A Conspiracy of Violence (4 page)

There was a sharp crack, as someone trod on a twig in the bushes ahead. Chaloner tensed, trying to see through the tangled
undergrowth. He heard Hewson’s breathing stop, and a detached part of his mind pondered the question of whether the knife
had missed its real target, or whether Hewson had been killed because he was dispensing information. There was no way to know,
although he was able to conclude, from the direction of the snap and the shivering foliage, that there were
two
men lurking in the thicket ahead. Knowing they would expect him to head for the gate, since it was the obvious route to freedom,
he scrambled upright and ran in the opposite direction – towards the house that stood at the end of the garden. There was
a loud pop as a pistol went off, and he hit the ground hard. His senses reeled from the impact, and he became aware of urgent
shouting from the road. The King was coming. Then another shot rang out.

The discharge of firearms close to a monarch was a relatively unusual event in London, and, after a short, stunned
silence, chaos erupted. Footsteps clattered as people ran towards the Banqueting House, and voices clamoured to know what
was happening. An agitated horse whinnied in a way that suggested its rider was losing control of it, and a dog barked furiously.
The word ‘treason’ was suddenly in the air, and it was not long before folk were yelling that the King had been assassinated.

Inside the garden, Chaloner’s attackers held a hissing conversation that suggested one of them had not associated the discharge
of his own firearm with the commotion, and was keen to go to the King’s assistance. The other rebuked him with a testy impatience
that indicated it was not the first time his companion had drawn stupid conclusions. While they argued, Chaloner climbed to
his feet, ignoring the protesting stab in his weak leg, and took refuge in a patch of nettles. The weeds were thick, but he
was oblivious to their stings as he waited to see what his assailants would do, fingers wrapped loosely around his dagger.

He ducked when they moved along the path towards him. The one in front wore a white skullcap, a cloak of burgundy wool, blue
petticoat breeches and a satin shirt with ruffled sleeves. His face reminded Chaloner of a wolf ’s, with pointed chin, wide
mouth, sharp yellow teeth and close-set eyes. He carried a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other, and his face wore
a fierce expression that turned to anger when he saw the servant.

‘Jones is dead,’ he whispered furiously, turning to his companion.

‘So I see,’ replied the other. Chaloner studied him carefully, sensing him to be the more dangerous of the pair. He was heavily
built, and had massive fists, like hams. He was almost as finely dressed as the first man,
although his coat was last year’s fashion and his wig looked as though it had been made using someone else’s measurements.
Rings adorned his fingers, and there was a pair of calfskin gloves tucked into his belt. However, his finery and the superior
airs he gave himself did not disguise the fact that he had probably not been born to them, and that elegance and wealth was
something he had acquired along the way.

‘That is
your
dagger,’ hissed the wolf.

The second man seemed unperturbed by what was essentially an accusation. ‘Then the intruder used it to kill Jones. It is obvious.’

The wolf sighed angrily, but appeared to accept the claim. ‘He will be heading for the back gate, aiming to escape into the
crowds around the Banqueting House. Guard it, while I search the garden.’

‘I would rather—’ began the second.

‘No, Bennet!’ interrupted the wolf. ‘I do not want your opinion. Just do as I say.’

Bennet’s face was a mask of disapproval, but he slouched off in the direction indicated by his companion’s pointing finger.
The wolf, using his sword as a scythe to probe the vegetation, began to move towards Chaloner, who picked up a handful of
dirt and tossed it into a bed of mint.

‘Stay where you are,’ ordered the wolf, when Bennet immediately turned towards the noise with a predatory grin. ‘It is a trick.’

Chaloner grabbed a second fistful of soil and lobbed it at the gate, which had Bennet kicking at the brambles in a frenzied
attempt to determine whether someone was hiding there. When the wolf turned to berate him, Chaloner leapt to his feet and
ran full pelt towards the
house. Another crack echoed as a pistol was discharged, and splinters flew from a nearby tree. Chaloner hurdled a bed of
winter cabbages, jigged behind a tangle of raspberry canes, and raced into the steamy warmth of a kitchen. Startled scullions
gaped as he pounded through their domain, his feet skidding on the grease-coated floor. He saw an exit at the far end and
powered towards it, knocking over a boy carrying a tureen of soup; the bowl crashed to the floor, adding its contents to the
already slick surface.

Chaloner found himself in a long hallway, at the end of which was a door. He heard Bennet shout behind him, ordering him to
stop. A scullion grabbed his arm, but Chaloner felled him with a punch. He reached the door, and spent several agonising seconds
pulling away a bar, praying it would not be locked, too – if it was, then he was a dead man, because there was nowhere to
hide and even the most inept of gunmen could not fail to miss him at such close range.

The yelling grew closer. Bennet cursed foully as he lost his footing in the oily spillage and went flying in a whirlwind of
arms and legs. Chaloner tugged at the door. It did not budge. The wolf was scrambling over Bennet and bringing a pistol to
bear, triumph lighting his pointed features. Made strong by desperation, Chaloner hauled on the door again. Something snapped
and it flew open. Then he was outside, disappearing into the crowd that was surging towards the Banqueting House.

Chaloner mingled with the throng, pulling off hat, wig and cloak and tucking them under his arm in an attempt to change his
appearance and confuse his pursuers. He knew they would expect him to head in the opposite
direction, to put as much distance between him and the scene of Hewson’s – or was it Jones’s? – death as possible, so he
did the reverse: he allowed the crowd to take him back towards Kelyng’s rear gate, and then on to White Hall. He listened
to people’s speculations as he moved among them, keeping his head down and working at being inconspicuous.

Everyone seemed to know that shots had been fired as the King had ridden from St James’s Park to the Touching Ceremony, and
some folk claimed to have heard them. A baker said there had been three loud bangs, but a woman swore on the lives of her
children that there had been eight. Most believed an attempt had been made on the King’s life, although an apprentice wearing
a blood-splattered apron maintained that the King had shot one of his spaniels, to show his new government what would happen
to them if they used him as they had his father. A fat vicar was of the opinion that the incident originated with Lady Castlemaine,
whose husband had executed one of her many lovers. Chaloner recalled a comment his uncle had once made about how a mob could
be controlled with rumours, but how dangerous it could be if the tales took on a life of their own.

He glanced behind him. The wolf was on the doorstep, scanning the street with one hand behind his back to conceal his reloaded
weapon. He scowled when Bennet arrived and elbowed him to share the vantage point. Unlike his companion, Bennet made no attempt
to disguise the fact that he was armed, and Chaloner was under the impression that he would shoot if he recognised his prey,
regardless of the fact that he would probably hit the wrong person.

More people joined the crowd, and Chaloner was jostled by a thin, ungainly creature with red-rimmed eyes and the stooped shoulders
of a scholar. In a gesture of apology, the man draped a comradely arm around his shoulders, and Chaloner, knowing he was less
likely to be spotted with someone than alone, made no effort to shrug him off. When he glanced around again, the wolf was
swimming against the crowd in the direction he imagined Chaloner would have taken, although Bennet continued to monitor the
faces that streamed past.

‘Do not be alarmed, friends,’ called a chambermaid from a window above their heads. ‘It is only Kelyng’s men blasting at each
other with pistols. They do it all the time.’

‘It was the King!’ shouted a grubby boy. ‘His Majesty shot Kelyng.’

Another rumour was born, and people seemed pleased to learn the identity of this particular victim. Smiles broke out, and
the butcher’s apprentice pulled a flask from his jerkin and offered a toast.

‘It does not surprise me that Kelyng’s rabble are responsible,’ said the thin man to Chaloner, raising his voice above the
babble. ‘It is common knowledge that he has been hiring felons and vagabonds these last few months. Such men will not be easy
to control, and spats among them will be inevitable.’

‘Why has Kelyng been recruiting such folk?’ asked Chaloner.

The man grimaced. ‘He
says
it is to protect the King against the remnants of the last government – rebels who remain loyal to Richard Cromwell – but
I am more inclined to believe the story that he intends to take up where John Thurloe left off, and employ a legion of spies
that will make him the most powerful man in the country.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. Was that why Kelyng had sent men to intercept Thurloe’s post? Did he realise that in order to create
such an army, the vestiges of the last one needed to be totally eradicated? Yet Snow and Storey were overconfident and stupid,
while the wolf and Bennet had hardly been a model of competence, either. Thurloe was more than a match for any of them. Chaloner’s
new friend was speaking again.

‘I wish a pox on the lot of them, personally. We were promised a new order, but this government is no better for the common
man than was the last one.’

‘You do not look like a common man to me,’ said Chaloner. He ducked away from the fellow’s embrace; he was no longer in danger,
and did not need to maintain the disguise.

The man inclined his head in formal greeting. ‘William Leybourn: bookseller, printer, surveyor and mathematician. I live on
Monkwell Street in Cripplegate, should you want to browse the finest collection of tomes in the city – including some written
by me. And you? What is your trade, other than running for your life?’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘I saw you race from Kelyng’s house as though it were on fire, and I know what it means when a man removes hat, wig and cloak
on a cold winter’s day – he does not want to be recognised. I also saw the furious expression on Kelyng’s face when he realised
he had lost you.’

Chaloner was startled by the revelation. ‘That was Kelyng?’

It was Leybourn’s turn to be astonished. ‘You do not recognise Kelyng?’

Chaloner cursed himself for speaking without thinking. ‘I have not been in London long,’ he explained, slipping easily into
the role of country bumpkin; a good deal could be learned by pretending to be a clueless provincial. The ruse did not work,
however, and Leybourn narrowed his eyes and regarded him suspiciously.

‘Where were you before? The moon?’

Chaloner changed tactics, opting for honesty instead. ‘The United Provinces of the Netherlands.’ Bitter experience had taught
him it was wise to be truthful when possible, since it left fewer opportunities for being caught out in lies.

‘I see,’ said Leybourn. ‘Well, you will not learn much that makes sense from the Dutch. All they do is eat cheese and bathe
in butter. Do not look shocked. You must have read the broadsheets telling us how wicked Hollanders are waiting to invade
us – to kill our children while we sleep.’

‘Yes, but I am not so stupid as to believe them.’

‘And neither am I,’ said Leybourn. ‘But you did not know that when you spoke, and to admit that you reside in Holland, when
there are rumours of a royal assassination, is wildly reckless. If I were to yell that you were a Dutchman, and that you had
just shot at the King, you would be torn apart before you could say Rembrandt. People are afraid of the Dutch.’

Chaloner saw he had a point, although it was unsettling to hear emotions ran quite so high. The woman who had shared his bed
for the past three years, and whom he loved dearly, was Dutch, and she had mentioned a growing antipathy towards her, even
from friends. He had dismissed her concerns as the natural sensitivity of a foreigner abroad – he had experienced similar
misgivings
himself in the past – but now saw he should probably take them seriously.

‘So, you do not know Kelyng,’ mused Leybourn. ‘In that case, why were you in his house?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

Leybourn grinned, unrepentant. ‘I cannot help myself. It is not every day I see someone get the better of Kelyng, God rot
his putrid soul.’

‘What has he done to you?’

‘He owes me money. He ordered several expensive legal texts last year – as a newly appointed sergeant-atlaw, he needs them
for his work – but now he refuses to pay.’

‘Why?’

‘On the grounds that he is using them to serve the King. It is flagrant extortion, but he says that if I complain, my comments
will be considered treason.’

‘Just for asking to be reimbursed?’

‘Quite,’ agreed Leybourn bitterly. ‘Despicable, is it not? So, now you see why I detest the fellow and his niggardly ways.
Any man who annoys him is a friend of mine.’

Their section of the crowd had arrived at the Banqueting House, joining the masses already there. Chaloner had never seen
so many sick people, all hoping the King would cure them. Here more rumours circulated. Folk had seen the King arrive moments
before, so there were no tales that he had been killed, although Chaloner was disconcerted to hear the claim that Dutch marksmen
had been at large. Leybourn had been right to advise him to caution, and he saw how dangerous it was to be unaware of London’s
current bigotries.

He was listening with growing horror to an Anglican
priest, who was taking advantage of the gathering to bellow an impromptu sermon about the evils of any religion not consistent
with his own, when another thin, stoop-shouldered man approached. Leybourn introduced him as his brother and business partner
Robert, although Chaloner had guessed they were related: both had gaunt, pale faces and bony frames. Robert, more caustic
than his sibling, matter-of-factly informed them that the shots heard near the Royal Mews had been due to the unpopular Sir
George Downing falling off his horse – the fellow was so afraid someone might kill him, that he always carried three loaded
pistols, and each had ignited when he had taken his tumble. The general consensus, Robert maintained, was that it was a pity
one of the balls had not travelled through the man’s black heart.