Fire (18 page)

‘Forgive?' She half-turned to him then. ‘Can you forgive me for what you saw up there?'

‘Did Jesus not say: “Judge not, and ye shall not be judged; condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned; forgive, and you shall be forgiven.” ' He nodded. ‘And remember I arrived, as you say, in the nick. You committed no sin.'

She turned fully to him now. ‘This day. But I would have. I will. You have but delayed me. Cost me, sir! For necessity drives me still.
This
drives me.' She laid her hand on her belly. ‘I would do anything so that my child survives. All that you did in war, and more besides.'

He could not help his smile. It was partly for the return of the old Sarah he knew, not the one turned away, ashamed. The one facing him, determined and fierce; the one who, a year before, had loaded a gun with double ball and blown her husband's murderer to hell. But his smile was also for what he could tell her now. ‘I cannot speak to all the future. We are each of us in God's care. But for now I can remove “necessity” at least.' He glanced at people coming close to listen. ‘Is there anywhere in this palace where we can converse in private? I have food here, which I fear these loiterers would snatch at,' he
tapped the satchel at his side, ‘and news also. I would give you both alone.'

Her eyes brightened. ‘News of William Coke?'

‘Concerning him, aye.'

She pointed behind her. ‘There's a storeroom here. They call it “the hole”. If it is not occupied by a debtor under torment for some crime, the turnkeys will use it for,' she flushed, ‘various things. But it is locked.'

Pitman turned, saw it and called out, ‘Jenkins?'

The gaoler approached, taking care to keep beyond Pitman's long reach. ‘You found your, er, friend, then?'

‘I did. And I would like a private word with her.' He pointed at the lock. ‘You have this key?'

The meaning of the man's smirk was obvious. ‘Oh, I have.' He took out a bunch, selected one and inserted it. He pushed the door, beckoned to them to enter, then closed it behind them.

The room was dim, its only light filtering in from a small window high up. A sunbeam came through it, amply lighting piles of boxes, clothes spilling out of them, bottles in others, firewood in stacks and falling directly onto other things.

‘You know what they are,' she said, following his gaze.

‘I've seen 'em before,' he replied, going to them, lifting the thumbscrews, the head vice, irons for ankles and neck, putting them out of sight behind the boxes.

‘You can hear the cries some nights. A debtor who's offended a gaoler, or is hiding money.'

‘This is a terrible place indeed.' Pitman reached into his satchel and withdrew things to place on the cleared box-top: a loaf of manchet, a block of ewe's cheese, some nuts and oranges.
Sarah began to eat. ‘And we must find ways of easing your time in it.'

‘But not getting me out?' she said, through her crammed mouth.

‘Alas, the bounty that pays for this food does not run to forty guineas apiece for the builder and the Jew. But I had luck, and took a twenty-guinea thief on my first day afoot. With husbandry, Bettina reckons we can feed you at least, and perhaps get you better quarters for a rest.' He produced a small purse. ‘This may pay for a room for a week or two and I will endeavour to get more now I am about.'

‘A room, even for a few days, would be luxury. But I will share it with Jenny and her daughter. She has saved me in here.' She hesitated, then reached for an orange and began to peel it. ‘You said you had news of my husband?'

‘Not news exactly. But I have unravelled part of the mystery around his disappearance.' He cleared his throat. ‘Captain Coke is innocent.'

She paused in her eating and looked at him. ‘I know.'

‘You do? How –'

‘Because I have seen him.' She tapped her head. ‘In here. In my dreams. I doubted for a while because I felt I did not know him well enough. But I do.'

‘It is good you have faith, Sarah. Because –'

‘Tell me.'

‘He is the victim of a plot. The same terrible plot that sees you in this place.'

‘Go on.'

‘You remember the girl he was, uh, caught with?'

‘It is unlikely I will ever forget her.'

‘Yes. Ahem. I believe I am a good judge of character, and this never did fit with Coke. Something always stank about it. But the girl vanished, as completely as the captain did. Her father was cut for the stone and was so ill for a time he looked like he would die. I could not question him.'

Sarah finished the orange, reached for a second, then drew her hand back. ‘This must all be saved for little Mary,' she murmured, then looked up. ‘Isaac lives?'

‘On the mend, I hear. And only yesterday his daughter returned in secret to see him.'

‘In secret?'

‘Aye. I do not think she intended to stay long, and she had relatives with her. I believe they plan to take her out of the country. But I'd set Josiah to watch and he brought me the word –' He broke off. ‘To make swift report, I went and examined her. The relatives, her father, were reluctant to let me. But I can be,' a little smile came, ‘forceful, or so my dearest chuck tells me.' A frown returned. ‘The story is unpleasant, and reveals a damned conspiracy. Against the captain. Against you. And against the Jew too. It would have taken me in too, no doubt, if the conspirators had not thought me already dealt with by Captain Blood's sword.'

‘Conspirators?'

‘Our old foes – the Fifth Monarchy men.' Over her gasp, he continued, ‘This Blood is one and I have discovered that Tremlett, who you owe the debt to, is another. He denies any plot and I cannot touch him – yet. This flute-playing youth is also one of the damned crew, by the texts the girl said he quoted. He vanished, of course, to her great distress. She is young, and was much in love, I fear. I cannot find the seducer, but I will. But behind them
all, there's someone else, some…damned puppeteer who jerks all the strings. He is the orchestrator of this vengeance. I haven't been able to pin him yet, but by God I will. I promise you that.'

‘And I promise you – these so-called Saints are not the only ones who know about vengeance. As they have already discovered.' She reached for the satchel and started putting items back into it. ‘May I keep this?'

‘Indeed. There's a fresh bottle of Bettina's elixir in there too, for your strength – and for the babe's.'

She paused as she handled the bag of hazelnuts. ‘Dickon. No word of him either?'

‘Nay. Though I think we can guess that wherever the captain is, there he'll be too. He's a spaniel, truly. I never saw anyone so loyal.'

‘Except perhaps yourself?' Sarah finished stuffing the bag. ‘But where might they be now? I know he was pressed.'

Pitman exhaled loud. ‘A big battle was fought against the Dutch over four days in June. It was claimed as a great victory, though time proved that as false as dicers' oaths. Many men were taken prisoner –'

‘Many killed?'

‘Aye. But I do not believe it of the captain. That man has survived worse, in war and in peace. Why, did he and I not rise from the plague pits of Moorfields, like lazars from the dead?'

‘I agree.' She shook her head. ‘Alas, I inherited a poor fraction of the gifts my mother had as a seer. I cannot call a number on a dice table nor the winner in a cockfight. But I've always known when someone is dead. My William is not.'

‘So he's either still at sea with the fleet, or in some Hogen prison on land.' He grinned. ‘Trust me. He will return, Mrs Chalker.'

‘I do trust you, Pitman. Ever,' she said, wiping her eyes and shouldering the satchel. ‘And that's Coke to you – to all. Mrs Coke. I will be a wife again before I am a widow.' She smiled. ‘For if you recall, the captain owes me a wedding night.'

Terschelling, Holland, 9th August

Keep your head down. He will not know me. He saw me but for a few moments, in the dark and over blades. Like the smiting angel he rants about, he will pass me by. But pray God, let it be soon. I am not sure how much more apocalypse I can take.

Through his hands, resting on the pew before him and raised like many of the prisoners around him in an attitude of prayer, Coke risked a look. The man who had been haranguing them for half an hour from the pulpit of the small Dutch church showed no signs of flagging. The only hope that he might make an end of it soon was how the verses were coming more regularly, each delivered with ever-increasing fervour. Coke had suffered enough sermons in his life to recognise their shape – and to identify, too, a skilled preacher from a poor one. Captain Blood was one of the best.

‘ “These have the power to shut heaven,” ' the Irishman cried, ‘ “that it rain not in the days of their prophecy; and have the power over waters to turn them to blood, and to smite the earth with all plagues, as often as they will.” '

Most of the English prisoners of war were sailors: practical men, who also were keeping their heads down. But there was a sizeable group of landsmen, pressed like Coke, their lives shattered by fate. These men, in the front two pews, had a different take on the words. These men yearned for certainties.

‘It has not rained in London these four months,' cried one.

‘They say so many died in the four-day battle that the sea turned red,' added another.

‘And all know how many were lost in the great plague last year,' cried a third. ‘My father, my –'

‘Aye, brothers!' Blood leaned over the pulpit now towards those who were swaying. ‘We know the inevitable. What we must know now is our part in it. For the Lord wants servants who will labour for him, even to their utmost, yeah, even to the end of days. To hasten
His
kingdom with righteous acts. This is what we must plan for now, against the day foretold, that is nigh upon us.' He looked at them all, each in turn. ‘What are we to do?'

‘Fight?'

‘Aye, brother. Fight!' Blood slapped the pulpit before him to halt the muttering that followed. ‘And that is why I have come to you. To offer you the chance to join the warriors of Christ in the waging of this holy war.' His eyes gleamed. ‘There's eighteen thousand veterans from the late civil wars already formed into regiments, many under their former commanders from the good old cause. Ready to come, with the Dutch ready to transport 'em.' He raised both hands. ‘ “For thou art my battle axe and weapons of war; and with thee will I break in pieces the nations.” ' He pointed at one man. ‘Will you be my battle axe?' At another. ‘Will you join me and break in pieces Satan's
nation? Will you battle and conquer the Beast and prepare the way for King Jesus?'

‘Aye! Amen! King Jesus!' The men in the front pews rose as one. ‘Praise him! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!'

Blood now looked from those who praised to those who did not. Coke lowered his head again. It is done, he thought. Now, for mercy's sake, let Christ's recruiting officer move on to the next prison camp and leave me be.

‘Come, comrades!' Blood's voice rose again. ‘Our Dutch brethren in Jesus have laid out a feast for those who will join in this crusade. Come and partake.'

Two soldiers now opened the chapel's doors. Coke and the rest waited as the men from the front poured out. All had seen the tables covered with food – hams, sausages, fruits – rewards for the recruited. There was even beer, sore temptation for the sailors who had spent a dry time in Terschelling among the ever sober Dutch. But though Coke was as thirsty as any man there, he would bide – first here in the church as everyone else left, then in the barn that served as barracks. Later, he would go and work again in Gerrit van der Woude's fields to earn the simpler fare that kept him and Dickon alive. He liked the old man and had got to know him better as the only prisoner of war who spoke some Dutch, learnt when he was in exile in Holland during the Protectorate. Perhaps Gerrit would share some jenever with him later if Greta was not about. It would be better than the sour Dutch beer.

Noises faded. He thought he was alone and was about to rise – until he heard the voice.

‘Not joining us, brother? Are you not a disciple of Christ?'

The Irish voice was gentle now it was not ranting. Coke was tempted to keep his head down and mumble, but that might seem suspicious. Besides, how could the man recognise him? He was much changed from their few exchanges on the tavern's roof – one side of his face still livid from his burns, hair and eyebrows scorched away on one side, growing back in stubble. Nonetheless he let his native Somersetshire accent thicken. ‘No. For I'm Jewish, zee,' he replied, looking boldly into Captain Blood's eyes. The Irishman stared a moment longer, laughed and left.

In the doorway, he passed someone else coming in. ‘Cap'n!' Dickon cried, running up to him. ‘I b-brought your ointment.'

Dickon was the only one to be excused the meeting, for he could never sit still and his cries of ecstasy were not ones that any preacher would have appreciated. Now he sat down on the pew beside his guardian and handed over the familiar jar.

It was filled with pig grease, its rank smell alleviated a little by the flowers that Greta van der Woude crushed into it. It was part of his fortune, he felt, a sign that gave him hope. For when the Dutch had pulled him and Dickon from the sea and taken them aboard their ship, their surgeons had, of course, treated their own sailors for their burns first, and in approved style – pouring scalding oil over the wounds to puncture the blisters. Many men had died screaming on the spot, several others a short time after. He'd been transferred to smaller craft and then, after three days, to Terschelling before the physicians could attend him. So it had been left to Greta to treat him with the foul ointment. He had stunk since then. But he had healed too.

As he smeared it on, Dickon jumped up and ran to the chapel's
door. The sounds of celebration came through it. ‘Beer, Cap'n?' he called. ‘Shall I fetch ya some?'

‘Nay, lad. It comes at too high a price.'

‘Does it?'

That voice was back. Coke turned.

Blood was in the doorway. He was holding Dickon by the shoulders, the boy squirming under the grip. Behind the Irishman was a tall young man, perhaps fifteen years of age. Behind him were the two soldiers. ‘Part of my trade requires a prodigious memory, for I write little down,' Blood said. ‘Codes. Holy texts. I remember them all. Faces.' He smiled. ‘Yours confused me for it is altered since we exchanged blows. But your boy here, who I saw just the once in your company before the theatre,' he moved his hands up to Dickon's neck, ‘now he hasn't changed a bit.' Then, without turning, he barked, ‘Seize him!'

The soldiers came fast. Coke wondered if he should fight, realised he could not – not with Blood's hands clamped now around his ward's throat. He was grabbed, his arms pinioned behind him, and marched to the doors. ‘There now,' said Blood, easing his grip on the wriggling boy.

It was a mistake. Loosed, Dickon swung his knee up and hard into the Irishman's groin. Blood yelped, released him, and Dickon was gone, sprinting across the chapel's yard, through the gate, into the town.

The young man started after him. ‘Shall I chase him, Father?' he cried.

Blood was bent over, his eyes pained. He shook his head. ‘Let him go,' he gasped, then slowly straightened up. ‘We have who we want.' Then he drew back his fist and round-housed Coke. It
was a good punch from a big man and the captain dissolved swiftly into the darkness.

Water woke him from a dream of fire.

‘Wake up!' someone bellowed, and Coke blinked away the liquid, opening his eyes. They were still filmy from the blow and the light was poor in the hut, a single gated lantern on a hook above him. Focusing, the two shapes before him resolved into the Bloods – father and son.

‘By, and it was a good hit, Pa,' declared the younger, bending close to study Coke's jaw. ‘Did you break it, d'you think?'

The elder bent too. ‘ 'Tis a fine thing, sure, the judging of that. I'm hoping not, for I'm keen to hear clearly what yer man here has to say, the many things he has to say. Relieve our concerns, Captain Coke. Can ye talk?'

There was no point in denying it. It would not long delay what these men had in mind. Probing with his tongue showed that a tooth was loose and that his jaw had swollen mightily; but it was not broken. Indeed, the greater pain for now was at his wrists which someone had tied so tightly behind him that he could not feel his fingers.

He rocked forward and the chair creaked. ‘I can,' he replied.

‘Splendid. Then we can begin.' Blood pulled up a chair to face him, while his son still stood by. ‘I am sure you know how this goes, Captain. We will ask you questions. Depending on your answers, we will cause you pain or not. Do you understand?'

Coke squinted at him. He didn't know what he had to tell. But since it was fairly certain that he would be killed at the end of his telling, he knew he must drag out this session until something else
came up – though what, he had little idea. Perhaps his gentle host Gerrit would object. This was Holland, after all, not Ireland. ‘I do,' he said.

‘There. No pain for that reply. Simple, is it not?' Blood smiled. ‘How long have you worked for Sir Joseph Williamson?'

‘But I do not work for him. I –'

The nod was imperceptible. But the boy reacted as if he'd been waiting for it all this time and hit Coke hard with an open-handed slap right on his swelling jaw. It may not have been broken but the bruise was tender and white agony overwhelmed him. He also felt something give. The chair rocked with the force, and returned. Bending over, he spat the tooth at Blood's feet.

The Irishman peered at the floor. ‘It's either my old eyes, or the room's dim. Ah!' He bent, picked up the tooth and stared at it. ‘I sympathise, man. I've lost too many of these to blows and battles. Gets harder to chew meat each day, don't it? Nevertheless,' he put the tooth on his thumb and flicked it into Coke's cheek, ‘unless you want to eat naught but soup for the rest of your life, you'd best be answering truthfully now.'

Coke took a deep breath. ‘I do not work for him,' he saw the boy's arm raise, ‘except upon occasions.'

The hand stayed high. ‘Like when you heard rumour of an attempt upon the king's life?'

‘Then we are summoned.'

Another nod, and the hand lowered. ‘We? That's you and this thief-taker, this Pitman, hmm?' On Coke's nod he continued, ‘In London, a fellow Saint told me much of you two. You thwarted a holy plot last year, didn't you? Killed one of our brothers? You two and this whore you both straddle?'

‘She's no whore, you Irish pig –'

The slap came fast and harder; this time the chair crashed to the ground and he struck his head. ‘Dear, dear,' said Blood as he stepped to help his son right the chair and the prisoner. ‘Did I not tell you that insults would be punished the same as lies?' Coke was flung back onto the righted chair and Blood bent closer. ‘No, I can't see his eyes, which I need to. Else how can I tell his lies from his truths? Light another candle, Tom, will ye?'

His son reached up to the lantern and unhooked it from above the chair. When the warm metal passed close to Coke's face, he couldn't help but flinch. Blood's eyes narrowed. ‘Those are some nasty burns you have there. I was burned once myself, at a siege. The skin remains sensitive for a time, does it not?'

Coke ran his tongue around his bloodied gums. ‘Is that a question you would like answered?' he said.

‘Oh no, sir,' Blood replied, ‘that one I can answer for myself.' He reached back, grasped the candle in its pewter holder that his son had lit, then frowned. ‘What's that?' he said.