Authors: John Pilkington
With that he stood up, dabbing a napkin to his mouth. ‘Until morning then,’ he added. ‘Let’s hope the weather holds, eh?’
Mercifully it did hold, at least until the party arrived at Rotterdam the following afternoon. There, Betsy noticed, Mullin grew ill-at-ease. The port, he said, seemed busier than he had ever known it, and the reason was clear enough.
‘The Hollanders are re-arming,’ he told her. ‘They smell the coming war.’ He pointed out several large vessels, riding at anchor. ‘Those are old merchant ships, but I’ll wager a guinea they’re being fitted out as men-of-war. May I suggest, once we’re ashore, that if there’s talking to be done, you allow me to do it?’
Betsy was tired, and numb from sitting on a hard seat for the best part of two days. All she wanted was food and a
comfortable
bed. Last night in Flushing she had had both and, as promised, Mullin had been out for the entire night. She hadn’t asked him where he had been.
‘You always do, don’t you?’ she muttered. ‘Let’s find an inn, or at least somewhere I can wash the salt off.’
But the captain was shaking his head. ‘There’s no time. We must conserve our funds – and besides, we’ve only a dozen miles left to travel. We’ll take the road.’
And that was why, some two hours later, the party of four were sitting pressed together in a draughty coach, rattling along the highway between Rotterdam and Delft.
They were not the only passengers, which put them all on their guard. Crabb in particular, his huge frame squeezed into a corner, seemed tense. Mullin, by contrast, chatted amiably in Dutch with another traveller, a middle-aged burgher. Beside him sat his wife, her eyes closed. Betsy, huddled in her coat, feigned sleep, while Eleanor had no need to pretend. The girl was so tired, she was dozing within minutes of their departure.
‘I’ve been having an interesting conversation, my dear – would you care to hear of it?’
Betsy opened her eyes to find Mullin smiling at her. Alert at once, she nodded.
‘This gentleman is Meneer Katz,’ he continued, raising his voice above the noise of the coach. ‘He’s the owner of a gin distillery in Delft, among other things. He has invited us to visit his home once we’re settled.’
‘Indeed?’ Betsy turned to the gentleman, who inclined his head. ‘How kind. And does Meneer Katz understand English?’
‘I regret he does not, madam, but I do.’
The speaker was the Dutchman’s wife, a good-looking woman with pearls about her neck, who, it now seemed, had been awake all along. Mullin was startled, though he concealed it well.
‘My dear Mevrouw Katz, I had no idea!’ he exclaimed. ‘Pray forgive my poor command of your language – I would have spoken English to you, with pleasure.’
‘No apology is necessary,’ the lady replied. ‘I like to listen. Besides, you do yourself a disservice, sir. One seldom hears Dutch spoken well by an Englishman, even one who has spent as long in our country as you have – Captain Mullin.’ And with that, she turned deliberately to Betsy.
‘Your husband is not unknown to some of us, madam,’ she went on. ‘By reputation, at least. Though I confess I had not
heard he was married – how fortuitous it is that we meet. We travel in our own coach as a rule, but it’s being refurbished. You and the captain must be our guests in Delft. Then perhaps we may get to know each other – would that please you?’
‘It would, madam,’ Betsy replied. Then she met the cold blue eyes of Mistress Katz, and stiffened; this woman, she saw, was suspicious of her.
And moreover, instinct told her that she could prove a very dangerous enemy.
T
HE HOUSE STOOD
on a quiet street in the south-west quarter of Delft, near the large church known as the Oude Kierke. It had two floors, a small yard at the rear and a roof of red tiles. This was to be home to Betsy and the others for the present. It belonged to a family known to Captain Mullin, who it seemed had left the Dutch Provinces in a hurry.
That first day she slept late, awaking to sounds of movement from downstairs. Still stiff and sore from travelling, she roused herself and went down to find Eleanor in the kitchen.
‘You should have woken me,’ she said. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Crabb’s gone to look around,’ Eleanor answered. ‘The captain hasn’t come back yet.’ Once again, it seemed Mullin had spent the night elsewhere. Yawning, Betsy sat down on a stool by the scrubbed table.
‘Is there anything to eat?’ she asked.
‘There’s a jug of whey. I bought it this morning, before you rose.’ The girl seemed tense today, Betsy thought.
‘Are you well, Eleanor?’ she asked.
‘I’m uneasy, madam.’ Eleanor poured whey from the jug into a bowl, brought it over and sat down facing her. ‘I don’t really trust Captain Mullin.’
‘For any particular reason?’ Betsy enquired. ‘Apart from his arrogance, of course, and disappearing whenever it suits him?’
The girl gave a shrug. ‘Mr Lee doesn’t like him. He’s never said so, but I know him too well.’
‘Well, as it happens I know Mullin too,’ Betsy told her. ‘Or of him, at least. He may be a cockscomb and other things too, but I’m sure he’s loyal.’
‘I’m sure of that too,’ Eleanor said. ‘Yet I’d advise you not to rely on him too much. Trust your own wits – you have them in abundance.’
She broke off at the sound of the house door, followed by heavy footsteps. Both women looked round to see Peter Crabb lumber in, stooping to avoid the low doorway. He carried a covered basket, which looked out of place in his huge hand.
‘I found a market,’ he said. ‘I’ve got bread, a piece of mutton and some greens. As for Delft – it’s like a maze. The town’s a network of waterways, with alleys everywhere. A man could hide himself here for months.’ When Eleanor got up to take the basket, he lowered himself onto the stool she had vacated. ‘I found out something else too,’ he went on. ‘There’s an inn used by English exiles, called the
Bok
– it means “goat”, I think. It’s one place to start, isn’t it?’
‘You have been busy, Wrestler,’ Betsy remarked.
The young man eyed her. ‘I hope our master has been busy, too,’ he replied. ‘And I don’t just mean visiting whores.’
‘You think that’s where he goes?’ she asked, whereupon the other’s look was all the answer she needed. ‘I see,’ she went on. ‘Well then, I don’t intend to wait here like an obedient little wife. I suggest we use our own resources.’
The other two looked at her. ‘What do you have in mind?’ Crabb enquired.
‘We’ll take a stroll. An English gentlewoman, newly arrived, accompanied by her servants. What could be more natural?’
Delft, Betsy decided, was a pleasant town, even if the
water-ways
smelled as badly as the Thames. It was surrounded by water and, as Peter Crabb had said, there was a network of canals. There were bridges, but many people seemed to go about by small boat. The streets were cobbled, lined with
houses of red brick. Beyond the walls the sails of windmills could be seen, and further off farmsteads surrounded by fields. Within its walls, the town was a thriving place of a hundred trades. Folk thronged the waterfronts: artisans in simple garb mingling with well-dressed merchants and their wives. And close to the main market-place stood the inn that Crabb had discovered: the
Bok
.
‘I didn’t go in,’ he told Betsy. ‘But I spoke to an Englishman who was passing. He was a Papist. Did you know a quarter of the population here are such?’
The three of them had spent an hour looking round the town, and now stood facing the inn: Betsy in a good cloak and hat, Eleanor in a plain linen hood. Crabb had on his everyday brown coat and a soft cap – not that it mattered what he wore: at each turning people stared at the young man, who was a head taller than anyone else.
‘This Papist quarter,’ Betsy said. ‘Where is it?’
‘The
Papenhoek
? I’m not certain, but I’ll find out…’ and he would have gone off at once, had she not caught his sleeve.
‘Not just yet.’ She glanced round, feeling more conspicuous then she liked. ‘Perhaps we’ll take some dinner at the inn first.’ She turned to Eleanor. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘I am, madam,’ the girl replied, but her attention was distracted. ‘Look there – it’s the captain.’
The others turned sharply. Striding towards them with cloak flying was none other then Marcus Mullin himself; and he looked like an angry man.
‘At last!’ he growled, drawing close. ‘God in heaven, madam, I’ve searched half of Delft for you! What do you think you’re doing? I’m the one to guide you! You stick out like … well …’
‘Like an Englishwoman?’ Betsy said coolly. ‘Why should that mark me out, since you say there are so many here already? Besides, you weren’t at the house, and I didn’t intend to sit and wait. Might I enquire where
you
were?’
‘What does that matter?’ Mullin retorted. ‘I know this town –
I have friends here. Had you been more patient this morning I’d have taken you sight-seeing – and perhaps made a few enquiries on the way. Instead, you go off at half-cock—’
‘I’ll ask you to hold your tongue!’
Mullin froze, then with deliberate slowness swung his gaze to Crabb. ‘You’ll ask
what
?’
‘That you hold your tongue – sir,’ the other repeated, glaring down at him. ‘How were we to know when you would return? We’ve neither the time nor funds to kick our heels in this place – nor to wait for you to take farewell of whatever trull you’ve spent the night with.’
At that, Mullin went white with anger. But before either could speak again Betsy gave a loud sniff – her King’s Bench sniff.
‘Come, Eleanor,’ she said. ‘You and I will take dinner, as I promised. As for these gentlemen’ – she threw a withering look at Mullin – ‘I suggest you find a low tavern where the ale’s cheap, and you can drink yourselves into better humour. That, or have a fight – I care not!’ And, grasping her skirts, she walked away across the cobbled street. With barely a glance behind Eleanor tripped after her, catching her up at the door of the inn. All Mullin and Peter Crab could do was stare as the two women disappeared.
But once inside they faltered. For one thing, the room was so full of tobacco smoke that they could barely see. For another it was crowded, and dirtier than Betsy had expected. Heads turned, and men regarded the pair curiously. There were women too, but one look at them was enough.
‘This isn’t the place for you,’ Eleanor breathed.
Betsy was inclined to agree, even though the inn appeared no worse than some of those the actors used, back in London. It was the atmosphere that made them both uneasy: one of debauchery, even violence. But no one approached them, and the noisy hubbub, which had diminished, soon rose again. Betsy was pondering what to do, when the door opened behind her and Peter Crabb came in hurriedly.
‘That was rash of you, madam,’ he said. He gazed round, his fists clenching instinctively, and Betsy’s heart sank: they could not have attracted more attention had they tried. People glanced warily at Crabb, then looked away.
‘No more than it was of you and Mullin, to wrangle in the street,’ she muttered. ‘Where is he?’
Crabb shrugged to indicate that he neither knew nor cared. ‘What do you wish to do?’ he asked. ‘Find somewhere—’
‘More congenial?’ Betsy shook her head. ‘No, I think we should stay. Now that our protector’s here we can’t come to much harm, can we?’ She looked round for a place to sit,
where-upon
someone hailed her in English.
‘Welcome, madam! Newly come to Delft, are you?’
The speaker was a stout, florid-faced man in his forties, wearing a red coat and plumed hat. At once Crabb stiffened, for the fellow appeared the worse for drink. His bow was steady enough, however, and his manner friendly.
‘Thomas Lacy,’ he announced. ‘Dealer in porcelain. Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’ And when Betsy gave her name, his brows shot up. ‘Indeed! Are you perhaps related to Captain Mullin?’
‘His wife, sir,’ Betsy murmured. Already, she realized, she resented the role almost as much as she was tiring of her bogus husband. ‘And yes, I am newly arrived. My servants and I were taking a turn about the place—’
‘Then please, permit me to be your host!’ Turning aside, Lacy called something out in Dutch. There was an answering shout, whereupon he gestured towards the window. Betsy found herself guided to a table, which to her surprise several men quickly vacated. As she sat down she looked up at Crabb, who was hovering behind.
‘You and Eleanor must take some repast,’ she said, fumbling in her gown. Finding coins, she handed them to him. After a moment’s pause, the young man inclined his head.
‘I’ll be close by, madam,’ he said quietly. ‘Just call if you have
need.’ And with a glance at Lacy, who was seating himself, he moved off to where Eleanor waited.
‘You’re most kind, sir,’ Betsy began, but her new host was peering through the haze, gesturing to someone.
‘You will find you’re not alone here, Mistress Mullin,’ he said, turning back to her. ‘One encounters many Englishmen in the Low Countries – and women too, though regrettably they’re fewer in number.’ He beamed at her. ‘How is the good captain?’
‘He’s well, sir,’ Betsy replied, thinking fast. ‘He has business here in Delft, so—’
‘Of course!’ Lacy broke in. He was holding a half-full goblet, which he almost spilled. ‘You’ll take a glass of sack with me?’
She was about to agree when a shadow appeared at her side, blocking the light. Standing over her was a very thin,
ill-favoured
man, his long hair falling over a soiled lace collar. And at once Betsy was on her guard: not because the fellow seemed threatening, but because the moment she looked up at his face she understood. Though he was unknown to her, his expression was all too familiar. She had seen that look on the faces of a hundred others, lounging about the yard of the King’s Bench: this man, she knew, had been in prison.
‘Here you are, Churston,’ Thomas Lacy said. ‘Permit me to present Mistress Mullin, wife to Captain Marcus Mullin. Madam, my friend Henry Churston: scholar and poet. Never knew a man whose head held so much!’
‘Mistress Mullin.’ Henry Churston bowed, then stood looking awkward until Lacy seized a stool and pushed it towards him.
‘Seat yourself,’ he said. ‘The good lady’s fresh off the
packet-boat
– she’ll need a guide, I warrant.’ He grinned at Betsy. ‘Churston’s been here for years,’ he went on. ‘Knows the place like he knows his home town – Oxford, isn’t it?’
With a nod, the newcomer sat down and turned to Betsy with a bleak expression. ‘How long do you mean to stay here, madam?’ he asked in a reedy voice. Then he coughed … and
she flinched. At once she was reminded of shrivelled Sarah, back in her cell at the prison. This man, she saw, was gravely ill.
‘We are not certain, sir,’ she replied. Her instinct was to recoil from him, but she managed a smile. ‘Not for long, I fear … and Mr Lacy is mistaken. My husband knows Delft well enough, so I’ve no need of a guide.’
But Lacy broke in undaunted. ‘Then at least visit my home before you leave,’ he said. ‘Surely you’ll not disappoint a fellow countryman? It’s near the Oost Poort – the east gate. There’s much I would show you: Dutch tiles, fine crockery … and you’d not find the conversation lacking.’
‘Very kind,’ Betsy murmured. Just then a drawer appeared and placed a glass before her, and a jug before Lacy. The man looked at Churston, then moved off.
‘As I thought, penniless again!’ Lacy shook his head at his friend, then pushed his glass towards him. ‘Drink this,’ he urged. ‘I’ll refill it after.’ With a smile at Betsy he picked up the jug and filled her glass. ‘Your health, madam.’
‘And yours, sir.’ Betsy lifted it, took a sip and found the wine passable. Beside her, Churston seized his drink and gulped it down in one.
‘I thank you,’ he muttered, without looking up.
‘So you are a poet, sir,’ she said, with an effort. ‘What brought you to make your home here, in the Provinces?’
Churston eyed her, then lowered his gaze. ‘That’s a long tale, madam,’ he answered. ‘And hardly worth the telling.’
‘Even among friends?’ Lacy gave him an odd look, which could have been one of encouragement – or even of mockery. Then abruptly he turned to Betsy and lowered his voice. ‘You, too, are among friends, Mistress Mullin. Your husband’s one of us. And I cannot believe that the woman he has married is of a different persuasion … you follow me?’
A warning sounded in Betsy’s mind, as clear as a church bell. Again she was back in the King’s Bench, this time looking into
the face of a frightened man: a dead man named Venn.
Trust no one
….
‘Perhaps, Mr Lacy,’ she replied, lowering her voice too. ‘Yet I seldom discuss matters of … belief, shall we say, with men I’ve just met. Do
you
follow?’
‘Oh I do, madam, indeed I do.’ Lacy’s smile had faded, to be replaced by a look of some intensity. ‘Yet I repeat, you’re among friends here. Pray don’t forget that.’
‘I’m gratified,’ was all she could say. She raised her glass, as deliberately as she would have done on the stage of the Duke’s Theatre. She was acting, of course – why else was she here?
‘Then I’m delighted.’ Slowly Lacy’s smile returned. ‘And I repeat, you must come to my house. Mrs Lacy keeps a good table.’
‘You have a wife, sir?’ Betsy enquired.
‘And sons too, madam, though they’re in England. University men, like our friend here.’
Betsy favoured Churston with a nod and sipped her drink. Within a day of her arrival, she appeared to be surrounded by the kind of men she was supposed to spy on – and without any help from Marcus Mullin. Could it truly be so easy? she wondered. Emboldened, she ventured further.