The Honey and the Sting

by E C Fremantle

  He kicks off his boots, pours himself a measure of the brandy the landlady has procured for him and swills it back. He lies on the bed, head swimming pleasantly, and puts his mind to working out how best to gain access to George.

  His new knife lies on the table, its blade luminous in the candlelight. He can hear Hester saying, It was your hand Melis saw. Its seductive brilliance makes it seem like some fine-honed thing cast in gold and set with precious stones. It is impossible to see beneath the gleam that it is nothing but a tenpenny knife made of nickel. He picks it up. It is like George, cheap but with enough shine to dupe all except the most astute. What was it Bacon said of beauty? That it was rarely found with virtue.

  That chant rings round his head:

  Let Charles and George do what they can,

  The duke shall die like Dr Lambe …

  He drains the bottle of brandy. His eyelids droop, his head lolls, and he forces a sharp intake of breath to resist the urge to sleep. But despite his efforts he is back at Saint-Martin in the death-stalked chaos. A great gaping mouth roars, a black hole bearing down on him. He slices his sword but his arm is heavy, too heavy, and a blow knocks the weapon from his fist. He plunges backward into mud. A scream rings out, a gasp, and he shoots upward off the pillow.

  Dread continues to surge through him even once he is fully awake. He makes himself stand and walk to the basin where he splashes water over his head and face. His bowels are loose. Night terrors are the curse of soldiers. In the barracks the small hours are punctuated with their screams. But they never talk of it. None wants to seem weak.

  He resists sleep for most of the night, while his hatred simmers and he reads Bridget’s letter over and over: I cannot demand you take revenge. What a black word that is. Her words give force to his resolve, and by sunrise on the twenty-third day of August he is ready.

  He rises from the bed, still fully clothed. His mouth is arid and he is aware of the dry pip, pip, pip of his heart as it musters courage. Sitting at the table in the window, under the curious gaze of a great hook-beaked gull perched on the sill, he takes a clean sheet of paper and writes his message: He who is not prepared to lay down his life for God, King and country is a coward and does not deserve the name of gentleman or soldier. Let them all believe this a political act. He won’t have them digging up Bridget’s past. He signs his name, tucking the fold of paper inside his hat, which he puts on along with his boots, then brushes down his jacket. He is ready.

  He presses his eye to the heart-shaped hole and waits for George’s shadow on the stairs.

  Hester

  I can hear laughter rising from the yard where the men are playing blind man’s buff with Rafe. Hope and Lark, deep in conversation, are hitching the grey to the cart. They seem to go together, Lark cool and calm as milk, and Hope sweet as honey. Milk and honey. Moon and sun. I envy Hope her innocence.

  It warms me to see the ties of their friendship tightening, but the Giffords are returning to the lodge today. I long for home, but we will ride later for another inn and then another, until the danger is gone, if ever.

  It is the twenty-third of August today, or so Hope has informed me, which means that today is the day. It is all I have to cling to but seems now so unlikely: the look in the lieutenant’s eyes that had made me so certain is fading in my memory until it is flimsy and perforated as a leaf skeleton.

  Rafe has a handkerchief tied around his eyes and is staggering about, the men skipping out of his reach. They don’t notice but I can see that Rafe has tilted his head upward and I suspect he is able to see under the blindfold, which explains why he seems to have an uncanny sense of where the men are.

  Last night I had found him asleep with his hand clutched round the hilt of Jem Carter’s poniard. The sight made a brace of sadness tighten round my heart – to think he feels the need to protect himself at such a tender age. It explains, at least, Margie’s wandering kitchen knife. I had slid it from his grip and returned it to Jem, telling him I had found it in the yard. The memory of his monkey strung up, like a criminal, on the back of the door, niggles at me. I haven’t mentioned it to Hope. Some things are better left unsaid.

  Ambrose comes in, sallow from his injury and the subsequent journeying across the country before he had time to fully heal. He seems altered in a way I cannot quite pin down, harder, marked by the nearness of death. I wonder if I, too, have been visibly ravaged by the same force. I suppose I must have.

  I am transformed inwardly – that much I know. I allow myself a brief moment of mourning for the good person I once was, the person who regarded kindness above all other virtues. I am no longer her.

  ‘I have settled the account with the landlady,’ he says, ‘and have told her we are making way for Hereford.’

  ‘And where, really, will we go?’ I am tired, so tired of chasing my own shadow. ‘Worcester, as we discussed?’

  ‘It’s a big enough city to get lost in for a couple of days.’

  ‘Let’s walk outside a little. Stretch our legs before the ride.’ I take his arm and we go to a small orchard at the back of the inn. The place is neglected, the fruit falling, forgotten, and the grass overgrown. The heat is no longer the force it was. It is an ordinary English August day, with white clouds, a refreshing breeze and the air alive with the scent of earth and herbs from an early-morning shower.

  ‘Tell me about Bette. Is she recovering well?’ It seems an age ago that we were at Littlemore Manor and Ambrose had been stricken with worry about his wife, yet it is less than a month.

  He doesn’t reply. His expression has caved in and he emits a long, sorrowful sigh.

  ‘Oh, dear Lord! I’m so sorry.’

  He is simply shaking his head and I understand it is too painful for him even to think of, let alone speak about. When we find what we are looking for in life, it can be ripped from us in a moment.

  ‘I know you have told me you don’t want to talk of it,’ says Ambrose, ‘but I have decided to take action. I intend to approach the duke myself.’

  It is unspoken but I understand that, with Bette gone, he feels he has nothing left to live for. I grip his arm. ‘You can’t do that.’ A tremor hangs at the edge of my voice. ‘You’ll hang for it.’

  He stops in his tracks, turning to face me. ‘What are you thinking? That I intend to assassinate him? I mean only to try to convince him to see sense. I have borne witness to the destroyed letters. My word still counts for something. It is our only course.’

  My mind is so contaminated by murder and vengeance I cannot think clearly. He must know such an approach will fail, that George would have him behind bars on some trumped-up charge within days.

  My thoughts are back with the lieutenant – my sole hope.

  Today, I think, today.

  It will be the blackest secret.

  My black secret.

  Felton

  George finally appears on the stairs.

  To another eye, through that heart-shaped hole in the shutter, he would be just the blurred shape of any man but Felton would know him anywhere: the swagger, the slight upward tilt of his chin. Felton feels his pull, strong as a spring tide, sucking him in. You are my demon, George.

  He runs his finger absently over the puckered scar. The mark of his loyalty. The mark of his frailty, his blindness. He forces himself to think of Bridget, to put a vivid picture of her into his mind. He must prime himself.

  He cannot see beyond the deed. He knows there is nothing beyond. He is not certain now that he is ready for sacrifice.

  Felton slips out of the back door, unseen. The yard is empty, save for a tethered goat that stares at him with probing eyes as he passes. He can hear the clatter of the Greyhound’s kitchens, where they are preparing the duke and duchess’s breakfast. Fiske is on the front door again. He paints on a smile for his old comrade. The door swings open smoothly on oiled hinges and – easy as a hot knife through lard – he is inside.

  There is a great hubbub of preparation, boys running abou
t with pitchers and platters. Nobody sees Felton. He is just another of the duke’s men. The hall is packed with them, the atmosphere ebullient. There has evidently been some kind of good news and everybody fizzes with it. Felton hears a loud guffaw of laughter from the parlour. It is George’s laugh.

  Then he appears and they part to allow him to pass, as if he is Moses and they the Red Sea. He stops to talk to one of his advisers. The man’s head bobs back and forth as he explains something, and as he takes his leave he bows reverently, as if George is a god.

  George moves on, brushing past Felton, their sleeves actually touching.

  ‘Felton!’ He stops. ‘No one informed me of your arrival. How did you gain entry?’ The breath catches in Felton’s throat. But George smiles. ‘Never mind that. Have you good news for me?’

  Felton is struck by how familiar yet unfamiliar he is, as if someone has replaced his old friend with a magnificent marionette. The crowd presses about them. George orders them away. ‘For God’s sake, give me some space.’ They back off instantly, turning away, and George leads him to a quiet alcove.

  ‘Where’s my boy?’ George, who has his back to the room, turns to flick his eyes over the throng, now at a respectful distance. ‘Is the mother dealt with?’

  ‘I need to speak to you about that. It’s of grave importance.’ Felton feels suddenly incapable, his resolve wavering. He could throw himself on his old lover’s mercy, confess he has failed, beg his forgiveness.

  ‘What is it?’ George has picked up the anxious note in Felton’s voice.

  Felton looks to where the guards are posted at the far door. He is trained to kill, has killed more times than he can remember. He can picture the pattern of George’s ribcage, the organs beneath, the lungs, the stuttering heart, if he has one. But what if he fails, as he failed to kill the doctor?

  ‘Tell me!’ George rests an arm over his shoulders, as if they are good friends, lovers still.

  There is some kind of disturbance at the main entrance. The guards move to deal with it, the crowd turning as one away from them, towards the door.

  This is Felton’s moment.

  He thrusts his blade, precisely, between the jewels encrusting George’s beautiful jacket. It slides invisibly through the fabric and skin, meeting a slight resistance as it pushes into the layer of muscle, between the ribs, right to the hilt. He feels already the wet warmth of his lover’s blood on his fist, knowing by the thick flow, its surprising heat, that this time he has met his target.

  George looks at him, not instantly understanding. Then, glancing down, alarm registers as he sees a small red patch on his white breeches.

  Felton smiles and whispers, ‘This is for her.’

  George falls slightly towards him, like a drunkard. ‘That bitch turned you.’

  ‘Not her, no.’ He thinks I mean Hester. ‘This is for Bridget.’ Felton’s cuff is soaked. His good suit stained.

  Confusion jostles across George’s features. ‘Bridget? Who?’

  He doesn’t even remember her.

  The crowd must think the two men are embracing.

  Hatred crystallizes. Every drop of admiration Felton had ever felt is gone in an instant. ‘My sister, who took her own life. She was carrying your child. You raped her.’

  Dread smears across George’s beautiful face.

  Felton pushes him away slightly. He staggers. He meets Felton’s gaze again momentarily, then drops his eyes to his breast, where Felton’s fist is awash now with his bright foamy blood.

  The dying man tries to say something but his mouth moves wordlessly. Is his belief dented that he is one of God’s chosen? Is he begging for deliverance?

  They both know it is too late for that.

  This moment, which has seemed eternal, comes to an abrupt end.

  Felton flings his hat to the floor – the note tucked into it – and before the gathering comprehends what has occurred, he spirits himself away through the distracted melee towards the kitchens.

  But he can’t resist a final look.

  George is wrenching the tenpenny knife from his breast. He inspects it in disbelief, as if it is the ghost knife in that play. Felton hopes he registers what an inferior weapon it is. It drips scarlet.

  George looks surprised. Has he forgotten he is mortal?

  In the kitchens they have no idea of what has taken place in the hall. Felton walks calmly through. His senses are alive. He smells the meat roasting on the spit, hears the glug and slosh as a bucket is emptied in the yard and feels the brush of breeze over his skin from the half-open door. A lad carrying a dead goose by the neck stops to stare at his blood-soaked cuff but says nothing.

  He is almost out of the back door when the guards arrive.

  He considers running – he could maybe disappear in the complex of twittens around the port, board a vessel for somewhere – but no. It may seem inconceivable that he has not prepared for the aftermath. His sole preoccupation has been the deed itself, and he wavered on that until the final moment. Now it is done he finds himself bereft of purpose.

  He doesn’t resist. A prayer circulates silently in his mind. He wonders if God is listening – after all he is a sinner and must pay the price for the lives he has taken. God loves a sinner who repents – isn’t that what Hester said?

  He is marched through the hall past horrified faces. Perhaps they thought the duke had the power to cheat death. Outside, as he is pushed onto a cart, he can see the hostile crowd already gathered, chanting.

  ‘The duke is murdered!’ cries someone. The news takes hold and a great cheer goes up, moving like a wave through the port. ‘By that man’s hand!’ Someone is pointing towards Felton. The cheering multiplies, becoming louder and louder, all for him. They think he is a hero. The irony is not lost on Felton.

  Hope

  Hope is setting mouse traps along the shelf where the bee skeps are lined. She has located the queens, ensured there is enough honey in the combs to see the colonies through winter, and wrapped the hives in oilcloth to protect them from the worst of the weather.

  It will be Christmas in a month.

  She and Hester have their work cut out, just the two of them keeping Orchard Cottage, now Melis is gone. With the honey season over they are taking in mending and embroidery so the house is piled high with other people’s musty clothes and they keep finding needles embedded in the upholstered arms of the chairs.

  The August heat is a distant memory. It has rained for days but this afternoon it is dry, so Hester has suspended the rugs over the fence and is beating them, half obscured in a cloud of dust.

  Hard work helps blot the bad memories and they never talk about what happened. They both have their secrets. But they are free.

  News of George’s death had come at the tail end of August. They were riding into Stratford, a bedraggled bunch, grinding along in a heavy silence, wondering if they would ever be able to return home, when a cheer went up from a group of men in the town square.

  Ambrose sent Jem Carter to find out what was going on.

  ‘You won’t believe your ears.’ He was bristling as he returned. ‘The duke’s been assassinated.’

  It was all Hope could do to prevent herself from cheering, but when she looked at Hester, who had a hand over her mouth, she seemed about to burst into tears. She had never seen her elder sister cry.

  Carter was going into the gruesome details of the stabbing in a Portsmouth inn: ‘… his blood ran everywhere.’

  Pamphlets were being passed round, and as the news spread, more people were gathering in the square. Someone produced a keg of ale and a song started.

  ‘He had it coming to him.’ Ambrose couldn’t hide the smile flickering about his lips. ‘By whose hand?’

  ‘Some fellow by the name of Felton. He’s been captured and will be executed.’

  Hope noticed a look pass between Hester and Ambrose, his eyebrows slightly raised and she glancing away to the ground. Hope knew there was something they hadn’t told her: more sec
rets to prise them apart.

  ‘Who was this Felton?’ Hester said.

  ‘Disaffected soldier. Some officer who served in the duke’s army at Saint-Martin.’ Carter was warming to his topic.

  His brother was reading from one of the pamphlets. ‘Fellow’s being hailed a hero in some parts.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ said Ambrose.

  ‘That’s my father, who’s dead,’ came a small voice from the pillion seat behind Hester.

  ‘And good riddance to him.’ It blurted out of Hester seemingly before she realized what she was saying. Rafe leaped down from the horse and scampered into a nearby alleyway.

  They all ran in search of him but it was Hope who found him eventually, sitting on a flight of steps, burying his head in his hands. He had run a fair distance and they were both out of breath. Hope sat beside him without saying anything as their panting subsided.

  Eventually he looked up. His face was pinched, eyes dry and flaring with anger, little hands gripped tight. ‘Everyone’s happy he’s dead.’

  Hope didn’t try to explain. She just folded her nephew into her arms and held him. After a time he sat up, with the same dark look on his face. ‘He promised me a horse.’

  Three months have passed since. Rafe’s birthday has come and gone. He is nine now and every day the sisters give thanks that he is with them and not at court.

  Hester props up the rug-beater and steps into the lane. ‘Ambrose is here,’ she calls to Hope, who can see him now, approaching on horseback. He dismounts, with a cheerful greeting. Bette’s death and his injury have taken their toll and he seems to have aged a decade in recent months, walking stiffly with a stoop he never had before.