“You're not one of us!” he exclaimed, trying quickly to close the door. Both Sam and Mistress Brown acted faster, however. Sam caught the door with his foot, and his feminine companion slipped inside.
“But we are all sinners,” she announced boldly, “and all in need of hearing the Word of Our Lord.” Sam took advantage of the disturbance Mistress Brown created to follow her right inside the dwelling.
“We know all about Our Lord,” said the young man, whom Sam quickly concluded lacked wit. “Enough to know we shouldn't be listening to no harlot what thinks she's a preacher.”
To Sam's surprise, he saw Mistress Brown struggling not to laugh at the man who insulted her. “Nonsense!” she replied. Already brushing past the slow-coach, she began peering into other rooms and passageways. “Are there any others here in need of God's Word?”
The dullard looked at Sam as if to say, “Why aren't you controlling your woman?” Sam just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He attempted, as unobtrusively as possible, to follow behind Mistress Brown.
When his brave companion pulled open a door and shut it again, the original, older Fanatick stormed in from yet another room. “Who in the bloody depths of Hell is this slut?” he demanded, spotting Mistress Brown.
“I'm here to share the Word of the Lord with thee―and all thy household,” she answered cheerily.
“And how in Hell did she and her whoremaster get into our headquarters?” Arden's tormentor continued, ignoring Mistress Brown's reply and casting an eye upon Sam.
“They know the secret knock!” protested the one Sam had begun to call Slow-Coach in his mind.
Torment dealt Slow-Coach a good one with the back of his hand. “Did it not come back to you that all our members are already here? Who did you think could be knocking? Paul of Tarsus himself?”
Then Arden's tormentor pushed his associate away, and turned to Sam. Sam knew he needed to hold the older Fanatick's attention as long as he could, to give Mistress Brown the best chance at searching the entire dwelling.
“How do you even know we have a special knock?” the old Fanatick demanded. “Who pays you to spy?”
Sam put on his most ignorant, innocent face, which he had not had to use since the employer preceding Robert Courtenay. “What knock, sir?” he asked. “I don't know nothin' about nothin' special! I just rapped on the door, and like a good Christian, the young gentleman let me in.” Hopefully the older man would have sufficient faith in his co-conspirator's stupidity. He appeared to guess right, judging from the glare his questioner shot Slow-Coach.
“Who pays you to spy?” the tormentor nevertheless repeated.
“Spy? What's all this about spyin'? I only came here to share the Word of God.”
“Did the King send you?” asked the younger man, with a self-important air.
Sam thought himself about to witness murder, from the rage Slow-Coach's remark produced in the Tormentor. The latter's face changed slowly between gray-white and purple as he back-handed Slow-Coach into the nearest wall. “Who in Hell told you to mention the King, idiot?!” he bellowed.
“Alas, the King has no use for Friends like us,” Sam returned, trying to give the old Fanatick a meaningful look. He succeeded in catching the man's eye, because he saw something―the smallest little thing―relax within him.
“No, I guess not,” the Tormentor allowed. “Nor do you blasted Quakers have much use for the King. Funny thing, really,” he continued, musing. “You should be natural allies. You have licentiousness in common.”
Sam found his eyebrows rose easily in indignation. Not for himself, as he pretended, but for Mistress Brown, who had never seemed anything but virtuous.
“But it doesn't matter,” the Tormentor concluded, before Sam could match words to his raised eyebrows. “You need to leave.”
“But thou and thy fellows need to hear the Gospel,” Sam protested.
“You will meet no men holier than those in this house,” replied the older man. Slow-Coach had finally risen to a standing position from his gradual slide down the wall. The blow had apparently dealt him some belated smarts, for he stayed silent. Meanwhile, Sam tried to parse out how kidnapping, torment, and planned regicide could be holy, while also trying to say something appropriate. Quickly enough, he managed: “Even the holiest are renewed by the Word.” He hoped Mistress Brown would be proud.
“Not as delivered by those deceived by Satan,” replied the Tormentor, grasping him by the shoulder. Sam felt the old man's bony fingers digging in. “You really must leave. And call your trollop to leave with you.”
This was the first time he'd given indication of recalling Mistress Brown. Distract him! thought Sam. “I stand for Jesus!” he cried aloud. “Thou shalt not move me!”
“I 'shalt' too!” the old Fanatick mocked, shoving Sam towards the door. Sam shoved him back before remembering Friends abhorred violence. He wouldn't need to make the mistake again. The old man had a lot of strength for his years, but he was still an old man. Sam would only need to stand his ground, and the Tormenter could not overpower him.
After a few moments of grunting and struggling, Sam's opponent drew the same conclusion. “Don't just stand there like the lump you are,” he called to Slow-Coach. “Help me throw this Hell-spawn out!”
Sam fought the urge to laugh. He had never been called “Hell-spawn” before, not to mention all the other insults the old Fanatick had bestowed upon him in this short time. Fighting laughter weakened him physically, and he'd never been a match for the pair of conspirators from the start. As they pushed and dragged him back to the door, Sam noticed three other men of varying ages dressed in somber garb gawking at the action through the same entranceway Torment had used. He could no longer see Mistress Brown, and prayed silently for her, Bonnie, and Helena as he clutched at the door frame standing between him and the street. Sam saw the glint in Torment's eye just before the older man reached for the door to slam it, and snatched his fingers away.
Now outside the dwelling, he waited. He knew he should hope Mistress Brown took a long time to join him, but Sam frankly feared for her. He strained to hear, in case she screamed.
He had no idea how much longer it actually took for the front door to open again, but it seemed horribly long to him. Finally he saw the black backside of Mistress Brown's skirts pushed through. She landed on that very backside, tumbling the rest of the way outdoors.
Sam rushed to her side. “Are you all right?” But as he helped her to her feet, he saw her face flushed with triumph rather than distorted with pain.
“A shame this is the only kind of battle in which I'm allowed to engage,” she commented, smiling.
“Are they there?” Sam whispered.
“Yes!” she replied, similarly quiet. “I managed to tell Bonnie what we're about, and bade her be cautious, and not give anything away by being hopeful. And none of the men there saw me with them, or even near the room in which they are kept.”
“How is she?” Sam demanded.
“I'll tell thee everything when we report to Mr. Courtenay,” said Mistress Brown. Sam thought he saw a shadow of trouble cross her face before she continued. “Right now, we have more work to do. We need to visit at least two more houses to one side or the other, in case they are watching us.”
Not that he fancied haranguing anyone else about Jesus today, but Sam knew Mistress Brown wise in wanting to take the precaution. He sighed, and started walking towards the house on the left.
“She heard thee shouting in there,” said Mistress Brown, falling into step alongside him. “Her face brightened up quite a bit.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
When they sat down together in Mr. Courtenay's parlor after lunch, Mistress Brown finally revealed her assessment of the captives' conditions. Sam felt as though he had to drag the information out of her regarding Bonnie. His employer, of course, would tolerate no hesitation on the subject of Helena.
“She looked quite healthy,” said Mistress Brown. “She had a small cloth bandage
on her head, but it was clean. Bonnie's been taking very good care of her.”
“We need to go and get them out of there,” Courtenay stated.
“Begging thy pardon, sir, that would not be wise,” returned Mistress Brown. “If we rescue Bonnie and Helena, they will know someone knows what they're about. They will suspect Arden told on them. Who knows what they might do to her?”
“Well, what if we tell the King and round up the whole lot of them?” asked Courtenay.
“But what if one or more of them, especially that nasty one who seems to be leading them, isn't there when the King's men come for them? Again, Arden could be harmed.”
“Not to mention, Helena could be harmed during the arrest,” admitted Courtenay.
“Or Bonnie,” Sam chimed in.
“Exactly,” said Mistress Brown. “And even if the King's men succeeded in arresting all of them, without harming anyone―how can we be sure they won't be released? To wreak vengeance on all of us, if they are not caught in the attempt? Truly,” she concluded, “the safest thing to do is wait until the night they plan to act. We shall wait for them to leave, swoop in and gather Helena and Bonnie, and notify the King's men.”
“As much as I want to assure Helena's safety myself,” said Courtenay, “I should probably leave it to the pair of you, and stand ready to defend the King in St. James' Park. His Majesty's Guard may not be fast enough.”
“And you can help Arden,” said Mistress Brown, softly.
Courtenay acknowledged her point with a nod, but said nothing.
Sam sensed his opening and took it. “But what of Bonnie?” he asked. “Are you sure she's all right? Are you sure she can wait until the night they try to kill the King?”
“I'm sure she can make it,” Mistress Brown replied. But while Sam could never suspect her of falsehood, he knew she felt somewhat troubled in her reply to him.
“Besides,” said Courtenay, “if my daughter can wait, than so can your lady-friend.”
“It just seems so cruel,” muttered Sam, subsiding.
“Which reminds me, Mr. Courtenay,” began Mistress Brown.
“Yes?”
“Bonnie has hope now, but I don't think her captors are looking at her with any particular suspicion,” said Mistress Brown. “I don't think Arden is as fortunate. Thou mustn't let her know we are trying to help her.”
Again, Courtenay nodded. Nothing to do but wait.
*****
With the end of Treadwell's plot in sight, Arden finally began to realize her own time grew short. Not her time to be miserable without Helena and Robert, and to fool the King, but her time on earth.
She didn't see how she could guarantee Helena's safety. She didn't know, if she were to be apprehended with Treadwell for the King's death, if Charles' brother James would be merciful enough to allow her to write letters. If Treadwell succeeded completely―and Arden could scarcely bear to imagine such an England, with the monarchy overthrown, and a Puritan dictatorship once more in place―in theory, she would live and Treadwell would return Helena and release Bonnie. She didn't trust him to keep his word, but if he did, she thought she might go to Robert and beg him to get her safe passage to France for Helena's sake. More likely, he'd take Helena there himself, away from her infamous, regicidal mother. Arden felt he'd have every right to do so. Probably be best for Helena, as well. At least she trusted Robert to see her loved and cared for.
Then, there would really be nothing to do but end it. How, without the excuse of a daughter to care for, could she stand to go on living as a regicide? The last time Treadwell had stopped by, he had appeared almost giddy with the impending end to his ambitions. He sounded nothing short of genial as he told her she would be celebrated as a heroine of the new realm. “Provided you stop whoring around, of course.”
She hadn't had the force of will to tell him she'd only been “whoring around” at his bidding. Arden could imagine his counter-arguments anyway. “But you whored around on your own before that―that's how you got the brat in the first place. And then you went and married that Papist—” No, Arden had just mustered some non-committal noise, and gratefully watched the back of his black coat move further down the street.
If Treadwell triumphed, and Robert took Helena, then she had plenty of time to prepare for her own end. Maybe she would be able to find Father Fernaut before the Fanaticks chased him from the country―or worse. Then she would be able to make a final confession. For surely, if Christ's blood could wash her clean of regicide, suicide would be a mere trifle!
Arden would have dearly loved to see Father Fernaut now, but she could only imagine the horrors that might befall her child if Treadwell intercepted any letters asking for the priest. Or worse yet, saw or heard of him entering her flat. Thus she had only herself, and God, to talk to. Brian, or his spirit, was painfully absent, and the King did not count. The only thing Arden could tell him the truth about was how badly she needed to lose herself in sensuality. She wondered how long it would take her to get through Purgatory to be with Brian. Long enough so that Robert and even Helena would be there to greet her, too, no doubt. She realized she had started thinking like a Papist, and felt a small twist of satisfaction within her chest. She would die a Papist in her heart, just to spite Treadwell.
Still, Arden needed to try her hardest to provide for Helena, in the event James Stuart survived the conspiracy and she did not. She decided to write one last letter to Robert. When she finished, she would fold it over and write his name upon it in the largest and boldest possible hand. Perhaps after she had been dragged away to Newgate, the people who come to clean out the flat would find it and be kind enough to see it reached him.
“Dearest Robert,” she began. “I only hope the salutation is not too hateful to you, for our daughter’s sake. If you are reading this, I will be unable to care for Helena. Indeed, I know not where she is, but she has been taken by my stepfather, Ezekiel Treadwell. I need say nothing more than that to assure you of the need to find her and take her back. I trust you to scour London, or the entire country if necessary. If he is captive when you read this, seek him out, or search where he has been.
“I hardly dare add anything, tainted with infamy as I must soon be. Just in case it might still matter to you, however, I want you to know that I did not wrong you or the King of my own free will. If Treadwell had never taken Helena and threatened to kill her, I would have waited for you forever. My heart has always been yours, no matter what became of the rest of me. Also, only Treadwell's threats against Helena could have possibly made me take part in such a heinous, regicidal plot. Left to myself, I'd have been a loyal and far more distant subject of my King. I am weak, but I hope, being Helena's father, you can understand my weakness.
“I love you with all of my heart. I hope this is not abhorrent to you.
Arden.”
When Arden had finished the letter and prepared it in the manner she had planned, she realized she now needed to walk to the theater and ready herself for the afternoon's stage performance. As she opened the door of her apartments, another small sheet of paper fluttered down from where it had been lodged between the door and its frame. Arden picked it up, discovering it to be a receipt for several rather expensive bottles of French wine. Puzzled, she turned it over.
Completely undistinguished block letters stared up at her, saying: “HELENA WILL BE SAFE.”
Hope flooded a heart empty of it for months.
Chapter Fifty-Six
On the one hand, Sam wondered that Mistress Brown's aunt and uncle allowed her to be out with him, unescorted, in the middle of the night. On the other, it would be obvious to anyone with a thought in his head that she was completely honest, and he was completely distracted by feelings for another. Besides, the Densens had wanted to come with them, for safety's sake, but Mistress Brown had convinced them that so many people crouching behind a shrubbery might alert the conspirators. She had also assured her relatives that they would all be completely safe once those
conspirators had all left for the scene of their crime.
Sam, once out of the earshot of the Densens, asked what they would do if one or more of the conspirators stayed behind to guard the prisoners.
“Oh, they won't do that,” said Mistress Brown. “They'll chain Bonnie to something heavy, but use a long enough chain so she can take care of the baby. At worst, they'll only leave one of their fellows. Surely the two of us can overcome one?
She had said it so cheerily Sam hadn't the heart to remind her she had forsworn violence. Now in the shrubbery, however, Sam could only be grateful for his partner's willingness to do whatever would prove necessary. He stared out again at the conspirators' headquarters. Despite the brilliance of the full moon, he could see candlelight through the windows. As he watched, however, one of the rooms darkened. “Mistress Brown, I think this is it,” he announced in a tense whisper.
“Yes,” she agreed, softly. “But since we are plotting together in a shrubbery, I think it is time thou called me Margaret.”
A horrible impulse to giggle seized him. “All right then, Margaret, please call me Sam.”
As he pronounced his name, the front door of the house opened. All five men they had seen previously filed out, the last carrying a torch. Overconfident, Sam thought. If they felt they were taking a risk, they'd have not taken a torch. Moon's enough to see by.
“I told thee,” whispered Margaret. Sam knew her words carried no smugness, but only good humor. Together, he and Margaret watched the men walk into greater darkness.
“Now?” whispered Sam.
“Count to one thousand,” said Margaret, shaking her head.
They did, whispering every other consecutive number in turn. When they reached their counting end, they crept out of the shrubbery towards the house.
*****
Arden tried not to shiver, though for once she awaited Charles II in his chambers fully dressed. He mustn't see gooseflesh on her and think it too cold a night to carry out their planned tryst beneath the full moon.
Arden's Act Page 30
