Authors: John Pilkington
‘You hare-brained idiot!’ he cried, eyes blazing at Mullin. ‘He got away – and you let him!’
H
EART IN MOUTH
, Betsy hurried to Mullin, who appeared unhurt: the blood, she now saw, belonged to Blunt. As men pulled him away he winced, grunting in pain. But one thing at least was clear: the King was safe. And since the races were now over, and by all appearances a brawl had simply broken out, his followers acted accordingly. In a short time Charles and his party were hurried away, while the mounted guards rode up to form a cordon around him. Coach doors banged, a whip cracked, and the royal conveyance lurched off, followed by a crowd of horsemen. Others were getting mounted and riding after them, watched by confused jockeys and
race-goers,
but all Betsy felt was immense relief. And as Mullin was being held by several men, at last she found her voice.
‘Sirs, unhand my servant!’ she cried, in her most imperious tone. ‘He meant no harm to His Majesty. Let him go!’ With that she took the captain’s arm – and the performance worked. In surprise the men released him, whereupon Mullin shrugged them off, facing Blunt: and there was recognition in his eyes.
‘By God, I know you,’ he muttered.
But Blunt sagged. He was more badly hurt than Betsy had realized: blood spread from a wound in his side, soaking his clothes. With a groan, he sank to his knees.
‘You’re mistaken,’ he breathed. ‘When I saw that fellow get close to the King, I merely acted as any man would.’ He glanced up at those who held him. ‘I pray you, let go of me. I’m stabbed, and can do no one any hurt.’
There was a moment, then, with a glance at each other, the men released him. A circle had formed about the group, and now a heavy fellow in a buff coat pushed his way through.
‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘I’m the constable – answer me!’
‘There was a madman, with a dagger.’ Kneeling, one hand pressed to his side, Blunt peered up at him. Then he swung his gaze to Mullin, and an unexpected thing happened.
‘This man tried to help,’ he added. ‘In the mêlée, he thought I was the assailant. You should let him pursue the fugitive – he’s a good horseman.’
Betsy stared in surprise, from Blunt to Mullin and back. The captain’s manner had changed: now he whispered urgently to her. ‘He’s a friend – see he gets help!’ And with that, he squared up to the constable.
‘He speaks the truth,’ he said loudly. ‘I, too, saw the one wielding the dagger. I can ride fast – let me chase him!’
‘Well, I don’t know …’ The constable frowned, but he was at a loss, as were those who stood about. Everyone of importance seemed to have disappeared with the King. Men exchanged glances, looking from the injured Blunt to Mullin.
‘Good – then there’s no time to waste!’ Mullin looked round quickly. ‘Where’s my horse?’
‘Take Silverfoot – give him free rein.’
It was Blunt who spoke – and a gleam appeared in Mullin’s eye. ‘I will,’ he said. Then he strode towards the crowd, and his boldness was such, they parted immediately. Some yards away a boy was holding the grey horse’s halter, which Mullin took from him. In a moment he had hauled himself into the saddle. ‘That man needs a surgeon,’ he said, pointing at Blunt. And with that he cantered off in the direction the would-be assassin had taken. Soon he broke into a gallop and was gone. With a sigh Betsy turned – to find all eyes upon her. Clearly feeling he had been upstaged, the constable was glowering.
‘And who might you be, madam?’ he enquired.
‘Me? I’m … Hester Smith,’ she answered. ‘Wife of George Smith from… Yorkshire. I came to see our horse run; my husband’s too ill to attend.’
‘And that fellow?’ The constable jerked his thumb in the direction Mullin had gone. ‘Odd sort for a jockey, isn’t he?’
‘Oh indeed!’ Betsy managed a smile. ‘Too brave for his own good, I always say … But shouldn’t we do as he said, and help this other stout fellow?’ And with a look of concern, she moved towards Blunt. ‘Can you walk?’ she asked.
Without answering her, the man got stiffly to his feet. He swayed briefly, and someone moved to assist him, but he was waved way. ‘I’ll go with this good lady,’ Blunt said. ‘If one will kindly bring her horse, we’ll make our own way … With your permission, madam?’ He rested a hand on Betsy’s shoulder, whereupon she bent close.
‘Gladly,’ she whispered. ‘For I think you and I should converse, don’t you?’
Night fell, and there was no word from Marcus Mullin.
In the tiny attic chamber at Mother Curll’s, a single candle burned. On the bed lay the man who called himself Richard Blunt, while Betsy sat beside him on a stool. The last few hours had flown by, but at last she could relax. The surgeon had been and gone, having sewn the fearful gash in the wounded man’s side and ordered him to stay abed. His jockey’s clothes were gone, his body washed and bandaged. Mother Curll, having been given a short account of events, had also left. As far as she knew a fight had occurred, and Danny Dark had gone after the man who’d stabbed her servant. Less cheerful than earlier, the bawd went off to oversee business. So now that all was calm, Betsy could speak to the injured man alone.
‘He knew you, he said …’ She gazed into Blunt’s face. ‘Indeed, we both thought there was more to you than first appeared. Who are you, and what are you doing here?’
For a while the man didn’t answer. His face was drawn and
shiny with sweat. Briefly he met Betsy’s eye, then looked away.
‘I might ask the same of you,’ he said at last. ‘For you’re no more Dark’s cousin than you are Hester Smith, farmer’s wife. That’s no Yorkshire accent. Indeed …’ He sighed. ‘He’s not Dark either, is he? Unless I’m mistaken, he’s Marcus Mullin!’ When Betsy started, he gave a low laugh. ‘Don’t be alarmed. We’re on the same side – just.’
‘What do you mean?’ she snapped. ‘We came here to …’ But she stopped herself, as Blunt gave a weak smile.
‘You came here for the same reason I did,’ he said. ‘To catch a fellow who was bent on killing the King.’
‘Then you knew that all along?’
In agitation, Betsy stood up. She was confused, fearful for Mullin’s life, and no longer in sympathetic mood. ‘Tell me what’s going on!’ she cried. ‘If we’re truly on the same side, as you say, then why didn’t you reveal yourself? Indeed, if you knew what was afoot, why did you let matters go so far? The King could have been killed—’
‘I think not, madam.’ Blunt eyed her calmly. ‘The traitor had to be allowed to make the attempt – caught blade in hand. Yet there were others close by, to protect His Majesty.’ He paused, then, ‘We meant to catch all of them: men whose names may be known to you. Thomas Prynn is one, John Phelps another – and one called Venn, who’s no longer alive to trouble us.’
He fell silent, wincing. Suddenly, things began to make sense.
‘Why, you’re one of us!’
Betsy stared down at him. ‘So, what’s your number?’ she asked, her anger rising. ‘Thirteen, perhaps? For you’ve certainly been unlucky. The King may be safe, but you let a murderer escape, and got yourself run through doing it!’
But Blunt merely sighed. ‘My number’s thirty-four,’ he answered. ‘Our names don’t matter, do they? Though you might ask me the name of the one we – Mullin and I, that is – allowed to escape. Would you care to know that?’ And when
she nodded, he told her. ‘He has several guises. He sometimes goes as a novice priest: a bold choice for one such as he. He also passes as a Dutch seaman – but his name is Jerome Kyte. And if that sounds familiar to you, it should, for he’s the son of John Kyte: one of the regicides of our late King, Charles the First!’
At that, a chill stole over Betsy. Old memories stirred … terrible memories of the King’s revenge a decade back, on those who had ordered the execution of his father. As a young woman she had refused to witness the bloody acts of drawing and
quartering
at Tyburn, or to view the corpses of Cromwell, Ireton and the others, dug up from their graves and hanged in public. Many others had fled the vengeance of the Stuarts after the Restoration. In silence, she stared at the man before her, as he told what he knew.
‘John Kyte died three months ago in Antwerp – a bitter and broken man,’ he said. ‘But his son burns with the same hatred – a hatred for which he would sacrifice his own life. That’s how he fell into the hands of Thomas Lacy, another embittered republican – but one with the means to make use of our friend Jerome. The rest perhaps is known to you – do I hit the mark?’
Heavily, Betsy sat down. ‘Lacy’s dead,’ she said quietly.
‘Is he now?’ The other grimaced. ‘Then he’ll not be missed, I can promise you that.’
But now she felt betrayed. All along, it seemed, another scheme was in place to capture Venn’s circle – yet she, Mullin and Crabb had known nothing of it. ‘Do you mean to tell me you knew all this before I … we were sent to the Dutch Provinces?’ she demanded. ‘For if so, a young girl’s life could have been saved, and a man spared grievous hurt—’
‘No – I swear I knew naught of your orders.’ Blunt eyed her steadily. ‘Have you still not teased it out?’ he asked. ‘You think me one of Mr Lee’s men too, yet you’re mistaken. We have worked in parallel, madam – like blind folk. Mere foot-soldiers, who aren’t permitted to know the plans of our masters. Mine is the master of yours – two rivals who covet intelligence, and
hide it from each other. So that when conspiracies are broken and traitors snared, one of them may claim the credit, to the other’s detriment. It’s all in the cause of influence, madam – and of the King’s good favour. Now do you understand me?’
For a moment Betsy gazed at him, then slowly she got up. ‘Well, perhaps I do,’ she said. She moved to the door, but as she went out, she glanced back. ‘Trust no one – isn’t that your motto?’ But Blunt turned his face to the wall, and made no answer.
She descended the narrow staircase, barely aware of the noises around her. Female laughter sounded from a half-open door, a male voice from another. But when she reached the hallway, someone was entering the front door, and in relief she hurried towards him. Mullin was back, and one glance at his face was enough.
‘I lost him,’ he said tiredly. ‘The horse was spent from racing – the devil outran me. And by the time I’d ridden back to that cottage, the others had gone too. God help me, I’ve lost the whole lot of them!’
‘Come, you’re weary.’ Quickly Betsy closed the door, then took his arm. But at that moment there was a voice behind them and Mother Curll appeared with her lantern.
‘Danny?’ She came forward, a frown on her face. ‘What have you been about, eh? There’s a man upstairs, sore hurt….’
‘I’ll deal with him, mistress.’ Betsy faced her. ‘If you’ll let us spend the night here, tomorrow we’ll be gone. I’ll pay you for the room – will that serve?’
For a moment the bawd eyed her, then she nodded. ‘As you wish …’ Her eyes went to Mullin. ‘Save us, but when did you ever bring aught but trouble?’ she added. ‘Now I must look for another doorman, too!’
She went off, whereupon Betsy spoke low. ‘You should come up with me. I’ve found out who Blunt really is—’ But Mullin stayed her.
‘I’ve remembered,’ he said. ‘And I’ll go gladly: he and I should talk. And after that, I intend to get drunk!’
With that he started up the stairs, Betsy following. And a moment later they were in the tiny attic room again, by the bedside of the one they now knew was a fellow intelligencer.
‘Captain Mullin …’ The wounded man looked up. ‘I hope you’ve taken good care of Silverfoot.’
‘He’s in the stable, none the worse for the gallop,’ Mullin replied. At Betsy’s bidding he sat on the stool, while she stood aside. ‘And since you know my name, I’ll use yours,’ he added drily. ‘I knew I’d seen you before. You’re Isaac Dowell – Lord Arlington’s man.’
‘And you’re Williamson’s,’ the other said. ‘It’s as well neither of us killed the other, isn’t it?’
‘It’s as well the man we fell over each other trying to catch didn’t kill the King!’ Mullin threw back. And when Blunt made no reply, he told him what he had told Betsy: how his pursuit of the conspirators had been in vain. By the time he had finished, the man Betsy now knew not as Blunt but as Isaac Dowell was looking grave.
‘If I’d known you were here – known who to look for,’ he said, ‘we might have banded together.’ Then in turn, he told his tale to Mullin; and when the captain learned who he had been pursuing, he was thunderstruck.
‘John Kyte’s son? By the Christ! I was one of those set to watch his father in Antwerp, a year back – until it was decided he posed no threat.’ He frowned. ‘Yet I never thought to trouble myself over his children … I didn’t know he had any.’
‘Just a son,’ Dowell said quietly. ‘As for your past activities in the Provinces, sir, they’re known to me. My master’s reach is long – I think you know what I speak of.’
‘If you refer to Lord Arlington’s wife, then I do know!’ Restless now, Mullin got to his feet and took a few paces about the little room. ‘She’s a Dutchwoman,’ he told Betsy. ‘No doubt she’s proved useful to her husband, on occasions.’ He eyed Dowell grimly. ‘Your master may be better informed than mine if, as I assume, Lady Arlington maintains her friendships
among the Dutch,’ he added. Then suddenly he stopped in his tracks. ‘By God – Marieke Katz!’
Betsy froze … Then her eyes went to Dowell, and in an instant she saw it: Madam Katz, the clever burger’s wife … She caught her breath, staring at Mullin. ‘You mean, she knew what we were about from the start? Then, she’s Arlington’s woman!’
‘Indeed, though not in the sense of her poor cuckolded husband,’ Dowell said softly. ‘She’s an agent for de Witt – yet she’s Downing’s man at heart. She made use of a weak, lovesick fellow named Gorton – a former steward, who would do anything she asked.’ Then, seeing the look on Mullin’s face, he frowned. ‘Do you mean to tell me he’s dead, too?’
Mullin nodded. ‘But now that’s out, the fact remains we’ve failed – all of us,’ he said bitterly. ‘Kyte and the others are at large still, to make mischief again whenever they choose. While you and I—’
‘No, it isn’t over.’
Dowell spoke sharply, then winced in pain. ‘Prynn and Phelps and their fellows – we needn’t fear them,’ he went on, breathing hard. ‘They can be rounded up as soon as they break cover. But Kyte will keep apart, as always. He’s without friends – indeed he shuns their company. He’s but an instrument: vengeance for his father is all he wants – on Papists of any kind. That’s why he posed as a priest, so that he could move among them.’ He hesitated, catching Betsy’s startled look. ‘You
understand
me,’ he added. ‘And now that he’s come to England, he may try again to get at the King – but not immediately. First—’