She nodded, but sucked in through her teeth as her neck caught on the frame. ‘I asked the guards if I could speak with him myself, but they refused. Can you get him a message? If you say it concerns me, he will listen.’
‘I’ll try. Stay calm. I’ll come back when I can.’
She pulled shut the window, feeling more hopeful than before. If Sir William could help, she knew that he would, unless the threat of the King’s retribution prevented even his noble person from acting. She nibbled at the remnants of the plentiful food and ale an untalkative woman had brought in, and persuaded herself to relieve her discomfort in the pisspot she found under the bed: a difficult operation in all her heavy clothes. Then she listened again at the door, hoping for any sign that Sir William had arrived, or that the guards were ascending the stairs, but all she could hear was the rolling of dice and the chinking of beakers.
A fire was burning in an alcove in the wall, lit by the untalkative woman, and she took a candle from a holder at her side, setting it down once lit. Now she was alone, and Daniel asleep, there was no reason to postpone a second attempt at the letter. She retrieved the crumpled sheet and glanced down.
My dearest Mercia, my friend, my love,
No. No reason.
When you left Meltwater, you took some of me with you. And so here, take some more, a piece of my heart waiting for you to unwrap as you arrive home. I hope you did wait to read this, for it is now that I think you will need it, but no matter if you did not. I know how you can be impetuous.
She smiled, remembering the man who had written those words. The man she had left behind.
After what happened in America, I know you are still in pain. The murders here have affected all our souls, but yours especially, I know. I hope in time you will learn to accept that none of this was your fault, and that your grief can start to lessen as once you helped me vanquish mine. For now, do as I asked when last we spoke – let yourself live, and let me into your heart, for I will find you when you need me. And if ever you change your mind to the question I asked, I shall swim the very ocean to be with you. But until that day, I shall remain in America to help the town through these still-dark days.
Now you are returned to England, you will face new trials. A merchant from New York told me how your uncle had sailed before you, and I know he will not let the matter of your manor house rest, for having once seized your family’s lands he will desire to keep them. But believe in what you accomplished when the King sent you here, and in his promise that he would restore to you your home. For yourself and for Daniel, I hope my love will add its light to God’s to keep you strong, and that we will see each other once more.
I am always yours.
Always.
Nathan
She sat back. Nathan, her friend, now so far away. At one time she had thought … but no. Lying down to rest, she plumped up the pillow, and passed into restful sleep.
A bang on the door forced her awake. As she opened her heavy eyes, a key turned in the lock, and the guards appeared in the threshold.
‘Well,’ she yawned, the grey light of dawn falling through the windows. ‘Are you speaking with me now?’
‘Not us, my lady. Someone much more important.’ The guard’s captain took a step forward, yesterday’s long partisan replaced with a shorter, less brutal sword. ‘Rouse your boy. You depart for London this morning. You are expected tomorrow at the palace.’
Chapter Two
She had planned to travel to London by public coach; at the least her captivity spared her that cramped trial. Instead the guards helped her into a spacious carriage emblazoned with the royal arms.
‘But my luggage!’ she protested.
‘Leave that to your man,’ said the captain, picking Daniel up in his turn. ‘If he comes back, someone will tell him where you’ve gone.’
After a night’s rest in Farnham, the coach made London late the following day, or rather it made Westminster, juddering down the side of the new royal park of St James. Reaching Charing Cross it sped right, heading for Whitehall, turning into the courtyard of the magnificent palace that had been Mercia’s destination in any case. Leaving her to jump down by herself, the guards handed her to a teenage page, but they told her not to worry when they insisted Daniel wait behind with a maid. Reassuring him she would return, she was led deep into the heart of the palace, if not in triumph then in … what?
Following the page through the bewildering maze of passages, Mercia recalled the first time she had visited Whitehall, on the heels of another young servant much like this one; indeed, it could well have been the same swift youth, recovering on that occasion from a celebration the evening before: the day of her wronged father’s execution. And then she wondered, as she walked, whether the object of her mission to America was yet hanging in the palace, for like her uncle it too had arrived before her, and despite her trepidation she was anxious to see it. But there was no sign of the great portrait yet.
After an age of corridors, the page reached a door in that section of the palace that perched above the Thames, but in place of the expected guard, a young lady-in-waiting was watching for their arrival. The page winked, and she shook her head, but her smile was clear enough.
‘Please,’ she said to Mercia, eyes roving her face and clothes. ‘Enter.’
She waited for Mercia to pass through to the room beyond, but she did not follow, pulling shut the door to leave her seemingly alone. The room was dim; despite the brightness of the afternoon, the sole visible window was small, the others covered with thick drapes. A fire burning in the grate was the only other aid to vision, and that was scant enough from the doorway. But then a figure stirred beneath the undraped window, and Mercia realised she was not in truth alone.
‘Good morrow,’ she offered, uncertain what to say.
The figure rested a book on an adjacent table: directly beside the window, that spot at least must have enjoyed sufficient light.
‘Welcome, Mrs Blakewood.’ A woman’s voice cut through the gloom, youthful but full of practised confidence. ‘Shall we have more light? I prefer to see those with whom I speak.’
A silhouette developed, standing and bending to the fire, at which a small flicker sprang up as a taper caught. Slowly, the woman passed around the room, lighting several candles until the whole space was well lit. Shaking out the taper, she threw the remnants into the fire and turned, revealing her notorious face.
Startled, Mercia only just kept from stepping back, instead dropping to the floor in a curtsey of sorts. Was that how you were supposed to greet this woman? In truth she did not know, but she had to hide her discomfort somehow.
The woman smiled in evident satisfaction. Her luscious chestnut hair was tied in a near-impossible topknot: a multitude of thick strands, meticulously curled at the tips, cascaded down her cochinealed cheeks. She was in her mid-twenties and intensely beautiful, her eyes aflame, her lips red and full. On her face she wore a decorative black patch, made of three pointed stars, their curious darkness a contrast to the pale radiance Mercia knew this woman employed to entrap many a willing man of the Court.
‘I … My Lady Castlemaine,’ she tried, resuming her curtsey. ‘I was not expecting to be received by such a noble hostess.’
A rustling of Lady Castlemaine’s many-folded dress accompanied a wave of her hand. ‘Oh come, Mrs Blakewood, you need not bother with such flatteries. I insist that we talk eye to eye.’
Mercia raised herself up, eager to look more on the celebrated woman, renowned countrywide as the most beautiful in the kingdom. She was entirely dramatic, her orange dress and sky-blue scarf a piercing of colour, her pearl and ruby jewels dazzling. Certainly, the King valued her splendour, for this was his most favoured mistress, partner in his bed, and more formally, thought Mercia wryly, Lady of the Bedchamber to the Queen.
Lady Castlemaine laughed. ‘You seem surprised, Mrs Blakewood. Were you expecting a mysterious spymaster, intoning brusque orders from his humourless seat, a da
rk secretary arms folded at his side?’ She inclined her head. ‘That would be a little … obvious, no?’
Recovering herself, Mercia blinked. This may be the King’s mistress, and de facto queen of the Court, but she had her pride, and she would hold her own in her presence.
‘Assuredly, my lady, I did not expect you. Nor my treatment likewise.’
Lady Castlemaine chuckled, a bright, pleased chord of teasing delight. ‘Of course not. But Charles – that is, the King – agreed this would be more advantageous to us, and I …’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it could amuse.’
A slight indignation rose in Mercia’s chest, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Was locking her in overnight, hiding the truth, this woman’s idea of fun? But there was little time left to wonder on the reason for her brief arrest.
‘I will be candid, Mrs Blakewood,’ said Lady Castlemaine. ‘The King was most pleased when he received the painting you recovered overseas. He truly believed his family portrait lost for all time. He would hang it near his bedchamber were it not for the thought of his mother being close during certain … private acts.’
She paused, but Mercia made sure to keep her expression constant.
‘Indeed he has come to hold you in no small esteem,’ she continued, a slight frown emerging on her forehead. ‘And so he wishes you to accept another task.’
Aghast, Mercia looked up. ‘But my lady, if I may … what of my manor house? His Majesty agreed he would restore it to me if I aided him as I did.’
‘I believe he agreed he would consider it.’ Lady Castlemaine arched a fine eyebrow, taking time to brush a thread from her bulbous silk sleeve. ‘And I will speak truth. He is troubled at how he was convinced to permit your father’s execution. But you remain his servant and he needs your mind for another matter. One, I may add, of significant delicacy. Aid the King in this, and you will be back in your manor with little delay.’
Mercia met the younger woman’s gaze. ‘May I speak with His Majesty myself?’
‘In time. For now, I am to explain the undertaking, and when you have heard me, His Majesty wants you to be free to acquiesce or to decline.’ Her smile resumed its faint mockery. ‘Of course, if you say no …’
‘Then I suppose I am to understand that His Majesty may take longer to … consider.’
Lady Castlemaine’s face twitched. ‘Less bold, Mrs Blakewood. I have said how the King is thankful, but he is the King and you are … merely you. Now pay me heed, for much has happened since you departed.’ Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight. ‘Finally, we are at war with the Dutch. True war, I mean: much more than the seizure of colonial backwaters like New York that you witnessed. All Englishmen – Englishwomen – must play their part.’ She gave Mercia a penetrating stare. ‘Your uncle already is.’
‘Sir Francis?’ Despite the warm fire, a chill set in.
‘He returned from America some weeks ago now, in a foul temper no less. I fear you have much to do with that.’ She smiled. ‘I never much liked the dour man, but his injury has made him yet more intolerable. He is obliged to walk with a cane, and is always in poor humour and discomfort. The result of events in New York, I believe?’
A picture of her uncle came to mind, lying injured in a meadow, a sword wound in his side. The same uncle who had usurped her manor house and set her on her journeys in the first place.
She glanced down. ‘He was near death, it seems.’
‘Much livelier now. And eager to help the King with the matter I am about to divulge to you. As for me, I think you can do better.’
Mercia took a deep breath. ‘Does this mean the King is inclined to refuse me his support?’
‘The opposite. Let us merely say that if you help him in this, he will be inclined to refuse you little. We think you are the perfect trap.’
‘Trap?’
‘Must you repeat what I say? You proved adept at seeking out the King’s inheritance. Now he needs you to seek out a spy.’
‘A sp—?’ She felt herself reddening. ‘Surely there are men in His Majesty’s service who are trained in such … arts?’
‘Trained, yes, but competent – who can know? In this climate of war, ’tis so difficult to know who to believe and who to trust.’ There was a sparkle in her cheeks, in her eyes, as she spoke. ‘Someone at Court is passing information to the Dutch. Charles wants you to find out who.’
Mercia’s mouth had fallen half-open, but she found the wit to reclose it. ‘Why me?’
‘I shall come to that.’ Ignoring her shock, Lady Castlemaine pressed on. ‘The King debates matters of war in a specially created council. Matters he does not discuss even with me, and yet it seems the Dutch commanders know more than they should. Recently, he gave the council a report he knew to be untrue, and yet the information found its way to Amsterdam, according to our people there. This, even though it was false, and no one but the council had heard it.’
‘Meaning someone on the council had to be passing it on.’
‘So it would appear. Naturally I am not privy to the intricacies of these affairs, but you seem to grasp the problem as well as I do. Although the council is not the precise matter the King wants you to address.’
‘Oh?’ said Mercia, intrigued despite herself. ‘Then what?’
‘The traitor he seeks is not a man of the council. Not a man at all, indeed. No, the spy I speak of is a woman, Mrs Blakewood. What do you make of that?’
She paused, her slender chin jutting forward, her right eyebrow raised, and only when she could see Mercia was fully ensnared did she continue.
‘A coded message has been intercepted of late, and after some effort, its meaning has been deduced. The message is brief, but makes plain that a woman is the one gathering the information. That she has close ties to a member of the council, either as a relation or a mistress, perhaps. And that her name is given as Virgo.’
‘The virgin,’ mused Mercia, her mind already dissecting the possibilities. ‘An allusion to this woman’s chastity?’
Lady Castlemaine scoffed. ‘The only virgin here is that insufferable Frances Stewart, the vixen. And I really do not think her tiny mind could be so capable. But whether Virgo’s name is literal or no, it is from her that the reports to our enemy start. We do not know from which council member she acquires her information, or whether that man is complicit or simply deluded, but Virgo is the principal actor – or rather, actress. I have convinced Charles that setting a woman on a woman is a prudent course. And so he has been awaiting your return.’
‘Indeed, my lady.’ She swallowed. ‘Your confidence in me is most gratifying. But are there no other women to ask?’
‘Perhaps, Mrs Blakewood, but you have entrapped yourself with your success. And you have another advantage no other woman has.’
Again, she paused. Again, Mercia waited.
‘The King,’ Lady Castlemaine pursued, ‘wishes to discover Virgo by placing a spy of his own in the Court, one who should arouse a minimum of suspicion. If the worst is true, and the council member is complicit, then he is likely privy to knowledge about many of those we could use for this task, and he will seek to protect Virgo accordingly. Whereas you, Mrs Blakewood, can enter Court in an entirely different manner that neither he nor Virgo should ever suspect.’
Mercia frowned. ‘I should have thought the whole Court would view me with suspicion. Even if the King does repent my father’s death, my family has never been much in royal favour, not until my voyage to America, at least.’
‘Which is why I … why we have devised a ploy. I do not know if you will like it, but it removes all such suspicion at a stroke. It involves your friendship with Sir William Calde.’
Mercia studied her face, attempting to read there her plan, but she could think of no obvious answer, unless—
No! Not that!
Lady Castlemaine smiled. ‘Your reaction suggests you may have unmasked our scheme. Do you approve?’
‘My Lady, I do not know until you speak. But I venture t
o presume I have divined your intent, and I am not certain I can consent.’
‘You may have to. ’Tis the only sure means of explaining your arrival at Whitehall. And I hear you so loved the theatre when you were a girl.’ She winked: a calculated hint, Mercia thought, that she knew more about her than her childhood pleasures alone. ‘Now is your chance to act a fine role indeed. You are to play the mistress of Sir William Calde.’
She closed her eyes. ‘So I was right.’
‘You must agree, ’tis the perfect subterfuge. The whole Court knows how Sir William has pursued you these many months. How difficult is it to surmise that the two of you became close on your mutual journey to America? Particularly after the … unfortunate death of his wife.’
Mercia looked her full in the eye. To her credit, she did not flinch. ‘May we be frank, my lady? Are you saying that unless I pose as Sir William’s mistress and unmask this Virgo then my manor will be denied me?’
‘The King thinks you have more chance with the women of the Court than any man. That is why he has sent me to talk with you, to offer my guidance.’ She toyed with the tips of her fine white gloves. ‘But I have intimated your uncle knows too of this plot. Should he discover the traitor in your place, then naturally the King may be more disposed, shall we say, to reconsider Sir Francis’s own claim on the manor house.’
By the Lord, swore Mercia in her mind. Am I to find no peace?
‘Say I agree. Will Sir William expect that we …?’
‘How far the two of you take this pretence is entirely your affair.’
‘And my son? What am I to do with him?’
‘Mrs Blakewood, do this and your son will want for nothing again. He will see his inheritance restored, enjoy the best tutoring while you are at Court, mingle with the sons of the noblest families in the land. Perhaps even a title to go with his manor one day, if you play your part well.’ Her lips curled upwards. ‘Yes, I thought that might interest you. And you have a manservant, do you not? Install him in a servant’s chambers. He can wait on you here.’
Traitor Page 2
