The Judas Blade

by John Pilkington

  That last hour, she decided, was the worst. Yet she withstood it, strengthened by hope, until she sensed that dawn was approaching. At times she had to fight despair, thinking of all that might go wrong. Could she be certain Crabb would arrange everything as he’d claimed? Could she even trust him? She pictured the big man as she had first seen him, bearing down upon Venn – which brought the latter’s words back: You know no more of him than you do of anyone else here….

  She stiffened: she could not afford to think like this. Savagely she jabbed her palm with her nails; it had helped her gather her wits before, and it did so now. Venn was dead and gone, she told herself through the pain. But what he had told her – his testimony, as she thought of it – was burned on her memory.

  Once again, as she had done many times that night, Betsy went over his garbled account as if rehearsing a speech for the theatre. And it was that which helped her endure the final minutes, when at last the moment came for her deliverance. Though it came not with stealth, as she had somehow imagined, but with a bang on the door only inches from her ear, and the rasp of the lock. The door opened, waking everyone, and a voice called out.

  ‘Where’s the harlot?’

  A lantern’s beam swept the room, blinding Betsy as it fell upon her, then a shadow loomed behind it. ‘Get up, woman. You’re coming with me!’ And before she could move, the guard seized her shoulder and pulled her to her feet, slamming her against the door.

  The pain made her gasp, before one thought overwhelmed her: she was getting out. And the next moment, to her own surprise, she was shouting! Only later did she realize that she had played her role so long, it must have become second nature.

  ‘Get off!’ she yelled. ‘I’ll spike your eyes, you stinking rogue! Where are you taking me—?’

  A crack across the mouth silenced her. Tasting blood, she was shoved outside. The cell door slammed, the lock squealed, and she was being dragged through the echoing passages of the King’s Bench, blinking yet wild with elation – until a sudden pang of doubt struck her, chilling her to the bone.

  What if this isn’t Crabb’s doing? she asked herself. Suppose Sarah was right: the turnkeys are going to violate me … and to her dismay, her legs buckled. But even as they slipped from under her, and the guard cursed at the sudden weight, she heard a voice that wasn’t his. In fact, it seemed familiar … She struggled to right herself, but her strength had gone. Half-dazed with fear and pain, she found herself set on her feet by a pair of strong arms, while from nearby came the squeal of a bolt being slid. She was yanked through a narrow doorway, and a gout of cold air hit her. She was outside! Then a door slammed, and she was in darkness. Breathlessly she looked round, to see a huge shape leaning over her.

  ‘It’s me, Crabb – you’re free.’

  Shakily Betsy reached out and, as if to make sure he was real, she touched him. ‘Free?’ she muttered vaguely. ‘Then … why did the warder have to be so rough?’

  ‘To make it look right,’ came the reply. ‘Are your legs working now? There’s a boat waiting.’

  A boat? she struggled to take it in. They were in a narrow street, in the shadow of the prison wall. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘To Tower Wharf,’ Crabb told her. ‘Lean on me if you like … but come on!’

  The night was cold. Betsy shivered in her filthy gown, but she didn’t care. Freedom, after those days in the King’s Bench, was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted. Dawn was breaking as, walking at the best pace she could manage, she and her rescuer threaded their way through the grimy streets of Southwark, to emerge by the river. To her left the bridge loomed, while across the Thames lights twinkled … and at the sight of it, she could have wept.

  But there was no time to give vent to such feelings. As Crabb had promised, a boat was waiting at a jetty, its stern lantern lit. Still shivering, Betsy clambered down the steps, grateful for the hands of the waterman who helped her aboard. She sat down, lurching as the young giant’s sudden weight almost capsized them. But soon he was seated beside her, exchanging words with the boatman. The man put his oar to the jetty and pushed, and in a moment the vessel was propelled into the current. Then they were out on the river and at last, Betsy sagged with relief.

  ‘I can only thank you, Wrestler,’ she said. ‘Though it’s not enough – not by a mile.’ She looked up at Crabb, as a thought struck her. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming too …’ Then she recalled his words, on her first day in the prison. ‘But if you serve the same masters as me—’

  ‘Not now, sweet Sister.’

  Crabb bent close to her, gripping her arm. He was smiling, but his eyes flew to the boatman who, head down under his hat, was heaving at the oars. ‘We’ll talk when we get home,’ the young man went on. ‘You’re weary, and our father’s waiting.’

  Weak though she was, Betsy understood; and suddenly a weight came down upon her – one she had thought she was free of. ‘As you wish, Brother,’ she answered. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to lean against his solid bulk, as unyielding as a tree-trunk. Then, as so often in recent days, she chided herself silently for her carelessness.

  She wasn’t Betsy Brand, not yet: she was an agent of the Crown, if only a temporary one. Secrecy was her watchword and, as in the prison, she could not let her guard slip. Trust no one … now Venn’s words filled her with foreboding.

  But later, when they reached Tower Wharf and climbed up to the quay, she began to feel better. In fact, by the time she was accompanying Peter Crabb through the London streets, with chimney smoke swirling and people already astir, her spirits had risen considerably. Leaving the riverside, they walked by Tower Street to Mark Lane, then turned into Crutched Friars. From there they passed through the warren of alleys that gave on to Fenchurch Street, before rounding the corner into Leadenhall. There at last, outside a very ordinary looking house, Crabb halted and turned to her.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said. And only then, standing in the early morning light, did he observe Betsy properly for the first time. ‘There’s blood at your mouth,’ he added.

  ‘It’s no matter.’ She glanced at the house, which was shuttered. ‘Where have you brought me?’

  Instead of answering, Crabb rapped on the door. He rapped twice, waited, repeated the pattern, then knocked four times. ‘It’s just a house we use,’ he said at last. ‘They’ll have clothes for you, and water for washing. After you’ve supped and rested you’ll be ready to talk.’

  ‘Talk to who?’ Betsy asked absently – then gave a start as the door opened. A young maidservant in a plain apron and cap stood there, bobbing nervously.

  ‘Welcome, sir and madam,’ she said. ‘Your rooms are ready.’ With a polite smile she drew back, allowing them to enter. Betsy found herself in a flagged hallway with a staircase. Dog-tired, and only too aware of how she looked as well as smelled, she faced Crabb.

  ‘Did you speak of clothes, and water for washing?’

  ‘I did.’ All at once, the young man smiled: not the warning smile he had used on the boat, but a real smile. He even allowed himself a sigh of relief: that of a man who has faced a daunting task, and seen it through. Turning to the servant, he opened his mouth – then gave a start.

  Fortunately he possessed quick reactions; or so Betsy would think later. For the present all she did was stagger and fall, while her surroundings swam dizzily about her. But before she could hit the floor she was caught, by the same pair of strong arms that had brought her from the King’s Bench prison to safety.

  And after that she was dimly aware of being carried, before blackness settled over her, and a blissful oblivion.

  Chapter Five

  BETSY SLEPT HEAVILY, finally waking with a jolt. She looked about … then remembering that she was no longer in the prison cell, sank back upon the pillow and gave herself up to overwhelming relief. But a moment later she tensed: something was odd. She felt her body, and found she was wearing only a linen shift. Uneasily, she sat up.

  Sh
e was in a small room with drawn curtains, through which a streak of daylight showed. The only furniture was a chair, piled with what looked like bedding. Turning the coverlet back, she got up quickly … too quickly. Her legs wobbled, and with a thud she sat down on bare floorboards. And there she stayed, leaning back against the bed, until the door opened.

  ‘Is anything wrong, mistress?’

  Feeling rather foolish, Betsy looked up to see someone walk in. The figure went to the window and pulled back the curtains, revealing herself as the young maidservant who had admitted her to the house. ‘I heard a noise,’ she said. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’ Betsy managed a smile. ‘I’m just a little weak … would you mind helping me?’

  The servant came forward and took her arm. Putting her other hand on the bed, Betsy heaved herself to her feet and stood, somewhat shakily.

  ‘My thanks.’ She eyed the girl. ‘Was it you who washed me?’

  The other nodded. ‘You were insensible. I had to cut your clothes off before I could soap you. I burned them – they were fit for naught else.’

  ‘Again, thanks.’ Betsy glanced at the chair, which she now saw was heaped with women’s clothing. ‘Are those for me?’

  ‘Yes, mistress. It’s only fripperers’ ware, but clean.’ Moving to the pile, the girl took a petticoat and held it up to the light. ‘If you rummage, you’ll find garments to suit … there are shoes here too.’ She looked round. ‘You’ll be hungry – there’s a herring pie in the kitchen.’

  As if in answer, Betsy’s stomach rumbled like thunder. ‘That sounds splendid.’ She glanced out of the window and saw that she was on the first floor of the house. From below, street noises rose.

  ‘Wrestler … did he carry me up here?’ she asked.

  ‘Mr Crabb’s downstairs, with Mr Lee,’ the girl replied, nodding. ‘Mr Lee has let you rest, but I wouldn’t keep him waiting much longer. It’s past two of the clock – you’ve slept for over seven hours.’ With a shy smile she started for the door, whereupon Betsy stayed her.

  ‘Who is Mr Lee?’

  ‘He’s our master. An important man.’

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘It’s Eleanor,’ came the reply.

  Betsy gazed at her absently. Only now were yesterday’s events coming into sharper focus. She put a hand to her lip, and found it was swollen.

  ‘I cleaned the dry blood from your mouth,’ Eleanor told her. ‘I’ve some witch-hazel downstairs, will help it heal.’

  ‘You’re a treasure, Eleanor,’ Betsy said, much to the girl’s embarrassment. ‘I’ll dress and come down to the kitchen. Then I suppose I had better go to Mr Lee.’

  ‘Indeed you must,’ the girl said. ‘And I’d choose a different garb from the one you had. Mr Lee’s very proper.’

  With that she hurried out. Thoughtfully, Betsy moved to the chair and began to pick through the clothes.

  The Important Man’s real name was not Lee, of course; she had already suspected that. When she found out who he was, however, she was surprised and impressed.

  ‘Lord Caradoc speaks highly of you, mistress,’ he said, peering down at her; he was a tall man. ‘Yet it remains for me to judge whether you’ve earned the trust placed in you – do you follow?’

  Stiffly, Betsy signalled assent. She had rested, been washed clean, dressed herself in clean clothes and eaten a good meal; things she had longed for inside the King’s Bench. Yet now, seated in this candlelit room with the windows shuttered, she was ill-at-ease. The well-dressed, imposing man in the black periwig, who had received her somewhat coolly, was one reason: the other was the presence of Peter Crabb, sitting in the corner. He no longer played the dim-witted bruiser Betsy had known in the prison. Now he was regarding her keenly, which made her uncomfortable.

  ‘Ask me what you will, sir,’ she said, meeting Mr Lee’s eye. His accent was unfamiliar, though she knew it hailed from the far north. ‘For I’ve much to tell …’ But she broke off when he held up a hand.

  ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘First, I have things to say to you.’

  He was standing near the window, where he had been since Betsy entered. Now he moved to a small table on which lay papers and writing materials, and sat down beside it.

  ‘I’m Joseph Williamson,’ he said. And when Betsy showed her surprise, he added, ‘I see the name’s known to you.’

  ‘You’re Lord Arlington’s deputy,’ she murmured, naming one of the Cabal – the King’s closest ministers.

  ‘His Under-Secretary,’ Williamson corrected. ‘But you will know me always as Mr John Lee.’

  Putting on a respectful expression, Betsy gave silent thanks to Eleanor for telling her to wear suitable clothes. This severe man had no time for flummery, she thought, and no doubt little for actresses. She could only hope the plain russet gown and black bertha would serve. She glanced at Peter Crabb as another thought struck her – then saw that Williamson had anticipated her.

  ‘You guess correctly,’ he said. ‘Crabb is not this man’s real name. As you will use that of Beatrice … provided, that is, you continue in my service.’

  ‘Your service, sir?’ she echoed. ‘I thought I was in the employ of Lord Caradoc.’

  ‘Then you were mistaken,’ came the swift reply. ‘His lordship is a loyal friend, and has often helped our office in the past, but the gathering of intelligence is my task.’

  ‘You mean … spying?’ Betsy blurted out.

  A frown crossed Williamson’s brow. ‘I advise discretion, Beatrice,’ he murmured. He picked up a sheet of paper and ran his eyes down it. ‘However, Crabb’s report is favourable. You have acquitted yourself well inside the King’s Bench – far better than I expected.’

  Betsy looked at Peter Crabb, who threw her a brief smile. ‘Some of us had work to do while you slept,’ he said – whereupon she sat up sharply.

  ‘Is that what you were doing inside the prison?’ she asked. ‘Spying on me?’

  Williamson answered instead. ‘It’s not important,’ he said shortly. ‘Crabb can answer your questions later, if he’s a mind. You and he will be spending some time together – that is, if you agree to work for me.’

  But now, Betsy was forming a picture. ‘Do you mean to tell me the days I spent in that vile place were merely a test of some kind?’ she asked. ‘Then, what of Venn? And what of—?’

  The other raised his hand again. ‘Please. I know what you have endured, and yet—’

  ‘Do you indeed, sir?’ In spite of the man’s status, Betsy’s temper was rising. ‘Do you also understand the dangers I faced there? Exposed to sickness, let alone hunger and cruelty—’

  ‘Enough!’ Williamson was impatient now. ‘I know very well what the prisons are like,’ he snapped. ‘As do my agents, most of whom have suffered far worse hardships than you in the service of His Majesty – even paid with their lives.’

  Silence fell. With an effort Betsy calmed herself, whereupon the man continued in a softer tone, ‘Believe me, mistress, when I tell you that your stay in the King’s Bench was more than a test – far more. I’m not so well supplied with agents that I can afford to waste such opportunities as may arise.’ He paused, then: ‘You spoke with the conspirator, Venn. Are you ready to tell me all that he told you?’

  ‘I suppose I am,’ Betsy answered after a moment. ‘Although I believe I could have learned more, had he not been murdered. He was awaiting important news, he said. But I’ve committed every word he said to memory.’

  ‘Good!’ The under-secretary leaned forward so suddenly that Betsy blinked. There was a gleam in his eye that seemed out of character. This man relished his work, she thought. On impulse, she spoke up.

  ‘Why did you say Mr Crabb and I would be spending time together, if I agreed to work for you?’

  Williamson paused, then, ‘Are you telling me that you would consider doing so?’

  Now Betsy was silent. All of a sudden, the situation seemed fantastical. Only hours ago she had been sat i
n a damp, filthy cell, shivering with cold. Now she seemed to be discussing her future with a member of the government.

  ‘Would I have to go to prison again?’ she asked finally, to which the other shook his head.

  ‘That isn’t what I had in mind.’

  ‘Then, what did you have in mind?’

  ‘A very different role – one you would no doubt find more congenial.’ Williamson glanced briefly at Crabb. ‘But the choice is yours. After you’ve given me your intelligence, you may take your payment, leave here and return to your life in the theatre – if you must. Though you’ll remain sworn to secrecy with regard to all that’s passed – on pain of death.’

  ‘And … if I were willing to continue in your employ?’

  ‘Then you would make me a contented man. Especially as I have no other female agents at the present. You could prove invaluable … And with regard to payment, you would not find me ungenerous.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Betsy lowered her gaze. Thoughts of her father’s troubles, and those of Tom Catlin, flitted across her mind to be replaced by another notion. Despite all she had endured – including the tiresome role of a Moorfields trull – she felt excited. Williamson was speaking of acting, but not for an audience of city fops. Nor would this be acting from words penned by others, but those fashioned by herself to meet many occasions – occasions in which failure could mean real danger. She swallowed, and looked up to find both men watching her closely.

  ‘I would like a sum in advance,’ she said, making her voice flat. ‘Paid not to me, but to Mistress Mary Luxton in Chelsea. She is my sister.’ Then, taking Williamson’s brief wave of his hand for assent, she added, ‘Upon that, Mr Lee …’

  ‘Upon that?’ Williamson’s tone matched hers.

  ‘We are in agreement,’ she finished.

  ‘Then, you have my word,’ he said. ‘And if that concludes the wrangling, I’d now like to hear all that Venn told you before his untimely death – and I mean everything. Is that clear … Beatrice?’