Traitor's Field (61 page)

Shay walked the scattered remnants of the army increasingly grim, some instinct of undefeated self maintaining the high shoulders and long stride, while the unease grew in him. Eventually he got on the trail of rumours of the three, reports at two or three removes. They had been in the battle after all. Heroism. Where the battle was thickest. Charging in. Death or glory. He forced himself to mistrust the worst reports as much as the best. At least one was dead. They had died together, united as always. 

Among the hearsay and the platitudes he felt his anger swelling.
You should not have been there. Do I control nothing now?

Eventually the trail led to a low mean cottage, slumping stones among old bent trees. A figure was carrying in a bucket of water, and as Shay strode forwards the head turned, pale and golden, and he knew that Henry Vyse at least was alive and hope kicked in his belly. Vyse didn’t break his step, distracted, and they reached the doorway together and Shay grabbed at the young man’s shoulder but Vyse was pushing him away and handing over the bucket to another. At his second attempt Shay caught at him, pulled him closer: ‘Why in hell’s name—’ and then he realized that the other man had been Balfour, and growing relief brought him closer to normality.

On a bench in the gloomy cottage room was Manders, paper-white and battered. He was mud-caked from hair to boots, varying black to grey as it dried patchily, and his left leg from the knee down was a blasted crimson mess, a silly patchwork of red-pink flesh and white bone and fragments of trouser and boot. Shay was beside him in two strides, staring down at the waxy feverish face. The eyes alternated wide in shock and tight shut in pain, and a surgeon was readying himself nearby.

Shay gripped the shuddering head in two great hands, and gazed down. ‘You had no need to be there, Michael!’

Manders gulped and coughed at the air, and words hissed from his throat. ‘This cause – Will. Not. Fail for.’ A long shallow breath. ‘Want. Of my. Hand.’

Shay smiled hard at the grim bravado. ‘We might succeed after all, boy. If this is not the last King of England to know he has a Manders in his ranks.’ And he continued to hold the pale shivering face clamped in his hands as the surgeon approached with his knife.

Edinburgh, new-captured by Cromwell’s Army, was edgy. Every face was suspicion and a desire not to offend. Every back alley was furtive with fears and rumours and hurried departures. Thurloe tramped the great grey streets trying to feel like a conqueror, and constantly expecting a knife in his back.

The self-claimed King and his broken followers had retreated west and north, with the Firth of Forth on their flank as a shield. Cromwell was consolidating his troops, the city’s docks were choked with supply ships up from London, and John Thurloe had leisure to pursue an untried thread.

Lady Constance Blythe had kept him waiting the fifteen minutes no doubt necessary to dress her age adequately for company, and then offered him her hand like an insignificant gift. A protracted ritual in which hostess and younger man refused to sit in the presence of, or certainly before, the other ended with the lady comfortable in the high, cushioned chair that seemed to be the centre of the first-floor room, and Thurloe in an oak chair pulled round in front of her.

Thurloe thanked her for her time, and introduced his task. He was come up from London on behalf of the Parliament. Parliament was most anxious to rebuild a peace between London and Edinburgh. Battles created divisions where there need not be divisions. He did not wish to be indiscreet, but no doubt Lady Constance would know that there was not always perfect harmony between Parliament and Army. . .

Something of scorn touched Lady Constance’s face.
Good; let her think me weak.
Her face was a little more pink than was natural, but the painting was subtly done. If he looked closely, he could see the age of the skin, its looseness, but her cheekbones were strong and gave the face its character, and she held herself well. Still, no question, a handsome woman, and obviously knew every art of dress and posture to reinforce nature.

‘Parliament is looking for men of character, in English and Scottish society, whose affinities and reason might help to restore harmony. It’s so difficult to get sense and restraint from the men of this city at the moment, and you were recommended to me as someone who had moved in royal society and at the highest levels here in Scotland.’

Constance Blythe wondered if there was innuendo somewhere beneath this, but contented herself with the surface flattery.

‘I’m hoping that you might advise me.’

‘You expect me to—’

‘Sir Peter Booth, for example. He I think has connections in Scotland.’

‘He does, but none of significance.’
What a quaint, stubborn little deference. It may remain fun after all to glide around this city.

‘Or Sir Oliver Percy.’

‘He’d talk to you, sure enough. You’d buy him for fifty pounds flat, but he’d repulse as many as he brought with him.’
Such a funny breed these Parliament men are. Dark dogged upstarts. Rather nice eyes.

‘Maurice Monroe?’

She considered. ‘Much more intelligent man. With intelligent friends.’

‘There was a circle around Sir George Astbury, I thought. He’s dead now of course, sadly. But I thought—’

‘George Astbury? He’d hardly have done for a turncoat!’

‘I’m not seeking a—’

‘He was pure, blind loyal, and King James and then King Charles loved him for it. He’d no more have thought of dallying with you than of ploughing one of the maids or stealing the royal plate.’

‘I thought he had an acquaintance, who might – Shaw, was it? Shay?’

‘Shay?’

‘Yes.’ Thurloe’s heart thumping. ‘I thought him of that circle.’

‘With Astbury?’ She was incredulous. ‘Why, they were no more than cous—’ She was overwhelmed by a sudden spatter of coughs, which hissed like a cat’s out of her throat. ‘No more th—’ Another cough. ‘I beg your pardon. Do you mind. . .?’ She rang a little bell on the table beside her, waited until the maid hurried in, asked her for water, and held up a frail hand to Thurloe to plead for his forbearance. Thurloe smiled pleasantly, and waited in silence.

Constance Blythe huddled smaller over the hands folded in her lap, watching them through angry eyes.
You foolish old trollop.

How would this clerk know of Shay? He is no clerk, and if he knows that name then he plays a much darker game. And I so proud and full of myself and talking
. She felt the tears start to come, covered them with another bout of coughing.
They always would call me a dumb tart.

She glared at the fat pink skin on the back of her hand, its minute painted scales.
Has the rot in your body started on your brain as well? So stupid! Lord, I might have been a desperate virgin flashing my paps at him.

She felt herself pulling back from the pasty flesh that cloaked her, recoiling from her moment’s complacency.
My family is older than my kingdom. My spirit is more than my skin.
She became again the mind, watching carefully through the mask of the face.
Kings and Courts have swooned for me.

Restored by a cup of water. She began again. ‘Excuse me, please. I tire so quickly these days, and it has been a time of great strain.’ Thurloe nodded sympathetically, and opened his mouth to speak. ‘You were asking about someone. Yes – George Astbury. A pleasant man, George. Something of a fool, but we all are as we age, you’ll learn that one day. Even when younger, though, he was apt to be pudding-headed. His companions – vanity is not just a failing in the old, isn’t that right? – his companions – that was his failing always, a kind of vanity. It’s worse in the stupid, you know.’ Thurloe no longer knew which generation he was in, let alone its qualities, and again tried to speak. ‘But his companions, now. There was Simon Treves. And Oliver Baynes. Baynes was a most handsome man, and always at the heart of any little intrigues at Court. And Thomas Tryon. Tryhorn?’

‘When was—’

‘Tryon. There’s a nephew. He’d be very susceptible to whatever nasty schemes you people have in mind. No doubt you’ve thought of him. I don’t know if you people realize—’ She started to cough again. She took another little mouthful of water, but it only made the coughing richer. ‘I’m – I’m sorry. I’m – when I get excited, you know. I’m sorry.’ Her frailty itself seemed to pain her. ‘I wonder if we could continue this another day.’

Thurloe was frustrated, but in no place to force himself, and part of his frustration was at the possibility that Lady Constance Blythe might be a waste of his time and focus. Stepping into the street he checked the names in his head. Astbury and Treves and Baynes and Tryh—. . . Tryon. Astbury and this Shay were cousins of some kind. He’d wanted more about—

He stood still in the street, boots sinking slowly into the mud. Again he rehearsed the conversation.

She had changed course during the interview, completely.
Not tired, but extremely shrewd.
He stopped, and glanced back up at the first-floor window.

She was watching him. Thurloe smiled, knew that he’d caught her eye, and walked on. He would have the house watched, and he would return soon with a little more rigour in his thinking.

Constance Blythe watched him go.
Lovely big eyes. But I’m rather afraid that that might be a very clever young man.
She reached for the bell.
Such a pity, that the world is to be dominated by the clever men and not the glorious.

‘Marie, bring me paper and ink. You will go with a message to the doctor in ten minutes.’

A summons from Mortimer Shay was a commandment to Balfour and Vyse, and they enjoyed the thought of activity and usefulness in this time of confusion and regathering and politics. Twenty minutes after Shay had sent his message the two were standing in front of him in his lodging.

Shay held a small paper in his fingers, and waved it once. ‘We have – how does Manders?’

‘Well enough.’ Balfour.

Vyse added, ‘He now curses and complains with full heart, and his thoughts begin to turn to women again. One leg or no, recovery is nearly complete.’

Shay grunted, smiled in spite of himself, and waved the paper again. ‘We have urgent and vital duty. There is a woman in Edinburgh. An old spirit and a great one, and dear to our cause. The man Thurloe has begun to take interest in her for what she may know.’ He shook his head. ‘She must be out of the city within the hour; she will need our help.’ Firm nods from the two young men. ‘Your help. I will be close by, but not at the wall; this is an exploit for younger, faster men.’ Acceptance and subdued eagerness on the faces, and inside the knowledge that they were more expendable.

Vyse: ‘And must we assume that this Thurloe may be watching her?’

‘It’s possible.’ He glanced at each of them. ‘There is a time for sport and a time for decision. If you have the opportunity, kill him.’ The two young men nodded, Balfour once and simply, Vyse more uneasily.
Lord, I know not whether I love more the one for his determination, or the other because he gives us something worth fighting for.

Shay’s glance hardened, and he caught each pair of eyes again. ‘You are gentlemen, and I need not say it; but forgive me if I emphasize her importance for our cause. Her life is worth vastly more than yours both.’