Authors: John Pilkington
‘We’re taking ship for England – immediately,’ he said. ‘We’ll spill our tale too, and see how fast our friend Mr Lee can move. Meanwhile we give chase: I’ll ride to Datchett myself. I’m as good a horseman as any in the King’s service!’
Her heart thudding, Betsy met his eye. ‘Then at least we’ll have tried,’ she said, nodding. ‘And this one and his friends will pay the price.’ She looked at Lacy who misunderstood. In terror, he shrank back.
‘No, not in cold blood …’ he began, then faltered. To his surprise, Mullin was putting his dagger back into his coat. With a casual movement, he picked up his truncheon and gestured with it. ‘There’s no need to wet yourself, sir,’ he grunted. ‘I’m no murderer. When I said we’re taking ship, I meant all of us. You’re coming too – to face English justice. Now, on your feet, before I spike you again!’
B
Y NIGHTFALL, THE
old house had become a hive of activity.
Peter Crabb was awake, sooner than expected; clearly his colossal frame needed a stronger draught than the one the surgeon had provided, though Betsy insisted that the big man eat supper and rest while she packed. The plan was to take a coach to Rotterdam at once – that night, if possible. Mullin had been out all afternoon trying to arrange it. Meanwhile Thomas Lacy, dressed in travelling clothes, was locked in the cellar, having endured a forced march through the streets with Mullin’s dagger pressed to his side. Crabb would take charge of the prisoner on the journey to England. Indeed, now that events had forced a rapid return, the young man was in better spirits than Betsy had seen for days, despite the terrible plot that had been uncovered. As far as the false priest was concerned, it merely made him more eager to pursue the man. His wound wasn’t serious, he claimed; a few days, and the sling would be off.
‘And when we find that murdering devil, I want to be the one who grabs him,’ he’d announced. ‘He won’t slip by me again if I die in the attempt!’
Now he stood in the hallway, his bandaged arm under his loose coat. His pack was ready, along with Mullin’s. When Betsy and Alida came downstairs with the last of her bags, he lifted it with his free hand and stowed it beside the others.
‘What about her?’ he asked. ‘She’s not coming, is she?’
Betsy glanced at Alida, who had been very quiet since their
return. ‘I can’t see how she can,’ she answered. ‘But Mullin will have to tell her.’
The two of them went into the parlour. Crabb had been told of events at Lacy’s house, and now he spoke of them again, remarking how it was Betsy who had pieced everything together. ‘If you hadn’t insisted on going into the
Bok
that first day,’ he said, ‘we’d still be groping in the dark. Now, see what a snake-pit we’ve uncovered!’
Since the morning, Betsy had barely had time to ponder the matter. ‘And if I’d known Lacy would set a murderer on me, within hours of meeting him …’ She shook her head. ‘What kind of man is it he uses – one who dressed as a priest, yet would stab a woman to death in cold blood?’
Crabb’s face darkened. ‘If the captain allowed me half an hour with Lacy in the cellar, I’d find out everything there is to know,’ he muttered. ‘Instead, he means to dump the fellow on Mr Lee for questioning, then charge off to Datchet.’ He sighed. ‘Why did nobody think of the race-track? For an assassin, it’s an ideal spot. The King sometimes takes to the saddle and races himself … a real sitting target.’
Betsy said nothing. The notion of an attempt on the King’s life still took her breath away. But a moment later there came noise from the street, and she gave a start.
‘Hoofs – he’s found a coach!’
It was true. Soon they were at the front door, to greet a sweating but triumphant Marcus Mullin. Outside stood a rather fine coach, drawn by a team of four black horses. Betsy gaped.
‘You haven’t hired this, surely? We’ve no money!’
‘I know that,’ Mullin said. ‘It’s being loaned to us – can you guess by whom?’ And before she could reply, he supplied the answer.
‘Meneer Katz?’ She echoed. ‘How on earth—?’
‘Not him,
Mevrouw
Katz,’ Mullin corrected. ‘It was her idea. Her husband didn’t like it, but the poor fellow wasn’t allowed to get a word in. In fact she insisted, as soon as I arrived. She’d
heard I’d been around the town trying to borrow a coach, but no one seems to trust me.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘No matter, we have our conveyance, we even have a coachman: the Katz’s own. Generous, eh?’
‘Generous indeed …’ Betsy was frowning. She had hardly thought of Madam Katz in recent days; now she was uneasy. ‘Why did she agree so readily?’ she went on. ‘What reason did you give for needing a coach urgently?’
‘Simple enough,’ Mullin replied. ‘I said you’d received urgent news from England – a relative lies close to death. It’s your grandmother, if anyone asks.’
‘Cods, Mullin!’ Betsy eyed him. ‘Must you always fashion such tales? Why not say … well, Wrestler’s had an accident, or—’ But Crabb interrupted her.
‘The less people know the better,’ he said. ‘Though from what I hear, I wouldn’t trust Madam Katz an inch.’
‘Nor do I,’ Mullin said impatiently. ‘But we’re in no position to refuse the offer. I’ve promised a payment for the coachman. Once we’re at Rotterdam, he’ll set us down and return to Delft. So let’s cease prating and get aboard!’ With that he turned and shouted in Dutch. Betsy’s eyes went to the man seated on the driver’s box, who raised his whip in reply. So, thrusting doubts aside, she went indoors – and at last, relief swept over her. They were going home, though not quite in the way she had
imagined
. Whereupon a different anxiety surfaced: the thought of another sea crossing.
But some hours later, even that was forgotten. For, despite all that had happened since Betsy first arrived on the windy quay at Nieuwpoort, the events on the journey to Rotterdam would throw everything into a new light.
They were five in the coach, for to Betsy’s surprise Alida was with them. Mullin insisted on it, though in the haste of embarking he hadn’t explained why. And once they’d clattered through the East Gate of Delft and turned south, neither Betsy
nor Crabb pursued the matter. She was busy with her thoughts, while the other had enough to occupy him. In a corner sat Thomas Lacy, sullen and silent in his cloak. Crabb was on his left, an end of rope in his right hand. The other end was tied to Lacy’s wrists, which were bound. Opposite the prisoner sat a bemused Alida, with Betsy between her and Mullin.
‘She’s here for appearance’s sake,’ Mullin murmured, nodding to indicate the girl. ‘A gentlewoman needs a maid … Besides, I’ve another use for her when we arrive.’
The coach swayed, picking up speed, while above the rumble of wheels the driver’s whip could be heard. ‘What sort of use?’ Betsy enquired, then frowned. ‘This payment for the coachman,’ she began. ‘You don’t mean …’ She glared at him. ‘You wouldn’t!’
‘What, act as her pander? Of course not,’ the captain replied. ‘She’s never ridden in a coach before. When I told her she could travel back to Delft alone in high style, I couldn’t have stopped her if I’d tried. But if she wants to do business with the coachman on the way, who am I to interfere?’
‘Flap-sauce, Mullin!’ Betsy sighed, then gave up. She glanced at Crabb. His wound clearly pained him, but he would bear it stolidly as always. Her eyes slid to Lacy, huddled like a black presence in the corner. The man’s hat was pulled low and he appeared to sleep. So she sat back and looked through the coach window, as another mile of open countryside went by. The leather flaps were down, although chinks of moonlight showed. She glimpsed fields, and the occasional light of a distant farmstead. Beneath her, the floor shook….
Then the unexpected happened.
The first thing they knew there was a shout, followed by a startled neigh from one of the horses. The coach lurched, slowing abruptly. Betsy, Alida and Mullin were thrown
backwards
, while Crabb and Lacy shot forward into their laps. Instinctively Crabb righted himself and jerked the rope, pulling his prisoner back. Everyone looked about, even Lacy, for
something
was going on outside: shouting, and hoofs stamping. And all the while the coach slowed, until with much jangling of harness it drew to a halt. Mullin reached out for the window flap – then froze.
‘All of you, come out!’
The flap was thrust aside and a face appeared: that of a heavy-set man, glaring at those within. The next moment the barrel of a horse-pistol was thrust through the opening. Alida let out a squeak and put her hand to her mouth.
‘Come – now!’ The man opened the coach door and threw it wide. There were voices, and Betsy glimpsed the silhouettes of figures on horseback. Then, with Mullin’s hand on her arm, she was clambering from the coach and stepping out into the chill night air. The others followed, to stand in a ragged line beside the vehicle, whereupon the captain spoke up.
‘If you want money, you’ll be disappointed,’ he said, facing what they assumed were highway thieves. ‘We’re humble English travellers, going home—’
‘Silence!’ The man who had ordered them out waved his pistol menacingly. Beside Mullin, Peter Crabb stood as rigid as a tree. Heart pounding, Betsy saw three other men on
horseback
, watching them closely. There was more movement: the coachman, climbing down from his box. For a moment the fellow stood there, regarding the highwaymen, then he thrust out a hand, and clasped that of the leader. An exchange in Dutch followed – and Mullin groaned.
‘What’s going on?’ Betsy began, whereupon all became clear.
‘You people!’ The man with the pistol spoke with a heavy Dutch accent. ‘You charged with stealing this coach, the
property
of Meneer Franz Katz of Delft. You will come back with me, to face justice!’
For a moment, the only sound was that of horses blowing and stamping. In disbelief, Betsy glanced at her fellows. Mullin was tense with anger, while Crabb had assumed his stolid look. Alida’s eyes were everywhere, while Lacy …
Lacy was smiling. Lifting his hand, he showed the rope which tied him to Crabb, and called out in Dutch. Mullin groaned again. ‘He says we’ve kidnapped him,’ he muttered.
‘Stop talking!’ The Dutch leader pointed his firearm, then called over his shoulder. A second man dismounted and came forward, and he too carried a pistol. Approaching Crabb, he motioned to him to release Lacy. But Crabb simply shook his head, as if he didn’t understand.
‘Let go of the rope!’ the leader cried. It seemed he was the only one who spoke English. ‘You had no right to take this man: he’s Dutch citizen!’
‘No, he’s an English traitor.’ To the others’ alarm, Mullin took a pace forward. Then he went into a stream of Dutch, which apparently confused their captors. The two on foot looked at each other, then at the coachman, who shrugged. But Lacy spoke again, his voice rising in indignation.
Switching to English, Mullin half-turned to Peter Crabb. ‘Better do what they say and let him go,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure who they are, but they’re not constables—’ He broke off, as once again the leader brandished his pistol.
‘Release this man now,’ he ordered. ‘Then we go back to Delft. You walk in front, we ride behind. The coach will follow.’ He turned and gave orders to the others. Betsy glanced at Mullin, her hopes crumbling. Already, in England, the King’s life might hang by a thread … She flinched, as the leader turned back to them.
Then mayhem broke out.
The first to move was Crabb who, without warning, slammed his bandaged shoulder into the Dutch leader, throwing him off balance. But as the man fell, he fired his pistol wildly. There was a spurt of flame, a deafening report and then everyone jumped at once. Another pistol went off, causing someone to scream in agony, whereupon in seconds the roadside became a battlefield. All Betsy could do was grab Alida and pull her to the ground. Then both women were scrambling under the coach while the fight surged about them.
And what a fight it was! The two remaining Dutchmen had jumped from their horses and were closing in. Mullin,
outnumbered
as he was, pulled out his ebony truncheon and began laying about him. Blows fell, men grunted and cursed. Then Betsy’s eyes flew to Crabb.
The big man was transformed: not into a wrestler but a knuckle-fighter, worthy of any Bankside contest. He had dropped the rope, and with his free right hand he struck out. With a single blow he downed the nearest man to him, then half-crouching, turned to meet the next. But as the fourth man darted forward there was a glint of steel. Betsy shouted, then saw that it didn’t matter. Barely glancing at the dagger his assailant wielded, Crabb seized the man’s arm and bent it savagely. There was a crack of bone, a screech and the fellow dropped, clutching himself in agony. Crabb stooped, wrenched his dagger from his hand and whirled about … barely in time.
Weakened but still struggling, Mullin was about to fall. His assailants were not only the Dutch leader, now on his feet again, but the last man too. Locked in a bizarre embrace, the three lurched about the moonlit roadside, arms working. But even as Mullin’s knees buckled, blows slamming into his body, Crabb lunged. The dagger pierced the nearest man, who gave a cry and staggered away. The leader scarcely had time to look round before Crabb’s fist thudded into his face. Without a sound he keeled over and lay still.
And suddenly, it was over. Panting, the two agents stared at each other: Mullin on his knees, his face bloody in the
moonlight
, Crabb wincing with pain. His sling had come loose and his wounded arm dangled. Grunting, he tried to lift it … then sat down heavily. It had taken little more than a minute.
Shakily, Betsy got herself out from under the coach and stood staring round at the sight. Aside from Crabb, four men were on the ground: two lying dazed, two sitting. One whimpered as he clutched his broken arm, while the one Crabb had stabbed sat
very still, gasping. Then with a start she remembered Lacy – whereupon Mullin spoke.
‘He was hit … the second pistol shot.’
She turned to the captain, still on his knees. He nodded towards the coach… and there was Lacy, slumped against a wheel. His chest rose slowly, his bound hands upon it. Even in the semi-darkness Betsy could see the blood … a trickle that seeped from his cloak, staining the ground beside him.
There was a thud of boots, and all of them looked round sharply to see the coachman take to his heels, sprinting away up the deserted road. In seconds, the gloom swallowed him up.
With a groan Mullin tried to rise, then flagged. So Betsy stepped up close and helped him. His periwig had fallen off, there was blood at his mouth and bruises on his cheeks, but to her relief he didn’t seem to have taken grievous hurt. Meeting her eye, he jerked his head towards Crabb.
‘Go to him. I’ll see if our friend’s alive.’
Slowly he walked over to Lacy. There was a rustle of skirts, and Betsy found Alida by her side. Wide-eyed, the girl seemed to be taking in the situation. When she gestured to Crabb Betsy nodded, and the two hurried over to the big man.