The Ashes of London (39 page)

‘The executioners,’ she said in a voice so low that I took a step nearer to her. ‘Who were they, Master Marwood?’

‘No one knows for sure.’ I was on familiar ground here, because the identity of the executioners had been the subject of speculation for years. ‘They were masked at the time to prevent the Royalists hunting them to death afterwards. They say the one with the axe was Richard Brandon, the common hangman, and that he died of remorse not six months later. Certainly, it was a skilled hand that took off the head so neatly with one blow, and his confession is—’

She waved her hand, dismissing Brandon. ‘And the second executioner? The one who held up the King’s head and showed it to the crowd?’

‘Who knows? Perhaps someone brought in to stiffen Brandon’s resolve.’

She turned her head away to look at the fire. I listened to the sound of distant hooves in the Park. A drum was beating in the barracks.

‘We know who the second man was. Now you do, too.’ Mistress Alderley paused, but I did not speak. ‘The King wants to find him before anyone else does.’ She turned slowly to look at me again. ‘He does not want Lovett killed out of hand, for that would be an easy death. He does not want him charged and brought before a court and then executed at Tyburn; or not yet, at least. First, and most of all, he commands that Lovett be brought privately to him. He wants to look him in the eye, to see the man who held up his father’s head, and see him without a coward’s mask on his face. Then, and only then, he will decide what to do with him.’

I bowed. Still I did not speak. A terrible foreboding crept over me. I did not want to hear this secret. This was something worse than murder, and its darkness touched all who knew of it. Soon after the Restoration, the worst of the Regicides had been hung, drawn and quartered, a punishment so barbaric that even the common people were at last revolted by the spectacle. How would they punish someone who was worse than a Regicide?

‘You may have a part to play, Master Marwood.’

My head jerked up. ‘Madam, there’s nothing I can do.’

I heard a shameful tremor in my voice. I was scared for myself, and for my father, and in a way I had not been before. The King and those who wished to please him would stop at nothing to lay their hands on Lovett. I was of no value to them unless I helped in that. But public opinion had changed in the country since the beginning of the King’s reign. There was no longer the same popular appetite to see the blood of Regicides. Quite the contrary: some of those already executed had earned sympathy in many quarters by the quiet heroism with which they met their deaths.

So there would be no public recognition for those who helped bring the second executioner into the King’s hands. And if the business went awry, as seemed all too likely, the first people to suffer would be those who had failed.

‘You are too modest,’ Mistress Alderley said in a low, caressing voice. ‘You have already rendered the King much service.’

‘But both the Lovetts have vanished, madam, and this time we have not the slightest clue to their whereabouts. Mistress Lovett knows my face. Her father has never met me and has no reason to trust me. He and my father may have been comrades once, but that’s worth nothing now. Lovett has seen my father. He knows he’s a broken man.’

‘But his daughter doesn’t know that, does she? And she could be the key to finding him, just as you could be the key to finding her. As you say, you know what Mistress Lovett looks like, you know where she lodged after she left Barnabas Place, and you’ve even met this Hakesby who seems to have made himself her guardian. Will you talk to him? He may know something.’

‘If you wish, but—’

‘You’re the son of Lovett’s old comrade, and you did my niece a kindness during the Fire. If you can find her, you can make her trust you. We want you to—’

There were heavy footsteps outside and a murmuring of voices. Mistress Alderley broke off, holding up her hand. The door opened without a preliminary knock. Master Chiffinch entered the room. He kicked the door shut behind him.

‘Your husband’s gone, mistress,’ he said. ‘God send a pox on this whole devil-damned business.’

O
N MONDAY NIGHT
, Cat lay on her back, listening to the concerto of snores from her father and from the Davys, and the faint pattering and rustling of small creatures going about their nocturnal business. Even with the bed curtains drawn, the night air was cold on her cheeks.

It was easier, she thought, to love her father in an uncomplicated way when he wasn’t there. In memory, and at a distance, he could be simplified and improved – the blemishes cut out, the stains cleaned, the dirt brushed off, the kinks ironed away, the holes patched. In person, on the other hand, he was as awkward and jagged as a lump of rock.

She heard midnight strike. It was Tuesday already. Today she would make her decision.

She knew she was fortunate to have the luxury of choice. It was not a luxury she had had before. In the past, others had decided what she did and where she went, and with whom. Her husband had been chosen for her. Her virginity had been snatched from her, not freely given. She had fled from Barnabas Place into the night because Edward had made it impossible for her to stay.

But this time she had a choice. To stay or to go. Neither had much to recommend it.

In the morning, she helped serve her father and Master Davy their breakfast. They ate in silence. Master Lovett was dressed as a labourer, as he had been yesterday. But the clothes he had worn at the coffee house, the dark suit and the wool cloak, were no longer hanging in the press in the bedroom; and his hat, his linen and his shoes were gone from the chest.

The boy was already in the yard, seeing to the harnessing of the horses. The wagon was kept in an open shed behind the cottage. The men had loaded it yesterday, working into the evening by the light of lanterns. The poles were bundled according to size – the putlogs, the ledgers and the standards – and roped together with canvas on top to keep out the weather and deter thieves. Beside the poles were coils of hemp to lash them together. There was also a big box containing the hammers, saws and chisels. Cat thought there might be other things concealed among them, but she wasn’t sure.

After breakfast, Master Lovett drew Cat into the parlour.

‘Remember, you must do as the Davys tell you, and pray for me while I’m gone. Whatever happens, we will not see each other for a long time – perhaps for ever on this side of the grave. But it doesn’t matter. We shall be together later, and for all eternity. Kneel.’

She knelt at her father’s feet. He blessed her, then raised her and kissed her on the forehead. His beard felt rough and alien on her skin, like the touch of a living animal’s fur. For a moment they stood there, he with his hands resting on her shoulders, she with her arms hanging at her sides. His forehead was as creased and weathered as the skin on an old apple. There was a sore on his cheek. For the first time she noticed how folds of skin drooped over his eyes. He’s growing old, she thought with a pang of sorrow, and one day he will die.

She followed him into the yard. He climbed up beside Master Davy, who took up the reins and manoeuvred the wagon through the gateway. Neither man looked back.

‘You can begin with the scullery floor this morning,’ Mistress Davy said to Cat as the yard boy was closing the gates. ‘You skimped the corners yesterday.’

Later in the day, Cat was sent to take in the washing as the light was fading. Beyond the yard, with the stable and wagon shed, was a vegetable garden with a pigsty. Beyond that was an orchard, the trees stripped and bare, waiting for winter.

It was already very cold. There would be a frost tonight. The shirts, nightgowns and stockings were almost as wet as they had been when she and the eldest girl had hung them out. Now the clothes were stiff with cold as well.

She looked about her as she piled the washing in the basket. At the far end of the orchard, there was a wall topped with shards of glass. In the wall was a gate secured on the inside by a heavy bar and two bolts.

When the washing was down, she left the basket under the tree and walked over to the door. The bolts were stiff and cold. But she could move them in their sockets. She could also lift the bar. She picked up the basket and returned to the kitchen.

‘Hang it to air by the fire,’ Mistress Davy said. ‘No, not there, you foolish girl. On the other side.’ She cocked her head. ‘Is that the wagon? Tell the boy to open the gate before you do anything else.’

Master Davy brought the wagon home alone. Now her father was gone, the life of the family contracted. The Davys took their supper in the kitchen. Cat and the children ate vegetable broth with wheaten bread. Master and Mistress Davy worked their way through a stew made of pigeons and chestnuts. Conversation was not permitted at the lower end of the table.

Afterwards, Cat and the children cleared away, put out the fire and made the kitchen ready for the morning. There were more prayers, and then it was bedtime. The Davys had reclaimed the chamber over the parlour. From now on, Cat was to sleep with the children in the other room.

She and Master Davy were the last to go up to bed. As Cat was climbing the stair, she heard movement below and looked back. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, holding his candle high and looking up at her. The light fell on his upturned face.

For a moment, his expression reminded her of someone very different. She had seen her Cousin Edward look at her in just the same way in the parlour at Barnabas Place all those weeks ago, when she had been trussed up in her unnatural finery, in honour of Sir Denzil Croughton coming to dinner.

Oh God, she thought. Not this as well. She took the knife out of her pocket and kept it under her pillow that night, and she did not sleep much.

Master Davy waited until the next day, Wednesday. He came home for dinner. She felt his eyes on her when they were at table. Afterwards, when she took out the scraps for the pig, she heard his step behind her. As she leaned forward to empty the bucket into the trough, his arm snaked around her waist. She twisted, trying to tear herself away. His grip tightened. He planted a kiss on her cheek. She turned her face aside.

‘Let me go, sir.’ She could not reach her pocket, where the knife was, because of his restraining arm. ‘I shall scream.’

‘If you do that, I’ll say I caught you stealing food, and I’m going to whip you for it. You wicked child.’ With his free hand he squeezed her breast. ‘Perhaps I should whip you anyway,’ he whispered. ‘I’m your master here, under God. Remember that.’

She broke away and ran into the scullery. Her face must have been flushed but neither Mistress Davy nor the children commented on it. Perhaps they hadn’t noticed anything. Perhaps in this house it was better not to notice.

There was a change in the day’s activities after dinner. Master Davy left the house, saying that he was going to Shoreditch to see a man who was rebuilding his house, and that he would take the boy with him. Mistress Davy set the elder child to reading a passage from the Bible to her brother and sister, which she did quite well for her age, though she stumbled over the longer words. Mistress Davy herself went out ten minutes later with a basket over her arm.

Cat was left to clear the table and make all neat in the kitchen. Once Mistress Davy had left the house, Cat put on her cloak, hat and overshoes and left the house. She walked through the yard and the garden to the orchard.

She had her knife in the pocket beneath her skirt and Jem’s doll, together with the few coppers swathed in a rag to stop them chinking. She took nothing else with her because she had nothing left to take. The sky was empty of birds and her head was empty of thoughts.

She unbolted the door in the wall and lifted the bar from its slots. The light was already fading. She had no idea what lay on the other side of the door. Only that it was somewhere other than the Davys’ house, which made it a good enough reason to go there.

C
AT WATCHED JOHN’S
face light up as if the sun had risen over it.

‘Jane,’ he said, ‘oh Jane.’

She touched his arm lightly. She felt unexpectedly moved by his joy. But she did not know what to say to him. She stepped back in case he should construe the touch as an invitation.

He spluttered into speech. ‘How—? Where—? I—’

‘I had to go away but I didn’t like it so I’ve come back.’ She looked up at his red face. His eyes were still round with wonder. ‘I knew if I waited here you’d come by sooner or later. It’s Wednesday.’

Mistress Noxon was a creature of habit. After dinner on Wednesday she wrote her weekly letter to the widowed aunt in Oxford from whom she had expectations, and sent John with it to the Letter Office.

‘Was it my fault?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Margery told that man where to find you. I shouldn’t have let her.’

Cat glanced about them. Fleet Street was too public for this. John had stopped in his tracks when he saw her. Pedestrians were eddying around them, and the racket of hooves and wheels on the roadway meant they had almost to shout to make themselves heard. She drew him into a cobbled alley leading to a tavern and turned her face away from the street.

‘What man?’ she said. ‘Who did she tell?’

‘The one that followed me back to Three Cocks Yard. Remember? When I brought the chest that belonged to the mistress’s uncle. Margery saw him too, hanging about outside.’

‘In the green coat?’

John nodded. ‘The skinny fellow. He came to the house on Monday. He was looking for you. He had your cloak.’

God have mercy on us all, she thought, shocked into piety. She shivered, not so much from cold as from a suspicion that something invisible and implacable was dogging her footsteps. ‘My grey cloak?’

He nodded. ‘What is it? Faith, you’ve gone so pale.’