Gideon's Angel (15 page)

“What, again? You’ve already supped,” I said. “You can eat again later.” The sun was just dipping into the west, its rays reflecting into the room, a myriad of dust particles floating through the beams.

“You don’t want me to go inside with you, Mister Eff? Meaning if they prove a rum lot you might want some help.”

“I need you to watch the outside and if you see any redcoats you’re to get to the back as fast you can and warn the rest of us. I don’t think these fools have the plain sense to post any sentries while we meet.”

“Aye,” Billy said as he slid the blade back into its scabbard and placed it upon the belt that trussed his leather jerkin. And he pulled his black cloak over all and went to lie on the bed and wait for the appointed hour.

There was silence between us then, both of us buried in our own thoughts and fears. And like a piece of driftwood that insistently rises to the surface, I could not keep Arabella from my mind’s eye, or Maggie. Maybe I felt that I deserved my fate. I had left my wife to the harsh contrary winds of war. Yet strangely, I admired her too, for surviving the tempest and getting the better of our enemies. What bothered me though, eating away at my guts, was the thought that maybe she
wanted
me to kill Fludd. Admittedly, she could not know that I was to turn up on her doorstep that day. But once I had, did a plan hatch in her head that I could speed a satisfactory conclusion to her situation? It was monstrous, I know, but I had lived in such a dark place for so many years that it was a suspicion that came naturally to me now.

And then there was Maggie. Was I being played again, and so very damned soon? Resourceful as she was, something was scratching away at the back of my head, whispering things I did not want to hear. Had she really found her way from France to Devon, all this way, without aid? Who else knew of her mission to find me? And it went around and around as I stared up at the cobwebs swinging in the rafters.

At length I got up and leaned against the wall near the window. How long I stood there, watching the empty street and rooftops, I know not. Eventually, the night came on, the light slowly retreating into twilight. I went to the table and reached for my blade, tucking it into my girdle. Resting against my hip, its presence gave me silent reassurance, like an old and trusted retainer who had lost his tongue. I reached over to the little shelf near the fireplace and retrieved my little French pistol, flipping the pan open to check the primer. I shoved it down into my girdle, the hammer and lock nestled against my belly. “It’s time, Billy,” I said.

We reached the Mitre tavern. Billy drew out his pipe and pouch and walked to the side of the house. He leaned back, crossed his legs, and proceeded to fill his clay bowl. I took a breath, pushed open the front door, and went inside. The tap room was awash with topers and beer while a great fire crackled in the hearth. I slowly weaved my way through the public, the stink and the smoke, towards the back and the private dining chamber. A crowded house has a mood—good or ill—and one easily read. Here were the merchants of the town, artisans, maybe a farmer or two fortifying themselves before the trip out of town. All was a jovial burble, though somewhat subdued, and an easy, downright lazy mood permeated the room.

And yet, and yet... It was a picture I had seen a thousand times, but something was amiss. Then, I hit upon it. There was not even one militiaman, redcoat or not, in the place. That was not the way of things. Still, I knocked on the door at the back, pushed it open, and stepped inside. There were seven men there, seated at a large round table, Dyer among them. And they all looked up at my appearance, and rose from their places.

The chamber was large, the only furniture being the table and chairs. Another door was at the back, presumably leading outside to the yard and privy. There were two windows on one side and a large brick fireplace on the other. And it was the most damn fool place to hold a conspiracy that I had ever seen.

Dyer smiled and beckoned to me. “Mr Falkenhayn, sir. Welcome to our little feast! Please, do come in and join us at table.” The others smiled too, nodding their approval. I shut the door behind me and took a place with them.

“Gentlemen,” I said, nodding my head and pulling back a chair.

Dyer poured me a tankard and pushed it my way. “Will you take some venison, sir?”

“I took notice that you place no one upon watch at the door.”

It was not Dyer, but another fellow who answered me. He was a prosperous sort, well dressed, a brocade hatband showing off his wealth. “We’re in no danger here in this place, rest assured. The landlord will always give us a signal if anyone suspicious turns up—like that fellow of yours who is lurking outside.”

As I turned, I saw Billy dart out of view at the window. I gritted my teeth. “A measure of prudence, if you will indulge me that. I have always found that a drop of caution goes a long way. Forgive me if you take this as a lack of trust.”

Dyer waved his hand, and went back to cutting me a slice. “Not at all, not at all. We have met here and dined for months, never anything amiss. Be at ease.”

I must admit, I was somewhat flummoxed as to how to begin the discussion. I decided to let my hosts take the lead, but as the minutes passed by, the business of rebellion never once rose to the surface. All was frippery: talk of weather, wives, and gambling. As the time passed, I saw that at least two of this dining club were deep in their cups, eyes wandering and heads drooping only to start up suddenly at the next joke or jibe. As they licked their trenchers clean and reached for the great wedge of cheese and another loaf, I could wait no longer. I asked Dyer in a low voice when he wished to discuss the preparations for our mutual enterprise.

“And what would you like to know?” he asked, not fussed in the least.

“For one, numbers of men, horses, arms, powder stocks...”

Dyer laughed. Another gentleman, someone called Stubbes, a fat fellow in a yellowed collar, remarked, “That is more than one question!” and the others joined in the laughter.

“Gentlemen,” I said, smiling, “My intention is to journey to London soon and it’s vital that I brief Mister Jeffreys with exact details as to your preparations. Timing is everything.”

“Who the blazes is
Jeffreys
?” asked Stubbes, still laughing and looking across the table from face to face. He was answered by one of the drunkards. “It’s Colonel Gerard, you idiot! Have you forgotten already!”

And at that point, things unravelled fast. Someone stood up, started pissing into the fireplace and singing “The King will come Home Again,” and the others joined in with the exception of Mr. Dyer, who looked mildly embarrassed as he tried to reassure me about the undertaking.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “Don’t fret about the details. I can provide you a list of everything and everyone.”

I leaned forward, already worked into a lather by these simpletons. “A list? You mean you have committed these to
paper
? Your concept of secrecy, sir, leaves much to be desired.”

“Falkenhayn,” he said, waving me off, “You’re among friends here in this town. The troopers stay cooped up in the castle and don’t dare argue with a people they know to be loyal to the crown.”

I stood up and cursed aloud. Not at them, but at myself for hazarding all on this pack of ignorant knaves. How badly compromised the uprising now was I didn’t know, but anyone in Exeter would have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to know of its existence.

“They’ll be no more talk of the enterprise here. If I’m to assist you we’ll meet next time outside—in hiding. No more public houses, do you understand, sir?”

Dyer pushed back his chair with a horrible screech along the floorboards. “Do not suppose to tell us our affairs! I don’t care whether you’ve come from the court or not. No matter what Lord Herbert has said.”

My throat began to tighten as he spoke. These country clowns were in so deep they were halfway to the scaffold without even knowing it. And I knew then the whole plan was a shambles, indeed it had probably been instigated by Cromwell’s spies to pull in bigger fish, like me.

“What was that?” said Stubbes, pointing to one of the windows. We looked over to where he was pointing, but there was nothing other than the reflection of our candles in the panes.

“What did you see?” asked Dyer.

Stubbes chuckled. “I don’t rightly know. Not your man, Falkenhayn, but someone else. It was there for but a moment. Looked like the ugliest little nigger child. Had his nose pressed right to the glass, eyes rolling around like a lunatic.”

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement at the other window. I turned my head to see the small black face of an ape peering into the room, its eyes locked firmly upon me. But the creature was near the top of the frame, looking in sideways and somehow clinging to the brickwork outside. And like that horrid black dog, it too had huge yellow eyes that betrayed an intelligence—and malevolence. A long spindly arm extended down the uppermost windowpane, its hand bizarrely elongated, ending in wicked ivory claws. And I swear I saw it point a finger at me.

I was on my feet in an instant, intending to rush out the back door and capture or kill it, but no sooner had I jumped up then the main door to the chamber crashed inwards. The latch blew halfway across the room and in poured half a dozen men, swords drawn and raised. We were betrayed.

Most men in such circumstances turn to statues. Dyer and his friends were no different. But I seized the table edge and flipped it outwards towards the intruders. Plates, cups, crockery and food went flying as the table upended, smashing on the floorboards. It gave me enough time to draw my pistol, cock the hammer, and level it at the lead man. None of the intruders were redcoats and in an instant I felt the hand of the Fifth Monarchy at work. The tumbling table barely checked their advance, and they pushed past a terrified Stubbes who had both hands raised and palms splayed. I fired my piece but was rewarded only by the puff and snap of the priming pan igniting. The main charge was fouled.

The first man came on, a big bearded fellow wearing a red woollen cap. I flung the pistol at his face. He caught some of it on his hilt as he raised his hand to block it and the pistol spun up and clipped his forehead. It checked him long enough for me to draw my sword and rush him. Only Dyer seemed to be putting up a fight. He too had drawn his blade and had just parried a wicked thrust at his chest. There was to be no quarter offered; they were here to kill. I jumped forward, left leg first, my blade hilt high and point down. I easily parried the bearded man’s chop and simultaneously pulled back my tip and thrust down into the top of his belly. His leather coat ripped and I felt the blade nick him, but it had not gone very deep. I lashed out with my right fist and took him on the jaw.

The other attackers pushed into the room, coming around towards the left, as I stood to the right. Except for Dyer, the conspirators were crying out for mercy and as I backed up towards the rear of the room (and the back door) I saw that those giving least resistance got little more than a clout to the head. I seized a kicked-over chair and brandished it as I made for the door. Dyer, defending against two, took a well-aimed blow to his collarbone from a cutlass, and sank to his knees. That was enough. I threw the chair, yanked open the door to the courtyard, and jumped outside.

Straight into the party of red-coated dragoons I had been expecting earlier. By the time I had counted five in front of me, I knew that my luck had run out. And then, a tall grey-coated man came forward. The man I had always known was behind the whole of this sad chase. Even in the poor lamplight, I could see that it was Gideon Fludd. He held one arm out low, palm outwards, as if to signal his men to hold back from engaging. I turned at an angle to cover myself from attack from the doorway, spread my feet and dropped into a high guard with my hangar. Gideon stepped forward, slow and measured, straight at me. His cropped blond head was practically white in the lamplight and his face was set as hard as old walnut. And when I looked into his eyes, I confess that the depth of his rage and hatred shook me. I could feel both courage and resolve draining through the soles of my shoes.

Gideon’s eyes glanced down at my hand. I was holding my right arm poised in front of my chest, a secondary guard from attack. And there on the third finger shone the silver signet ring, the object of his attention.

His voice was strong, but chillingly, empty of either hatred or tension. “You have something that is mine, sirrah.” He held out a thick-bladed rapier, lazily waving it at hip level, point down. “And you know what it is, don’t you?”

I wondered where Billy had got off to. He had manifestly failed his first command. Well, I thought, even if he had given the alarm, the odds were very poor anyway. I hoped that he had gotten clean away; this really was not his battle. Three men spilled out of the back door, and I saw Fludd spread his left hand towards them in a gesture of restraint. Perhaps I was about to gain what I had sought at the beginning of this fool’s voyage: a good death. I could never depart as Andreas did, rotting in his bed. This was the far better course. So I did something that Fludd probably had not expected. I ran straight at him.

He was surprised, but he was not confounded. No rustic at swordplay, he simply drew back his leading right leg and fell back with his weight on the left. He made a clean parry of my thrust, the two blades scoring each other loudly as mine ran up his, meeting his swept hilt. And I leapt back immediately; knowing the man closest on my right would take a swing. Sure enough, it came a second later and I twisted to parry this and then back again to take Fludd’s counterthrust once he had regained his balance. I moved rapidly to the right, feinting a throat thrust at one of the men and then spitting him in the stomach. Even as he dropped, I whirled and brought my sword up to ward off the blow I instinctively knew was already in full arc. The blow I managed to parry high, but the force knocked my own hilt back into my cheek and a jolt of pain ripped through my face.

These things take but the blink of an eye. I didn’t even get the chance to spin around again at the next attack. My vision became an explosion of sparks and light and the roaring pain in my skull told me I was too late. The blade or hilt—I didn’t know which—had struck my head clean and I slowly spun around like a puppet. I could not feel my hands—probably had already dropped my blade—and I saw the faces of my enemies swimming in front of me. My head arched up, my last view of the world. I saw the heavens whirling and my eyes took in a dizzy view of the peak of the gable of the Mitre Tavern. I swear I saw the black ape sitting perched there, watching all, two great leathery wings sprouting out of its back, waggling in anticipation.