Authors: John Pilkington
‘Blunt?’ Mullin glared at her. ‘He’s full of bombast. What’s a fellow like him doing working in a run-down trugging-house? For all we know, that grey horse isn’t his – he might even have stolen it! Whoever he is, he’s no Cerberus, I’d swear that. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if—’
With a sharp breath, he broke off, while Betsy sat down abruptly. From outside there came shouting, but they scarcely heard it. Instead they stared at each other, dumbfounded.
‘Not him, surely…?’ Slowly, Mullin sat on the window seat again. ‘I mean, he’s sly, and no doubt a fighter – else he could hardly do his work – but could he be the one we’ve chased all the way from Delft – the one who killed Eleanor, and almost killed Crabb?’ He gulped. ‘No – I can’t believe it!’
‘Mother Curll said he was new,’ Betsy said, thinking fast. ‘He was ahead of us: he could have made better speed. The other men might have prepared the ground, even arranged the door-keeper’s
job for him. And what better guise for attending the races than that of a jockey? You chose it too! Whether the man wins or loses, he could get close enough to the King …’ She caught her breath. ‘Then what’s to stop him galloping off? By the time anyone saw what had happened, he could be a mile away!’
She stopped, while Mullin stared, his mind also busy. Then he frowned. ‘And if we’re wrong? What if we found ourselves watching the wrong man?’
Betsy hesitated, yet instinct told her she was right. From outside meanwhile, came not only shouts but cheering too. Absently she stepped to the window, whereupon Mullin, who had turned to look out, uttered an oath.
‘By the Christ, he’s here already!’
He stood up and flung the window open, letting a burst of shouting and cheering into the room. Lights blazed below in the street; there was a sound of clopping hoofs, a rumble of wheels… and now there was no mistaking the cause. Betsy put her hand upon Mullin’s shoulder and leaned out – to see Charles Stuart arrive in Datchet, amid a host of followers.
The King was here, earlier than expected. And though he had no way of knowing it, his life was in grave danger – from a man nobody knew.
T
HE RACES BEGAN
soon after midday. And in bright autumn sunshine, Betsy Brand walked through Datchet in her new hat and gown, eyes peeled for the first sign of anything amiss. Though very soon after she had taken the ferry across the Thames, her task began to look impossible.
Datchet Mead lay just below Windsor Castle, a grassy level beside the river. Here a course had been marked out, and a winning post set up. Facing it was the royal box, a makeshift affair of boards hung with carpets and flags. Steps led up one side, to a raised platform where the King and his party would stand. From the castle high above, the Royal Standard
fluttered
. By late morning a crowd had already gathered, consisting largely of sporting men and hangers-on. Betsy soon found that she was more conspicuous than she liked, though she managed to avoid conversation. She was relieved when she saw Mullin in his jockey’s clothes, leading his horse through the onlookers. Casually she wandered over to the riders’ enclosure, where the captain made a bow to her and touched his forehead.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ she muttered, drawing close. ‘I’m not Lady Castlemaine.’
‘She isn’t here, and neither is Nelly. The King’s brought his French mistress instead.’ Mullin spoke low, holding the reins of his mount tightly. The animal was skittish, sensing the
excitement
.
Betsy glanced about. Other jockeys were assembling,
readying for the race. ‘Have you seen any sign of Prynn?’ she asked, but Mullin shook his head.
‘The crowd’s bigger than I expected. You must circulate … I’ll have to stay with the horse. There are coursers aplenty here – priggers, too. I daren’t let go of him for a minute.’
‘That’s all we’d need, you getting him stolen,’ Betsy said in dismay. ‘If the assassin does make his play, how do you hope to waylay him?’ She sighed. ‘I still say you’ll need help …’ She trailed off. There was a noise of hoofs, and heads turned as a party of about a dozen horsemen rode up. They wore the royal livery and carried short halberds: the King’s bodyguard. The crowd parted as they made their way across the course, where they reined in to form a line, backs to the riverside.
‘Well, they might be of some help,’ Mullin said drily. But when Betsy turned, she saw no trace of a smile. ‘I mean after the event,’ he added. ‘If I’m too late to foil a regicide, it’s good to know Royal Charles’s servants will hunt down the culprit.’
‘This is no time for comedy, Mullin,’ she snapped. ‘You’d best watch the course while I walk … and I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.’
With that she gave the horse an encouraging pat on the rump, and left the two of them. And a short time later, with much cheering, shouting and ballyhoo, the King himself arrived to watch the races.
It was some time since Betsy had set eyes on Charles Stuart, and that was at the theatre, where he had fallen asleep. He was now forty-one years old, still handsome enough, though he appeared ever more languid as the years passed. When his coach and six drew up, he stepped out to cheers and waving of scarves, smiling indulgently and flapping a hand. Other lords and gentlemen accompanied him, splendidly dressed in long coats, lace cravats and plumed hats. Still more were riding up and dismounting, while grooms and servants fussed about them. There were ladies too – a pair of them. Betsy saw Louise de Kéroualle, the King’s striking Breton mistress, as she and her
maidservant followed His Majesty up into the royal box. There the party stood, the King with his hands on the rail, looking out over the course. And soon there came a flurry of activity: already, the first race was about to start and the crowd settled in eager anticipation.
But after that, the day held no pleasures for Betsy.
Races came and went, the crowds shouted, bets were laid, guineas won and lost. Yet through it all, not for a moment could she stop to watch the jockeys gallop, or the winners arrive at the post. Instead she moved among the race-goers, until she would have given a great deal merely to sit down. By mid-afternoon she had seen nothing of great interest, and no one who aroused her suspicions. Already the time was drawing near for the last race – The Roman Plate. The King, having taken a lengthy absence for dinner, had returned, and excitement was growing afresh. Many of the experienced jockeys had departed, she noticed, to be replaced by a more varied assembly of riders – and among them was Blunt, the man from the Egham
bawdy-house
.
Betsy had taken another turn about the jockeys’ enclosure, where Mullin was making ready. Others were already mounted. She scanned the riders, then stiffened at sight of a man on a grey horse. Quickly she approached her fellow-intelligencer.
‘Yes, I’ve seen him too.’ Mullin was tightening his horse’s girth as she drew close, and didn’t look up. ‘You keep your eyes on the royal party,’ he went on. ‘Stand near the box, where you can scream if necessary – or shout. Anything to attract attention if he gets near the King.’
‘And you?’ Betsy patted the animal, but her eyes stayed on Blunt, who was moving off towards the gate. ‘Will you try to stay close to our friend from Egham, or—?’
‘Stay close to him?’ Mullin echoed, turning to her. ‘I intend to beat him. Then no one will be nearer to Royal Charles’s person than Marcus Mullin!’
‘Oh, cods,’ Betsy breathed. ‘Can’t you forget your pride for
once?’ She dropped her voice. ‘If that man’s what we think he is, he’s armed, remember. You may get yourself stabbed, along with His Majesty.’
‘Then that’s a risk I will take!’ Irritably, Mullin gripped the reins. ‘Let me do my part, Brand,’ he muttered. ‘You look to the King. Now, stand clear.’ And with that he seized the pommel and swung himself into the saddle. Shoving his feet into the stirrups, he was about to ride away – then suddenly he froze. Seeing his face, Betsy grew alarmed.
‘What is it?’
‘Prynn!’ He was peering over heads, towards the river. ‘It’s him – and his friend too. They must have come by boat …’ He leaned down towards Betsy. ‘You must watch them,’ he hissed. ‘The older fellow with the staff is Prynn; the other wears a pale blue coat. Get as close as you can, but for pity’s sake don’t let them see you.’ He looked round quickly. ‘I must follow Blunt. There’s no time – just do it!’
And he rode off, following the remaining jockeys out of the gate. Blunt was ahead, and already his white blouse was lost among the other riders. Mullin, in red-and-white stripes, soon disappeared too, while the crowd surged towards the race track. So, without further delay, Betsy followed them, working her way around the edge of the throng.
Soon she was close to the royal box, the only woman among a group of men. Many wore swords, and among them were some she had seen in the theatres in London. Shading herself with her wide-brimmed hat, she eased her way through, ignoring the occasional ribald remark. Mercifully she was not accosted: all eyes were now on the riders assembling for the race. In a short time she had moved around behind the box, to the side facing the river. The steps were blocked by a couple of stern-looking guards, but they barely glanced at Betsy as she moved round. Soon she was close to the King’s bodyguard, sitting stolidly on their horses. But to her relief none paid her attention, allowing her to skirt behind them towards the
waterside until at last she stood among a crowd of a different stamp.
They were a ragged group of villagers and farm-boys, who had no doubt come to see The Roman Plate. They were noisy, filled with excitement, and some were drunk. Uneasily Betsy’s eyes surveyed them, until at last she saw the men she had sought: a white-haired fellow leaning on a walking-staff, and beside him a younger, more portly man in a pale-blue coat.
The two stood slightly apart from the onlookers, their eyes on the course. Even from a distance, Betsy believed she saw tension in their stance; when one of them looked in her direction, she averted her face at once. Tense herself, she took a few steps closer until she could see their faces. Thomas Prynn – if indeed it were him – wore a dour expression. The other man appeared composed … But when Betsy’s gaze travelled downwards, she stiffened. The fellow’s left hand was at his side, but the other was in his coat – and she saw a bulge, which suggested a pocket pistol.
But there was no time for speculation, for the race was about to begin. Betsy saw the starter in his periwig, a white scarf held above his head. The jockeys were eager, crouching over their mounts, while the horses jerked excitedly at the reins. As the crowd surged closer she looked towards the Royal box: the
aristocrats
, too, had caught the mood of excitement. She saw the King leaning over the rail, a smile on his features – then the starter gave the signal, and they were off.
In the immediate thunder of hoofs, and amid the din of the crowd, Betsy was at first thrown into disarray. Men pressed about her, surging towards the track. To her left, she was aware of the guards keeping their line with some difficulty; their mounts were too excited. She turned to look for Prynn and his fellow, but they were lost to sight. Then, with relief, she glimpsed them again: neither man had moved. Both seemed intent on the race, and Betsy couldn’t help following their gaze. The riders had sped off into the distance, the watchers craning
their necks to see, but now the shouting and cheering increased again. In a flurry of colours, the pack turned about the furthest marker and began their return gallop. Emotions rose, as the thunder of hoofs drew nearer.
Betsy stood on tiptoe, trying to see through the throng. She thought she glimpsed both Mullin and Blunt’s colours, though it was hard to be certain, so close-packed were the horsemen. Then, as they approached the final stretch at a furious pace, she found herself pushed forward by shouting watchers. She glanced towards Prynn and the other man, but could no longer see them. Heart pounding, she tried to force a way through, but the rough crowd gave her no quarter. She was shoved and jostled, and her hat came loose. Clutching at it, she called out.
‘Sirs, I pray you, let a lady have some air!’
But all she got was a guffaw from someone near; by everyone else she was ignored. Struggling, she tried to free herself, while still the crowd milled about her. The shouts were reaching fever pitch, the winning post was within reach. The ground shook, the hoofs like a drum-roll … Then to her dismay, Betsy lost her balance and slipped. As she fell, she heard the cry that greeted the winner, while applause broke out on all sides. For a bizarre moment she thought herself on the stage of the Duke’s Theatre, then all of a sudden she was alone, sitting on the grass, flushed and out of breath. In an instant the crowd swept past, hats and scarves waving: the race was over.
In undignified fashion she got to her feet, hat in hand, and looked about. She saw the jockeys circling, their horses blowing and snorting. Stragglers were still riding to the finish, but no one paid them much attention. Instead the crowd pressed around the winning post, some cheering, others giving vent to their disappointment. Betsy hurried forward, craning her neck. Her eyes went to the royal box, where the King and his friends too were applauding. Desperately, she began pushing her way through. Her throat was tight – even if she’d cried out, she knew no one would hear. Scanning the untidy press of riders
she at last saw Mullin, taller in the saddle than most, struggling to control his horse. The animal was highly excited after the race, jerking the rein, but Betsy saw at once that, as she had feared, he was not among the leaders. They were holding back, as gradually the noise diminished. On the far side of the course, the starter was calling out; men hushed their neighbours, straining to hear. And then it was, with a sinking heart, that Betsy heard the words she had dreaded: the winner was …
‘Silverfoot!’
The starter’s voice rose clearly, prompting a few muted cheers. ‘Silverfoot has won by a head – the rider is Richard Blunt from Egham! Come forward, sir, and receive The Roman Plate from His Royal Majesty!’
And now she saw the winner in his white blouse, moving clear of the other men. Even from here she could see the grin on his face, as he raised his quirt to acknowledge the applause. Unhurriedly he walked his sweating horse forward, drawing rein before the royal box. Then he dismounted, and was lost to sight.
Breathlessly, Betsy whirled about; she could no longer see Mullin. Letting go her hat, she stuck her elbows out and charged. Soon she had gained ground, lashing out with abandon, forcing people aside. There were angry mutterings, and someone pushed her back, but she didn’t stop. Eyes on the platform, she saw a flash of silver as the platter was
manhandled
by a servant. The King took it, turned and, with a smile, inclined his head towards the prize-winner, who had approached the front of the box. Attendants stood aside to let him near, while the noble personages applauded. Betsy was now only yards away, but she was too late, and she knew it. She drew breath to shout, but her hopes hung by a hairpin. Fleetingly she wondered if Mullin had got near enough to thwart the assassin. With a last effort she forced her way through, pushing and kicking, realizing she was causing a stir of her own. Men turned … and at last she shouted.
‘Let me through! The King’s in peril – danger to His Majesty!’
There was a shout, then another – then a gasp went up, that was almost a groan. From the direction of the royal box there was a cry, and something flew into the crowd. It materialized into a figure in a flowing black coat. Betsy barely saw him before he was on horseback. Then, before anyone could stop him, he cleaved through the throng, galloping towards the river.
Now there was chaos. Hands clutched at Betsy as if she were the assassin! She struck out… voices swelled about her, but the words made no sense. Flushed with fear, surrounded by men shouting, she peered up at the King – then, like waves, the crowd parted. Gasping, dishevelled and wet with perspiration, she could only stare at the sight.
Two men were on the ground, locked in struggle – one Richard Blunt, the other Marcus Mullin. Above them, unharmed, the King and his courtiers gazed down in bemused fashion. Then, from the crowd, men emerged to seize the combatants, dragging them apart. Panting, their faces twisted in rage, the two stared balefully at each other … Betsy saw splashes of blood, though it was unclear whose it was, then Blunt shouted.