The Judas Blade (2 page)

Peg was fussing nervously with her cap, which was frayed enough already … and that simple gesture was enough for Betsy. It had been a trying day, and her usual resilience was strained. All at once she felt close to tears, but skilfully turned it into a cough.

‘Speaking of coal-merchants’ – she flapped her hand, as if wafting smoke away – ‘that last delivery was hardly of the best quality, was it? The man should accept half-payment on
principle
.’ And thinking fast, she fell into the role she was about to play: that of the outraged Lady Waspish.

‘As for wig-makers.’ She stuck up her nose, and looked
disdainfully at Tom Catlin. ‘Yours doesn’t deserve payment, sir, for that … doormat you wear. Why, the man should be dragged through the streets in disgrace!’

There was a brief silence, then the tension broke. Peg
sniggered
, tried to stifle it, but failed. In a moment she was bent double with laughter, putting a hand to the door-frame to steady herself. That made Betsy laugh too, though hers was more subdued. She waited until Peg managed to control herself, whereupon both women looked warily at Tom Catlin. Finally, to their relief, he relaxed and shook his head.

‘Perhaps I should give thanks that humour, at least, isn’t in short supply,’ he said drily. Despite everything, a smile tugged at his mouth. ‘And yet …’ The smile faded. ‘I fear we cannot escape the truth.’ He looked at Peg. ‘Don’t fret. If it comes to the worst, I’ll see you get a place somewhere else. I have friends who would do that much for me, at least—’

‘I don’t want to go somewhere else!’ Peg was suddenly aghast. ‘This is my home. I … I couldn’t countenance it!’

‘
Countenance
?’ Catlin echoed. But Peg’s fingers worked at her apron, and now she seemed lost. Or, to Betsy’s eyes, she looked every inch the spindle-thin waif the doctor had plucked off the streets, all those years ago.

‘You know I’ll go wherever you go,’ she said anxiously. ‘Even to the Americas – you wouldn’t leave without me, would you?’ But when her master didn’t answer, she turned quickly and went out.

The other two heard her footsteps patter down the hallway to the kitchen, and for a time neither looked at the other. However, when the doctor finally turned to Betsy, he was surprised to see her wearing a very different expression. She had come to a
decision
, but she was not about to reveal it. She knew only too well that if her friend learned the truth, he would have been dismayed. Instead she ventured a question.

‘How long will it be before you decide?’ she asked. ‘I mean, about selling the house?’

‘A month, perhaps two …’ Catlin shrugged. ‘I hope you’ll not lose any sleep over it. If I must take such a course, I’ll help you to new lodgings.’

‘Well, that may not be necessary.’ Betsy was looking into the fire again – and now the doctor’s eyes narrowed.

‘What are you concealing from me?’ he demanded. ‘If you’ve got one of your foolhardy schemes in mind—’

‘There’s no scheme.’ Betsy rose to her feet. ‘Now, will you excuse me if I retire? I need to think for a while – and I promise not to lose any sleep.’ With that she made a theatrical curtsy, as she did whenever she wished to amuse him, and went out.

But, as she climbed the stairs, her manner changed. For only now did it dawn on her that she’d known since yesterday what she must do. This evening’s events had merely forced her to face it, and now that she did so, she was uneasy. Yet her course was clear; indeed, she could see no other. And by the time she entered her bedroom she had managed to push fear aside and think about what to wear the next morning, when she paid a visit to Bredon House in Piccadilly – the London residence of Lord Caradoc.

There at last Betsy would honour her promise, and offer her services to the noble lord as an intelligencer – provided the payment was enough. Though what it might involve, she hardly dared imagine. In fact, if she had known, she told herself much later, she would have had second thoughts – and third ones too.

For it was as a result of her decision, and her private
conversation
with Lord Caradoc, that one week later Mistress Betsy Brand found herself committed to the King’s Bench prison.

A
S LONDON’S PRISONS
went, the King’s Bench in Southwark wasn’t the worst. At least Betsy wasn’t sharing a cellar with a score of thieves and rogues, she discovered, as she would have done at Newgate. Some of the inmates were debtors, some were felons, while others had seemingly been put here for little reason, not knowing when they might be released. Meanwhile they endured the same privations as prisoners elsewhere: harsh treatment, cold rooms, food that would have sickened them had they not been so hungry – and an ever-present air of menace.

The atmosphere swirled about Betsy from the moment she was admitted. Hidden eyes seemed to be watching as a taciturn guard steered her through dank passages, holding her arm in a claw-like grip. Finally he unlocked a door and pushed her into a square room occupied by several others.

‘Who’s this, Foggy Moll?’ A lank-haired man in a suit of faded fustian sneered at Betsy from the floor. The others eyed her low-cut gown divided to show a red underskirt, her painted face and unbound hair, and knew her at once for what she was. What they didn’t know was that it was a role: the most fitting one Betsy had been able to think of. Though it was not one she could put aside each afternoon, after a performance. For as long as she was in this place, she must not lose character – and here was her first test.

‘You couldn’t afford Foggy Moll, greasy-locks,’ she threw back in her best Cheapside accent, ignoring the squeal of the
rusty lock behind her. ‘Nor me, for that matter.’ She threw a disdainful look at the straw-strewn floor and greasy pallets. ‘I don’t think much of the furniture. Where do I sleep?’

A wheezing voice spoke from the wall, beneath the barred window. ‘You’d best lie beside me, dear. We’ll warm each other, if you’re not a-feared of my sickness. And at least I won’t be fumbling your placket.’

Turning, Betsy saw a shrivelled figure in a tattered shawl: the only other woman in the cell. Aside from the one who had spoken, there were two other men. One was a flabby,
pink-cheeked
fellow, who looked a little too well dressed to be in prison. The last occupant was a man in his forties, plainly garbed, who sat alone. Betsy glanced at each of them, then moved to the woman’s pallet and eased herself down.

‘What time’s supper?’ she asked.

The pink-cheeked man spoke up in an educated voice. ‘I fear you’ll find it somewhat poor, madam,’ he said. ‘If it arrives at all, that is. But tell me, what misfortune brings you into our company?’ When Betsy told him, he frowned. ‘Disturbing the peace – is that all? Why didn’t they commit you to Newgate?’

But she had rehearsed her tale. ‘No doubt they would’ve done,’ she answered, ‘except I was in the wrong place.’ She tapped her nose. ‘Whitehall business. Too close to the King’s presence – they don’t like that. Stuck me in the gatehouse for a night, then brought me here.’

‘King’s presence?’ The man in fustian threw her a scornful look. ‘Don’t spin fables! Royal mistresses live like queens, with coaches and servants and all. They dress in silks and velvets, not poor taffeta—’

‘Whitehall business I said, not royal,’ Betsy retorted. ‘There’s others live there too – you think they’re all as rich as King Charlie?’ She sniffed. ‘I work Moorfields as a rule. Only I’ve a cull – a keeper of hawks at the King’s Mews by Charing Cross. I was with him … got unlucky, that’s all.’

She wiped her nose with her sleeve, looking round defiantly.
To her relief nobody challenged her further; instead they quickly lost interest. The man in fustian turned to his companion and picked up a wooden shaker. He rattled it, then tossed the dice to the floor, prompting a groan from the other. Suddenly the woman in the shawl coughed; a rasping, rattling cough that jarred the nerves.

‘You need a drink, Mother,’ Betsy said. ‘Is there no water?’ But for answer, the other gestured weakly to a tin jug.

‘Gone …’ she sighed, then startled Betsy by leaning close. ‘But
you
can get served in here – if you’ll serve others. Let the gaolers know you’ll lift your skirts and you can get anything you want …’ She broke off, croaking. ‘
You
know.’

In reply, Betsy gave a nod. Then all at once she found a pair of sharp eyes upon her: those of the man who had not yet spoken. Immediately he looked away, but not before she had given another loud sniff. ‘Seen enough have you?’ she demanded. And with that she turned aside, closing her eyes.

But her pulse had quickened, and not only because of the dangerous role she was playing. She had expected she would be at pains to defend her body in prison; what she hadn’t expected was to attract the attention so soon of the man she was here to watch. Because she had caught a glimpse of something she’d been instructed to look for: a birthmark on the back of his right hand. She saw it now in her mind’s eye: plum-coloured and shaped like a hammerhead, Lord Caradoc had said.

As if from weariness, she slumped against the wall. But her mind was busy, thinking what to do next. For the sullen man who looked like a down-at-heel shopkeeper went by the name of Venn.

And he was believed to be a traitor.

That first night in the prison, Betsy could not have slept if she’d tried. As darkness fell she grew more aware of the noise – sounds she’d heard since she had arrived but barely noticed: muffled cries and whispers from beyond the door, not to
mention the noises in her own cell. The men slept fitfully; snoring, shifting, sometimes muttering to themselves. The sick woman coughed and wheezed. Betsy lay beside her using her gown as cover for them both, and refusing to think what might be lurking in the foul-smelling straw beneath her. Lice and fleas were the least of her troubles: instead she thought over the instructions Lord Caradoc had given her, only the day before.

‘This man Venn practises as an apothecary,’ his lordship had said. ‘Yet he is more. He’s an enemy – a secret Cromwellian, one of those bitter men who yearn for the days of the Good Old Cause. I speak of the Commonwealth, Mistress Brand: a time people like me would like to forget, if others would let us!’

To that, Betsy had merely nodded. Caradoc would have been displeased to know that her views on that subject were more equivocal than those of his class. Furthermore, she could guess what he might think of the republican sympathies Tom Catlin sometimes espoused: not every Englishman viewed the
restoration
of the Stuart monarchy with joy. But, for better or worse, she had given her word to serve the Crown, and she would keep it. So she’d listened carefully to Caradoc’s words: how she must win Venn’s trust, by whatever means she could; how she must then
draw him out
, using the cover information given to her, and commit to memory every word that fell from his lips. The man had been imprisoned for a trifling matter, yet he would be on his guard, which meant Betsy would need her very best acting skills. If possible she must learn who his associates were, and of any plots they might be hatching – real or
imagined
, Caradoc had added with a smile. Though these were uncertain times, the rabble of ex-soldiers, fallen government servants, puritan Fifth Monarchists and other malcontents that made up the republican movement posed no serious threat to England’s safety, he insisted. And yet, loyal servants of King Charles never rested … and it was at that moment that Betsy had fully realized what she was about to do: act as an informer.

It was an uncomfortable thought. Now, lying in the pitch
dark, she forced herself to think of the payment Caradoc had promised her; money which could help her father in his predicament, and perhaps her landlord too. Though his
lordship
had not been specific about the amount: that, he said, depended upon results. Nor had his parting shot been of much comfort: this was low-level intelligence work, which was assigned to inexperienced operators like Betsy. Though if she proved herself able for the task, then perhaps …

Her thoughts were broken by her companion coughing again. Betsy turned over on the pallet, trying to shrug off the feeling of foreboding that had settled upon her. She longed for morning, when prisoners were allowed to walk in the yard, even to mingle. That could be her first opportunity to strike up a conversation with Venn – or so she hoped. Afterwards she would have only her wits to rely on, along with luck.

The prison yard was a paved square, with the main building on one side and a high wall around the others. There was no shelter, the disadvantage of which was soon obvious: a drizzle fell, soaking the clothing of those who ventured out. This being but a trifle compared to their other privations however, most people were outside. Betsy saw some moving restlessly about, flitting among their fellows. Others idled by the walls, while some walked the wet flagstones. The gaolers stood in pairs, truncheons as well as keys at their belts. One or two threw meaningful looks at her, which reminded her of the words of her cellmate: it would have been all too easy, she knew, for an attractive woman of her years to gain favours here.

Keeping her face averted, she took a turn of the yard, seeking a moment to approach Venn. She had yet to hear the man speak: that morning, when a pail of gruel had been brought into the cell, he had taken his share without addressing anyone. The other two men, who passed the time dicing and bickering, had seemingly grown accustomed to his ways and ignored him, as he did them. But now she saw Venn alone near the wall, eyes
downcast. With a swift look round, she seized her chance and approached him.

‘I prefer the Royal Exchange,’ she said. ‘There’s cloisters there – keep the rain off, anyway.’

There was no answer, but she expected none. And, as if
oblivious
of the other’s silence, she chattered on: ‘Been here a while, have you? Know when you’re getting out? Me, I reckon on two days at most. I’ve got friends, see. Make a fuss in the right circles …’ She tapped her nose. ‘I don’t carry a poniard under my skirts like some. Don’t need to. Never short of places to sleep.’ Then, seeing that the other was on the point of walking away, she played her first, all-important card.

‘Take Thomas Prynn – drinks in the Red Buck in Coleman Street,’ she said in a low voice. ‘He’s a friend. And he wants to be remembered to you – Mr Venn.’ Then she waited, eyes lowered. A moment passed … and finally Venn spoke.

‘Never heard of him.’

He began to move off, but when Betsy made as if to follow him he stopped. ‘I don’t want company,’ he muttered.

‘I know it.’ Betsy allowed a note of urgency to creep into her voice. ‘And that’s not why I’m here.’

But the other was not to be drawn. ‘It’s naught to me,’ he said.
‘You’re
naught to me. Go and trouble someone else.’

‘You sure about that?’ Betsy countered, and was rewarded with a fleeting look of uncertainty on Venn’s part. ‘I’m not here to waste time,’ she said quickly. ‘Do you want further tokens?’ And to the man’s annoyance she took his arm as if to walk with him. He pulled it away, but she ignored the gesture.

‘Five of you met at Tom Prynn’s house, a fortnight ago,’ she breathed, bending close to him. ‘You drank a toast – and it wasn’t to the King, was it? Shall I say who it was to?’

She was outwardly calm, but it took an effort. She had already used up most of the information, gleaned from
informants
, with which Caradoc had provided her. Soon she would
have to make things up, which would be difficult – but the next moment it was all she could do not to cry out, as a hand was suddenly thrust between her legs.

‘Tell me, then.’

Venn pressed his body against hers, while his gaze swept the yard. Then he shoved his face close to Betsy’s, so that she smelled his sour breath – and all the while he gripped her crotch through her skirts.

‘Who did we drink to?’ His voice was soft, but his eyes, when she forced herself to meet them, were hard as flints.

‘The Blessed Oliver – our Lord Protector!’ She gasped. ‘Whose body was cruelly plucked from its grave and desecrated …’ She swallowed, fighting the bile that rose in her gorge; and at last, to her relief, Venn withdrew his hand.

‘I see you’re no Moorfields jilt,’ he said. ‘So tell me: who’s this Thomas Prynn? And who says I was at his house?’

‘A man named Phelps told me,’ Betsy answered shortly. But she was in turmoil: Venn had only to ask the names of the other men present at that supper, and she would be lost.

‘And what’s he to you?’

Not for a second had Venn taken his eyes off her, and now she knew no answer she could give would do. The only course she could think of was to throw caution aside, and get angry.

‘Damn you and your suspicions!’ she hissed. ‘I’m on your side, you hard-faced cur! And of course I’m not a whore – didn’t you see through that yesterday?’

‘Well then, who are you?’ Venn’s voice was harsh. But Betsy trusted her instincts, and sensed she was halfway to convincing him. She was about to answer, whereupon …

‘Do you need any help, Mistress?’

She snapped round as a huge figure lumbered up, dripping with rainwater. At once Venn jerked aside – but too late. A meaty hand shot out, grasped him by his coat collar and almost lifted him off his feet.

‘I saw this one grab you, the way no gentleman should’ve
done,’ the speaker mumbled, in a deliberate fashion. ‘Give me the word now, and I’ll break his head.’

She stared up at the giant. He was young: not more than twenty-five, she guessed. His blond locks were plastered to his broad face, which was red with indignation. He wore a leather jerkin like a slaughterman’s, over a grimy shirt through which his muscles bulged like cushions.

‘Well, see now – there’s no need …’ she began, dismayed to see a guard watching them. Other people too were looking in their direction. ‘It was in jest … nothing more.’

The blond colossus, however, did not move. His eyes, which were bright blue, swivelled towards Betsy. ‘Jest?’ he repeated. ‘Didn’t look like it.’

‘Get off me, Wrestler!’ Venn had found his voice at last, and was struggling to pull himself free. ‘There’s no harm done – this woman’s a friend. Ask her yourself!’