The King's Evil

by Andrew Taylor

  Brennan was only gone for a moment or two. When he returned they walked back the way they had come. She would have been content to go by herself – in the past year, she had learned to cope with the streets. She always carried a knife, and was not afraid to show it. But it would make Hakesby unhappy if she walked alone after dark, so she accepted Brennan’s company. Walking back with her to Henrietta Street did not take him far out of his way.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ he said as they passed St Clement Danes. ‘You hardly said a word during supper.’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said automatically. Then she came to a sudden decision and changed her mind. ‘No. That’s not true. I – I have a difficulty. I need to go away for a while. And no one must know where I am. Even Mr Hakesby.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You can’t be so foolish,’ he said. ‘Is it something to do with that letter you had?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s urgent. I must go, and the sooner the better.’

  They walked past Somerset House. The Savoy, where Marwood lived, was not far away to the west and she pulled up her cloak to shield her face.

  Brennan misinterpreted the action. ‘Do you think someone might be following you?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  A solitary woman always attracted attention, she thought, usually the wrong kind.

  ‘Would you – would you need comfort?’ Brennan said.

  She stared at him, her anger flaring up. ‘What?’

  ‘If there were somewhere you could hide, I mean,’ he said hastily. ‘But somewhere the conditions were mean and poor, where they weren’t suitable for … you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I know somewhere you could go for a week or two, longer maybe. It wouldn’t cost much.’

  ‘As long as I was safe, I wouldn’t need a featherbed. Or a maid to wait on me. If that’s what you mean.’

  ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I have a notion that might help.’ He hesitated. ‘Though what I have in mind would hardly be fitting for one such as you. But no one would find you there. No one would even think to look there.’

  ‘Where is this?’

  ‘A few miles outside London. It’s a refugee camp, and it’s on my uncle’s land. He used to farm it, but everything’s gone to wrack and ruin since his son died.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN CAT AND I had gone our separate ways, I walked down the Strand to the Savoy. My house was here, in Infirmary Close, which lay deep in the warren of crumbling buildings that made up the former palace and its immediate surroundings. The Savoy was still owned by the Crown, though its precincts were given up to a variety of purposes. I was lucky to have even a small house to myself – lodgings of any sort were in short supply, especially since the destruction of so much of London in the Great Fire. My master Mr Williamson had spoken on my behalf to the clerk who handled these royal leases.

  I was not in the best of tempers. When my manservant, Sam, let me into the house and took my cloak, I swore at him for his clumsiness, though in truth he was as graceful as a man with only one whole leg can be, and more nimble than many with two of them.

  Margaret, his wife, brought me my supper. She lingered by the table as I began to eat. ‘Your pardon, sir, but is it the Gazette women that’s troubling you? My friend Dorcas says they’re all at sixes and sevens and she’s worked off her feet.’

  I felt ashamed of my ill humour to the servants, who were hardly in a position to answer back if they wanted to keep their places. I said, in a gentler voice than before, ‘That and other things.’

  ‘It’s only that perhaps I could help. If you need someone to do a few rounds for a week or so, then I will, if you permit me. Or I could share Dorcas’s load. I’ve done it before.’

  It was a kind offer. Margaret had been one of the newspaper’s distributors before she came to work for me, and she was still friendly with several of the women she had worked with. She knew the routine. I also knew that she had disliked the work intensely, for the younger, more comely women often attracted unwanted attentions.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But I need you here.’

  I dismissed her. In a way it was useful that Margaret and Sam should think that I was out of sorts because of problems with the Gazette. Better that than the truth.

  Afterwards I sat by the window, which looked out over roofs and walls. Slowly the daylight slipped away from the evening while I thought about Catherine Lovett and her ingratitude. Couldn’t the woman understand that I was trying to save her life? Why was she so headstrong? Why so foolish? Or was I the fool to put myself out on her behalf for no good reason whatsoever?

  I worked myself up to a sullen rage and encouraged my sense of ill-usage to burn steadily within me. What had really upset me was the knowledge that Edward Alderley had raped Cat. And also the fact that she had betrothed herself to Simon Hakesby, a man old enough to be her father, possibly her grandfather.

  I should have felt an abstract outrage that Alderley had forced himself on an unmarried cousin living under his father’s roof. As for the betrothal, I should have felt an equally abstract pleasure for Hakesby and Cat, for he would bring her security and she would bring him the vigour of a young woman.

  But there was nothing abstract about my outrage. The very thought of these things made me feel inexplicably injured. So, desperate for a diversion, I fell to thinking of my Lady Quincy instead, though I found little consolation there. Tomorrow I would see her again, but I could not begin to understand why she wanted me to collect her from church in a hackney. Was it to do with her stepson, Edward Alderley, and the warning she had asked me to pass on to Cat? The possibility unsettled me. I wanted nothing further to do with Edward Alderley in this world or the next.

  Something else unsettled me: the thought of seeing Lady Quincy again. Despite the difference in our stations, I had desired her once. It had been folly then, and it would be worse than folly now. Besides, as Chiffinch had reminded me, who could desire a man like me?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CAT MADE HER preparations. A strange calmness possessed her, a sense that her fate had already been decided and that nothing she could do would materially alter it.

  In her closet she found the canvas bag she had brought with her when she came to Henrietta Street. She packed a spare shift and stockings. She would wear her old cloak. She took half a loaf that remained from breakfast. She wished she could take her Palladio, a dog-eared copy that Mr Hakesby had given her, but that was impractical: though the four books of I quattro libri dell’architettura were bound into one volume, it was a large and cumbersome folio that was hardly appropriate for a fugitive. As a consolation, she packed her notebook and a miniature travelling writing box that included a pen, ink, a ruler, a brass protractor and pencils. She had nearly thirty shillings in her purse so at least she wasn’t penniless.

  Through the open window, she listened to the church clocks striking eleven. Her mouth was dry. She had spent too much of her life running away, and she did not want to do it again. She fastened the cloak over her shoulders, picked up the bag and looked around the Drawing Office. The candlelight made it insubstantial, a place of shadows and dreams. She had been happy here and she did not want to leave.

  She snuffed all the candles. The only light came from the small lantern they used when they went up and down the stairs in the evening. On the landing, she locked the door behind her and slipped the key into her pocket under her skirt, where it knocked against the knife she always carried.

  The light of the lantern preceded her down the stairs, swaying drunkenly from side to side. The porter had been dozing on his cot but he stirred as she reached the hallway.

  ‘Going out, mistress? At this hour?’

  ‘Didn’t I say?’ she said. ‘I’m to spend the night with an old friend. She and her father are waiting for me. Will you unbar the door?’

  He shot
back the bolts, one by one, and lifted up the bar. ‘It’s very late, mistress.’

  ‘Not really. They’ve been supping with friends and they’re waiting in Covent Garden for me.’ Cat found sixpence in her purse and gave it to him. ‘Would you do me the kindness of not mentioning to anyone that I’ve gone out? Especially Mr Hakesby. He’ll only worry, and there’s no need.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, mistress. Your secret’s safe with me.’ He smiled at her in a way she did not care for. ‘I’ll be silent as the grave.’

  Late though it was, the arcades of Covent Garden were brightly lit and crowded with brightly dressed crowds of theatregoers, revellers and the better class of whores; among them, like lice in a head of hair, moved the thieves, the pedlars and beggars, plying their trades.

  Cat had grown familiar with this world of pleasure-seekers in the last few months, and she navigated its perils with confidence. The small, forlorn figure of Brennan was waiting for her in the entrance court of the King’s Theatre in Brydges Street. He darted forward when he saw her. A link boy was beside him, the flame of his torch flaring and dancing in the breeze. By its light she saw that Brennan’s face was pale, and his sharp features were drawn with anxiety.

  ‘You’ve come – I wondered if you’d change your mind.’

  ‘Of course I’ve come,’ Cat said. ‘Were you successful?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all arranged. Have you got the money? If not, I can lend it—’

  ‘I’ve got the money.’

  ‘We’d better walk there.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you mind? Would you like to take my arm?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Can we manage without a link boy to light us?’

  He nodded. ‘I know the way well enough.’

  At first they had little need of a link, for their way took them up Bow Street and into Long Acre, which were almost as busy as Covent Garden itself. Up by St Giles’s Fields, though, it was a different story, with long, unlit stretches; it was muddy underfoot and there was the constant danger of stumbling into the gutter. But Brennan was as good as his word and guided her safely, though she grew increasingly irritated by his habit of enquiring regularly how she was managing or whether he was going too fast for her.

  ‘I do very well, thank you,’ she snapped at last. ‘I’m not made of glass. But I’d rather save my breath for walking.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you tomorrow? It’s Sunday – I’m not needed at the Drawing Office. I could walk back afterwards, when I know you’re safely there.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s best I go alone. And what if Mr Hakesby finds me gone? He will send for you at once. You must be there to reassure him. Tell him you don’t know where I am but I’d said I was seeing a friend.’

  The inn was a small, low building near the church of St Giles-in-the-Fields. They went through the central passageway to the yard, where there was a long range of stables.

  ‘Uncle Mangot doesn’t trust them,’ Brennan said in a whisper. ‘It’s not his horse, you see. It’s hired from a neighbour and he can’t afford to have it stolen. Anyway, it’s cheaper to sleep in the yard, and just as safe as inside after the gates are barred.’

  They found Brennan’s uncle at the end. The horse was in its stall and the old man was in front of it, sitting in a small covered cart in the yard outside. It was difficult to see him clearly. A rushlight in an earthenware pot hung beside the cart, but his face was little more than a blur against the surrounding darkness.

  Brennan hung back, touching Cat’s arm. ‘I almost forgot: if my uncle asks about me, it’s best not to mention that we’ve been working at Clarendon House.’

  ‘Why?’ Cat whispered.

  There was a rustling of straw, and a man’s voice quavered, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Uncle Mangot,’ Brennan said. ‘It’s me. I’ve brought her.’

  The man in the cart leaned towards them. ‘You’re late. Is this the girl? You’ll have to sleep here tonight, with me. We leave when it’s light.’

  ‘Very well,’ Cat said.

  ‘She’s my friend, Uncle,’ Brennan said. ‘You’ll treat her well, won’t you? You’ll let her sleep in the house? She can pay for everything.’

  ‘If you wish.’ The old voice sounded papery and uncertain, as if its owner rarely used it. ‘But there’s nothing to buy. She can work for her keep, eh? A long time since I had a servant.’

  ‘No one must know she’s with you,’ Brennan said. ‘Promise to keep her safe.’

  Mangot spat over the side of the cart. ‘I won’t blab if she don’t and you don’t.’ There was a wordless sound in the darkness which might have been laughter. ‘She’ll be safe enough, Nephew. We don’t get many visitors. The refugees frighten away the ungodly.’

  Cat came forward into the glow of the rushlight. ‘Five shillings,’ she said. ‘For one week. That’s what your nephew told me.’

  ‘And a room on her own,’ Brennan put in.

  Mangot sniffed. ‘You didn’t mention that before. Seven shillings.’

  Brennan tried to argue but the old man was obdurate. Cat put an end to it by taking out her purse and finding the money.

  ‘One more thing,’ Mangot said to her as he counted the coins in the palm of his hand. ‘You’ll have to share the cart on the way back.’

  ‘Who with?’ Cat said.

  ‘His name’s Israel Halmore. He used to be a glover. Before the Fire, he had a shop on Cheapside, and now he’s got nothing.’

  Mangot’s Farm was a few miles outside London in the direction of St Albans. It was on the outskirts of a village called Woor Green.

  True to his word, Mangot set out from the tavern at dawn. Cat had spent a chilly night, huddled in her cloak and half-buried beside a pile of sacks containing flour. She had shivered almost continuously, though that had not been solely because of the cold. Israel Halmore had arrived at some point in the early hours, waking her from a light sleep. He had been a long way from sober and he had fallen asleep almost at once.

  As well as the flour, the cart was laden with rolls of canvas that smelled strongly of fish, and with bags of nails. Mangot was equipped with a pass signed by a magistrate, which permitted them to travel on a Sunday. The streets were quieter than usual and they made good time through the outskirts of London. Halmore woke up and insisted on their stopping so he could relieve himself against a tree. Afterwards, he sat up with Mangot and took the reins from the old man. In the daylight, he was revealed as a gaunt giant of a man, with strongly marked features and a shock of grey curls. His fingers were twisted and swollen with arthritis, which must have made it impossible for him to carry on his trade.

  In the back of the cart, Cat pretended to doze while the two men talked together in low voices. Her mind was full of her own thoughts, which were bleak. Unless there were a miracle, she could not see how she could safely return to her old life in Henrietta Street. Once the hue and cry had died down, perhaps her best course would be to flee abroad, to Holland, perhaps, or even to America, where many of her father’s friends had found refuge.

  She was distracted by Halmore saying, more loudly than before, ‘Well, I wasn’t going to say no, was I? Not when the Bishop was buying ale for anything on two legs.’ Mangot started to speak, but Halmore overrode him: ‘Clarendon’s a greedy rogue, master, and he’s in league with the Papists.’

  ‘May God damn him,’ Mangot said.

  ‘Aye. The Bishop’s doing God’s work in his way.’

  ‘But it was dangerous,’ Mangot said. ‘Notwithstanding the cause is just. You could have been arrested.’

  ‘No. Not me. When I was there, we were just standing outside Clarendon House and shouting and booing. I threw a few stones, but only when the light was going and no one could see who it was.’

  ‘Who’s this Bishop then?’ Mangot asked. ‘What’s his real name?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he carries a deep purse and he’s open-handed. That’s what matters.’ Halmore had a low, resonant voice that carried
easily, even when he spoke quietly; a preacher’s voice. ‘We all had half a crown apiece, as well as the ale. Know what they’re saying? He’s the Duke of Buckingham’s man. That’s where the money comes from, and that’s why the Bishop said we don’t have to worry about being arrested. The Duke will see us right. He’s always been a friend of the people and a good hater of Papists. As for Clarendon, a pox on him. He deserves all we can give him. And I tell you one thing: he’s going to get a lot more before the Bishop’s done with him.’

  Mangot glanced at him. ‘Meaning?’

  Halmore shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Only that what they’re planning will strike him where it hurts.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ST OLAVE’S WAS on the south side of Hart Street, not far from the sprawling buildings of Navy Office in Seething Lane. On Sunday morning, I waited outside the church in a hackney. It was a fine day, and I had pulled back the leather curtain so I could feel the sun on my face and watch the church door.

  When the congregation emerged, I saw several men I recognized, mainly clerks from the Navy Office or the Tower. I stepped down from the coach and waited for Lady Quincy. The church was crowded, and she was one of the last to emerge from the porch. She was veiled, and flanked by her maid on one side and the footboy on the other. The maid was a prim-faced woman who avoided looking at me.

  I bowed to her ladyship, and she nodded to me as she climbed into the coach and sat down, facing forwards. The boy scrambled after her, and she drew him down beside her. Despite the warmth of the day he wore the thick, high-collared cloak I had seen on Friday. I waited for the maid to follow her mistress but she walked away in the direction of Mark Lane.

  ‘Where to, madam?’ I asked.

  ‘Tell the coachman to go to Bishopsgate Street beyond the wall. I will give you further directions when we are there.’

  I gave the man his instructions and joined her inside the hackney. The boy was huddled beside her. I faced them both, though I automatically turned my head a little to the right to conceal the disfigurement on the left side of my face. Lady Quincy moved aside her veil, and for the first time I saw her face clearly. I felt a pang of sadness, almost a physical pain.