Traitor's Field (85 page)

Thurloe had tried to stay awake, but the knocking at the storeroom door roused him from a dead-brained doze. His nerves had him upright quickly enough, jogging Rachel out of sleep.

A boy, pale and young and silent. He beckoned to them. Rachel picked up the satchel, hung it close about her, and the two of them followed the boy out.

The understanding had been quickly spoken, but was clear enough. The boatmen did not take on their night cargoes at the wharves in town: Thurloe and Rachel would be led across the marshes to near where the Witham met the sea, and the boat would meet them there.

They were spectres in the fitful night of the town. They moved in its alleys and shadows. They never saw a front door or a human. Life was something indicated or overheard, light under a curtain, moans behind a door, a fresh heap of kitchen waste, a far-off song. They only knew the damp tramp of their feet through the slimy hidden pathways of the town, and the vague shape of the boy’s back leading them away from life.

Beyond the last of the buildings they were in less danger of capture, but they kept the same cautious pace. The boy paused a moment, touched Thurloe’s arm: he pointed to the faint view of the stone-strewn path, and nodded; he pointed to the darkness either side of it, and shook his head mournfully. In the silvered night, the great shadows of the marsh encircled them.

They walked perhaps half an hour, and Rachel realized that she’d begun to get the unfamiliar taste of salt in her nose. The breeze was fresher now, and sharper. Attuning herself, she could hear the whispering of water somewhere ahead: the German Sea, and the unknown world beyond the margin of England.

The sea opened up as a void to their left, and shortly afterwards they saw the river snaking out dark to meet it. The boy led them closer to it, and pointed to the outline of a jetty, ramshackle planks protruding from the path over the reeds to where the water flowed freely.

He stared at the two of them for a moment, and then turned and hurried away.

For the first time, Rachel noticed the cold, forgotten in the madness and fears of the last twelve hours. She’d dressed for a mild Astbury morning, and been transported to this anxious marshy night. The comparison jarred sick in her. That garden was gone for ever.

A minute later, from back along the path taken by the boy, a cry squealed into the night and was cut off. 

She clutched Thurloe’s arm. The silence swallowed them again. ‘Bird of some kind,’ he murmured, and neither of them believed it. Behind them England, a darkness of hunters and unknown pains. Ahead the sea, the edge of their existence. And all around the shifting world of the marsh.

When they moved their feet, they could feel the soft ground readjusting itself subtly under them.

Shay waited.

So soft, a click and a squelch, a few yards off to his right. His fingertips rubbed together slowly, feeling the night. He concentrated on his breathing, and then on his hearing. Silence.

The faint sucking of the marsh settling or absorbing.

If the spirits have come for me, I am ready to go. If there be men here, I may trust to myself.

He turned, and felt the prick of a blade at his throat. A thick-jacketed arm, a gauntlet, and a heavy cavalry blade shining out into his vision.

Shay swallowed his gasp. 

A handsome man, alert. The eyes widened slightly. ‘You must be the one called Shay, I think. Lucky day for me, then.’

Shay brought his breath under control again. ‘Lucky?’

‘Kill the greatest Royalist spy. Or torture you, perhaps. That might be fruitful. Then kill you. Settle with Thurloe. After this there’ll be no doubting where the power in the land is.’

‘You must be one of Thomas Scot’s crew; his troop of snoops and thieves and cut-throats.’

‘My name is Lyle, old man. And you’re ill-placed to underestimate me.’ The blade shivered, flashing as it caught the moonlight differently. ‘By morning Scot and I will be the most influential men in England.’

‘Could be a long night, though.’ Just a second. Just a fraction of a second to get to the pistol. Shay’s eyes flicked around for resources.

The blade pricked at his throat again. ‘Easy, old man.’

‘There’s gold in my knapsack.’

The eyes narrowed. ‘There’s probably not. But once you’re dead I’ll find out, won’t I?’

A hand clamped around Lyle’s mouth and yanked the head back, a blade flashed and the handsome eyes went wide and the sword arm flapped futile, and then his throat gushed black. The body slumped to the ground, and Thomas Balfour stepped forward.

‘Is there really gold in your knapsack?’

‘No.’

‘If you can’t trust a Royalist spy, who can you?’

Shay grabbed at his shoulders. ‘You, it seems. I feared you dead.’

‘I’ve spent my life trying to die. I can’t manage it.’

Shay absorbed it. ‘I know the feeling.’ 

‘The only place I knew to find you was Astbury. The old man there told me where you were headed.’ A grunt. ‘A hundred miles of chaos and angry soldiers. I recognized the signs.’

‘I was expecting someone else, but you’ll do well enough.’ Shay stared into the watchful eyes, then blinked himself alert. ‘Balfour, I’ve moments only. Listen fast.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

Shay shook his head. ‘No. I thought I might need Teach’s help to get this far, and I got yours. But the last yards I must do alone. And you must get away from this place.’ His hands clutched harder at the shoulders. ‘Balfour, the stability of this kingdom no longer depends on Royalism, not for a time at least. The cause that I’ve upheld must. . . it must take a different path for now. But the spirit of Royalism must still glow. The people must be reminded of it, and Cromwell and his minions must feel it at their heels. You will find a message waiting for you – I sent it before Worcester. Instructions. Certain contacts. Unknown to the Parliament men, whatever papers they have seized, and unknown even to my patrons abroad. Use them.’

‘Very well. But—’

‘There’s – there’s something else. Sometime – and it may be soon, for these many months have felt like – like twilight – I will at last. . . defeat life. There is a manor. In the north of Wales. A good land, and good people. I have arranged that it will be yours.’

Balfour swallowed, and fought to hold himself. ‘I will. . . try to be—’

‘Don’t try to be anything. Just be.’ Shay smiled, and pulled away. ‘Tom: while you live, live proud and live fierce.’

Balfour nodded, but the old man was gone.

Rachel felt Thurloe’s arm stiffen, and then she heard what he had: a change in the rhythms of the water, a thickening of the sound.

She peered into the gloom, and eventually saw it: a shadow moving across the marsh towards them, a pale spectral aura wafting around it. Her heart kicked on instinct while her brain realized that it was her boat.

Is it actually possible, after all? Am I really going to escape this place?
The horror of the morning, the nightmare of the hours since. The satchel bit at her shoulder. Then, the lurking under-thought:
Can I leave this place?

‘You’ll be too late, won’t you?’ The voice came out of the darkness of the marsh, and they both spun away from the river towards the sound.

The land was black, but out of it came a figure, a soldier with pistol extended towards them, moonlight touching the barrel as he moved closer.

An instinctive step backwards, two, and Thurloe stared around them. They were yards from the beginning of the jetty.

‘Hell of a dance you’ve had, eh?’ The barrel gleaming and flashing in the moonlight. ‘Murdering spies! But two of us are enough for you, I reckon.’ Thurloe was still glancing left and right, trying to see firm ground, wondering how quickly he could reach his own pistol, wondering about Rachel.

Another sound, from near behind them now. Thurloe and Rachel turned again, and a figure was climbing up onto the jetty from the soft ground beside it. This figure had a pistol levelled in their direction as well.

‘That’s right,’ the first soldier said. ‘All here together now.’ And he kept on towards them, and Thurloe and Rachel moved instinctively away towards the beginning of the jetty, hesitated, two thumping hearts in the trap, and as their desperate eyes swung back and forth between the threats, the second figure, a rigid shadow and pistol, spoke for the first time, hard and low.

‘Get – down.’

Rachel recognized the voice and gasped and Thurloe wrapped his arms around her and dropped and the night cracked in a shot. Rolling, fighting for purchase on the soft earth, he stared up. The first thing he saw was the soldier, arm still extended. 

The pistol barrel fluttered, wavered, and fell, and the man toppled into the gloom.

Shay strode towards them, boots thumping on the jetty planks, and then past them to the soldier. He was back in a moment with the soldier’s pistol and a lantern, which he lit. In its little glow, he saw that Thurloe had a pistol of his own out, pointing at him.

Shay stopped, looked at the pistol, then up at Thurloe. 

‘What do you propose to do with that?’

‘I don’t know. But since I don’t know what you’re doing, it seemed a sensible idea.’

Shay considered this, and nodded.

‘What the hell’s happening?’ Another voice, hissed out of the darkness of the river behind them.

‘All’s well,’ Shay called low; ‘we’re friends of Mandeville.’

‘Well hurry along! We’ve a tide to make; militia'll be here any time.’

Shay stepped to Rachel. He looked at her for a long moment, at the curves of her hair and body in the moon. Then he bent and kissed her forehead. ‘You’re the last of my people,’ he murmured. ‘And there could be none finer. God speed.’

He stepped back a pace. She watched him, then stretched out her arm, and touched him on the chest. ‘All future generations will be less,’ she said quietly.

She took another step towards the jetty, and turned back. ‘Why aren’t you coming?’ she asked. Shay and Thurloe looked at each other. ‘I mean—’

Shay smiled.
‘
I’m afraid that even if either of us wanted to, the other wouldn’t allow it.’

Rachel felt a flutter of loneliness. She looked to Thurloe, hesitated. ‘Thank you, John. I don’t know—’

‘It’s been my privilege. I was. . . I was glad to find an ideal worth fighting for.’

‘Hurry, damn you!’

‘Rachel,’ Thurloe said. ‘I’ll take the satchel, please.’ He took a step away from Shay and towards her. ‘Call it a memento.’

His pistol was up, and pointing at Shay’s stomach.

She was clutching the satchel to her chest. ‘It’s just trinkets. Family things.’ She took an uncertain step towards him. ‘Surely that’s not what you care about, after all this.’

His eyes flicked between her and Shay. ‘Show me.’

She glanced at Shay, and Shay nodded. Another step, and she held the satchel open.

In the lantern light Thurloe saw the dull gold gleams. Something else: he reached for it, a fat book.

‘Our family Bible. Please, John!’

‘We must leave! The tide turns soon, and we’ll never get away!’

Thurloe glanced at Shay, but he hadn’t moved. He pulled the book half out, opened the thick cover, saw in the sickly light the careful handwriting of successive Astburys filling the flyleaves, and then the distinctive cover page. He pushed it back into the satchel.

His fingers still rested on the gold shapes, one of them a bulbous lump. Another glance at Shay. ‘Family things?’

‘You’ll hardly need them in a Republic, will you?’

Thurloe thought, and nodded ruefully. He closed the satchel and, hand still on it, looked up. ‘Fare you well, Rachel. I hope we make an England you’ll want to return to.’

She backed away from them, the satchel held against her breasts. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Both of you. You were both essential to me. But now I have to leave this place.’ For a moment she stared beyond them into the darkness of England. ‘Do what you must with it.’

Then she was striding over the jetty and dropping carefully into the boat, already starting for the open sea and freedom.

Shay said, ‘If you’re not going to shoot me, perhaps you’d help me tidy your friend here into the marsh.’ Thurloe lowered the pistol. ‘Then, since you’ve been hunting me these three years, I hope you’ll afford me an hour’s quiet talk.’