Campion was curious rather than nervous. The babble of voices and the patent irritation of the courtiers had turned this public audience into something quite undignified and not at all awesome, yet when she caught her first sight of the King she was surprised by her sudden fear. He was, after all, a king, anointed of God, apart from the common ruck of men who stank in the press about him.
King Charles was much smaller than she expected, despite his high-heeled shoes and plumed hat. He was neatly bearded and stood strangely quiet and diffident in the center of the busy throng. His eyebrows seemed raised in a perpetual expression of quizzical surprise, and if he had been anything other than the King, Campion might have taken him for one of the university doctors who still walked Oxford’s streets and pretended their community had not been invaded by a court and an army.
A man carrying a tall, gold-topped staff beckoned the Lazenders forward. Sir Toby bowed, while Lady Margaret and Lady Campion curtseyed. The King nodded primly, apparently uninterested, and then the courtier who had summoned them forward gestured that they could back away from the august presence.
A gloved, royal hand was raised. Campion saw that the King wore jewelled rings on the outside of his glove. He looked at Campion and his voice was precise and clear. “You are the daughter of Christopher Aretine?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
He blinked at her twice and she thought no more was to be said. Then his precise, mincing voice sounded again. “We are glad to find you more loyal than he.”
There seemed little appropriate to reply and, indeed, the bored royal eyes were already looking past Campion to the next people being ushered forward. Campion backed away, uncertain whether she had been complimented or insulted.
Lady Margaret had no doubts. “We endure this monstrous crush of people to pay our respects and the man is rude! If he wasn’t God’s anointed I’m quite sure he wouldn’t be invited anywhere. The man has no conversation at all, none! Except with very dreary priests. He is Scottish, of course.” She sniffed imperiously, not caring who overheard her words. “Of course he’s a distinct improvement on his father. King James dribbled and he had the most disgusting table manners. I trust my grandchildren will have good table manners. There are few things more distressing than to watch a child playing with its food. Your husband played with his food, dear, but fortunately I rarely ate with him. Ah! There’s Lord Spears. He says he has a new method of grafting fruit trees. The man’s a fool, but he may be right. I shall find you!” With that she plunged into the throng.
Toby grinned at Campion. “What did you think of our all-wise monarch?”
“He’s not what I expected.” She looked at the small, bearded man who was giving a faint nod at a hugely fat man who had difficulty in bowing.
“I thought you were going to wet yourself.”
“Toby! Really!”
A voice interrupted them, a harsh voice from behind. “You must introduce me, Lady Lazender.” The voice seemed to mock her name.
She turned. Vavasour Devorax smiled sourly at her. His new beard was already an inch long. His clothes seemed as filthy as ever; still the same greasy, smelly leather jacket. He had cut his gray hair short, almost cropped like a Roundhead, and it gave his already scarred, ravaged face a more brutal look. She smiled, feeling immediately nervous. “Colonel Devorax. This is Sir Toby.”
The cold gray eyes appraised Toby. There was the slightest nod.
Toby smiled. “I have to thank you, sir, for my wife’s preservation.”
“True.” The tone was offhand.
Toby persisted. “Can we invite you to take supper with us?”
“You can, but I’ll refuse. Lady Lazender knows my tastes run lower than dinner in polite company.” The gray eyes went to Campion. “You have the seal?”
“Yes.” It was hidden about Toby’s neck.
“Are you at the same house?”
She felt nervous, bullied by his boorish manner. She glanced at Toby, then answered, “We are moving to Woodstock, sir.”
He grinned. “Don’t.”
A bishop tried to squeeze past them, seeking a place nearer the King, but Devorax growled at him, reminding Campion of Lopez’s description of the soldier as a wolfhound. The bishop, astonished and frightened, backed awkwardly away with muttered apologies.
Toby had been offended by Devorax’s rudeness. His voice was cold. “Why do you say ‘don’t’?”
“Because within days I expect you to travel to Amsterdam.”
“Days?” Campion had expected to wait much longer.
“With three seals. That is, of course, if you still want your fortune.”
Campion was silent, oblivious of the noise of the crowd about her.
Toby frowned. “How are you doing it, sir?”
“Killing people. It’s usually the quickest method.”
“Sir Grenville?”
“He has the seals.” Devorax sounded bored. “I’ll come for you. If I can’t come, I’ll send Mason. You’ll have to be ready for travel, and you’ll be going to the east coast. And for God’s sake pack light. You don’t want to look like the Lord Mayor’s procession.” He nodded at them and turned away.
It seemed appallingly casual to Campion. She had expected more drama, more excitement at the news that, at last, the seals were to be gathered. “Colonel?”
“Yes?” He looked back, surprised.
She realized she had nothing to say. “You’re sure about supper?”
“I’m sure.” Then he was gone.
Toby shook his head. “Is he always that disagreeable?”
“He was being positively polite.”
It was still raining as they left Christ Church, the rain a promise of the quagmires that would slow travel as autumn turned to winter. Campion was suddenly frightened. She had felt safe in Oxford, secure in a household where she was loved and guarded by a husband, and now, quite suddenly, she was faced with a new journey. She held tight to Toby’s arm. They must travel eastward, across the sea, and there would be more death before she could claim Kit Aretine’s heritage.
Toby smiled down at her. “You’re frightened.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps I can go on my own?”
She shook her head. Her journey had begun with one seal in a Puritan house. Now she would see that journey to its end, whatever her fears, and through whatever mires of blood it led. She would take St. Luke to the gathering.
Twenty-nine
Ebenezer Slythe’s offer of a reward to anyone who could give information about the escape of the witch from the Tower had yielded nothing except the usual crop of fools who thought they could lie their way to an easy two hundred pounds.
Then, in September, the Royalist news-sheet, the Mercurius Aulicus, simply published the news. The “witch” who had outwitted the Parliamentarians had married in Oxford. It gave her name as Lady Campion Lazender, but the writer could not help rubbing in that, as Dorcas Scammell, she had made fools of the vaunted London garrison. Ebenezer had smiled. Did she think that by changing her name to “Campion” she would escape her enemies?
Sir Grenville had been less cheered by the news. “So she’s in Oxford, what good is that? Do you think she’s not guarded? God in heaven! She’s in the middle of the King’s army, and married!” He scowled. “We have to kill both of them; legally her property is his now.”
Yet three weeks later, it seemed that the preachers of London had been right. The age of miracles had returned to earth, had come to England where the Saints struggled to rule, and Ebenezer was a witness of such a miracle. He had prayed earnestly for God to give him the seals and now, on a Monday morning of sweeping, cold rain, it seemed his prayers were answered.
A man had come forward, a bold man who seemed unafraid of the place where Ebenezer’s guards brought him. The man glanced at the brazier, at the stained table with the shackles nailed to its thick surface, and at the instruments hung neatly on the walls. He looked back at Ebenezer.
&
nbsp; “Mr. Slythe?”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Mason, sir. John Mason.”
“And you want two hundred pounds, Mason?” Ebenezer was dressed in a long, fur-edged, black cloak. These cellars were always cold unless work was in progress.
“No, sir.” Mason spoke in the short, cocky tones of a soldier. He was dressed as a soldier, though Ebenezer’s men had taken his sword.
“You don’t?” Ebenezer hid his surprise, making the question seem menacing.
“My colonel does, sir. He sent me.”
Ebenezer frowned. He was not used to such assurance from men or women brought to this room. He looked at his guards, both alert behind Mason, then back to the young man. “And who is your colonel?”
“Name of Devorax, sir.”
The name meant nothing to Ebenezer. He ran a hand over his glossy, long hair that was brushed back from his pale forehead. “Mason, I have had a dozen men here who claimed to deserve my money. The last one I was forced to punish. I bored a hole in his tongue to teach him not to lie.”
“Whatever you say, sir.” Mason was cheerfully unmoved.
“No! Not what I say, what you say. You’ve come about the witch?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Well? I know where she is, so don’t think you’ll be rewarded for that.”
“No, sir. I’m only here to give you a message, sir, and give you a small token of Colonel Devorax’s good wishes.” Mason spoke as if he was reporting on the state of cavalry horses to his troop leader.
Ebenezer limped closer to Mason. He had shaved only an hour before, but already his chin was dark. “A token?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
Mason opened a small, leather pouch that was attached to his belt. He took out a small, paper-wrapped package. “Sir!”
Ebenezer took it, unwrapped it, and went very still. In his palm was half of a wax seal. The impression had been cut cleanly with a knife, but the semicircle clearly showed the front half of a winged ox, beneath which was the single word “Luke.”
“Where did you get this?” Ebenezer could not hide his excitement.
“Colonel Devorax, sir.”
“Where did he get it, fool?”
“Don’t know, sir. Not in the colonel’s confidence, sir!”
“Who the devil is Colonel Devorax?”
“Man who wants to meet you, sir. That’s my message, sir.”
“Well, go on, man! Go on!”
Mason momentarily shut his eyes, as if remembering, and then repeated the message in his clipped voice. “Three o’clock today, sir, under the gibbet at Tyburn, sir, and Colonel Devorax says you’re not to bring more than four men, sir. He’ll only bring two, sir. That’s it, sir.”
Ebenezer looked at the half seal of St. Luke. Dear God! Lopez’s seal! His mind flickered over the possibility of a trap, but he could see none. Tyburn was a well-chosen meeting place. The execution site was at a lonely crossroads outside London, amid bleak, flat land and it would be impossible for either side to bring more men without them being seen. Added to that was the breath-taking audacity with which Devorax had cheerfully suggested Ebenezer’s men could outnumber his own, as if these strangers were not fearful of the odds. Ebenezer thought swiftly. “I’ll be there.”
“Very good, sir.” Mason turned about, held out a hand for his sword. Ebenezer nodded to one of his guards and watched as the strange soldier went up the cellar steps. “Follow him!”
Mason seemed unconcerned by his follower. He walked to the Privy Stairs and there waited in the raw, wet wind for a boat. Both men, their craft in strange convoy, crossed to the Lambeth Stairs. In the squalid street of the small hamlet Mason grinned apologetically at Slythe’s man. A boy held a horse for Mason, on which he climbed and then galloped away, leaving Ebenezer’s bodyguard helplessly behind.
The Tyburn gallows was a great triangle, held aloft by tall supports, and two score victims could dangle from the three great beams.
That afternoon, as Ebenezer rode toward the crossroads, he could see three horsemen waiting within the triangle. Hanging from the beams were the rotting corpses of two felons, left there as a warning against highway robbery. A crow was perched on the shoulder of one hanged man, its beak busy, while a second crow was on a corner of the huge gibbet.
It was cold. Rain swept miserably from the west, soaking the scrubby bushes and thin grass. Oxford Street, the road that led to the gallows, was greasy with mud. The cows in the fields either side of the road turned their backs to the rain and stared mournfully east to where a great pall of chimney smoke mingled with the low clouds above London.
Ebenezer reined in ten yards from the gibbet. He was irritable because of the cold, hunched inside his great, black cloak. Beneath that, fearing treachery, he wore a breastplate over leather, while two loaded pistols were in his saddlebag. Not even the rain-laden wind could scour the stench of this place. Water dripped from the dangling, bare feet of the convicts.
One of the three horsemen walked his mount toward Ebenezer. The irritation vanished, replaced by astonishment and interest, for the approaching horseman was gray-bearded, and over half his helmeted face was a thin leather mask. The man nodded to Ebenezer. “Mr. Slythe?”
Ebenezer knew this man’s description. A whole army had hunted this man. “You took the witch out of the tower!”
The man grinned. “Guilty.” He tipped his helmet back, and then off, and peeled the mask from his face. Two gray eyes stared at Ebenezer. “My name’s Devorax. Vavasour Devorax.”
Ebenezer felt a chill of fear. He had dismissed the thought of a trap, but suddenly suspected he might now be caught in one. “What do you want?”
“A talk, Mr. Slythe, just a little talk.” A third crow flapped heavily overhead, giving a harsh cry of protest at the presence of the horsemen. It landed on one of the beams and stared at them. Devorax grinned. “My father used to say that Tyburn crows made a particularly tasty pie. Shall we move away, Mr. Slythe? Let them feed in peace?”
Ebenezer nodded and followed the evil-faced man across the glistening mud where the spectators gathered to watch the executions. There was a proposal to fill this space with tiers of public seating, but nothing had come of it yet.
Devorax had put his helmet back on and now he turned, the steel bars across his face beaded with raindrops. “Far enough?”
The other horsemen had followed. They waited a dozen yards away.
Devorax’s voice was mild. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Slythe. I thought we might do business.”
Ebenezer was still confused, still fearful, though he was reassured by the lack of menace in Devorax’s voice and posture. “Business?”
“Yes, Mr. Slythe. You see I’ve decided to stop being a soldier. I wish to retire.” Devorax grinned. “And I need money.”
A sudden gust of rain slashed into Ebenezer’s cheek. He wiped it irritably away, still frowning at Devorax. “Who are you?”
“I told you, Vavasour Devorax.” The soldier was leaning forward, his hands on the pommel of his saddle. “I’ve served a man called Mordecai Lopez most of my life. Do you know who he is?”
“I know. Served?”
“That’s right.” Vavasour Devorax took off his helmet again, hanging it by its strap on a pistol butt that was bolstered to his saddle. He moved slowly, not giving alarm, and undid his saddlebag. He took out a stone bottle, uncorked it, and drank. “You want some, Mr. Slythe? It’s Rumbullion from the Indies.”
Slythe shook his head, forcing himself to think clearly. He forgot the cold, the damp, and in his precise, flat voice he questioned Devorax about his long service to Mordecai Lopez. Devorax answered willingly, describing even how he had taken Campion from the Tower. He hid nothing, giving Ebenezer the address of Lopez’s house. “You can go there, Mr. Slythe. He’s not supposed to own a house in London so you might as well take what’s there. You can share the proceeds with me.” He grinned.
Ebeneze
r was still not satisfied. “Why are you betraying Lopez?”
“Betray?” Devorax laughed. “You can’t betray a Jew, Mr. Slythe. They killed our Savior, remember? You can cheat the bastards through eternity and it isn’t a sin.”
That made sense to Ebenezer, but he was still not satisfied. “Why did you serve him so long?”
“Wages, Mr. Slythe, wages. He paid me.” Devorax put the bottle to his lips and Ebenezer saw a dribble of dark liquid stain the short, gray beard. Devorax rested the bottle on his saddle and stared at the gallows where the two bodies turned slowly in the wind. “I’m getting old, Mr. Slythe, and I don’t want wages any more. I want a farm, and I want to die in my own bed, and I want enough money to be drunk every night and have a wife wake me for breakfast.” He seemed to become morose. “I’m tired of the damned Jew, Mr. Slythe. He pats me on the head as if I’m his lapdog. He throws me a bone now and then, but I won’t be a damned dog to anyone! You understand, Mr. Slythe? I’m no one’s damned dog!”
The sudden, savage anger surprised Ebenezer. “I understand.”
“I hope you do, Mr. Slythe, I hope you do. I’ve done that Jew’s dirty work throughout Europe. He’s given money to armies in England, the Low Countries, Sweden, Italy, France and Spain, and I’ve had to be there for him. Do this, do that, and then a bloody pat on the head. God’s bowels! I thought he’d give me something one day; a farm, a house, a business, but no, nothing. Then along comes Aretine’s bastard daughter and what does she get? Enough money to buy out a dozen stinking Jews. She doesn’t need the damned money, Mr. Slythe! She’s married her man, let him provide for her.”
Ebenezer kept his voice mild. “You say the Jew saved your life?”
“Christ on the cross!” Devorax spat into the mud. “He took me from the galleys, that’s all. I wasn’t nailed to a damned tree, puking out my lungs. So he saved me from a slow death in a galley. So? Do you know how many mens’ lives I’ve saved, Mr. Slythe? I’m a real soldier, not one of these pretty boys prancing around in a meadow squeaking ‘King Charles! King Charles!’ Christ! I’ve seen battlefields so thick with blood that it made puddles! I’ve had this sword crusted to my hand with blood at the end of a day, and then slept in the open so my hair froze to the blood puddles! Jesus! I’ve saved mens’ lives, but I don’t expect a lifetime of gratitude from them. A drink or two, maybe, but not eternal worship.” He tipped the bottle again, his saddle creaking as he moved. When he spoke again his voice was grudging. “I’m not saying he hasn’t treated me fair, Mr. Slythe, but I can’t go on forever. Do you know what the Jew paid me for getting the girl out of the Tower?” Ebenezer shook his head. Devorax laughed. “Fifteen gold pieces between all of us! Do you know how hard it is to get someone out of the Tower?” He shook his savage head broodily. “I expected more, I deserved more.”
A Crowning Mercy Page 42
