into the room.
A prodigiously broad, crop-headed brute of a man spun around in surprise. He held a sheet of paper in one hand and a vicious dagger in the other. He thrust the latter toward Musk, who raised his pistol and levelled it at the other’s head. The thief stepped back, contemplating the distance between the two of them and the probability of his being able to stick Musk with the blade before Musk could put a pistol-ball between his temples.
The brute’s features seemed familiar. Musk struggled to place him, although recognition came within a few moments.
‘Sleep,’ he said. ‘You’re one of the Countess’s men.’
‘Bravo, Musk,’ said a new voice from the dark far end of the parlour; a woman’s voice. ‘You have a formidable memory.’
Louise, Countess of Ravensden, stepped into the lighter part of the room. She wore plain draperies of brown and grey, a marked contrast to her usual finery.
Musk kept the pistol levelled at Sleep. ‘My Lady,’ he said grudgingly.
‘Come now, Musk – do we really need weapons?’ she asked.
‘What is it you do here, My Lady? You and this foul ratsbane?’
The countess stared at him innocently. ‘Why, Musk, is this not my house?’
‘Perhaps I was over-hasty,’ said the countess. ‘Such a fascinating building. So many secrets – and it gives them up so jealously.’ She turned to her attendant. ‘Sleep, I have no further need of you for the moment. Go to the kitchens and amuse yourself.’
The rogue lowered his dagger reluctantly and scowled at Musk as he passed. With him gone, Musk looked around the room that had once been so familiar to him. The parlour had lain undisturbed since March 1645, but now signs of disturbance were everywhere. Rugs had been pulled up, chairs overturned, cabinet drawers opened. Layers of dust had been upset. The room had been searched.
‘You have a curious way of treating your rooms, My Lady,’ said Musk, whose lack of deference to his betters was a byword.
She smiled. ‘Ah, Musk, I could dissemble and find some excuse – which as a discreet servant, you would of course accept, whatever your inner thoughts. That is the way of it in your station, is it not?’ She gave him no time to answer. ‘But you are a man known both for bluntness and for your loyalty to the family of Quinton. So I don’t doubt that you would write post-haste to my poor sickly husband at Bath, and to Matthew and Tristram for good measure. After all, have you not been part of the little band that has sought to bring me down by whatever means it could?’ She stepped before him and looked directly into his eyes. ‘No surprise, Musk? What a good actor you are. But the game that you, Tris, Matthew and Cornelia tried to play against me was doomed to fail. Here I am, Countess of Ravensden and bedfellow of the King of England. Perhaps soon to be so much more – with your assistance.’ The countess smiled. ‘Ah, now the actor’s mask slips! Yes, Musk, your assistance. That is why I have come here now – to see you. But you kept me waiting, Phineas Musk, so I became curious to see whether this house contains what it is I seek.’
