Traitor

by David Hingley

  ‘My God.’ Despite herself, Mercia could not help but laugh. ‘I cannot … really, those are too splendid. But no.’ She shook her head. ‘I must remember ’tis but for a short while, as part of the disguise.’

  Nicholas smiled. ‘I should find my lodgings, leave you to settle in.’

  ‘Let me spend a half-hour with Phibae, to wash and put on one of these fine dresses, and then I will ask that she help you find your way. Just sit down and … admire those miniatures over there.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He took a seat. ‘Just what I like!’

  It took a little longer than she thought, but an hour later, Mercia was staring at an armchair beside the bed draped with the drab brown dress she had been wearing for weeks. In contrast, the outfit Phibae had conjured up for her was magnificent, and she felt refreshed – properly refreshed, not the half-hearted comfort of a splash of water that had been all she could administer of late. She smelt of rose and lavender, her hair was brushed, and although not yet styled to perfection for lack of time, the ends were more finely curled than they had been for months, while the simple addition of two slender pieces of wire above both ears was holding up seamless rows of ringlets on either side of her rigid topknot. Her face was painted, made up in simple reds and whites, although she had refused Phibae’s suggestion that she don a diamond-shaped face patch, not wanting to take that step yet.

  But it was her dress that enthralled her the most. It was blue, cerulean blue, as though she had wrapped herself in the very ocean she had been crossing these past two months. The stays underneath were fresh and crisp, her bodice was blinding white, and her collar was folded in a multiplicity of fabric as bright as the silver necklace that finished it off. On her fingers, beside the mourning ring for her father that she wanted to wear still, she added a second band, gold with a ruby at its centre. And this, she thought in astonishment, was merely one of many such outfits Phibae had carried in.

  ‘My, Phibae,’ she said, examining herself in a mirror. ‘Who is this person you have created?’

  ‘The clothes fit you well, my lady.’ Phibae took up the old brown dress; Mercia could see every stain, every small rip in it now. ‘Shall I take this to be laundered?’

  ‘Please. And would you help Nicholas find where he is to sleep?’ She turned her face, examining her side profile. ‘I should like to spend some time here by myself.’

  Phibae curtsied. ‘My lady.’

  Hearing them pull the door to the corridor shut, Mercia set down the mirror and wandered in her finery to the sitting room window that overlooked the Privy Garden below. If she craned her neck, she could just about see the corner of the palace where she knew Daniel was being smartly dressed in his turn, ready to be introduced to the boys of the Court. That she could see a little of his chambers was happy comfort, and unlike last year in New England, this time he was close at hand, and she could see him whenever she chose.

  But for all the advantages, she knew where she would prefer him to be: home, at the manor house in Halescott, where he belonged – where she did. For all the fanciness of her clothes, of the splendour of her position at Court, all this was but temporary, and it did not feel quite right. True, she had worn fine dresses before, but never this dazzling, and not often in her adult life, conditioned as it had been by Cromwellian-leaning relatives. For all the opulence, she felt somehow naked, as though the real Mercia inside were covered by some fake varnish. But that was what this was, a disguise: a false image to delude the world into believing she was someone she was not.

  Forgetting her outfit, she cast her eye around the bedroom, her gaze settling on Nathan’s letter. Placed carefully on a side table, it was resting against a Venetian glass vase of as many pretty hues as the flowers within it.

  She sat in her silk on her leather-backed chair, listening to the ticking of the nearby clock, and felt of a sudden alone.

  Chapter Four

  ‘And that woman, there, is Lady Grace Allcot, Sir Geoffrey’s wife.’

  Through the slits of her simple red mask, Mercia looked on yet another grandly dressed woman, this one draped in scarlet, her dress swallowing up the floor.

  ‘She appears bored.’

  Sir William laughed. ‘Lady Allcot has too much wit to tolerate more than an hour of obsequious Court chatter. But then that wit has caused her trouble in the past.’ He glanced down. ‘In the same way you would cause trouble, I think.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Asking questions. Wanting to … know things.’

  ‘How awful of her,’ she said, lowering her mask. But Sir William was smiling.

  ‘You know as well as I do that while husbands seek their wife’s advice in private, they prefer she keep her opinions silent in public. Sir Geoffrey is one such man.’

  ‘My husband never much minded.’

  ‘No. But then you have a way of bringing men around to your way of thought.’

  ‘Sir William,’ she admonished, sipping the last of her drink. ‘What is this wine? I have never tasted it before. It – tingles.’

  ‘Do you like it? Champagne, I believe it is called. The French insist it should be still, but if it ferments long enough it fills with bubbles, and that is the way many here prefer it.’

  ‘Then I count myself among them.’ She restored her mask. ‘Now, you will have to take me through these women again. I can scarcely remember their names, let alone much about their persons, and if I am to believe one of them is Virgo, I needs must recall it all.’

  He took her empty glass, setting it on a table, holding her gloved hand in front. ‘Let us play our pretence a little first. It is expected that guests talk at these gatherings. And that way you can meet your quarry face to face.’

  ‘Or mask to mask.’

  She allowed him to lead her into the den: the Court of King Charles the Second, sovereign of England, Scotland, Ireland and, so asserted the tradition of his coronation title, France, although she wondered what the Comte de Comminges, the current French emissary to the Court, standing by the fireplace, thought of that – that, and the unnaturally sparkling wine. Like the French delegation, she and Sir William had been loitering at the sides of the gargantuan ballroom that was the King’s stone Banqueting House, the great man pointing out who was married to whom, and who had which position at Court, as the various nobles assembled.

  It felt awkward to touch the hand of the man who had at one time desired her for his mistress – and finally succeeded, she thought wryly, if only in deception. As they moved towards the centre of the ballroom, he let drop her fingers, lightly brushing his against hers. Did he still want deception to become truth? She did not know, and did not much care to find out.

  ‘Sir Peter,’ said Sir William, as they approached a chuckling quintet. ‘A magnificent gathering. Is the King due soon?’

  The unmasked man broke seamlessly from his conversation. ‘Is this …?’ he wondered, eyes flitting to Mercia, ignoring Sir William’s question. ‘Sir Rowland’s daughter, returned from America?’

  Mercia gave him a slight bow. ‘I am honoured you know me, Sir Peter.’

  ‘I knew your father. I am … sorry for what happened to him. When we found out the truth of his dishonour … how he was betrayed … it was a most appalling discovery.’

  ‘What is this?’ perked up a young woman at his side, veiled by a sumptuous turquoise mask.

  Sir Peter glanced at her and smiled. ‘Nothing that need trouble you, my dear.’

  The young woman’s mask slipped as he turned to Sir William, revealing her flushing cheeks. She appeared scarcely into her twenties, her unblemished skin taut and surprisingly tanned. Mercia sympathised with a conspiratorial roll of her eyes.

  ‘A great success in New York, Sir William,’ Sir Peter was continuing. ‘The King and the Duke are mightily pleased. The first prize in this war, all told.’

  ‘Although strictly said, we were not at war at the time,’ smiled Sir William.

  ‘And a prize of a different nature for you, i
t seems.’ Sir Peter again looked Mercia up and down: at her face, at her dress, at her chest. Now it was the young woman’s turn to bestow a reassuring wink.

  Sir William laughed. ‘Indeed. It would seem persistence pays in the end.’

  She did not like the way the conversation was going. ‘Sir William was telling me, Sir Peter,’ she interrupted, ‘how you serve on the King’s new war council. That must weigh much on your mind.’

  His eyes never wavered from her chest. ‘Do not worry, my dear. You can rest safe at Court, sure we will bring this war to a swift conclusion.’

  ‘And I see another member of your council over there,’ she persisted, ‘standing on his own. The man with the green doublet. Sir Stephen Herrick, I believe?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Looking up, Sir Peter’s smile faded. ‘I do not know why, but he is always in green. Still, a fine admiral. This war will be fought at sea, my friends, and Sir Stephen’s expertise will be invaluable.’ He leant back in. ‘Or so says Sir Stephen. But now I think I see … yes, the Duchess herself. That means the Duke will be arriving soon … come, my dear, we should pay her our respects while we can.’

  With a waggle of his finger, he beckoned at his companion to follow. As the pair walked off, their former group broke up, leaving Mercia and Sir William alone.

  ‘Sir Peter Shaw,’ said Sir William. ‘You might remember him. When Sir Francis brought you to Court that time, before you eluded him to intercept the King – Sir Peter was one of the men you saw in the corridor with the Duke of York and myself.’

  She thought back to the previous year. ‘Yes, I remember. As pompous then as he remains now, it seems. Did you say before that the young woman with him was his mistress?’

  ‘So I am told, although she was not so when we left for America. He has had several since the death of his wife, but I have not seen Miss Whent before today.’

  ‘Lavinia Whent,’ she recalled from his earlier description. ‘A shame you know little about her, given what she might be.’

  ‘To speak true, I am rather behind with happenings at Court. ’Tis nigh on a year since I was last here. But I do know Sir Stephen. Shall I introduce you?’ He retook her hand and she replaced her mask. ‘He is still on his own, the poor devil. I do not think he likes these gatherings much.’ He laughed. ‘He was ever a Puritan at heart, if not in deed or in thought.’

  Mercia clicked her fingers. ‘I knew I had heard the name before. When my father served Cromwell, Sir Stephen was a senior officer in his navy even then.’

  Sir William looked impressed. ‘You remember much, Mercia.’

  ‘Merely some trifles. As I recall, Sir Stephen was highly thought of.’

  ‘He fought for the King in the war, with fervour, but his first love was always the fleet. When Cromwell took power, Sir Stephen accepted the situation and thrived in it. But now the King is restored, he need not hide his preferences.’ He stepped aside to allow a golden-wigged partygoer past. ‘He commands much loyalty among the sailors. If you ask me, he knows more about the navy than his master the Duke, though ’tis he who is Lord High Admiral.’

  She looked at him askance. ‘For a man who claims unfamiliarity with the Court, it has not taken you long to become reacquainted.’

  ‘A compliment, Mercia. I must be doing something right.’

  By now they had reached their prey. Sir Stephen Herrick was a tall, slender man of imposing bearing, his celadon-green doublet the spark of colour in an otherwise subdued outfit. Unlike many of those present, who were following the King’s lead in donning extravagant wigs, he had chosen to flaunt his real head of hair, as thick as any of the artificial pieces. When he turned to Sir William to respond to his greeting, his unmasked eyes were as sharp as his manner was bright.

  ‘Sir William!’ He clapped the great man on the shoulder, evident pleasure in his smile. ‘I had hoped to see you tonight. I want to hear of your travels across the ocean. And you will be joining us on the war council, no?’ His eyes roved to rest on Mercia. ‘But forgive my prattle. Who is your companion?’

  Sir William smiled. ‘A delight to see you again, Stephen. This is Mrs Blakewood – Mercia. You may recall she accompanied us to America.’

  Sir Stephen thought for a moment, his eyes darting left to right as though reading from a list. ‘Ah, yes indeed.’ He gave Sir William a complicit glance. ‘And now returned with you also.’

  Mercia bowed. ‘An honour to meet you, Sir Stephen. You served with my father at one time, I believe.’

  ‘Your father was a good man, Mrs Blakewood. We disagreed much, about most things indeed, but on the need to keep this country strong we were of one mind. I am sorry for the fate that befell him. The King is troubled by it, as are we all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, hoping she would not have to endure the same pitying conversation with every man of the Court. ‘But I hope some of that can now be put right.’

  ‘You are here, are you not?’ Sir Stephen looked between them as another guest joined them. ‘Ah, Mrs Blakewood, allow me to present my wife, Anne.’

  Mercia turned to see a woman of senior years standing directly behind them. Like all the women, she was splendidly attired, her golden dress and silver jewellery a more glittering imitation of the patch of sun and stars that adorned her left cheek. Her auburn-flecked grey hair cascaded so smoothly over her shoulders it was as though a waterfall were gliding over its precipice, the tips splayed as if the foam in the pool below.

  ‘Lady Herrick,’ said Mercia. ‘You look magnificent.’

  ‘I look as good as my maids have made me.’ She lowered her mask. ‘My husband and Sir William have no idea. They have never been required to haul around a bushel of silk in the guise of a dress.’

  ‘It suits you well.’

  ‘Yours also. As is to be expected of Lady Castlemaine’s new favourite.’

  ‘Oh, I do not think I am—’

  ‘That is what everyone is saying. And so it must be true.’ She smiled. ‘Stephen, take my hand and lead me to Helen. ’Tis much easier to walk with your support.’

  Mercia watched them across the room. ‘Is that what people think?’ she said. ‘That I am Lady Castlemaine’s … pet?’

  ‘I am afraid you will encounter such condescension,’ Sir William replied. ‘Any woman newly arrived at Court can expect resistance from those who are established. And you being so—’ He chuckled under his breath. ‘By the Lord, Mercia. You must see this.’

  He nodded in the direction of an emaciated woman who was entering the hall, hand in hand with a more simply attired man. Impossibly thin, she was draped in a lurid yellow dress, an oversized collar sprawling awkwardly over her shoulders. Atop her brown hair perched a gaudy silver tiara, but it was impossible to see her face, for a rose veil covered her looks.

  ‘That is Cornelia Howe,’ he said. ‘Sir Stephen Herrick’s niece, and by all accounts a woman with a fiery temper.’

  ‘That is Cornelia?’ said Mercia, watching as the couple glided off. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Because she is with her husband, Thomas Howe, and … because of the way she is dressed.’

  ‘Indeed? I had not expected her to dress like that.’

  ‘Then what did you expect?’

  ‘Someone less … extravagant, from what you told me earlier. You seemed to suggest she was unappealing.’

  ‘I should say that was unappealing.’

  She laughed. ‘My, Sir William, you had best be careful, or people might take you for a spiteful tattler.’

  ‘I hope not. Ah.’ He raised a finger to point at the far side of the room. ‘Look there. Sir Geoffrey Allcot.’

  She craned her neck to observe two men as they retreated from a loud group of highly coiffured women. One put his hand on the other’s shoulder, turning him towards the wall, and they began to talk.

  ‘I wonder what they are discussing,’ Sir William mumbled, more to himself than to Mercia. ‘The war, no doubt.’

  ‘Which one is Sir Geoffrey?’


  ‘What?’ He glanced down. ‘Forgive me. He on the left is the Earl of Clarendon, the King’s Chief Minister. And the other is Sir Geoffrey. The fattest man in England.’

  ‘You do not much like him?’

  ‘You may call me old-fashioned, but I think if you wish to serve on the King’s war council then perhaps you should have at least some experience of war.’

  ‘Then why is he on the council?’

  ‘Because he makes the King rich, Mercia. Or more rightly, the King’s brother the Duke. He is a man of enterprise, an ocean trader, one of the new breed at Court. A man of vast profit and riches, rather than of soldiery and honour.’

  ‘A trader in what, to bring such wealth?’

  He hesitated. ‘In people.’

  ‘People?’ Her mask slipped. ‘You do not mean …?’

  ‘Slaves. Africans. ’Tis the Duke’s new venture. It has developed somewhat even while we were away, and Sir Geoffrey is one of its strongest advocates.’ He sucked in his lips. ‘He and his fellows style themselves the Royal Adventurers. They send ships to the west coast of Africa, load them with men, with women and children too, and they send them to our colonies across the Atlantic. It is extremely … profitable. Especially now sugar is in such demand and needs their labour to work it.’ He looked at her askance. ‘Can you guess which other nation claims colonies in Africa?’

  ‘I know the Dutch control much of the Guinea coast.’

  ‘Precisely. But if we were to oust them, then we would have access to the whole of that coast, and with it, its pitiable bounty. And that, my dear Mercia, is why Sir Geoffrey is on the war council. The Royal Adventurers have a powerful stake in this conflict, and their master is the Duke.’

  The image of the Indians she had met in America came to mind – of the abuses they had suffered, of their warnings of conflict. ‘My father used to say that whatever their provenance all men should be free. And after what we saw in New England …’

  ‘That is not for me to say, Mercia. There are those who oppose it, but they are few. What price the life of a heathen black when power and profit stand to benefit? And do not forget, it afflicts the white man also. Think of the Barbary slavers on the edges of the Mediterranean. I knew men myself who were taken captive there and never returned.’