The Whispering Swarm (67 page)

Another great boom of thunder. This one was so loud I took it for more cannon fire from the shore. Everything vibrated. The boom was followed by another burst of brilliant light. Then, to my complete astonishment, I saw the gold-painted name across the brig's swaying stern. A single admonition.
Remember
. I shuddered when I recognised it. The king's last word to Prince Rupert! How on earth could they have anticipated that? Or was the name of the ship just a coincidence? Or was there a secret to which I was not party?
REMEMBER
. An odd name for a ship, if so. We'd been told she was a Dutch brig. Certainly Amsterdam was her home port inscribed below her name. She was a good-looking vessel, probably refitted from one of the royalist ships fled to Holland on the defeat of Charles at Worcester. I could now hear the voices of her crew. They were chiefly English. The mate was a West Countryman. Her captain a Yorkshireman.

REMEMBER
.

For all its high-sounding resonance, I hadn't a notion what it actually signified.

Another loud report from Nixer's boat. We had almost forgotten him. I heard him cheer. Next there came a stifled gasp and something fell heavily against me. I tried to catch it. A body. A giant. Nick Nevison, down again.

Duval shouted ‘Nick!
Mon ami!
' and ran towards us. I bent down, trying to help him. His face pale with pain,the giant highwayman lay on the drowning ice. He had lost his hat and his clothes were soaked. With my aid he struggled to his feet, swaying as the wild ice rocked under us.

‘Nick!' Duval saw his friend trying to clamber upright. The rope he had wrapped around him now lay in coils below the water. ‘Get up, man! You'll be drowned!'

Nevison clung to my arm. Dazed. He frowned. He stared around himself, as if he did not know where he was. He reached into his belt to tug free another pistol. Then, releasing his grip on me, he drew his sword.

‘Nick! Get back!' Duval and Porthos tried to join us now. As the ice grew more treacherous, they inched their way towards their wounded friend. From the boat, Rupert looked anxiously behind.

The big ship swayed and groaned. I heard orders being shouted. As far as I could make out, the voices were mostly English.

With a loud clap, the unfurled sails smacked down. The wild wind snapped into them and they bulged at their rigging, straining like living creatures. I heard someone shout from the yardarm. The sailors were getting Master Elias and the others aboard the
REMEMBER
. But surely there was no hope for us. Buying as much time for our friends as we could we would have to stay and fight to the death. I thought of my children. How foolish I was to let myself be engaged in this adventure.

‘Are you hit?' asked Aramis, seeing my expression. I shook my head. At that moment I was trembling with anger and despair, certain I would never see my children again. The anger was directed as much at myself as our enemies!

Another shot from Nixer's boat. It went harmlessly through the rigging.

Then, almost at once, the ship's longboat, having delivered her cargo, pushed back away from the brig. As the ice parted the daring oarsmen struggled to head for an ebony shard, a thin black channel of water. By remaining there the brig was in serious danger. So were we all. I could hear the ship's oaken timbers creaking. The pressure of the ice tested every plank in her.

Nixer was now preparing his gun to fire at me again. I was tired of accepting his attacks so passively! I raised my big flintlock and settled it on its rod. Aiming at him carefully, I pulled the trigger of the musket.

And fell back, deafened by the loud explosion!

The musket butt had slammed violently against my shoulder. I was sent staggering to the edge of the slab. Unwounded. As was the sniggering Nixer.

The boat pulled closer. The rat-faced Intelligencer General leered and slowly turned Old Thunder on me. As I stared into the tromblon's muzzle, I steadied myself with the spent musket and tried to tug out my pistol. I was a sitting duck. Looking into his wicked, triumphant face I could have been staring into the eyes of Lucifer himself. We both knew I was a dead man. Standing there, my legs far apart on the rocking ice, I prepared to make as good a show as possible when I went down.

Bang!

Shocked, I felt sick, knowing this was the end. I was filled with remorse. I had betrayed my children. It took some moments for me to realise the shot had come not from Nixer, but from the brig. The Intelligencer General snarled out my name, clutched at himself, glared around him, sputtered in pain and rage, then fell down in an untidy heap while his men tried to help him. Clearly believing him dead, Nixer's remaining redcoats turned their boat hastily. In confusion they headed back into the shadows of the Tower Hill shore. Meanwhile from all around me came a great cheer of victory. My friends were congratulating the marksman. He stood at the rail. For a moment his face was illuminated by a ship's lantern.

A little unsteadily, his free hand waving a greeting, Rabbi Solomon balanced himself at the rail brandishing the musket that had saved my life. That intellectual man of God was almost comically pleased with his prowess. With a grateful grin I saluted him. Then the ship turned at her anchor and he disappeared into darkness.

Now one of the brig's seamen brought the longboat in close to the ice. Watching from the brig Prince Rupert appeared again. He raised a melancholy hand, sweeping his hat from his head in an elegant bow, the kind of romantic gesture which made him such a popular field commander.

We were still in considerable danger. Duval and I picked up the rope while Porthos held the boat steady for the other musketeers. I wanted poor Nevison to go first but he refused. He was on his feet again. He held back with Duval, shaking his head. Then, carefully, while we held the boat as hard as we dared against the edge of the ice, the musketeers got in. Porthos and D'Artagnan held their hands out to help us jump aboard. I signed to Duval, but he was looking back at Nevison. I knew he would not leave without his friend.

‘I see them!' Voices bellowing in the distance.

Nevison collapsed suddenly onto the ice. I turned to look past him. Was he hit again? Duval tried to help the giant up. Who pursued us this time? Lanterns winked and blazed. Three figures in silhouette. And there they were: Captain Marvell and his grinning henchmen, Colonel Clitch and Corporal Love, marching relentlessly, leading a troop of infantry towards us. They had us cut off surely. Meanwhile, along a riverbank slowly being exposed as the tide went out, there rode a party of Parliamentary cavalry.

‘There's no more time!' That Yorkshire accent from the ship. No doubt Captain Sprye. ‘Make haste, gentlemen! We've the wind with us. We'll just make the tide if we don't run aground!'

At our urging the musketeers settled into the boat. I could not go with them. Somehow I had to try to get back to my children or die in the attempt. I raised my hand in farewell to brave friends. Claude Duval got his arms under Nevison who gasped in long breaths, holding a neck cloth to his wound.

Duval helped Nevison up. ‘You must go with them, Nick. They'll hang thee for sure. There'll be a doctor aboard the brig. Those Jews are famous healers.'

Pale, Nevison grinned his disdain for what he considered kind-hearted nonsense. ‘I'm a Londoner, Captain. And not able to swim.' He spread his hand, wincing. ‘I've had a good life and enjoyed all the many pleasures of the senses, sir. So this could be the reckoning, eh? And if it's the price I pay for my misspent life, why then, by Heaven, I'll take two and a bargain it shall be.' He laughed over his pain. ‘I've had a mighty good run with rumpads gay, full of fun and high adventure. Free tobymen my friends have been! Free of censure and free of fear.

‘With Jemmy gone and General Cromwell ruling over us, banishing Christmas and all that ever made our England merry, sir—with the old king dead and pinch-lipped clerks in power, someone has to stay and, however briefly, sing His Grace's praises.' With that, he found his befeathered hat, straightened slowly, bowed low, winced again, got the hat settled on his head, gathered himself and straightened his spine like a soldier. Then, either to drown or prosper, Nick Nevison disappeared in the direction of the dark Surrey bank.

‘Oh, Nick,' cried Duval after him. ‘Well said, my dear! Then it's me back to France with Prince Rupert. I'll swear there's precious little could kill a man like you, Nick. So, sweet friend, it's hi-ho for Calais and a crown!' And blowing a kiss to his friend, he was into the skiff with a bound. He threw me the rest of the rope, anticipating my joining him.

But, while they called for me to come aboard, I let the rope unwind slowly. Behind me I heard the Puritans advancing. I knew this was not the time for me to abandon my children, my responsibilities and all I cared for. I hadn't any temptation to run away to France. Maybe, if I failed to get home, I would find Nevison and join him. I didn't much like the idea of remaining there alone.

Once Barry Bayley had wondered whether those wordless voices in my head would only be stilled when I put a huge barrier of some sort between myself and them. What I now called the Whispering Swarm had to be strong enough to capture all my attention if it were to defeat me. But so far I had resisted it. As I was determined to resist anything threatening to drive a wedge between myself and my children.

I have thought a lot how my hatred of the Swarm helped me sustain my resolve. Whatever the cause or the reason, I still have it. I have loved the Alsacia since that first time I rode beside Moll Midnight, with black silk masks and flintlock pistols, to rob the Hackney Flyer. I still love it. Of course I do not love those voices calling me back. Sometimes I think the Swarm still forms words, telling me its secret. Sometimes I think they call urgently; sometimes they admonish me. And sometimes I hear the sadness in them. A terrible sadness. Sometimes they almost break my heart.

I will not forget that night:
I hear rough voices behind me. I hear the brig's anchor rattling even before the last of my friends leaves the longboat. Sailors hurriedly haul the skiff bodily up the side. Straining like a wounded whale, the ship lifts herself out with the tide, almost an act of will. The wind rises, blustering. A fresh crack of lightning.

And there it is again in glinting black and gold, the name of the ship:
REMEMBER
.
Amsterdam.
I wish them Godspeed then turn to face my enemies. I still have my pistols and my sword. I have never deliberately harmed another person, yet I am determined to kill Clitch and Love before they can take me. No matter what else transpires.

And there they are, a couple of strutting, seedy alley cocks. They see me and their chests swell. They sniff blood. They think they have me. They swagger a few paces ahead of their master Marvell. The two barroom dandies almost prance in their glee at this opportunity. I draw my pistols from my sash and point them. ‘No further!'

‘And who would you murder today, Master Moorcock? An honest soldier? Or two honest soldiers? Two, I fear, may be your limit. No doubt you'll be glad to do the deed before witnesses!' Clitch spreads his gauntleted hand to indicate their own redcoat soldiers. Any one of them seems ready to roast me on his long pike.

‘First the two of you and then it's the river for me,' I say. I hardly know where the words are coming from. I have the strangest sense of writing a Meg Midnight script. I have no intention of putting myself at further risk.

The storm mumbles and spatters its way to the west. Lightning spits again, showing silver snow still falling. Snow drifts slowly into the distance. As if it deserts me. The two unsavoury thieftakers lift large horse pistols from their sashes and then also draw their swords.

I wondered why I didn't fear death more at that point. The ice moved suddenly underfoot. I barely managed to right myself. Something in me said I deserved it. But so did they. If I died, then those ruffians would die too.

I could almost feel the cold steel sliding into my heart. I was ready for death. I knew such intense regret. ‘Cowards,' I said. ‘You have my promise to kill you both. You'll be glad of the company in Hell.'

‘Come, come, come, gentlemen!' With a rather mysterious expression of disapproval, Captain Marvell held up one hand to make his men stop. Another hand indicated this exchange of ours should also halt. ‘This business has us behaving like characters in Master Webster's plays.' And he placed himself squarely between us. ‘Let's see some sense here before all lie dead beneath this yielding ice!

‘You, my good comrades, Messrs Clitch and Love, dutiful in fulfilling your duties as always, have captured this young innocent. For reasons of his own, he let himself be persuaded by false companions to help Charles Stuart escape justice. But he did not conspire to murder, nor attempt to seduce anyone, nor to carry them off into Catholic slavery. Master Moorcock, I know you for an honest fool. You would doubtless have helped Cromwell's cause, had I drawn you into our company first.'

‘And become a spy like yourself, Captain Marvell?' I did not lower my pistols.

He smiled, addressing his men again. ‘This lad's a hothead but he's neither villain nor traitor. I'll give my word to it. I've heard him talk. He does support our Lord Protector and all our principles.'

Not something I could easily argue against.

Shrugging, the regular redcoats were cheerfully satisfied with that. They immediately lowered their weapons. At this time in England all were weary of conflict. Too many had died or been ruined. People yearned for reconciliation. Only Clitch and Love frowned and grumbled. Those two had neither a sense of chivalry nor of honest compromise. They required either reward or revenge. For a moment it looked as if they planned to rebel on the spot and take a shot at me. But, setting his back to them, Captain Marvell crossed to where I stood and linked his arm in mine.