The King's Chameleon (32 page)

It was impossible to move across any floor in the house in silence, even in stockinged feet. In boots he must have announced his arrival as with a fanfare of trumpets, but he still moved as quietly as possible as he edged out to the stair leading to the upper chambers. He pushed open the door of Nathan's chamber. The room was empty and the bed was made. He found the same thing in Judith's, though it struck him that he could smell the scent of her. True, she had spent months and months there alone and must have impregnated every hanging with her odour, but still …

As he moved towards the upper staircase his right hand went for his sword, only to find that he had left it at Hannah's. Not that a sword was of much use to him in such a confined space, but he thought he knew where he might now find Judith, and he paused a moment to consider what he should do. She was undoubtedly aware of a presence in the house, but it was inconceivable that she actually knew it was him. On the other hand, if Gooding was right and she possessed the second sight, or had cast a spell to draw him hither, she would be awaiting him. If so, it was entirely possible that she remained afraid of his physical superiority, though he was inclined not to rely upon such a hunch. It seemed to him, in that lonely moment in the darkness at the foot of the upper stairs, that Judith had indeed lured him to the house alone, unarmed and unaware of her new powers.

Was the presentiment that he knew where she was no insight at all, but the very fabric of her witchery, binding him and inexorably attracting him to her? He felt his heart hammering and a feeling of incipient sickness fill his belly. This was unmanly; he was not himself; he must think clearly, for it struck him now that she wished to kill him. Drawing his breath steadily he calmed himself. What was he thinking of? He did not believe in supernatural powers; a cunning and malicious woman, yes, but that was all.

She was luring him upstairs, of that he was certain, but only by playing on logic and knowledge of her quarry. But if so, how did she know it was him and not some opportunist thief? He thought again and something occurred to him. Was it possible that Nathan had gone downstream, not to the counting-house, but to gain intelligence of the fleet? If so he was no longer trustworthy and Judith had him in her power, but if not, if she thought the intruder an opportunist thief, then whatever she had planned for her husband, she could equally apply to any man.

The process of thinking steadied him and he began to descend the stairs. She wanted him to go up, of that he was sure, so he would go down and sit in the parlour in the dark until she came to determine what had gone wrong – or to lock the door for the night. That she would wait in an upper room under the eaves all night was not consonant with Judith's character.

He retired to the parlour, relieved himself and sat, determined to draw Judith downstairs. He fretted that he had told Katherine and the others that he would be home in two hours. For some time he sat upright and alert, his every sense straining to catch any indication of movement in the house; from time to time he thought he heard something, or caught Judith's scent. As time passed, however, he felt weary; he had been up early, had travelled from Chatham and now found it difficult to keep his eyes open in the thickening darkness. He strove not to fall asleep as he waited upon events, but fell into a light doze from which he jerked awake, disturbed by a sudden noise.

His heart accelerated to a thumping so strong that he thought it would sound throughout the house like a drum. Anticipating a step upon the stair as a frustrated Judith descended to see what had gone awry with her plan – so had he argued the train of events that would ensue – he was confounded when he realized it was the lifting clink of the door-latch that had bestirred him. He felt relieved that his ordeal was over, but equally annoyed that Edmund had come to look for him. He half rose from his chair until he realized that whoever was opening the door bore a sword, for the pale gleam of it preceded its bearer. It was followed by a figure he recognized instantly.

Faulkner was rooted to the spot, for the sword-bearer was none other than Nathan Gooding. It was clear that Faulkner's brother-in-law was in a high state of nervous tension, for his movements were furtive, he was muttering to himself under his breath and his entire being seemed intent upon watching the stairs. Without looking round, Gooding closed the door with his foot and it shut with a dull thud and a second clink of the door-latch. Faulkner, whose poor eyes had long become accustomed to the dark, could just discern Gooding's form. He watched as Gooding, holding the sword with some awkwardness, begin to ascend the stair. It came to Faulkner that Judith was indeed upstairs: she was not awaiting her husband, but her brother.

Judith lay in wait to entrap Nathan while he was intent on … on what? Killing her? What else was the sword for?

And what should he, Faulkner, do? He sat perplexed for a moment, transfixed by Gooding's cautious ascent of the stairs. As his brother-in-law passed from sight on the lower landing Faulkner slowly rose to his feet. He was stiff with inaction and waited a moment for his circulation to restore itself, then he began to move across the flags of the parlour. The instant he set his foot upon the stair he heard Gooding, his voice so keyed up he thought for a moment he had made a terrible mistake in his identification.

‘Who's there?'

Faulkner drew in his breath and ran up the stairs, spinning round the newel post at the top. He lunged across the landing. Gooding was already half-way up the attic staircase, his upper body half-turned to see who was behind him.

‘Who's there?' Gooding's voice bordered the hysterical. ‘Is that you, Kit?' In a flurry of desperation at this unexpected pursuit, Gooding threw a glance upwards and resumed his ascent, his feet clattering on the steps. All pretence at furtiveness had gone. With a cry of, ‘Don't stop me!' Nathan rushed up the last of the stairs. Now all was noise and confusion.

Concentrating on not missing his footing as he thundered upwards in Gooding's wake, Faulkner did not see what happened, for when he reached the attic Gooding had vanished in the gloom. Faulkner heard a cry, followed by a screech and the sound of a struggle. Instinctively, Faulkner put his shoulder to the door to his own private room. Inside it was quite dark, but it was clear two bodies were wrestling on the floor.

The grunts, the thuds against the floor-boards and the few sticks of furniture, the flurry of clothing and the harsh drag of heavy breathing told of the violence of the encounter.

‘Stop it!' he commanded, but the struggle went on until, a few seconds later, there was a yelp of pain. Faulkner heard more than saw the sword strike the floor but he slammed his boot on the sword-blade's faint gleam, swiftly bent down and seized it. As he straightened up he was aware that Gooding had pulled back and was crouched whimpering in a corner; Judith lay at his feet, struggling to draw breath. Faulkner withdrew, shut the door and hurried down stairs. Finding flint and steel where he had left it, he struck a light, ignited a candle and reached for the sword again. There was blood on the blade, he noted as he made to return upstairs.

On the attic landing the door remained closed. Kicking it open he stood in the doorway and held up the candle-stick. Judith had drawn herself into the opposite corner and was still recovering her breath. Her eyes were closed and her pallor hinted at extreme nausea. She appeared unlikely to pose any threat, at least for a few moments, though Faulkner did not trust her one whit. A glance at Gooding showed him nursing a wounded hand. From the dark flow of blood Faulkner guessed it was deeply gashed; he was in a deal of pain.

‘We must bind that up,' Faulkner said practically, but Gooding twisted his body away in a curiously childish movement. It was as if he deliberately denied Faulkner the chance of assisting him. ‘Come, Nathan, we must staunch that bleeding.'

Gooding looked up, his expression at once angry and anguished, pain and fury distorting his smooth features in equal measure as the candle-light danced across his twisted features. ‘No! Run that damned sword through her, for the love of God, Kit! Do it now! Now, before she casts another spell!'

‘Don't talk nonsense,' Faulkner snapped, feeling a rising anger himself.

‘I talk no nonsense. Why else are you here now, tonight of all nights, if not by incantation?'

‘I am here by chance. I arrived from Chatham this afternoon. Now let us—'

‘No, you came here because that
witch
–' Gooding spat the word in Judith's direction with a transcendent venom – ‘enmeshed you by a spell in order that she could invoke Satan against a Godly justice.'

‘You came to kill her?' Faulkner asked, abandoning his attempt to staunch Gooding's haemorrhage. ‘You came to kill your own
sister
?'

Gooding nodded. ‘Aye, I did. The Book of Exodus, Chapter Twenty-two, Verse Eighteen: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”'

‘Great God, Nathan, even if she were a witch she must first be condemned as one! It is not for you to take on the work of the executioner.'

‘I would not have the disgrace upon my name.'

‘Had you succeeded, the hangman would have seen to that,' Faulkner said shortly, casting a glance at Judith. Her eyes were open and she was staring at Faulkner.

‘I should have followed Henry's example,' Gooding said, adding, ‘see, she wakes and fixes her eyes on you.' He chuckled, an other-worldly noise that made Faulkner's blood run cold as he looked from brother to sister and back again.

‘He is mad, Husband. Quite mad.' Judith twisted round and drew her legs up, crossing her arms on her knees and putting her chin on her arms. ‘He came here to murder me.'

‘You are a witch,' Gooding repeated his accusation, then turned to Faulkner. ‘Ask her whither she went on Sunday, September the second. Go on, ask her!'

‘You are deranged.' Judith's voice was cool and measured. ‘So what are you to do about this pleasant home-coming, Husband?'

A silence fell between the three of them. It crossed Faulkner's mind that he had formerly been close to both these people and yet he felt nothing towards them in that bleak moment.

‘What is the significance of September …?'

‘Why,' cried Gooding, interrupting, ‘'twas the night the fire started!
She
went into the city intent upon arson!
She
is the architect of all our troubles, the bitch of Satan!' Gooding was panting when he finished, the sheen of sweat across his face.

Faulkner turned to Judith. ‘You had better answer his question,' he said.

‘I went for a walk. Molly and I often went for walks. The rest of you were in ignorance of the fact, but that is what we did. That fool thinks I walked at night to consult the Devil. The fact that I went for a walk on the night in question was as much a coincidence as your arrival here now, Husband – though you might have made your intervention earlier.'

‘Where is Molly?' he asked, ignoring her irony.

‘Molly has a man. I let her go to him from time to time. Knowing Nathan would come tonight with murder in his heart …'

‘You see!' Gooding screeched. ‘She confesses! How could she know when I would come, still less how I came intending to put an end to her evil ways, if not by sorcery? Eh? Eh? Tell me that, Kit!'

‘Because, you fool,' Judith said coldly, ‘you said as much yourself, only this morning as you muttered and mumbled in the chamber below when you were making up your books. I heard you. 'Tis not I that am a witch but that you, brother, are losing your senses.'

The page of the ledger marked
Proceedings
and Gooding's muttering as he entered the house attested to the probability of Judith's evidence. Faulkner sighed. ‘We had better go below and dress Nathan's hand,' he said flatly. ‘Can you stand up?' Faulkner offered Gooding a hand, and Judith rose to her feet.

‘Don't let her touch me!' Gooding cried.

‘Be quiet, Nathan, you do your case no good.'

‘She shall not touch me, she shall not touch me …' Gooding repeatedly muttered to himself as he waved aside any assistance and struggled to his feet. The bleeding on his clenched hand seemed to have eased.

They were in the act of coming down stairs when a loud knocking was heard at the door. Gooding, who led the way, stopped abruptly, then swung round to stare at Faulkner, his eyes wild. Behind him Faulkner urged him to continue, and a moment later Faulkner opened the door to Edmund Drinkwater; behind him, wrapped in a cloak, stood Katherine.

‘We were concerned about you,' he said, looking at the three of them, his mouth open, his face incredulous. It struck Faulkner that what Edmund and Katherine saw was incriminating: Gooding was injured, and he, Faulkner, held a sword. ‘Well,' Edmund said, ‘I see you have found your wife.' He raised an interrogative eyebrow.

‘It was necessary that I disarmed Nathan here,' Faulkner explained, his voice flat, his eyes on Katherine's. ‘He is out of his mind and attacked his sister.'

‘She is a witch, a witch …' Gooding banged his wounded right hand on the table for emphasis, opening the wound with a cry and falling into the chair so lately occupied by Faulkner.

‘I will start a fire,' Judith said, adding, ‘let us have more light. Perhaps Captain Drinkwater might bring some sea-coal in from the yard.' She threw a glance at Katherine and bent to the hearth.

‘Don't do it, Edmund,' Gooding urged through clenched teeth. ‘She is bewitching you …'

‘Hold your tongue, Nathan. You have done enough damage for one night,' Faulkner ordered.

It was late by the time Gooding's wound had been dressed and he had been put in his own bed. Molly had returned to find the house bewilderingly full and lights burning everywhere; she had made herself useful warming Gooding's bed, but Faulkner found her appearance grubbier than ever. From the mode of her address to Judith it was clear that since his own absence and the removing of Katherine to Hannah's house, the relationship between the two women had changed. Molly had become more of a companion and confidante, adding credibility to Judith's revelation that they had both gone on nocturnal walks. Such things were not easily accomplished after dark, and a degree of close complicity would have been necessary. It was entirely in character that Molly would have neglected her household duties in proportion, and he recalled the mould in the unwashed kitchen utensils, the general squalid air of the kitchen and the thick layer of dust on the upper chamber table.