Traitor

by David Hingley

  There was one final matter to resolve. Before returning to what would soon no longer be her chambers, she made a detour to a different set of rooms, steeling herself to knock. In spite of what she knew she must do, she felt as little appetite for it as she had for condemning Lavinia Whent. But finally she rapped her knuckles on the wood, and a deep voice within bade her enter.

  ‘Good morrow, Sir Stephen,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Blakewood.’ Sir Stephen Herrick, advisor to the King’s war council, looked up in some puzzlement. ‘What brings you to my apartments?’

  She decided not to advance too far into the darkened room: not from fear, but from respect.

  ‘It is over, Sir Stephen. Howe and Malvern are captured and Lavinia is caught. I do not think they will keep their peace for long.’

  ‘And you come here to tell me this.’ His eyes darted for an instant to the pistol on his desk. ‘Why?’

  ‘I hold you no malice, Sir Stephen. But I have a duty to the King, and … I have a duty to Lavinia too. She and her fellows could not have planned their attempt without help.’

  ‘Could they not, indeed?’

  ‘The information she passed from the war council had to come from someone. And I do not think that was Sir Peter.’

  He remained silent.

  ‘I think you are too noble to let another man languish in your place,’ she continued. ‘It would be well if you would speak yourself. But if not, I shall do so for you. I have not told His Majesty yet.’

  He turned to look on a portrait of his wife that was hanging beside the window: captured at the age she was now, in a beautiful green dress, with a low, adorned neckline.

  ‘It was worth the gamble, do you not think? Worth the risk that events might have ended differently?’

  Her shoulders relaxed, just a little. ‘You were careful, ’tis true.’

  ‘But not too careful for you, it seems. The King is right to value your ability.’ Unconsciously, he stroked the lion’s head that finished the armrest of his chair. ‘When did you know?’

  ‘Howe and Malvern served together in the fleet on a mission to Guinea. In Harwich, Lavinia said it was there that their ideals took hold. Your wife once said you had also sailed to the Guinea coast.’ She looked at him. ‘When you were their captain.’

  ‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘That is right.’

  ‘I am willing to wager that what repulsed them repulsed you too. Evening discussions in your cabin over a glass of rum or ale, all three sickened by what you had seen. It would have been a relief to discuss it.’

  ‘It was.’ He stroked his chin. ‘Our antipathy developed on the voyage home. We came to believe the soul of the nation was in jeopardy. The very idea that the Duke of York could become King … it was important to prevent that from ever occurring.’

  ‘It was you, also, who placed Lavinia in the Duke of Cambridge’s nursery.’

  ‘Thomas met her at a Quaker meeting, but I suspect you know that by now. He recognised her from Court and they began a friendship. She wanted to be involved, and it was a silly thing, I know, but even at the Duke’s young age we thought it prudent he have a loving influence. One he would remain fond of as he matured to his older years, who could speak to him of decency and honour as he grew. Was that so wrong?’

  ‘Not in itself, Sir Stephen. But it was you, also, who secured Howe his commission in the fleet, close to the Duke of York. It was you who earned Malvern his position amongst the King’s spies. You have all the right connections at the Admiralty to be able to have done it.’

  His eyes turned again to his gun, and now they were full of sorrow. ‘Think, Mrs Blakewood, what was at stake. One illness. One successful plot against the King. And the Duke of York with all his bile would have inherited the sacred throne. But only remove him before that occurred, and then his children would inherit. Children who could be raised to know the true meaning of the honour it is to be the English King.’

  ‘I doubt the present King will agree with you.’

  ‘He will take me as a traitor with the rest. He will execute me without hesitation. Still, the throw of the dice was worth it. Alea iacta est.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Alea iacta est. The die is cast. Caesar said it on crossing the Rubicon, before he invaded Rome.’

  ‘You are not Caesar, Sir Stephen. But perhaps you thought to create one.’

  ‘It is what this country needs. An honourable and firm King who will take our nation into the world in defiance of our enemies. An honest ruler, not some hated Catholic. You cannot owe the Duke any love.’

  ‘Perhaps you would have succeeded, had Lavinia not been so intent on her own revenge. She only wanted to take vengeance for the sins she had witnessed in her past.’

  ‘She wanted to destroy anyone involved with the Royal Adventurers. The slaving company, I mean. I did not think she would try it. Perhaps Giles trusted her too much. Perhaps I did.’

  ‘They were sharing a bed.’

  ‘I do not doubt it. There was ever a certain tension between them. And oh, poor Cornelia. She loved her husband too much, I think.’ He tugged at his doublet. ‘Thank you for coming to speak with me, Mrs Blakewood. I had already made up my mind not to run from what I have done. I was merely … preparing myself. But you should know, nor do I lament it.’

  ‘I did not think you would.’

  He got to his feet. ‘I wish you well, Mrs Blakewood, in your life. I am glad you are to be restored to your manor house. Your father would have been most proud.’

  She held his keen gaze, and with a short bow she took her leave.

  Thirty seconds later, the gunshot rang out behind his door.

  Epilogue

  It was truly a beautiful day. The Oxfordshire sun shone down its benevolence as she rode her horse into Halescott. She progressed with Daniel along the lazy street, passing cottages made of the local stone she so loved, its warm orange glow the perfect welcome home.

  She reined in her horse, waiting for her followers to catch up. The first to pull alongside was a young, teenage boy, staring in amazement at the village surroundings. More slowly, Nicholas trotted up, bearing Phibae beside him on his horse.

  ‘Very good, Tacitus,’ said Mercia. ‘You ride that horse well.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said, his eyes taking everything in.

  ‘So this is it,’ said Nicholas, staring just as much. ‘What everything has been for.’

  She smiled at their excitement. ‘Yes. This is Halescott. My home.’

  A girl had appeared at a gate behind them. She stared up at Tacitus and frowned, and then her eyes took in Phibae, and Nicholas, and then she looked at Mercia and gasped.

  ‘Mamma,’ she called. ‘Mamma, ’tis Mrs Blakewood!’

  And then the door opened, the mother emerged, and the cries of astonishment began.

  She held out her hand to the iron gates, pausing to take her time. She was not about to rush this moment. Taking a steady breath, she pushed, and as the gate squeaked open, she looked up. There, before her, stood Halescott Manor, its doors, its windows, its familiar stone. The gravelled drive, the bushes and the trees. The grand house was empty now, save for one elderly woman, her uncle’s tenants dismissed before she had arrived.

  She passed in through the gate, relishing the crunch of the gravel beneath her feet, feeling the sun’s warmth on her face. She walked slowly, enjoying every second, and it was only the knowledge of the company behind that stopped her falling to her knees to touch this sacred ground. And then the door to the manor threw itself open, and the elderly woman belied her age, hurrying towards her with a tear down her face.

  ‘Mistress!’ she cried. ‘Oh, mistress! It is so good to see you. And Daniel too – my, you have grown!’

  ‘Bethany.’ Mercia opened her arms to embrace her. ‘My dear old maid.’

  ‘Mistress, you did it. You won back your manor!’

  ‘Did you ever doubt that I would?’

  Bethany reached down to ruff
le Daniel’s hair. ‘I hope you behaved for your mamma, young man.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ Mercia beamed.

  ‘And, Mistress, your mother will return next week. As you instructed in your letter.’

  ‘Very good, Bethany. Now allow me to introduce some people.’ As Daniel skipped ahead, she turned around. ‘First, this is Phibae, who will be joining us at the manor for a while, as long as she can bear to be separated from her husband. Under your instruction, of course.’

  Bethany did not flinch. ‘Very good, Mistress.’

  ‘This is Tacitus, who has helped carry my belongings all the way here. They should arrive by cart this afternoon, I am told. And Tacitus, now you have done that, I have some news.’

  ‘Yes, my lady?’ he said.

  ‘The King was so gracious as to grant me your service. But I think you can make up your own mind now.’

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘I discharge you from my service, Tacitus. Should you wish it, you can voluntarily rejoin it, and help me here. Should you not, you can return to London and find other work. But the choice is yours, and yours alone.’

  He glanced at Phibae, who was looking on expectantly, her hands clasped beneath her chin. ‘Then I choose to stay, for now,’ he said. ‘There are people in London I should like to help, people you have met. But now I am here, I shall help you until you no longer need it.’

  ‘Then I thank you, Tacitus.’

  He shook his head. ‘Kwadwo. My name is Kwadwo.’

  She regarded the boy’s keen eyes, and she nodded and smiled. ‘And this, Bethany, is Nicholas. He sailed with me to America and back.’

  Bethany bowed, as well as she could. ‘Will Nicholas be joining us also?’

  ‘I had to come to see Halescott for myself,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be going back to London soon.’

  ‘I said you can stay here,’ said Mercia, ‘if you want, if the plague gets worse. You could bring your daughter.’

  ‘No, London’s where I belong. A couple of days’ rest to help you settle in won’t hurt. But I doubt I shall ever want to say goodbye to you for good.’

  She looked at him, the strangest of companions, and in defiance of all decorum, she reached over to give him a hug.

  ‘Thank you, Nicholas, most of all. I would not be here without you.’

  ‘And Nathan?’ said Bethany, looking around. ‘Mr Keyte? Has he not returned with you?’

  ‘Not yet, Bethany. I shall tell you about that. And I shall write to him again soon. For now, I want to enjoy this moment.’

  She walked the last few steps to the front of the manor and laid her hand upon its stone, scarcely believing she was there. But she was. And it was glorious.

  ‘Well, old friend,’ she whispered. ‘I am back.’

  Historical Note

  In early 1665, King Charles II declared war on the United Provinces of the Dutch Republic, starting the Second Anglo-Dutch War. Much like the first such conflict (and the third to come), it was in large part a war about trade, about who had the right to dominance of the sea routes and colonies that would fuel the development of empire in the centuries to come. New Amsterdam on the eastern American seaboard had already been captured and swiftly renamed New York; there had been skirmishes on the African coast. But while the surrender of New Amsterdam, as documented in Birthright, had taken place without a fight, the upcoming conflict would witness all the deadly firepower of war.

  The Battle of Lowestoft, the sea battle that forms the backdrop to the end of this novel, must be one of the most unknown in British military history. Perhaps its very nature makes that inevitable, the difficulty in visiting a maritime battlefield obvious. But it was of crucial importance at the time, a massive engagement involving well over a hundred ships, the cream of both fleets. King Charles’s journey to be near at hand is made up for the purpose of this fiction, but the Duke of York, as Lord High Admiral, did lead the fleet, and he did so to a celebrated victory. One of the mysteries of Lowestoft is why he failed to consolidate his success by pursuing the beaten Dutch. It is recorded, at least, that the three men on deck beside him were struck down by a well-aimed cannonball: covered in their gore – and why not shaken from a plot on his life? – it is perhaps not so surprising that he instead headed back to shore.

  Already in early 1665, five years after King Charles had been restored to his throne, there were grumblings, often horrified ones, that the unpopular (and Catholic) Duke would most likely inherit. While Charles’s religious beliefs were private and pragmatic, James’s were brazen, as were his uncompromising attitudes to all manner of subjects. Although Charles had fathered eight children already (by the age of thirty-four), none of them were by his Queen, and with the simmering tensions of the civil war still lingering, plots against him were scarcely uncommon. Remove the Duke, and remove the threat of his accession – this is the premise behind Traitor. Alas, the poor child the conspirators had hoped to elevate in his place – James, Duke of Cambridge, the happy boy Lavinia cares for in his nursery – died in 1667 just short of his fourth birthday. It would be his sisters, Mary and Anne, who would one day both become Queen.

  If plots were commonplace, so too were spies. Under the Earl of Arlington’s auspices, Joseph Williamson was creating a vast espionage network for the King; in counter, there were plentiful informers working against them, aiding causes both domestic and foreign. Charles II often employed (read ‘used’) women for this, among them the renowned Aphra Behn – and now Mercia Blakewood too, with Virgo a supposed agent for the Dutch. Since Birthright was published, I have been asked by some readers whether Mercia would have been able to do much of what she does, or be present at certain events, on the grounds she is a woman. I respectfully submit that women like Behn – incidentally also a great playwright (The Rover) – most definitely did have such intriguing lives, along with others like Margaret Cavendish and of course Lady Castlemaine. And besides, Mercia is Mercia. The idea of reneging on her and Daniel’s inheritance would assuredly have been an affront.

  The feud of Lady Castlemaine and the Earl of Clarendon as referenced in this book is well documented. Not content solely to play the King’s mistress, she installed herself at Whitehall as the real queen of the Court; she may have been Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Catherine but everyone knew where the real influence lay. She bore six children with the King in all, and would have been in the very early stages of her fourth such pregnancy when the action of this book occurs. Certainly she was shrewd – and, it would seem, incredibly beautiful – involving herself in politics to a great degree, turning her ire on all those who would oppose her, and as far as Clarendon was concerned, ultimately emerging victorious.

  After the great triumph at Lowestoft, events ceased to favour the King. The guns from the battle were reportedly heard in London, where a menace of a different sort was taking hold. The first case of death from plague was recorded in May 1665, when Mercia ventures into the streets of London in search of Virgo. Of course, matters worsened significantly after then, and over the course of the summer, thousands were to die. That, the subsequent defeats of the war, and the Great Fire the following year contributed to a loss of public confidence; the crowning humiliation is still visible today: the standard of the Royal Charles, captured in a later reverse, on display for all to see in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. Charles needed a scapegoat: Clarendon was it. And so finally Lady Castlemaine got her way, although she too would not be immune in the years to come.

  Horrific to us now, the moral implications of the burgeoning slave trade did not seem to trouble many at Court at the time. Officially known as the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading to Africa (and later the Royal African Company), the Royal Adventurers were a real and serious concern, sending ships to the west African coast to seize men, women and children for enforced labour in the plantations of Barbados and Jamaica, as witnessed by Lavinia Whent. Significantly involved with them was the Duke of York, and neither was the King opposed. There were those who were
, including among the Quakers, but their influence in opposition was negligible.

  By the time this novel is set, there was a significant black community established in London, many in domestic service. Unlike in the colonies, it was a principle long held to (if not categorically laid out in law) that no person in England could be a slave, but that did not stop abuse. When masters forgot their humanity, safe houses like Zion (an invented name) existed to protect those who chose to run away. Equally disturbing to us now, it was fashionable at this period for women of the Court to use black boys as accessories in their entourage. Go to any art gallery that displays portraits of the time and you may see their young faces peering up at their mistress. History, perhaps, but a history, like all else, those in the present should not forget.

  As in Birthright and Puritan, most of the characters in this book are fictional. The King’s war council as described did not exist, nor did any of its principal members. The only real-life characters are those of the Royal family, Lady Castlemaine, and the Earl of Clarendon in his brief appearance. Most of Whitehall Palace is lost to us now, save in the name of the street of government buildings where the massive structure once stood. The sole surviving element is the Banqueting House, the scene of the masked ball in chapter four, the scene too of Charles I’s execution in 1649. Hampton Court of course still stands, although it has a different aspect now, thanks to the renovations of a later king.

  As ever, any errors of historical accuracy are mine, but I hope readers will bear with them, in the event that any such mistakes may be intended. History is a beautiful and intricate backdrop, a marvellous canvas on which to paint countless tales, but it is the characters that live amongst it who must drive their own fate above all.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to acknowledge the support of a number of wonderful people who have been instrumental in the genesis of Mercia’s adventures. In particular my agent, Jane Conway-Gordon, for believing in Mercia in the first place; Lesley Crooks and Susie Dunlop at Allison & Busby, as well as all the amazing team there, for giving her life; my husband Matthew Jackson, for every single ‘yes’, and for all those awesome road trips and fun times in New York; my parents, Keith and Pauline, the staunchest of my rocks forever; and finally a big thank you to all the readers and readers-to-come who are starting to discover Mercia Blakewood and finding pleasure in the discovery, just as she does.