Traitor

by David Hingley

  His arm froze in her hand. ‘I never intended to … But no. It does not do well to talk of it.’

  ‘Talk of what?’ She looked up at him, and was startled to think … could he have – after all these months? Had the lust he had thought to bear on her last year morphed into something more? But then he turned to face her, and his eyes showed only kindness.

  ‘Go.’ He squeezed her uninjured arm. ‘’Tis only proper you be polite. And thank him from me, would you, also?’

  ‘For what?’ she said.

  ‘For looking after you, Mercia, when you were hurt. For making sure you were well and safe.’

  She found him where Sir William had claimed he would be, beneath a white portico at the edge of the Banqueting House, the newest part of the palace where the ball had taken place. As she paused in an archway she took in the grand columns, the bustle of courtiers and supplicants filling the gleaming space, and she thought back to the time when this construction was new, to before the civil war that had set King against Parliament, to when the world was simpler, less crowded with bloody death. Or perhaps that was merely her child-self speaking, back through the years when she need never worry where she was or whom she met.

  Who could have thought then, when she read cross-legged in her father’s study, that she would ape the heroes of the stories she loved with the patterns of her own life? Who could have thought then, when many still held to the divine rule of Kings, that the first Charles would be ended, so near this very spot, with the docking of his head by that harsh and fearsome axe? Who could have thought then, after a decade of republic, that his sons would be restored with the docking of a ship, the new King welcomed home on a tide of rapturous glory?

  Such times she had lived through … but she was drifting again.

  Shaking her head of its nostalgia, she brushed down the sleeves of her bodice – flawless already, but even so – and walked to the waiting surgeon, a smile on her face, when—

  ‘Good day, Mrs Blakewood.’ A different man stepped from the archway to her left. ‘A delight to see you once more.’

  ‘Mr Raff,’ she said in surprise. Looking over his shoulder, she could see that Malvern had noticed them. ‘If I did not know better, I should say you are following me about the palace.’

  ‘If only I had the time to do just that, life would be sweet indeed.’ He leant against a nearby pillar. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Can I not walk where I please?’

  ‘Of course.’ He held out his arm. ‘Why not walk with me? ’Tis not raining today.’

  ‘I fear, Henry, I have another engagement.’

  ‘Not one you can interrupt?’

  ‘That would be ill-mannered.’

  He leant into her ear. ‘Then be ill-mannered.’

  ‘Alas, Henry, I am too … polite.’

  She locked eyes with him a moment before inclining her head and continuing towards Malvern. As she approached, she was sure she could feel Raff’s stare burning into her neck.

  ‘Mr Malvern,’ she said, seamlessly shifting from one man to the next. ‘It was an unexpected pleasure to learn you were at Whitehall.’

  ‘The pleasure is mine.’ He bowed. ‘I hope you do not mind my asking Sir William to enquire after you.’

  ‘Not at all. It gets so dry in my chambers. I am glad of the diversion.’ She indicated a vacant bench. ‘Shall we sit?’

  Leading him to the bench, she could see Henry Raff loitering behind his pillar, pretending not to look. But even on the third time she glanced across, his eyes were quickly turning away.

  ‘A friend of yours?’ asked Malvern.

  ‘An acquaintance. Well, Mr Malvern. What brings you to Whitehall?’

  ‘Giles, please.’ He shrugged. ‘I am here because of the war.’

  ‘Sir William suggested as much. I did not think a barber surgeon would have reason to attend Court?’

  ‘Not every surgeon, no.’ He looked at her intertwined hands. ‘How is your wrist? And … how are you faring? It cannot have been easy, seeing what you did.’

  Not easy, she thought, although more common than you would think. Sir Geoffrey had been right on one point at least. Death did seem to follow her of late.

  ‘My hand is much improved,’ she said. ‘I have you to thank for attending to it so swiftly.’

  He smiled. ‘I merely bandaged it.’

  ‘Still, it hardly compares to what you will have seen on the ships.’

  ‘Indeed, but I shy from discussing that in front of a lady.’ He sat forward on the bench. ‘Sir Stephen Herrick tells me your father was Sir Rowland Goodridge. I had no idea. I am sorry for what befell him.’

  Yet another pitying look. ‘Thank you. It was a difficult time.’

  ‘You did not let it cow you, though. I should love to hear your tales of the ocean. We men endure the cramped quarters because we must, but a lady like yourself … it must have been uncomfortable.’

  ‘I will not lie. It was. But I managed.’

  There was a brief silence. ‘Forgive me if I overstep the mark, Mrs Blakewood,’ he said finally, ‘but if you are willing, I should like to accompany you to dinner some time. I should like to help you recover from the terrible scene at Hampton Court.’

  ‘That is most kind, Giles.’ On instinct, she found herself querying his motives as she looked at his hopeful face. But then she thought of Nicholas, about his warnings of being too wary; and also she looked at Henry Raff, pretending still not to observe them, and—

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I should like that. But only to eat and to talk.’

  ‘Do not think me untoward, for I am widowed, like yourself. And I know that you and Sir William Calde are …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Will you be free tomorrow, perhaps? I am only in London for a week or so more, until I rejoin my ship.’

  ‘Why not?’ The excitement at accepting his invitation coursed through her; how long had it been since she had last done that? ‘But I fear you shall have to choose the eating house. I have been too long away from London to know which are the most fashionable spots.’

  He thought a moment. ‘Does fish too much remind you of the sea?’

  She laughed. ‘Unless you wish dried biscuit as an accompaniment, I should welcome anything, truth be told. The food at Court becomes a little rich for my taste.’

  ‘Then shall we say noon? I will arrange for a carriage to collect you at the gates.’

  ‘There is no need. I can take a sedan, if you send me a note to say where you will be.’

  ‘A carriage is more comfortable,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I insist. And shall see you tomorrow.’

  He doffed his hat and strode head high through the nearest archway. She stayed where she was, surveying the crowd, and she noticed how Henry Raff had vanished also. And then again she pondered – dinner with a strange man. Was that wise? But then she laughed out loud, startling a passing servant. At least, she thought, Nicholas would approve.

  With the threat of One-Eye Wilkins prevalent, Nicholas did, however, insist on accompanying her to the eating house, riding beside her in the carriage. She allowed him to follow her into the spacious dining room, where she craned her neck to seek out Malvern, finding him rising in greeting from his table in the farthest corner. Satisfied she was safe, Nicholas withdrew to the crowded street, there to remain on watch.

  ‘Good day, Mr Malvern,’ she said, as he dashed to pull out her chair. ‘Thank you.’

  He eased her into place. ‘Good day, Mrs Blakewood. I trust your carriage was waiting on time?’

  ‘And thank you for that also. The driver told me I owed no fare.’

  ‘It was I who invited you to join me.’

  She looked around the vaulted space; it was full of expectant diners, some tucking into fish or lamb, others waiting for their orders, but all deep in conversation. Frantic conversation, at that.

  ‘You know what they talk of,’ he said as he sat. ‘The Dutch fleet has set sail. Seven squadrons, with over one hundred
ships.’

  She nodded. ‘I heard mutterings about it at Court this morning. You think they will come?’

  ‘Not to London, so do not be alarmed. They may merely seek to make a show of strength. Our own fleet is being readied in response, but … let us not dwell on that here. What will you drink? Wine?’

  ‘Still, it seems strange to think the Dutch are on their way.’ She sighed. ‘Ale, I think. I have drunk so much wine at the palace that I long for something simpler. Truth be told, I am not used to it. We did not get much wine aboard ships.’

  ‘Ale, then. You are fortunate, for here they serve one of the best.’ He raised his hand, waving it back and forth; a teenage boy shot across, took their order, and dashed away.

  ‘That was quick,’ she said. ‘Either London eating houses have become more proficient of late, or else you have a favourable reputation here.’

  He laughed. ‘I hope the latter, for the chances of the former are slight indeed. But yes, his father serves on the ships. As young Andrew hopes to in his turn.’

  She looked at the harassed boy, already speeding back with two tankards of frothy ale.

  ‘Do you think … thank you.’ She waited for him to move away. ‘Do you think the war will last long? For boys like that who know little of battle … how hard it can be – I do not much care to think of it.’

  ‘There are reasons for war, Mrs Blakewood, good and bad. Sometimes when the cause is just … but you are right. That is scant comfort to the wives and mothers left at home.’

  She lowered her head in reflection. ‘My husband died in his soldier’s dress. Not in a battle, but … shall we talk of something more cheerful?’

  ‘Of course.’ His taut cheeks sagged. ‘War seems to be all there is in my thoughts right now. War and the reasons for it.’ He looked at her. ‘I wonder – could I tell you something that might affect your opinion of me? At the least, prove I am not a common soldier?’

  She held his gaze a moment, and then found herself roving his face. Like Raff, his hair was black, but his eyes were a hazel hue. His forehead was strong, devoid of worried creases, and his jaw traced a rectangular shape. His ears stuck out the smallest amount, in an endearing way, and his lips were thick, his mouth an ellipse. His skin was smooth, aside from a light beard and moustache that complemented his wavy hair.

  She reached for her ale and took a sip. ‘You are right. This is good. And in answer to your question, yes. You can tell me what you will, and I shall tell you how I respond.’

  ‘A sensible and noble proposal.’ He took a sip of his own drink and paused. ‘You may not like it, mind, but I think it better to be honest at the start.’

  She raised her eyebrow. ‘At the start of what, Mr Malvern?’

  ‘Of our friendship, I hope.’ He lifted his tankard, and she chinked it with her own. ‘Which I venture to presume might flourish, provided you do not shun me after my revelation.’

  ‘You presume much, Mr Malvern.’ She smiled. ‘Especially for a man who knows little about me.’

  ‘You must forgive me for being forward in my discourse. I know more about you than you think.’

  In an instant her body turned rigid. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That I did not ask you here merely to eat, but also to confess. Nor did I meet you merely by chance, either.’

  The serving boy Andrew chose that moment to approach, asking if they wanted to eat. Malvern shooed him away, but Mercia’s face was set, little caring for who could hear her.

  ‘So, Mr Malvern. It seems I was right and my manservant was wrong. I am correct to be mistrustful of the motives of others.’

  ‘That is always prudent.’ Still he looked at her. ‘And yet I cannot help but notice you are not leaving. You would like to know the reason for my interest, I am certain.’

  ‘Do you perceive that through your study of me also?’ She narrowed her eyes – juvenile, perhaps, but she was suitably incensed. ‘How long have you been watching me? For whom? My uncle?’

  ‘Sir Francis?’ Now he blinked. ‘No, but … in truth I cannot say much. But I want to be fair, and I will say that I work for … certain people, on certain matters of interest to the state.’ He leant in. ‘Do you understand me?’

  She lowered her voice. ‘You mean to say you are a … spy of sorts?’

  ‘Of sorts.’ His voice was as quiet as hers. ‘As are you, it seems.’

  ‘And not a barber surgeon?’

  ‘I am that, and good at it, I hope. But this is a time of war, and as I have been before, I can play the other, when it is needed.’

  She frowned. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because I think we are working to the same end, and I should like to cooperate. Especially now a lady of the Court is murdered. For we both serve England, do we not?’

  She remarked his calm face, his calm movements. He did not appear to be lying, but others before had seemed honest. And so who could truly tell?

  ‘Say I believe you.’ She took a drink of her ale: a long one. ‘If we are working to the same end, what is your part in it? Why have I been asked to do so at all?’

  ‘The same end, not the same task. Besides, you were recruited by Lady Castlemaine. Whereas I am in the service of … others.’

  ‘I see. Others that Lady Castlemaine may or may not like.’

  ‘I am afraid we are caught in a game of favourites, Mrs Blakewood. Should you unmask your quarry, you vindicate your patron’s choice and earn her favour. But I think, perhaps, our Lady Castlemaine merely wishes to annoy my employers. It matters little that she enjoys a friendship with their own master, the Earl of Arlington.’

  She thought of her uncle’s benefactor. ‘What of the Earl of Clarendon? Lady Castlemaine has told me how they do not see eye to eye.’

  ‘Clarendon is the King’s Chief Minister. Arlington is the senior Secretary of State, with overall charge of … these affairs. What you see here is how all things unfold at Court. Clarendon and Castlemaine vie for influence, while all around them play their own games.’

  ‘That seems petulant.’

  ‘I suppose I should not say so, but that is the level on which these persons of high rank operate. I think, if I read you right, that you are as unimpressed with their petty fights as I am.’

  She could not help but feel she was being challenged, somehow. ‘Perhaps. You were at Hampton Court for this reason?’

  ‘I was supposed to be observing, as I think you were.’

  ‘Observing whom?’

  ‘That scarcely matters. But I was not going to hide from you when you needed help.’ He pushed his half-drained tankard to one side. ‘I am acting without permission in speaking with you, Mrs Blakewood. But you intrigue me in ways that are not solely connected with my work.’ He laid his hands on the table. ‘I have a further confession. I did not ask you here only to discuss our mutual task.’

  ‘Then what?’ she said.

  ‘I am a man. You are a woman.’

  ‘I can see how you were chosen for this kind of work.’

  He laughed. ‘I mean I find you … captivating.’

  ‘Other men have called me that, Mr Malvern. It may turn the heads of certain women, but it does not work with me. Perhaps I am under your observation, after all.’

  ‘Only in so much as I desire it. Others are watching you more properly, no doubt. They are most likely watching me also.’ He shrugged. ‘We are from the outside, unlikely to arouse suspicion in what they have asked us to do. But when all is finished, they will cut us adrift as it suits them. I have asked you here also to advise you to be cautious.’

  ‘I am not a fool, Mr Malvern. And so you will forgive me if I am cautious with you.’

  ‘I do not expect you to be forthright with me yet. But there is more at stake here than one woman’s treason. Whatever the pamphlets bleat, the war is finely balanced. The Dutch fleet is strong and swift. One wrong move may court disaster.’

  ‘Then we must all play our part as best we can, assure
dly.’

  ‘Then play it carefully, is all I ask. And now let me prove my sincerity in some other way.’ He clicked his fingers at the serving boy. ‘By allowing me to do what I came here for most of all.’

  ‘And what is that?’ she asked.

  ‘To buy a beautiful lady her dinner.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  She was out in London and had the rest of the afternoon free: she was going to make the most of it. Retrieving Nicholas from his observation post outside the eating house, she hailed the nearest hackney carriage and asked the driver to take them to the docks, downriver past London Bridge.

  ‘Pleasant meal?’ asked Nicholas, as the carriage jolted its way through the crowded streets.

  ‘Interesting, at least.’ Quickly, she filled him in on Malvern’s revelations. ‘What do you think?’

  He tapped his bandaged fingertip on the wooden seat. ‘’Tis convenient he was at Hampton Court at the exact time Lady Allcot was killed, loitering near the exact place you were pushed.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She looked through the dirty window, splattered with dried rain spots. ‘I thought the same. And yet he sounded sincere. He did not have the manner of a brute sent to put me off. There were no threats or anything like. Quite the … opposite, indeed.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  She ignored his curiosity. ‘And he did not encourage me to abandon my pursuit. More a warning to take care. But whatever Giles’s motives, I shall—’

  ‘Giles?’

  She flicked her wrist. ‘Mr Malvern, then. But whatever his motives, I shall continue as intended. Starting with going to the docks.’

  ‘And why are we going to the docks?’

  She laid a hand on the rough ceiling as the carriage lurched right. ‘Because of Cornelia Howe. I have learnt that her husband’s enterprise is based there, in a warehouse where he manages his business, including—hell’s teeth, this journey is uncomfortable!’ She wedged herself into the corner of the seat. ‘Including ships to Holland. I want to see if there is any connection to Virgo’s interests, or any reason else Cornelia might be involved.’