Traitor's Field (70 page)

The three young men were left alone. For a moment they stood silent, in a circle, hands on each other’s shoulders. Then Manders let his arms fall, and hopped back a pace, resettling the crutch against his side.

Vyse said: ‘I hear the girls in France are very pretty, Manders. Try to behave as a gentleman, will you?’

‘Gods, what a thought.’ Balfour. ‘The syphilis’ll eat away his other leg and we’ll just have to prop him against the chimney in the evenings.’

The smiles were routine. Manders looked at each of them.

‘Hal. Tom. You fight for me, so do it well.’ They nodded on instinct. ‘And come safe through. We will hunt together again.’

It had become Thurloe’s habit to ride to the Edinburgh docks once in every day. He was enjoying the city more than he pretended: for men represented variously as barbarian, over-religious, or merely dull, he found the Scots of the capital disproportionately rational and intelligent, civilized in their pleasures, discreet as to their beliefs and serious about their Greek. But despite a more pleasant social life than he was used to in London, he looked forward to his daily escape. 

He claimed it gave him contact with the working end of the control of departures by sea, which tiresome part of exercising a closer stranglehold on the country seemed to have become part of his responsibility in Edinburgh. He claimed that a more immediate view of the tides of people and ships made him think more clearly about the secret currents he was trying to understand. In truth, he merely welcomed the open space and empty air of the sea, after the constricted, reeking city.

The tree branches held claims to spring this morning, but the air still felt like winter as he rode. The sky was white, and the cold bone-deep.

Where now was his Royalist network? Active out of Stirling, presumably. Infiltrating the front lines of the Parliamentary Army, perhaps – maybe deeper. Spreading sedition in England.
And what of Doncaster and Pontefract?
William Paulden in The Hague had tried to impress him with the mystery of what had been going on there. Still the suggestion of Leveller treachery. But, in truth, he had only heard of it through the J. H. letters; and those he now knew for deliberate deceptions.

The Army, typically, had taken over the front room of a sordid waterfront tavern to monitor arrivals and departures, and with little jealousies and rivalries tried to co-ordinate with the customs men next door. As Thurloe stepped down from the cobbles into the tavern, head bent under the beams and nose twisting at the ill mix of fish and filth, the two soldiers sitting at a table in the window hurriedly closed the lid of a small chest and began to inspect a pile of papers with elaborate focus.

Thurloe nodded to the tavern owner for a drink, and sat. The two soldiers looked up with wide-eyed attention. ‘Gentlemen.’ They nodded deferentially, which made him more suspicious. ‘What have we?’

One of the soldiers pushed the pile of papers over, thin and greasy sheets, tickets of leave that they’d collected from people on the ships they’d searched. Thurloe counted them first; six today. ‘What else?’ He went through the sheaf again as he waited. His eyes flicked up to the two soldiers. He scanned the sheaf again, and something caught his attention. This time he held the soldiers’ eyes. ‘What else did you find?’

He deliberately didn’t lower his eyes to the chest, unobtrusive on the bench beside them. He was learning to treat soldiers as he did his children. ‘Any other little successes?’ Their peccadilloes had to be wheedled out without shame.

Eventually one of them glanced at his companion, and said:

‘We seized – this.’ He nodded to the chest.

‘Well done. What is it?’

The soldier looked around the tavern, hesitated as the owner put a mug of heated wine in front of Thurloe and turned away, and lifted the chest lid for a moment. ‘We’ll be handing it in to the Colonel.’

‘Of course. I’ll bet they didn’t want you finding that, did they?’

At last a little pride began to glow in the two faces. ‘That they did not, sir. Old lady it was. And her son.’ Thurloe’s mind was starting to turn, to wonder. ‘Him with only one leg, and looking very sick. Near dead, she thought. Making a bit of a fuss, she was. Anyway, they were on deck, wrapped all very cosy, and she handed over their passes very quick and obliging – bit too quick, if you take my meaning, sir – and soon as she thinks we’re inspecting the passes she’s glancing all nervous at her son. So we checked them both. He was missing a leg – but through the blanket it looked like it was growing back, if you follow.’ He grinned, and his companion grinned. They’d enjoyed developing that line. ‘Chest was hidden under his dressings and wrappings.’

In their way they’d done well, unfortunately. ‘Good for you. No wonder you were so absorbed.’ They were dealing with someone who knew how they thought, how they behaved. ‘These the two passes? Mathilda Beatty? Thomas Beatty?’ Brow-racked scrutiny from the soldiers; they knew something was wrong now. ‘With the seals smudged? Smudged so you don’t see the fakery so well?’ The two young faces were sullen, dumb. ‘Tell me: the lady – fifties, perhaps sixty? Gold hair gone grey? Handsome?’ Still the boyish discomfort. ‘Tell me!’

‘Sounds like it could be.’

‘How long ago? Quickly!’

‘Twenty minutes maybe?’

‘Can they be stopped? The guard ship, can it catch them?’ The soldiers started to ponder, which was always fatal. ‘Move, man! Go now!’

From the rail of the brig
Verity
, pushing down the choppy Firth of Forth, Lady Constance Blythe watched her island for the first time.
I have always moved among people, not among countries.
Departure felt like death. She did not know where she was going, and would hardly know even once she was there.
Who shall I know, and who shall know me?

Michael Manders sat against one of the masts, and she knew that he was watching the thinning land with his own regrets and shame.

Then a more anxious shout from one of the crewmen, and the Captain was staring around agitated, and it was immediately clear something was wrong.

‘The guard ship!’ He hurried to the rail, talking half to himself. Leaning out, he shaded his eyes and peered back towards the city. ‘She’s after us!’ This now clearly addressed to Lady Constance. Fear and accusation as he spoke to her: ‘She’s signalling us to stop!’

And thus must all fairy stories end.

Manders was sitting up, attentive and calculating.

‘Can’t we – can’t we outrun the ship?’ she said feebly.

The Captain staring at her and back out to sea, shaking his head. ‘What? If we fail. . .’

Manders was watching her now. She thought he might have been looking at the Captain, but it was unmistakably at her, and there was something hard and distant in the expression.

Then he was levering himself up against the mast with clumsy intent, and hopping doggedly towards her with something held close against his side, and with a sick sadness at her fragility, at the waste of it all, she knew what Shay must have ordered.
I am become like an old religion, better eradicated than spread, or like a contagion.

Manders approached her, and smiled, and she tried to smile proudly back at him. His arm reached towards her, and then over her shoulder, and he gripped the rigging and began to hop along the deck using it for balance.

The Captain had turned away, mouth opening in the shout, when an arm came hard around his throat and choked the sound, and he felt metal in his back, and heard words intimate in his ear. ‘We shall outrun her, Captain.’

‘But. . .’ – the words a constricted rasp – ‘it’s treason. . . If she catches up. . .’

The words were still quiet, almost playful. ‘Perhaps she catches up, perhaps she doesn’t. Perhaps we must fight her. What is certain, Captain, is that if we do not try to outrun her I will blow out your spine.’ Manders was actually smiling now, enjoying the wind in his face. ‘Come, let us see what sort of men we may be, eh?’

Lady Constance Blythe watched him with misted eyes and an old excitement kindling in her. There were still men. There was still hope.
Oh, my gallant gallant lads.

‘We shall march into England!’ 

It came out more shrill than he’d hoped.
Why can’t I have the gravity of these old dark men?
Two dozen heads swung round to the source of the sound, surprised and flustered and a little indignant.
Will they heed me will they heed me will they heed me?

‘Your Majesty—’

‘That is my decision.’

That swung it. The doubters hadn’t strength enough to overturn the clear wish of the King –
but wasn’t the deal that we were supposed to control him?
– and the forward men were quick to pocket the advantage –
but that was unexpected, and it might become a dangerous habit.

‘Your Majesty’s decision is most welcome.’

‘We thank Your Majesty for your prudent consideration.’

‘Perhaps we may present Your Majesty with the details tomorrow. Some trivial matters of logistics. For your approval.’

Charles Stuart wiped his palms on his velvet breeches, and breathed out very slowly.

What have I done?

Shay watched from the side, glances at the political men around the table and a close scrutiny of the young man at the top.
Given the chance, this exquisite boy might be a King more than his father
. Again he looked around the room, the meeting breaking up into clumps of grumbles and plots.
But is a Scottish army invading England really that chance?

Three years on, another Duke of Hamilton was marching south, for another Charles Stuart. The previous Duke had had George Astbury worrying beside him. Now, another Comptroller-General must help prepare the way, stir risings in support, squeeze out the last insipid drops of Royalist feeling in the counties. 

And so we try again, old George.

Thomas Scot came hurrying at a stiff-legged trot, his cloak flapping clumsily and papers held tight in one hand. ‘South!’ he said through breaths. ‘They’re marching, Master Cromwell. As you had hoped.’ The last sentence emerged more hesitant, still doubting the wisdom of leaving England open. ‘I have the news straight from the young Charles’s Court. South – for England. The Duke of Hamilton commands.’ He rattled the papers. ‘It confirms what our scouts have been suggesting.’