A Crowning Mercy

by Bernard Cornwell

  Ebenezer smiled. Something in him responded to Vavasour Devorax. Perhaps, he thought, it was the sheer, animal strength of the soldier, a strength that Ebenezer knew could never be his. Or perhaps it was the stories of a sword crusted to a man’s hand, of fields of blood, stories that stirred Ebenezer. “So what are you offering, Devorax?”

  Devorax smiled. The rain had plastered his short hair to his skull, giving him a malevolent, even more brutal look. “I’ll give you the seal of St. Luke, plus the girl. I assume you don’t want her to live to twenty-five?” He lifted the rum to his lips, then paused. “You can have her damned husband, too, if you want him.”

  Ebenezer nodded. “You’ll bring the seal from Amsterdam?”

  “No! It’s in Oxford.” Devorax laughed. “I stole the impressions from her. The Jew insisted she have it, as a memory of her father.” He laughed at the thought.

  Ebenezer stirred with excitement. If the Seal of St. Luke was in Oxford, then everything could be much simpler. He kept his voice precise and expressionless. “And what do you want?”

  Vavasour Devorax looked down at the bottle, then challenged Ebenezer with a sly, arrogant gaze. “I’ve got twelve men. I can’t just abandon them. One hundred pounds apiece. And for me?” He seemed to think. “Two thousand.” He held up a hand as if to ward off a protest. “I know it’s a lot, but I also know how much the Covenant’s worth.”

  Ebenezer kept his face straight. The demand did sound extortionate, but it was nothing compared to the yield of the Covenant. “Why did you approach me, Devorax, and not Sir Grenville Cony?”

  Devorax gave a short, bitter laugh. “You’d trust a lawyer, Mr. Slythe? God’s breeches! He’ll twist everything and cheat us blind! I’ve learned a thing or two in fifty years, Mr. Slythe. I can empty saddles faster than most men, I can tear out a windpipe with my bare fingers, and I’ve learned; never, never trust a damned lawyer. Do you trust him?”

  Ebenezer shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “You’re getting the money from the Covenant, yes?” Devorax waited for Ebenezer’s small nod. The soldier watched the younger man very carefully. “How much does he give you? Five thousand a year? Six? Seven?” Devorax smiled. “That’s it. Seven.”

  “So?”

  The rum bottle tipped, Devorax drank, then grinned at Ebenezer. “Mordecai Lopez reckons the Covenant ought to be worth nearer twenty thousand a year. That’s how much that fat, bastard lawyer is cheating you. Do you think we can trust him? What do you think he’ll do if he gets all three seals? Give us our share?” Devorax shook his head. “No, Mr. Slythe, it’ll be a quick knifing in the night and two shallow graves. I won’t deal with Sir Grenville Cony.”

  Ebenezer stretched his left, lame leg. “And how do I know that I can trust you?”

  “Sweet Jesus! Do I look as if I need twenty thousand a year? Christ! I don’t want to be pursued by damned parasites forever. No. You give me enough to buy my favorite whorehouse, Mr. Slythe, and I assure you of my undying devotion. And free service for you, of course.”

  “I thought it was a farm you wanted.” Ebenezer smiled.

  “A bastard farm.” Devorax laughed.

  Ebenezer felt flattered to be humored by this man, yet his defenses were not down. “How do you know you can trust me?”

  Devorax grinned. He corked the rum bottle, pushed it into his saddlebag, and then pulled the helmet on to his head. “Watch me, Mr. Slythe.”

  Devorax’s horse turned, seemingly from pressure of the rider’s knee, and then it went into a trot. There was a scraping hiss, Devorax’s long, straight sword was free, and he shouted at his horse that went into a spirited canter. Mud flew up from the hooves.

  The crows flapped off in alarm. Devorax stood in the saddle, approaching one of the hanged men, and then his sword arm blurred into vicious speed. A downstroke sliced through the shoulder of the corpse, severing a dead arm, and, in the same motion, the sword looped up and chopped through the second shoulder. Before the first arm slopped into the mud, the second was falling.

  “Hup! Hup!” Devorax shouted.

  Ebenezer had heard of trained cavalry horses, but had never seen one in action. The horse wheeled, rearing as it turned, hooves lashing against enemies, and then Devorax was riding again toward the swinging corpse. “Go! Go! Go!”

  The sword was brought forward in a savage, huge stroke, driven by all the strength of the helmeted man. It cut clean through the rotting body, spine and belly, spilling liquids and decomposing entrails out of the abdomen, and again the sword kept moving in a fast, brilliant backstroke as the horse reared, the blade neatly chopping through the distended neck. The head thumped from the empty noose, falling beside the dismembered corpse.

  It had been a remarkable display of horsemanship and weaponry. Devorax tipped his helmet off again, looped it on his saddle and grinned at Ebenezer. His voice was as cold as the wind. “Think what I can do to a living body, Mr. Slythe.”

  Devorax cleaned the stinking filth off his blade by running it between finger and thumb, wiped his hand in his horse’s mane, and then slammed the sword home. His two men grinned. Ebenezer’s guards, like their master, stared at the grotesque horror that had so suddenly been chopped into the mud. The stench was appalling. Devorax trotted back to Ebenezer’s side. He was not in the least breathless, as calm and composed as before his hideous display. He took the bottle from his saddlebag. “Can I trust you, Mr. Slythe?”

  Ebenezer Slythe did a remarkable thing, he laughed. He looked from the carrion on the ground to the big, ugly soldier. “You can trust me, Devorax.” He looked back to the corpse. Already the crows were tearing at the easy pickings offered by Devorax’s sword. “How do you propose giving me the girl and the Seal of St. Luke?”

  Devorax closed his eyes as he drank, then tossed the empty stone bottle away. “There’s no problem. If the girl doesn’t come then I have other impressions of the seal. We can fix them to paper. But she’ll come.” He grinned. “She doesn’t like me, but she trusts me. She thinks I’m collecting the seals for her. The difficult thing, Mr. Slythe, is not your sister, but Sir Grenville. I assume he has both seals?”

  “And he guards them well.” Ebenezer was leaning forward eagerly, but the thought of parting Sir Grenville from the two seals seemed to deflate him. He shrugged. “Even I can’t get close to them.”

  “You will.” Devorax seemed unworried by Ebenezer’s gloom. He took a new bottle from his saddlebag and pulled out the stopper. “I have the use of a ship, Mr. Slythe. I propose that you and I meet Sir Grenville and the girl at a remote place on the coast where we will part them from their seals and sail on to Amsterdam. Simple.” He grinned.

  Ebenezer shook his head. “Sir Grenville won’t travel with the seals. I told you, he guards them too well.”

  Devorax said nothing. The rain pattered on his leather jacket, dripped from his boots, soaked his hair. He smiled. “What’s he afraid of?”

  Ebenezer looked up at the gray clouds. “Of someone else assembling the seals.”

  Devorax’s voice was patient, like a teacher with a pupil. “Dorcas already has the Seal of St. Luke?”

  “So you tell me.”

  “And she held the Seal of St. Matthew for several months. Suppose Sir Grenville was told that during those months she had taken some wax impressions of St. Matthew? That would give her two seals, yes?”

  Ebenezer nodded.

  “And remember, Mr. Slythe, there is a fourth seal. Suppose Sir Grenville thought that Aretine was alive, that Aretine was meeting her in Amsterdam?” Devorax held up his left hand and raised, one by one, three fingers. “Matthew, Luke, and John.” He grinned. “Don’t you think Sir Grenville would do anything to stop her? And he’d have to go himself, Mr. Slythe. He wouldn’t risk anyone else getting the seals from her.”

  Ebenezer smiled. He saw the elegance of the suggestion, yet he also saw the difficulties. “Did the girl take impressions of Matthew?”

  The gray eyes were on him. “No, Mr. Slyth
e, but she tells me you possessed the seal after her.” Devorax grinned. “Were you so honest with it?”

  Ebenezer laughed again and nodded. “I have impressions.”

  “Good! So tell Sir Grenville about me. Give him the half seal of Luke and a whole impression of Matthew. Tell him you’ve bought me, that I’m betraying Lopez, tell him the truth except for one thing.”

  “That you’ll kill him?”

  “That we’ll kill him.” Devorax laughed. “Give him the seals, Mr. Slythe, and tell him about Lopez’s house. He’ll believe you.”

  Rain dripped from Ebenezer’s hat brim. The cloak was wet through and heavy. “How do I persuade him that Aretine’s alive?”

  “You don’t. I will.” Devorax smiled. “Two days ago, Mr. Slythe, the last ship of the season docked from Maryland. Two days from now I’ll give Sir Grenville proof that Aretine’s in town.”

  Ebenezer smiled. “He’ll panic.”

  “Good! He’ll hear about it on Thursday morning. So be ready to move, Mr. Slythe, be ready to go with him.”

  “Where?”

  If there was a trap here, Ebenezer reasoned, Vavasour Devorax would be unwilling to disclose the rendezvous on the eastern coast where the seals were, at last, to be brought together. If Ebenezer knew the rendezvous he could send men ahead, men to scour the place against a possible ambush, but Vavasour Devorax gladly named the building and the village where he planned to strip Sir Grenville of his seals, where he planned to take the Seal of St. Luke.

  Ebenezer memorized the instructions. “I can take guards there?”

  “You’d be a fool not to. Sir Grenville undoubtedly will.”

  “When do we meet there?”

  Devorax shrugged. “Soon, Mr. Slythe, very soon.” He nodded toward his men who waited motionless on their horses. “I’ll send Mason to you. Don’t be surprised if he comes in the middle of the night. Where will Mason look for you?”

  Ebenezer told him. “How soon is soon, Devorax?”

  The ugly face grinned as the soldier gathered his reins. “Within a week, Mr. Slythe, within a week.” Devorax turned his horse.

  Ebenezer was unwilling to let him go. He liked being close to the strength of this man and was already wondering how he could entice Devorax into his own plans once the Covenant was his. “Devorax! One last question.”

  Devorax grinned. “Only one?”

  “How do you convince Sir Grenville that Aretine lives?”

  Devorax’s grin became broader. He pushed the rum bottle into his saddlebag and pulled the helmet over his head. “That’s my secret! Wait and see. You’ll enjoy it!” His horse went into a walk.

  “Devorax?”

  The soldier turned. “Mr. Slythe?”

  “I have your two hundred pounds!”

  “Keep it for me! I’ll collect it within a week, Mr. Slythe. Within a week!” The last words were shouted back from the cantering horse that, urged by Devorax’s heels, went into a gallop, scattering the crows from the butchered offal. Devorax’s men swerved behind their leader, galloping beneath the rain-darkened gallows and following him westward into the murk.

  Ebenezer watched them go, then walked his own horse beneath the huge beams and stared down at the horrid mess Devorax had made. Maggots writhed in the entrails. He glanced up at the second hanging man, twisting slowly, the rain dripping from the death-darkened feet into a puddle below. He considered trying to cut the body in half with his own sword, but knew his strength was not sufficient. No matter. Soon he would have the strength of thousands. Soon the Covenant would be his.

  He smiled, wrenched his rein, spurred back and shouted for his men to follow him. They rode south toward Whitehall. The seals were being gathered.

  Thirty

  Persuading Sir Grenville Cony was not quite as simple as Ebenezer and Devorax had supposed. Sir Grenville was no fool, he had survived too long in a troubled political world to believe that every opportunity was to be taken. He was skeptical. “I’m an old, old man, Ebenezer. You sip ambrosia, but I smell poison.”

  “You don’t believe Devorax?”

  “I haven’t met him.” Sir Grenville stared out at the river. Rain pelted on to the surface. He turned back to the desk. “The seals are real enough. Why did he go to you? Why not me?”

  “My name was on the reward offer.”

  “True.” Sir Grenville said it grudgingly. “Yet Lopez has the reputation of being a generous man. I don’t understand the complaint of this Devorax.”

  Ebenezer shrugged. “Lopez has been generous to Devorax. He saved his life, he’s employed him ever since. I don’t think the fault lies with the Jew, it’s with Devorax. He’s greedy.”

  Sir Grenville nodded. The bulging eyes looked palely at Ebenezer. “Should we kill him?”

  “He doesn’t want much. Pension him off.”

  Then news came that the soldiers sent to the Southwark house had been successful. Sir Grenville had feared an ambush, but instead they found Lopez’s house unguarded, and its furniture, books, rugs and ornaments were being removed. Sir Grenville was pleased. “A blow! Ebenezer! A blow against the Jew!” He laughed. “Unless it’s simply a ground bait to take us nearer the hook.” He stood up and sidled his huge belly past the desk. “You say Devorax is taking the bitch to Amsterdam. Why? She only has the use of two seals?”

  Ebenezer played his best piece. “Devorax says that Aretine’s alive. That he’ll add the Seal of St. John to hers in Amsterdam.”

  Sir Grenville’s face lost its cheerfulness. He turned aghast. “Alive?”

  Ebenezer shrugged. “So he says. Perhaps he just meant that Lopez has the fourth seal. I don’t know.” He pointed at the two lumps of red wax on Sir Grenville’s table. “We know the girl has those two, I hate to think of what will happen if Aretine is alive.”

  “You hate! You’ve not met the bastard! Dear God! You say Devorax is taking her out of the country at this place Bradwell?”

  Ebenezer nodded.

  “When?”

  “He said he’ll let me know.” Ebenezer was playing the story by ear, but he had been pleased by the panic engendered by the mention of Kit Aretine.

  Sir Grenville shouted for his secretary, “Morse! Morse!”

  “Sir?” The door opened.

  “I want Barnegat, now! Tell him I’ll pay double, but get him now!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait!” Sir Grenville looked at Ebenezer. “You think it will be soon?”

  “Within a week.”

  “I want a dozen men sent to a village called Bradwell, Morse. Ebenezer can tell you where it is. They’re to search the place and wait there! And Morse!”

  “Sir?”

  Sir Grenville ran a hand through his white curls. “Make sure the travelling coach is ready. I’ll need it within the week.”

  “A week!” Morse frowned. “But you’re supposed to meet the French ambassadors this…”

  “Get out!” Cony snarled at him. “Get out! Do as I say!”

  Sir Grenville turned and stared past Ebenezer at the great painting that hung above his fireplace. Aretine, the most beautiful man Cony had ever seen. Was he alive? Had that beauty come back to pursue him and humiliate him? The lawyer walked to the fireplace, reached up, and closed the lime-washed shutters over the naked body. “You had better be wrong, Ebenezer. Pray God you are wrong.”

  The next night, Wednesday, Vavasour Devorax came back to the city. Campion would not have recognized him. The filthy, stained, greasy clothes were gone. He had bathed, trimmed his hair and beard and then rubbed lamp-black into the graying hairs. By candlelight he looked ten years younger. He was dressed in sober, neat, clean clothes. He wore a broad-brimmed Puritan hat, in his hand was a well-thumbed Bible and his only weapon was a long, slim dagger.

  His destination was close to Tower Hill in Seething Lane, and he hammered at the door of a darkened house. It was late, though many citizens would still be up. He had to hammer twice more before the door opened a crack.
r />   “Who is it?”

  “My name is God Be Praised Barlow, a Minister of the Commons.”

  Goodwife Baggerlie frowned. “It’s late, sir.”

  “Is it ever too late for God’s work?”

  Grudgingly she opened the door wider. “You’re here to see the Reverend Hervey?”

  “With God’s will, yes.” Devorax stepped inside, forcing Goodwife to step back. “Is the Reverend Hervey abed?”

  “He’s busy, sir.” Goodwife was impressed by the tall preacher from the House of Commons. She was ready for bed, a gown pulled hastily over her nightdress and her hair wrapped in muslin.

  Devorax gave her a ghastly smile. “At his prayers, sister?”

  “He’s got company.” Goodwife was nervous. The Reverend Barlow was a big man and she did not like to contradict his wishes. She frowned. “It’s better you come in the morning, sir.”

  Devorax frowned. “I take no denial from a woman. Where is he?”

  A stubborn look came into her small eyes. “He says he’s not to be interrupted, sir.”

  “The House of Commons wishes him to be interrupted. Now lead me to him, woman! Lead!”

  “You’ll wait here, sir?” Goodwife said hopefully, but the tall preacher insisted on following her up the polished staircase. Goodwife stopped at the landing and tried to push Devorax downstairs. “If you’ll wait in the parlor, sir, I’ll light a fire.”