‘What is this, Phibae?’ she asked.
‘A letter, my lady. A page brought it this afternoon, when you were trying to talk with Lady Herrick. One of the postmaster’s lads.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’ve always left letters for my mistresses untouched. I don’t like to be thought of as prying. Did I do wrong?’
‘No, Phibae.’ She turned the sealed paper over in her hands, studying the unfamiliar handwriting. ‘You said mistresses. Are you passed around so often?’
‘From time to time, my lady.’
‘How did you come to work at the palace, then?’
‘I had a friend who worked here, my lady. She said they often want new maids – younger ones – so I thought I would try. That was, oh … years ago now.’
‘I am curious.’ She set the paper on her lap. ‘You have a comely name. Does it have meaning, as mine does?’
‘It means I was born on a Friday, my lady. It should be Phibba by rights, two b’s and no e, but my mother preferred it the way she named me.’
She smiled. ‘My father named me. After an old English kingdom, many centuries old, from where I was born. He thought it important we learn from the past. And you, Phibae? Have you lived in London your whole life, like Nicholas?’
‘Yes, my lady. Going back, my family’s lived here since Good Queen Bess was alive. Seventy, eighty years now. Not that we haven’t had some tough times.’
‘People can be harsh, that is certain. And always in service, since childhood?’
‘That’s right. My grandmother used to say that when she was my age, well before the war – the civil war, that is – it was hard for … people like me to find work. She told me once there was a petition to be rid of us, but that came to naught when folk realised how hard we worked.’
‘And during the war? Do you have older brothers who fought, or your father, perhaps?’
‘My father died a while back, my lady, same as both my brothers. I only have a sister left, her and my mother. My husband, of course. We had a girl of our own once, but … she died.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘Maybe we’ll have another child soon. With talk of all this plague about, we might wait a while, and then we’ll see.’
‘I understand.’ She took up the paper, easing open the seal. ‘I do not suppose you know where Lady Cartwright’s servant boy is from? Tacitus, I mean.’
Phibae’s chattiness vanished into a monotone. ‘Near the Guinea coast, my lady. Or what you would call as such.’
‘I take it he did not come here by choice.’
‘No. He was brought here, my lady, picked out for his role. And I worry …’
‘You worry he will be sent elsewhere once his mistress is finished with him. To the Barbados, perhaps.’
Phibae hesitated. ‘We hear … that is, we know … but that is not for me to say.’
‘Perhaps not to everyone.’ Mercia nodded her encouragement. ‘But you can to me.’
She looked to the side, as though considering, but then she seemed to make up her mind.
‘Then we are free here, my lady. In England. If we choose to be in service, ’tis most often our decision, although there is much work we are not allowed to do, and there are masters who like to think they own us. Sometimes they go too far, but little is done, and a servant is forced to run away.’ Her face hardened. ‘But in the Barbados, or in Jamaica, it is not a choice. Men and women, children – they are taken in Africa, they are put onto ships, and that is the last time they see their homes. Those who survive the crossing are made to work for no reward.’ She bowed her head. ‘Sometimes I think that is how things must be. Other times I feel a great sadness. That there is little I can do.’
Despite all her compassion, Mercia did not know what to say. ‘Maybe Tacitus can stay in England,’ she tried. ‘In service somewhere, like you.’
‘Maybe, my lady. But there are many boys besides Tacitus. Their mothers …’ She trailed off, struggling to maintain her composure. Her arm was twitching, and she blinked more than once.
‘Phibae.’ Mercia reached out her hand. ‘I believe there is always hope. I know that is small comfort, but it has often sustained me. And I know it sounds foolish, and unwanted, coming from a woman wearing this expensive dress. But please, and I would say the same to Tacitus. Never give in.’
Phibae gazed sadly up. ‘But my lady, on those ships, they have no hope.’
Mercia looked on, and felt a barren helplessness, aware there was nothing worthy she could add. So she limited herself to a futile smile, and turned back to her letter, unfolding the sheet of paper to reveal its contents. As she did, a barely noticed fragment dropped to her lap.
It was a simple message in poor handwriting, although the words were correctly spelt. She read it in five seconds, and within those five seconds, her helplessness had given way to a newborn terror:
Mrs Blakewood,
If you care to see your man again, you will come to me this evening at eight of the clock, at The Partridge in Whitechapel.
If you fail to attend, alone, your inactions will have consequences for his pretty face.
You will find a token of my sincerity enclosed.
One-Eye Wilkins
It was as if the room had become loose from the palace to arise in the midst of the stormy ocean. The table before her seemed to buffet in the doom-laden maelstrom roaring to life inside. She looked down, searching for the token of which the letter spoke, and found nestled in a crease of her dress a small, hard object that could easily have been thrown aside. She reached to retrieve it, but as soon as she examined its coarseness she threw it to the table, only just keeping from being sick.
‘My lady!’ Phibae’s voice was pierced with shock. ‘What is it?’
‘A … Bad news, Phibae. Most terrible.’
She stared at her ashen reflection in the mirror, then forced herself to look back at the table, at the ragged, flat object cast against her box of jewels.
At the torn-away fingernail, stained with congealed blood.
There was no question she had to obey the terrible summons. Nicholas’s life was in danger, of that she was certain, and not only the physicality of the fingernail confirmed it. One-Eye had not hesitated to use the threat of violence when they had met last year, and Mercia knew the smuggler-queen would not long be content with a mere nail.
From the back of her wardrobe she dragged out a hidden dress from her long ocean voyage, the drab garment better suited to the dirty streets of London than were the opulent gowns of the Court.
‘I need to find Nicholas,’ she explained to Phibae. ‘I need to go into the city.’
‘Then let me go, mistress. You shouldn’t be walking the streets alone.’
‘I have done so before, Phibae. Could you help me on with this dress?’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Not a word more. Not a word to anyone, come to it.’ She looked at her. ‘I trust you, Phibae. Not a word.’
Phibae opened her mouth, but then she nodded and got to work, turning Mercia into the familiar, less colourful woman she had been these past several months. When Phibae had finished, most of the make-up had gone from her face, she was wearing no decorative patches, and her hair fell down her cheeks, depleted of stiff wire for her ringlets. By then it was after six, and she hurried from the palace towards Charing Cross, making for the row of sedan chairs she knew would be waiting for trade.
‘The Partridge,’ she muttered to the two men at the head of the line. Their arms were massive, the result of years of carrying heavy passengers, no doubt. ‘In Whitechapel.’
The men glanced at each other. ‘Sorry, my lady,’ said one. ‘Did I hear you right?’
‘Yes.’ She climbed into the small compartment. ‘Please.’
She pulled shut the door and lowered the leather blinds, steadying herself as the lead carrier took up the poles at the front, and his fellow the same poles at the back. Despite the combined weight of the sedan and its occupant, they set off at a s
wift pace. Although the ride was long it was not uncomfortable, once she grew used to the constant bouncing left and right, and the frequent swearing whenever the carriers lamented the many obstacles in their path. Soon enough they arrived at their destination, and the chair was lowered to the ground.
‘Half-crown, my lady,’ said the lead carrier, as his partner stood to one side, rubbing at his aching biceps.
She reached into her pockets, feeling for a coin of the right size, and handed it over with a few pennies more. Looking up, she saw she was directly outside an inn with the sign of a faded plump bird swinging in the wind, and surmised she was at the correct place.
‘Thank you,’ she said, striving to ignore the stench of the street. Pulling up her jacket to cover her nose, she glanced at the surrounding buildings, a collection of run-down houses and shops that had seen better days. A few candles were set above the doors, but the locale was mostly dimly lit. Still, nobody glanced at her as she approached the inn – at least, nobody that she noticed – but it felt like the sort of place where somebody should. The two girls in the alley opposite, perhaps, or the link-boys waiting in the shadows for anyone who should wish to pay for their light – or be pickpocketed if they ignored their calls for business.
Taking a deep breath, she entered the inn, but it was not nearly as bad as she had supposed. There were scarcely any customers, for one, just a group of men playing at dice, and a couple of women laughing as they slugged on their tankards of ale. It was extraordinary, Mercia thought, how but thirty minutes earlier she had been inside the royal palace. Different shades of life, alien the one from the other, and yet finding a strange way to co-exist in this city of many layers.
Trying to be inconspicuous, she looked further into the room, unsure whether One-Eye would be waiting. Then she locked eyes with the tavern keeper, and she crossed the sticky floor towards his warped bar.
‘What’s your name?’ he demanded, his hands resting on the wood.
‘I am looking for someone,’ she said.
‘Tell me your name,’ he repeated. ‘And I’ll tell you if you’re expected.’
There was little to lose from being honest. ‘I am Mercia Blakewood.’
He nodded, and as he did, a smirk seemed to grow on his face, or was that just the candlelight flickering above?
‘Through that door there,’ he sniffed.
She followed his mocking eyes, passing round the bar to reach a narrow opening, more a hanging collection of splinters than a functioning door. She sidestepped behind it, coming into a small storage space stacked full of barrels, lit by a broad candle atop a chest. Water dripped onto her sleeve as she made for the staircase at the back of the room, and she ascended the creaking steps, a spider scurrying from her boot, to find a larger, more open space upstairs. Seated opposite, two people were playing cards, a woman and a man.
‘Here she is,’ said the man, setting down his hand. ‘It’s been a while, Mrs Blakewood.’
She peered forward, studying the man’s rough features.
‘Jink,’ she said.
‘That’s right.’
‘And Mrs Wilkins.’
The woman leapt to her feet. ‘Mercia, Mercia, welcome.’ She turned to her companion. ‘Of course she came. She merely needed the right incentive.’
‘A shame, all told,’ said Jink, twisting one of his fingers. ‘Could’ve sent her more gifts.’
The room was sparsely furnished, a loft beneath the rafters of the tavern. Mercia could see to the end, but Nicholas was nowhere in sight.
‘Where is he?’ she said.
Jink made a feint of looking around. ‘Not here, love, is he?’
‘Jink,’ said One-Eye. ‘How about you leave the talking to me?’
Jink sucked in his cheek, but he kept his silence, slinking back into his chair.
‘Wildmoor is safe,’ continued One-Eye. ‘And mostly intact. I see you received my token.’
Mercia narrowed her eyes. ‘You need not have done that. It was cruel. Barbaric.’
One-Eye scratched at her clutch of white hair. ‘It was nothing compared to what could have happened. He is your man, and you scorned my request. When people scorn me, their property tends to suffer.’ She threw her a meaningful look. ‘Would you rather I had visited your mother in Warwick?’
The threat turned her cold. ‘Please, tell me where Nicholas is.’
‘We have matters to discuss first.’ Returning to the table, she took up her threadbare hand of cards, laying her choice onto a central stack. ‘Now, would you sit? ’Tis somewhat chill in this loft, but I thought you would prefer secrecy to the warmth of the fire downstairs.’
She was going to refuse, but the roof was low, and standing to the side she was having to stoop.
‘How did you know where to find him?’ she said, lowering herself onto a stool.
‘I told you.’ One-Eye lifted her own seat and brought it alongside. ‘I have someone at Court.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m hardly going to tell you that. But I trust this misunderstanding is now resolved?’
‘I am here, am I not?’
One-Eye laughed. ‘You promise your aid, I return your man. You give me what I ask for, no one loses anything more. Not Wildmoor.’ She licked her lips. ‘Not your son.’
A raw anger flared. ‘You go too far if you think to threaten my son.’
‘I am jesting, my friend. I would never harm a child. Most like.’
She looked on One-Eye with utter disdain. ‘What do you want?’
‘Information, as I said before. Custom, if you can get it. There are many at Court who would want the goods I can provide, legal or no. But there is one thing in particular you can do.’
‘Well?’ She could hear the muffled voices from the tavern below.
‘’Tis this war, Mercia. Trade has come almost to a halt, yet there are still keen buyers in Holland. I mean to help the flow of commerce. For an increased price, of course.’
‘Must I say it again? I will do nothing to advantage our enemy.’
‘Presumptuous talk, Mrs Blakewood, as I still have your man.’
She hesitated. ‘Then what is your – particular – request?’
‘Nothing beyond the wit of a woman such as you.’ One-Eye waved a careless hand. ‘Merely information on the deployment of the fleet. In the North Sea and Channel.’
The legs of her stool slipped. ‘That is unthinkable!’
‘Plans for blockades of Dutch ports. Ship movements. Anything that will tell me where the fleet is and when.’
‘No!’ She widened her eyes. ‘If that were to fall into enemy hands …’
‘I want no contact with the fleet, English or Dutch. As long as you give me true reports, I shall sail nowhere near either. I shall go to Holland to sell my cargo, and anything I bring back I shall sell to others here. And if you give me bad reports, well … Should I be apprehended, your part in this might come to light, and I should not think much for your family’s standing after that.’
‘One-Eye.’ She swallowed. ‘What you ask is impossible.’
‘Impossible, unthinkable … such melancholy, Mercia! But you have no choice. If you refuse, those close to you will lose more than just a fingernail. And so I think our talk here is done.’
‘Mrs Wilkins. I am telling you I cannot—’
‘You will receive a letter in a week or so, telling you where you should bring your report. Heed its instructions or face the consequence once more. Remember there is someone watching at Court. Do not think to delude me, for I shall know.’
She bared her teeth. ‘Then give me Nicholas. Where is he?’
‘That’s for you to find out.’ Clapping her hands on her knees, One-Eye stood and grabbed her stool, slamming it down next to Jink’s. ‘You thought to play games with me, by refusing my request in the park. So now I shall play a game with you, in pleasing symmetry. The directions to your man are on that bench behind you. ’Tis a most simple game, so do not be pertur
bed.’ She took up her playing cards, studying them intently as she fanned them into a semicircle. ‘And this time, I shall let you win – or perhaps let you think you have won. But let it be a reminder that any who seek to play games with me will find themselves toyed with in far greater measure.’
Mercia stared at the back of One-Eye’s head, near overcome with ire, but there was little she could do against the smuggler-queen in the heart of her own territory. So saving her energies, she walked to the bench, snatching a small paper from under a beaker, and focussed on the problem at hand.
‘This is it?’ she said.
‘Simple, no?’ said One-Eye, as she played a faded King of hearts. ‘You know the way out.’
Turning away, Mercia descended the creaking stairs, thrusting the crumpled paper into her pockets. Her head spinning with fury and fear, she made a vow to herself there and then: whatever One-Eye said, she would play her at her own games and win. She had bested worse enemies before.
As for the present game, One-Eye was insulting her. The directions solely read:
Why tall?
Whitehall, she seethed. He had already been returned to the palace.
Chapter Thirteen
She forced herself to look again at the red patch of skin, raw at the tip of his finger.
‘I do not believe you,’ she said. ‘It must hurt.’
Nicholas wrapped the wound in a tiny bandage. ‘Very well, it does. Not as much as it did at the time, though. Those pliers did their work.’ He curled his hand into a fist and winced, but he managed to close the fingers. ‘I promise you this, she’s going to pay for it.’
Mercia glanced away, towards the window. ‘My, I dearly want to know who she has watching us at Court.’
‘Could be anyone.’ He rested his elbow on her dressing table, setting his chin on his fist. ‘I feel like … going out there and doing the same to her. Worse.’
‘I cannot give her what she wants, Nicholas. If I were to be discovered, I would be taken for treason. She wants me to become the very woman I am trying to unmask. Virgo. A beautiful irony, do you not think?’
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