The Judas Blade (5 page)

Tired and weak from sickness, she stood on the windswept cobblestones huddled in a fur-trimmed gown, watching the last of the other passengers disembark. Finally, when those who
remained were only seamen speaking incomprehensible Dutch, she faced Peter Crabb and Eleanor.

‘Well,’ she muttered, ‘I take a dim view of the welcome.
Now
what’s to be done?’

T
HE INN AT
Nieuwpoort was small, but comfortable enough. While the two women waited at the harbour, Peter Crabb went to find accommodation, returning quickly. There was a place not far away, he said; the innkeeper even spoke some English. So in better spirits the party, which now consisted of a well-dressed lady and her baggage-laden servants, made their way by quiet streets to a steeply gabled house on one side of a little square. Once indoors, Betsy and Eleanor retired to their chamber while Crabb went down to order supper.

In the room, which was dominated by the large bed, Eleanor began unpacking for the night. Because of Betsy’s seasickness, there had been little time for the two to speak on the journey. But the girl rarely said more than she needed to in any case, and appeared content with her place as a lady’s maid. Her bed would be a truckle, which pulled out from beneath Betsy’s. While she busied herself, Betsy sat down by the window and broke the seal on her instructions from Williamson. But, as she peered at the sheet bearing her new master’s scrawled
hand-writing
, she began to frown.

Slowly Betsy lowered the document. Then, aware that Eleanor was watching, she looked up. ‘It seems I’m to acquire a husband,’ she said quietly.

‘That’s no surprise, madam,’ came the reply. ‘It’s the easiest way to travel.’

‘Is it?’

‘A woman alone here would attract attention,’ Eleanor said. ‘Some hide among the Papists, even pretend to be nuns. But we may need to move about, so …’ She gave a shrug.

‘Then, where’s this man who was to meet us?’ Betsy wondered. ‘We can’t stay here in Newport, or whatever it’s called.’

‘I believe he’ll come, sooner or later.’ The girl was moving towards the door. ‘Now I’ll go and find water for washing.’

‘No – wait.’ Betsy got up, went to the fireplace where a small fire blazed, and placed Williamson’s letter on it. As it burned to ashes, she turned to Eleanor.

‘I don’t know how much you’ve been told about me,’ she said, ‘but I’m still finding my way in this venture, hence …’ She sighed. ‘I’ll confess I’ve never taken much interest in anything outside the theatre, apart from scandals, the doings of the King and his circle. I see that I’ve much to learn so, will you instruct me?’

‘Of course, if you wish it.’ Eleanor looked taken aback. ‘But I know no more than you. Mr Crabb’s the one. He would have spoken to you on the boat—’

‘Had I not fallen ill, soon after we left Dover,’ Betsy finished, with a wry look. ‘At least you and Wrestler were spared that indignity.’

Eleanor gave one of her quick smiles. ‘I’ve been on a ship before,’ she said. ‘As for Crabb, he’s never sick – he’s like a slab of stone. Now, I’ll fetch the water.’

She went out, whereupon Betsy went to the bed and lay down. Supper on its way and servants doing her bidding: this was a role more to her liking, she thought.

But the peace was to be of short duration.

In the middle of the night she was woken by a hand gripping her shoulder. She started, and found Eleanor bending over her. The girl was holding a candle, its flame trembling.

‘You have a visitor,’ she said with a shiver.

‘At this hour?’ Blinking, Betsy sat up – then started at the sight of another figure looming behind. But it was only Peter Crabb.

‘The fellow’s outside,’ he said. ‘I told him you needed to rest, but he wouldn’t wait. He’s the one who should have been at the quay, says he was delayed, but I smell strong drink on his breath.’ The young man was tense, Betsy realized, bending his head to avoid the low ceiling, while carefully avoiding looking at her in her shift.

‘Did he give a name?’ she asked.

‘He refused,’ Crabb replied stiffly. ‘Said he’d speak to the English lady, not her lackey. But I wouldn’t let him come in here – nor will I, unless you order it.’

‘Well, if he’s the one we were expecting, I suppose I have little choice,’ Betsy said. ‘Give me a few minutes.’

With a nod Crabb went out, whereupon voices were heard from beyond the door: his and another’s, somewhat indignant. Hurriedly Betsy got out of bed, found a nightgown and pulled
it on, then sat in the chair by the window. Having lit more candles and gowned herself, Eleanor stood beside her.

There was a knock, and Crabb put his head round the door. At a sign from Betsy he came in – only to be brushed aside by a bulky figure in a bombazine cloak, who strode into the room hat in hand. At sight of Betsy he made an elaborate bow, so low that his periwig almost brushed the floor.

‘Your servant, madam!’

Straightening up, the newcomer favoured her with a broad smile. ‘My heartfelt apologies for not attending on you sooner. I was detained by important business.’

There was a brief silence, broken by Crabb closing the door and bolting it. There the colossus stood with arms folded, regarding the visitor stonily. Eleanor too was watchful.

‘Then you are excused, sir,’ Betsy regarded the gentleman – for such he appeared – with all the dignity she could muster. ‘Might I know your name?’

‘Of course – I am Captain Marcus Mullin!’ Still smiling, he looked deliberately at Eleanor and held out his hat. After a moment’s hesitation the girl came forward, bobbed and took it from him.

‘Well, Captain Mullin, may I offer you some wine?’ Betsy indicated a jug and cups on the table, where they had remained since supper.

‘Thank you, but I’ll pass,’ the other replied, with a disdainful look. ‘The Flanders wine is quite unpalatable.’ He glanced round, unfastening his cloak, then threw it on the bed where Eleanor had placed his hat. Seeing that the only other seat was a plain stool, he caught it up with one hand, brought it over and sat himself down facing Betsy. Across the room, Crabb stirred.

‘So, how was your journey, madam?’ Mullin’s eyes found Betsy’s. He was a handsome man, sporting a thin moustache of the kind favoured by the King. ‘The crossing can be rough at this time of year … I hope you were not discommoded.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ Betsy answered. She was tense, for she
realized 
that she had no idea how to proceed. To her relief, Peter Crabb spoke up.

‘We’re friends of Mr John Lee,’ he said, taking a step forward. ‘As are you – or so I believe. Perhaps you’d oblige me by giving the password.’

A perplexed look came over Mullin’s features. ‘Password?’ he echoed, swivelling round to face Crabb. ‘I don’t know what you mean, fellow.’

The young giant bristled; and now the tension between the two men filled the room. Betsy and Eleanor exchanged glances.

‘This man goes by the name of Crabb, sir,’ she said quickly. ‘He also bears a number … seventy-six. Would you like to give me yours?’

‘Oh, that!’ Turning back to Betsy, Mullin waved a hand airily. ‘It’s fifty-one … or it was, last time I used it. Does that satisfy you?’

‘It might,’ she answered. ‘Perhaps, now that you’re here at last, you’ll tell me what orders Mr Lee has given you. You do have orders, I presume?’

‘I might.’ Mullin’s smile was back. ‘However, I don’t propose to discuss such matters in front of your servants. Would you care to dismiss them?’

Betsy threw a swift look at Crabb, but at once Eleanor spoke. ‘We’ll wait outside, madam,’ she said. ‘If you have need, just call.’

With that she moved to the door, where she stopped. Crabb stood rigid, and Betsy recalled her words: he did indeed look like some figure of stone. Wordlessly he met Betsy’s gaze – and her heart softened. He would protect her, he seemed to say, and she knew it was true, as she knew he could have picked up Marcus Mullin and squeezed the life from him. But when she nodded, the young man turned aside, unbolted the door and threw it open. In a moment he and Eleanor had gone out, leaving Betsy alone with her visitor.

‘Well, what a performance your friends gave!’ To Betsy’s
discomfort Mullin relaxed, stretching out his legs – and delivered the
coup de grace
. ‘In fact it was almost as good as one of yours – Mistress Brand. How’s dear Betterton, by the way?’

For a moment Betsy froze, then realization swept over her.

‘Oh, cods …’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I should have known: you’re an actor!’

‘I was,’ came the reply. ‘Played at the King’s, a few years back. You weren’t on the stage then, but I’ve seen you since at the Duke’s. You were a convincing trull, as I recall.’

‘Do you indeed!’ Feeling an utter fool, Betsy glared. ‘And who are you? For you’re surely not a captain of anything, I’ll wager – any more than your name’s Girvan, or Mullin!’

‘Ah, there you’re mistaken.’ Mullin laughed – the sort of hearty laugh only actors used. Then abruptly he got to his feet. ‘Perhaps I’ll risk a mouthful of wine after all,’ he said, moving to the table. He picked up the jug and sniffed at it. ‘Better than horse-piss, I suppose … Will you partake, too?’ Without waiting for a reply, he poured two cups and brought them over. In spite of herself, Betsy accepted one and took a fortifying drink.

‘You inferred that I was mistaken,’ she said drily.

‘Oh, yes …’ The other sat down again, drank and pulled a face. ‘Vile, as I thought!’ He grinned at Betsy. ‘I
am
a captain. Before I went upon the stage I was a captain of horse … it proved very useful, in certain roles.’

‘Villains?’ Betsy suggested. ‘Or charlatans, perhaps?’

‘Naturally! But nowadays I act for King and Country … as I see you do, Brand. Did Lord Caradoc recruit you?’

Though fuming, Betsy managed to keep her anger in check. ‘That’s not your affair,’ she said icily. ‘And I’ll ask you now to tell me what orders Mr Lee gave you, so that I know—’

‘Mr Lee?’ Mullin broke in. ‘You mean Williamson, the
boot-licker
.’ He gave a snort. ‘There’s no need to work from the book with me, Brand. I’ve been at this game too long.’

‘It’s
Mistress
Brand!’ Betsy snapped; then her face fell. ‘I mean, it’s Beatrice. And I’m to call you Girvan, I think.’

‘Oh?’ The other sat up. ‘Surely your orders say otherwise. When a male and female agent work together it’s usual for them to pass as husband and wife, to allay any suspicions. Which would make us Captain and Mrs Mullin, would it not?’

An uneasy feeling was stealing over Betsy. ‘I suppose it would,’ she began. ‘But even if that were your real name—’

‘It’s as good as any other, isn’t it?’ Mullin drained the last of his wine, made a sound expressive of disgust and plonked the cup down on the floor. ‘Well now,
Mistress
Brand,’ he went on, ‘while I’m tempted to ask for the latest theatre gossip, I suppose we’d better get down to work, don’t you?’

‘Not just yet,’ Betsy answered coolly. ‘Firstly, I’d like to clarify my role—’

‘You mean, as my wife?’ The other raised his eyebrows. ‘Would that present difficulties?’

But it was his turn to be startled as Betsy jumped to her feet. ‘Don’t try your tiring-room tricks on me, Mullin!’ She snapped. ‘I’m nobody’s jilt – and if you think we’re sharing a bed, it’s you who is mistaken!’

‘My dear woman, how badly you must think of me.’ Mullin put on a shocked expression. ‘Your person will be perfectly safe in my company – you have my word upon it.’

‘Your word?’ Betsy echoed. ‘I doubt it’s worth a fig. You weren’t here when we arrived. Instead you turn up in the dead of night smelling of brandy, and strut about as if you owned the place – which we both know was merely a performance. Furthermore Peter Crabb’s not my servant, he’s an agent, with whom you’re already at loggerheads with—’

‘That hulking brute?’ Mullin sniffed. ‘It’s jealousy on his part. He wishes he were the one to play your husband – as I think you’ve probably guessed.’

‘Even if that were so, such ill feeling could hamper us in our task, could it not?’ Betsy countered. But under Mullin’s sardonic gaze she sat down again. The fire had gone out, and the room
was chilly. Pulling her gown about her neck, she tried to compose herself, whereupon the other sighed.

‘Well now: regarding my lateness, I received word of your arrival only yesterday,’ he said. ‘I was in Bruges, which is why I couldn’t get here sooner – the roads are muddy. As for the performance, I thought I’d begin as we must continue. Now, shall we proceed? I gather you have intelligence to share – even rumours of a conspiracy?’

With an effort, Betsy composed herself. ‘I spoke to one of the Projectors in prison,’ she said. ‘A man named Venn. He might have told me more, but he was murdered – the very next day.’

‘How unfortunate,’ Mullin observed, frowning. ‘No doubt one of his fellows got to him, after you were seen talking.’

‘What do you mean?’ Betsy blinked. ‘Are you saying—?’

‘That you caused his death?’ He gave a shrug. ‘It’s a common enough occurrence. Men like Venn live on fear, panicking at every trifle. They’re more afraid of each other than they are of the Pope!’ He gave a snort of laughter, then his frown deepened. ‘And yet, this smacks of something bold, I’ll admit. You’d better tell me what you know. Then I’ll decide where to start looking.’

But Betsy was barely listening. Instead she pictured Venn, wild-eyed, pouring out his testimony in the prison yard. She heard Dyer, telling her she and Venn had been seen arm-in-arm … and now she faced the truth: the man’s brutal murder might be due, in part at least, to her actions. Dismayed, she looked up to see Mullin watching her.