The Judas Blade (17 page)

‘If you’ll tie the sling again, I’ll be fit enough,’ he said, looking up. ‘Though I fear I’ve undone the surgeon’s good work.’

‘Don’t fret, Wrestler.’ Hitching her skirts, Betsy knelt beside him. ‘There are other surgeons – or failing that I’ll sew you up again myself. I’m no slouch with a needle.’ She glanced round. The captain was standing over Lacy … and slowly he shook his head.

‘I fear our friend won’t be able to enlighten us further,’ he said. The others looked, and saw for themselves: Lacy was dead.

‘But what troubles me now is, well …’ looking at each of them in turn, Mullin gestured to the horses.

‘Who’s going to drive the damned coach?’

I
N THE END
nobody drove. Instead the party travelled the rest of the way to Rotterdam on horseback.

For Betsy, the ride was almost a relief after the turmoil they had been through. At least she wasn’t cooped up inside a stuffy, bone-shaking coach, or being threatened with pistols. It was a long time since she had sat on a horse, but when their
predicament
became clear she agreed. The coach, Mullin said, was now a hindrance: driving it through the narrow streets of Rotterdam required skills even he didn’t possess. Crabb had only one usable hand, and the coachman had fled – so the solution was obvious. The party would take their assailants’ horses, and leave them to their own devices.

‘What other choice have we?’ the captain demanded. ‘We’ll unhitch the coach-horses and drive them away. Then we’ll release these men so they can walk back to Delft – as they would have made us do.’

He indicated the Dutchmen. Two – the party’s leader, and the one who had ended Lacy’s life – were now conscious, disarmed and sitting with hands bound. The others – one wounded by a dagger thrust, another with a broken arm – looked in no
condition
to travel.

‘He’s the one who shot Lacy,’ Mullin said, pointing. ‘Let him explain it all – I care not to whom. By the time they reach the town, we’ll be in Rotterdam. When they return to help their friends, we’ll be aboard ship – and I for one can’t put to sea quick enough!’

So it was decided. In a short time, Betsy and Mullin
transferred
their baggage to three of the small, nimble horses their captors had ridden: Spanish jennets, Mullin said. Crabb
mean-while
, his good hand doing the work of two, unhitched the coach-horses. With much shouting and slapping of rumps, he then drove them off into the night, sending the fourth riderless horse after them. So it only remained for the party to get mounted – apart from Alida.

The girl had watched the preparations in silence. But once they were ready she grew agitated. Mullin took her aside and coins were produced, yet though the girl took them she was unhappy. She stood shaking her head mournfully, until at last Betsy went to embrace her.

‘Tell her she’s been a true friend – a treasure,’ she said. Then, as Mullin interpreted for her, she turned and walked to the horses. To her surprise there was a lump in her throat, as she and her fellow-intelligencers at last rode away from the scene of the débâcle. Their would-be captors, now on their feet, watched them depart with baleful looks. But Alida did not wait. When Betsy looked round, she saw the girl walking up the road without looking back.

Now, riding by moonlight, the three broke into a trot along the highway, Betsy and Crabb working hard to manage their skittish mounts. They went at the best pace Crabb could manage, for the big man was not only in pain: he was as unused to riding as the horse was to bearing a man of his size. Mullin, of course, though bruised and battered, sat easily in the saddle, reining in impatiently to let the others catch up. Eventually they settled on a steady pace, stirrup to stirrup, which allowed them to talk – and to wonder at last why they had been tricked by Madam Katz. For a cruel trick was what it appeared to be, until Mullin told a different tale.

Before leaving their assailants behind he had taken a minute to question the leader, using his own pistol to threaten him. And since, after all that had happened, the man didn’t doubt he
would use it, he had spoken readily enough. Now, the captain relayed his account to the others.

‘She sent them – our charming friend Marieke Katz!’ he said grimly. ‘The one who spoke English works for her husband; the others are ruffians he rounded up at short notice. They were told to follow us, waylay us in open country and bring us back – and there’s more.’ He shook his head. ‘Can you countenance this? They were also supposed to let Lacy escape!’

Crabb took in the information in puzzled silence, but Betsy’s mind was busy. Holding tightly to the reins, she faced Mullin. ‘Do you mean that Madam Katz is somehow part this conspiracy?’ she asked incredulously.

‘I confess I don’t know.’ Mullin kept his eyes on the road. ‘I suspected she might be an agent for de Witt, or someone else at the Hague … though what she wished to gain by these
measures
I can’t fathom. Yet it explains why she was so eager to lend me the coach.’ He put on a wry look. ‘It pains me to admit it, madam, but you were right to be suspicious.’

‘Then, let’s turn it about,’ Betsy said thoughtfully. ‘If what your informant says is true, it looks not only as if the woman knows what we were doing in Delft, it also appears that she wanted Lacy’s plans to succeed. Why so?’

‘Why indeed?’ Mullin shrugged. ‘This game may be
somewhat
deeper than you or I thought, Crabb,’ he said, with a glance at the younger man. ‘Or perhaps there are things known to men higher up than your master – things they chose not to tell him.’

Crabb looked troubled. ‘I’d swear Mr Lee knows naught of any circle here, apart from his own agents,’ he said. ‘In the same way that I knew nothing of Gorton, though he was under my nose in the King’s Bench all the while, watching Venn.’ He frowned at Mullin. ‘If someone else has a stake in seeing the King murdered,’ he went on, ‘I can’t guess who it could be, apart from fanatics like Lacy.’

Betsy gave a start. ‘The words Gorton spoke, before he died,’
she murmured. “
Tell her I didn’t squeal
”, and “
I always loved her
….”’

But at that Mullin snorted. ‘Now who’s fashioning tales?’ he demanded. ‘You don’t think Gorton was speaking of Madam Katz? That’s preposterous!’

‘Then what was he doing in Delft?’ Betsy countered. ‘And how did he come to be released from the King’s Bench, so soon after I was? I never believed his tale about being jealous of Venn. Someone ordered Gorton to kill the man after he was seen talking to me.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Yet I did believe him, when he claimed he knew nothing of Prynn and the others. And why would he, if he was working for someone else entirely – someone who had such power over him, that he would do murder? The man had little stomach for killing – you said it yourself.’

Now Mullin too fell silent. Both men gazed at Betsy, but while the captain’s face showed disbelief, Crabb’s was filled with admiration. ‘Why, I believe she has something!’ he exclaimed. ‘Gorton, that foppish fellow who never looked as if he belonged in prison …’ He eyed Mullin. ‘As for Madam Katz – if she’s up to her neck in some mischief, it’s a pity you didn’t dig further when you went to her house. If we’d known—’

‘Known what?’ Mullin broke in irritably. ‘Even if this were true, you think such a woman would give herself away –
especially
to an Englishman?’ He frowned at Betsy. ‘Not that I agree with your fanciful theories – though I won’t dismiss them entirely. Once at sea, we might speculate further – our task now is to get to England. Then you two should report to Williamson, while I ride on to Datchet. Lay the whole murky business before him, and let him tease it out.’

‘Oh no you don’t!’ Betsy snapped. ‘I know you, Mullin. You picture yourself galloping to the racecourse to save the King’s life. You’ll give a fine performance, then drop to your knee to receive His Majesty’s thanks while we kick our heels in London! No doubt you’ll expect a handsome reward – well, flap-sauce,
sir! Once we’re on English soil, I’m coming to Datchet with you. I’ve earned the right, have I not?’

And with that, she dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and shook the reins. The animal snorted and leaped forward, and in a moment she had outdistanced the two men. Then she drew rein and, readying herself for a verbal tussle, turned in the saddle; but when Mullin came up, he was wearing a thin smile.

‘As you wish, madam,’ he said coolly. ‘But first, you’d better pray that the sea is calm, for once we reach Dover, the last thing you may wish to do is ride another horse. Now, would you care to look at those lights ahead? For if I’m not mistaken, that’s Rotterdam!’

Once they were at the port however, both luck and the wind were on Betsy’s side. For by dawn, when she, Crabb and the captain had spent their last guilders and finally boarded a packet boat, she was too exhausted to care whether she got seasick or not. Instead she slept through the entire voyage, waking to the cries of seagulls. And when she looked, the cliffs of Dover were ahead, gleaming in bright sunshine.

She was home.

I
T WAS THE
ride of Betsy’s life and, long before it was over, she had made herself two promises. The first was that she would never sit on a horse again as long as she lived; the second that she would cease being a crown intelligencer at the first
opportunity
. But for the present, her chief concern was how to keep pace with Marcus Mullin.

‘From Dover to Datchet is more than ninety miles, by my reckoning,’ he said. ‘That’s two days’ hard riding, at the least. And if you fall behind, madam, you must look to yourself, for I will not stop!’

And that was why, within an hour of arriving back in England, Betsy found herself standing beside the stirrup of one of the two spirited horses the captain had hired. Since they were both almost penniless, Peter Crabb paid for the mounts with sterling he had kept in reserve. Still weak from his wound, the young man accepted the impossibility of his riding to Berkshire. Taking most of the baggage, he would make his way to London by other means and report to Joseph Williamson. Betsy and Mullin, meanwhile, would travel fast and light. How things might move in the coming days, neither of them knew; their fear was that they were already too late to stop the assassin from doing his terrible work. So on a windy morning the three of them parted, in the drab surroundings of a stable yard in Dover. For Betsy it was a sad moment.

‘Take care of yourself, Wrestler,’ she said brightly. ‘And get a surgeon to tend your arm.’ Then she startled the young man by
kissing him on the lips. Mullin, already mounted, was holding the reins of her horse. Betsy looked about for a mounting block, then found herself lifted high into the air. Peter Crabb sat her in the saddle and stood back, assuming his stolid look… but now, she knew him better. Taking the reins, she smiled and urged her mount forward. The young man raised his good hand as they turned into the street, then was lost to sight.

And so it began: the most desperate and exhausting journey she had ever undertaken. Luckily the weather was fair and the road passable. They took the highway westwards through Kent, making at first for Ashford. Here, after many hours of riding, Mullin allowed a short halt, but only to feed and water the horses. Betsy’s plea for a rest, let alone food, met with a blank expression. Not until the late afternoon, when they had skirted the southern edge of the North Downs as far as Lenham, did he finally draw rein. Already, dusk was falling.

‘I’d hoped to reach Maidstone by dark,’ he said. ‘But the way grows dim …’ He glanced at Betsy. She was so tired, so dusty, stiff and sore, that she had ceased to wish for anything but to stop and rest. When she raised her eyes, she expected little mercy – so the other’s words came as a welcome relief.

‘There’s an inn here,’ he said, waving his hand at the tiny village square. ‘But as we’ve no money, we’ll have to use our wits. Are you game for a little rough work?’

Wearily she nodded. ‘I don’t care if I lie in a stable,’ she replied.

Bedding down in a stable, however, was not what Mullin had intended. Instead Betsy found herself in the inn’s best chamber, eating a supper of good soup followed by a roasted pullet. Aching in every muscle, she then lay down upon the wide bed while Mullin paced the room, frowning to himself.

‘You’ve done well – better than I expected,’ he allowed. ‘But we must make better time tomorrow. I’ve no idea if our quarry has reached Datchet yet … I’m certain he took ship at least a day before us. But he doesn’t know we’re on his tail, so we have the
advantage of surprise.’ He stopped pacing. ‘Will you be ready to ride, when I wake you?’

She signalled her assent, though she was uneasy about Mullin’s escape plan. His idea was to leave the inn in the small hours, without paying. ‘And if someone wakes?’ she queried. ‘What will you do, wield your truncheon?’

‘I doubt it will come to that. Our only danger is the ostler: he sleeps in the hayloft. However, I sense he’s a man who enjoys a mug, so …’ The captain leered at her.

Betsy lay back. In spite of herself, she had grown to think very differently of Marcus Mullin since their first meeting at another inn, in Nieuwpoort. It seemed a lifetime ago … With a yawn, she turned to him.

‘You must sleep too,’ she murmured. ‘And I don’t mean on the floor. If you promise to be a perfect gallant and forbear to maul me, you may share this bed. It’s certainly big enough.’

‘Why, dear madam!’ Mullin’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’d thought to offer the courtesy of a bolster, placed between us. But if you prefer another body to warm you, then I must oblige. Indeed, should you find …’ Then he trailed off. Betsy’s eyes had closed, and already she slept.

But minutes later she was awake; or at least, it felt like only minutes. She sat up – and flinched as a hand was placed over her mouth. ‘Not a sound, remember.’ Mullin’s voice came softly out of the dark. ‘Carry your shoes with you. The way’s clear, but be ready to run if I call out. Understand?’

When Betsy nodded, he removed his hand. And, moments later, wrapped in her cloak, she was following him out of their chamber and down a creaking staircase. Mercifully they were not challenged, even when Mullin unbolted the inn’s door. Then they were out in the night air, with nothing but the distant bark of a dog to disturb the stillness.

‘We must lead the horses,’ he whispered. ‘Once we clear the village, I’ll saddle them. You can put your shoes on then.’

‘What about the ostler?’

‘Sleeping like an infant, courtesy of strong ale laced with brandy. Come, we’ve a long ride ahead. By the way, here’s breakfast.’ Mullin pressed something into her hand, wrapped in a cloth. So, without further delay, she followed him into the stable in her stockinged feet. The horses recognized their riders, and it was but the work of a minute to loose them and get them outside. Then, weighed down with trappings, the two led the animals along the quiet moonlit street, until the last cottage was passed. There by the roadside they made ready, while behind them Lenham still slept.

‘Captain Fly-by-night, I should call you,’ Betsy said, as she put on her shoes. ‘Not that I’ve much experience of fleeing from inns without paying – but it was smoothly done.’

Having saddled her horse, Mullin was busy saddling his. ‘My conscience is clear, madam,’ he said. ‘The safety of the King’s at stake. When all this is over, let His Majesty pay the reckoning – provided he’s still alive, that is.’

Betsy straightened up. ‘Don’t jest about that, Mullin,’ she muttered.

‘Do you truly think I do?’

‘No,’ she admitted, after a moment. ‘And if I were a devout woman, I’d pray that we get there in time to act. As it is …’

‘As it is we must trust to Dame Fortune, and the horses,’ her companion replied. ‘Now, if you’d care to put your foot into my hands, I’ll hoist you up.’

For another long day, the countryside swept past. By the time the sun rose Betsy and Mullin had reached Maidstone, crossed the River Medway and pressed on to Malling, where they halted. Here she unwrapped her breakfast and discovered that it consisted of a hunk of rye bread. But even that was welcome, washed down with weak beer from a horseman’s flask Mullin had somehow acquired. Then they were back in the saddle, moving ever westward. In Reigate they halted briefly for the horses’ sake, before crossing the River Mole and bearing north-west.
Then at last, with darkness closing around them, they reached Chertsey by the Thames. By Mullin’s calculations, they had ridden more than fifty miles.

‘Splendid progress,’ he said approvingly, as the two walked their tired animals through the town. ‘Just a little further and we’ll be in Egham, where comfort awaits us. Does that cheer you?’

Bleary-eyed, Betsy faced him. Yesterday’s ride had been an ordeal; today’s was pure torture. She and the horse had become one creature, to the extent that she didn’t think she would ever be able to dismount. In fact, sleeping in the saddle seemed a blissful prospect.

‘Why Egham?’ she asked. ‘Can we not stop here?’

Mullin shook his head. ‘The inns are larger and busier. To attempt the strategy I employed in Lenham would be too great a risk, whereas in Egham we have no need. I’ve a regular haunt there – and an old friend, who will offer us hospitality.’

Despite his own tiredness, the captain was looking somewhat smug, Betsy thought. ‘Would this old friend be of the female sex?’ she enquired wryly.

‘Indeed, yes.’ Mullin eyed her. ‘As are all those who lodge with her. She keeps a bawdy-house – but there may be a bed free. Do you have objections?’

But all Betsy could do was bend to the reins again. Just now, she thought, even a hard floor would feel like a feather-bed.

The captain’s old friend, however, was something of a surprise. Instead of the ageing bawd Betsy had expected, Mother Curll was a pleasant enough woman of middle years, still attractive despite her large girth. And the moment she opened her door to the travellers, holding up a lantern to view them, she broke into a smile.

‘Danny, my duck!’ She grabbed Mullin and drew his face down to kiss. ‘It’s a while since you paid us a visit … what have you been about?’

Mullin returned her kiss and, holding the woman by the shoulders, favoured her with a grin. ‘Too long and tedious a tale, Mother,’ he said breezily. ‘Yet I’m here now … could you spare a corner or two, where a couple of weary travellers may rest for the night?’ Stepping aside, he indicated Betsy. ‘This is Beatrice – my cousin. She’s had a very taxing ride.’ Then he half-turned and whispered in Betsy’s ear. ‘Here I’m Daniel Dark, cavalry officer – don’t forget.’

Mother Curll looked Betsy up and down. ‘You look ready to drop, my dear,’ she said. ‘Come inside, and I’ll call one of the girls …’ She peered past Mullin. ‘Are those your horses? Take them to the stable. I’ve a new man working for me, who will look to them.’

‘Mother, you’re a saviour.’ The captain was already moving off. ‘I’ll see them bestowed and be back,’ he called. Then he was gone, leaving Betsy in the hands of their new host. Walking stiffly, portmanteau in hand, she entered the house.

‘It’s most kind of you …’ she began, then paused; Mother Curll was eyeing her shrewdly. ‘Cousin, eh?’ she said.

‘Er … I assure you,’ Betsy stammered. ‘The captain … Daniel and I are not—’

‘Save your breath, my duck,’ the bawd broke in. ‘It matters naught to me …’ She sighed. ‘I never knew a man who lives by the seat of his breeches as does Danny Dark – then you know it too, I’d wager.’

Wearily, Betsy nodded. And ignoring the sounds of revelry coming from other parts of the house, she was soon content. Having undressed and washed herself, combed the dust from her hair and eaten a bowl of curds, she was given a tiny attic chamber at the top of the house. There she fell into an exhausted sleep that lasted until morning.

She was woken by loud knocking. Blinking, she looked round to see Mullin enter, stooping under the low ceiling. He, too, had cleaned himself and rested – in fact, he looked like a different man, Betsy thought. With a groan, she sat up.

‘Please don’t tell me I must get up and ride,’ she begged. ‘For I swear I cannot!’

But Mullin shook his head. ‘No, I think you should stay here for the present. I’ll ride to Datchet and see what’s what – it’s barely three miles. This will make a good base for us, if only for a short time.’

At that Betsy fell back on her pillow in relief – then she saw the look on Mullin’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, I hope …’ The captain was thoughtful. ‘It’s Mother Curll’s new servant – the man who looks after the stable, and other things. He’s the one who throws out troublemakers and minds the door – her Cerberus, you might say.’

‘What of him?’

‘I’ve seen him before.’ He frowned, glancing through the tiny window. ‘My difficulty is, I can’t remember where. I’ve a mind it was in London … but perhaps not. He calls himself Blunt, but I think it’s no more his true name than mine’s Daniel Dark. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?’

‘How am I to do that?’ Betsy countered. ‘And when you say you’re going to find out what’s what—’

‘Your pardon, did I omit to mention my news?’ Suddenly Mullin was smiling. ‘It seems we’re not too late to save the King: in fact, we’re too early.’

‘What?’ Abruptly, Betsy sat up. ‘Explain, Mullin – and stop looking so pleased with yourself!’

‘The races,’ the other replied. ‘Mother says they haven’t begun yet. The King arrives tomorrow, I’m told, and will stay at the Manor House at Datchet. So we can draw breath, and thank Dame Fortune for her bounty.’

Betsy stared at him … and felt a great weight lift from her shoulders. Their ride had not been in vain: the King was safe. Indeed, he was still in London.

‘Then, what should we do now?’ she asked.

‘Wait,’ came the reply. ‘I’ll ask around Datchet – it’s a tiny place. Any strangers hereabouts will stick out like tulips in a midden.’ 

‘As will we, won’t we?’ Betsy said. ‘What disguise will serve us best?’

‘Well now …’ Mullin was smiling again. ‘When he comes to the races, His Majesty makes merry. I hear he often takes a house in Datchet for one of his mistresses. I thought, now we’re here …’

‘Now we’re here, what?’

‘Why, we join the party. How else will we get close to the royal personage?’ For the first time, Mullin looked positively cheerful. ‘Our clothes are travelstained and unfit, of course, but it’s likely I can get my hands on something suitable, while the trulls here will be delighted to dress you, I’m sure. They seldom have a gentlewoman in their midst – shall we be Sir Girvan and Lady Mullin this time?’ As he warmed to his idea, his smile broadened. ‘We’re keen race-goers, who have come down from the North Country. Not a bad little scheme, wouldn’t you agree?’ And before Betsy could answer he stepped to the door, pausing with a hand upon the latch. ‘Do you think you could mimic Williamson’s ghastly accent?’ he asked, and was gone.

Whereupon all she could do was groan again, and pull the bedcovers over her head; but it didn’t help.