The King’s Evil

The inn was a small, low building near the church of St Giles-in-the-Fields. They went through the central passageway to the yard, where there was a long range of stables.

‘Uncle Mangot doesn’t trust them,’ Brennan said in a whisper. ‘It’s not his horse, you see. It’s hired from a neighbour and he can’t afford to have it stolen. Anyway, it’s cheaper to sleep in the yard, and just as safe as inside after the gates are barred.’

They found Brennan’s uncle at the end. The horse was in its stall and the old man was in front of it, sitting in a small covered cart in the yard outside. It was difficult to see him clearly. A rushlight in an earthenware pot hung beside the cart, but his face was little more than a blur against the surrounding darkness.

Brennan hung back, touching Cat’s arm. ‘I almost forgot: if my uncle asks about me, it’s best not to mention that we’ve been working at Clarendon House.’

‘Why?’ Cat whispered.

There was a rustling of straw, and a man’s voice quavered, ‘Who’s that?’

‘Uncle Mangot,’ Brennan said. ‘It’s me. I’ve brought her.’

The man in the cart leaned towards them. ‘You’re late. Is this the girl? You’ll have to sleep here tonight, with me. We leave when it’s light.’

‘Very well,’ Cat said.

‘She’s my friend, Uncle,’ Brennan said. ‘You’ll treat her well, won’t you? You’ll let her sleep in the house? She can pay for everything.’

‘If you wish.’ The old voice sounded papery and uncertain, as if its owner rarely used it. ‘But there’s nothing to buy. She can work for her keep, eh? A long time since I had a servant.’

‘No one must know she’s with you,’ Brennan said. ‘Promise to keep her safe.’

Mangot spat over the side of the cart. ‘I won’t blab if she don’t and you don’t.’ There was a wordless sound in the darkness which might have been laughter. ‘She’ll be safe enough, Nephew. We don’t get many visitors. The refugees frighten away the ungodly.’

Cat came forward into the glow of the rushlight. ‘Five shillings,’ she said. ‘For one week. That’s what your nephew told me.’

‘And a room on her own,’ Brennan put in.

Mangot sniffed. ‘You didn’t mention that before. Seven shillings.’

Brennan tried to argue but the old man was obdurate. Cat put an end to it by taking out her purse and finding the money.

‘One more thing,’ Mangot said to her as he counted the coins in the palm of his hand. ‘You’ll have to share the cart on the way back.’

‘Who with?’ Cat said.

‘His name’s Israel Halmore. He used to be a glover. Before the Fire, he had a shop on Cheapside, and now he’s got nothing.’

Mangot’s Farm was a few miles outside London in the direction of St Albans. It was on the outskirts of a village called Woor Green.

True to his word, Mangot set out from the tavern at dawn. Cat had spent a chilly night, huddled in her cloak and half-buried beside a pile of sacks containing flour. She had shivered almost continuously, though that had not been solely because of the cold. Israel Halmore had arrived at some point in the early hours, waking her from a light sleep. He had been a long way from sober and he had fallen asleep almost at once.

As well as the flour, the cart was laden with rolls of canvas that smelled strongly of fish, and with bags of nails. Mangot was equipped with a pass signed by a magistrate, which permitted them to travel on a Sunday. The streets were quieter than usual and they made good time through the outskirts of London. Halmore woke up and insisted on their stopping so he could relieve himself against a tree. Afterwards, he sat up with Mangot and took the reins from the old man. In the daylight, he was revealed as a gaunt giant of a man, with strongly marked features and a shock of grey curls. His fingers were twisted and swollen with arthritis, which must have made it impossible for him to carry on his trade.

In the back of the cart, Cat pretended to doze while the two men talked together in low voices. Her mind was full of her own thoughts, which were bleak. Unless there were a miracle, she could not see how she could safely return to her old life in Henrietta Street. Once the hue and cry had died down, perhaps her best course would be to flee abroad, to Holland, perhaps, or even to America, where many of her father’s friends had found refuge.

She was distracted by Halmore saying, more loudly than before, ‘Well, I wasn’t going to say no, was I? Not when the Bishop was buying ale for anything on two legs.’ Mangot started to speak, but Halmore overrode him: ‘Clarendon’s a greedy rogue, master, and he’s in league with the Papists.’

‘May God damn him,’ Mangot said.

‘Aye. The Bishop’s doing God’s work in his way.’

‘But it was dangerous,’ Mangot said. ‘Notwithstanding the cause is just. You could have been arrested.’

‘No. Not me. When I was there, we were just standing outside Clarendon House and shouting and booing. I threw a few stones, but only when the light was going and no one could see who it was.’

‘Who’s this Bishop then?’ Mangot asked. ‘What’s his real name?’

‘I don’t know. But he carries a deep purse and he’s open-handed. That’s what matters.’ Halmore had a low, resonant voice that carried easily, even when he spoke quietly; a preacher’s voice. ‘We all had half a crown apiece, as well as the ale. Know what they’re saying? He’s the Duke of Buckingham’s man. That’s where the money comes from, and that’s why the Bishop said we don’t have to worry about being arrested. The Duke will see us right. He’s always been a friend of the people and a good hater of Papists. As for Clarendon, a pox on him. He deserves all we can give him. And I tell you one thing: he’s going to get a lot more before the Bishop’s done with him.’

Mangot glanced at him. ‘Meaning?’

Halmore shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Only that what they’re planning will strike him where it hurts.’

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_b9741163-f67e-585e-9942-0efab00efa1b)

ST OLAVE’S WAS on the south side of Hart Street, not far from the sprawling buildings of Navy Office in Seething Lane. On Sunday morning, I waited outside the church in a hackney. It was a fine day, and I had pulled back the leather curtain so I could feel the sun on my face and watch the church door.

When the congregation emerged, I saw several men I recognized, mainly clerks from the Navy Office or the Tower. I stepped down from the coach and waited for Lady Quincy. The church was crowded, and she was one of the last to emerge from the porch. She was veiled, and flanked by her maid on one side and the footboy on the other. The maid was a prim-faced woman who avoided looking at me.

I bowed to her ladyship, and she nodded to me as she climbed into the coach and sat down, facing forwards. The boy scrambled after her, and she drew him down beside her. Despite the warmth of the day he wore the thick, high-collared cloak I had seen on Friday. I waited for the maid to follow her mistress but she walked away in the direction of Mark Lane.

‘Where to, madam?’ I asked.

‘Tell the coachman to go to Bishopsgate Street beyond the wall. I will give you further directions when we are there.’

I gave the man his instructions and joined her inside the hackney. The boy was huddled beside her. I faced them both, though I automatically turned my head a little to the right to conceal the disfigurement on the left side of my face. Lady Quincy moved aside her veil, and for the first time I saw her face clearly. I felt a pang of sadness, almost a physical pain.

Here was the reason I had put on my best suit of clothes this morning and had my periwig newly curled. Olivia, Lady Quincy, was a gentlewoman a few years older than myself; she had fine, dark eyes, a melodious voice and a full figure that her sober dress could not entirely conceal. But the living creature was not the same as the one who had played such a dramatic role in my mind for nigh on a year. She was well enough, I told myself, but one glimpsed a dozen like her every day at Whitehall, and many more beautiful.

The hackney jolted over the cobbles, and she winced. ‘Let the curtain fall,’ she commanded.

I obeyed, causing an artificial dusk to fill the interior of the coach. ‘I did what you asked me, madam. I passed on your warning to a certain young lady. But she was reluctant to flee from her cousin.’

‘She was always headstrong.’

I was tempted to tell Lady Quincy of Cat’s betrothal but I kept quiet. It was not my secret, any more than the fact that her cousin Edward had raped her.

‘Where is she? Is she somewhere safe?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘She’s a fool if she stays. Her cousin won’t leave her alone, you know. Edward nurses his hatreds as if they were his children.’

We sat in silence for a minute or two while we rattled through the noisy streets, listening to our coachman swearing at those who blocked his way.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.