The King's Chameleon Page 13

  ‘I am less sure of your own purpose though, Sir Christopher,’ Sackler replied. ‘The Blackamoor is small enough not to require too many officers of rank, yet you are to direct her. That strikes me as a little odd.’

  ‘Yes, I am to land and assist Sir George. I do not know how long we shall be ashore, but I shall be returning and hope to have company. I shall require you to convey us back to Harwich.’

  ‘And would this company consist of Regicides, Sir Christopher?’

  ‘Not those that I am in quest of,’ Faulkner said.

  ‘And what of those that others are in quest of?’

  Faulkner considered the matter for a moment and then asked, ‘What would be your position if I were to say that it is very likely that they may be Regicides?’

  ‘I should deplore the fact, Sir Christopher, but I should do my duty.’

  ‘As you see it, or as I see it?’

  ‘As you command me, sir,’ Sackler responded, his voice cold.

  ‘You see,’ Faulkner said, his tone one of reason rather than rank, ‘if it went against your conscience, I could order you to put about now and to return to Harwich where, in a day or so, I shall have my own vessel at my own disposal.’

  ‘You mean, Sir Christopher, the matter will happen, whether or not Tobias Sackler has as hand in it?’

  ‘I fear that the affair upon which I am engaged will indeed happen; at least, it will if it lies within my power to accomplish it.’

  ‘I would not survive such a dereliction,’ Sackler said shortly. ‘I pray you remember this conversation was initiated by yourself. I have already said that I shall do my duty and that I have those who depend upon me.’

  Faulkner bit his lip. Who does not? he thought to himself, but this was not at all what he had intended, though he had known his approach might well miscarry. ‘I seek only an assurance that we shall not be betrayed and that I may rely upon your presence in the offing when I require it,’ he said.

  ‘Needs must, when the devil drives. You may rely upon me.’

  ‘I would have your hand upon it,’ Faulkner said, removing his right gauntlet and extending his open fist.

  Sackler took it, his own hand dry and frozen. ‘You may have my very soul, Sir Christopher.’ For all its feeling of bloodlessness, Sackler’s hand gripped Faulkner’s with a consoling firmness.

  ‘I shall count upon you, sir,’ he said. Having relinquished each other’s grip they stood a while regarding the scene about them. Then Faulkner remarked, ‘She goes well to windward.’

  ‘Aye, she is a weatherly little bird,’ said Sackler, patting the rail beside him. ‘We shall be off the Herringfleet just after dark. Would you have me heave-to until daylight?’

  ‘Let us see what sea is running at sunset.’

  ‘Very well.’

  The wind had dropped at sunset and backed round to the westward so that Sackler stood inshore under easy sail, and he passed word to Faulkner who came on deck after a frustrating day. He had hoped that Downing would have discussed their affairs and how he proposed to manage them after they had landed, but Downing spent the day dozing and Major Miles lay prostrated by sea-sickness, a weakness that proved the only thing to lighten Faulkner’s mood during the entire passage.

  Having pointed out the failing breeze, Sackler indicated that he was intending to stand as close inshore as he could, a plan attested to by the low, monotonous call of the leadsman in the lee fore-chains as they crept inshore. The Dutch coast lay to leeward, a dark smudge across the darkening horizon, its uniform flatness broken, even in the twilight, by several church spires. Faulkner cast a quick look round then at the ensign at the stern.

  ‘Dutch colours,’ Sackler explained briefly.

  ‘Do you have a competent boat’s crew?’ Faulkner asked.

  ‘The best. And a good young officer to accompany you. If you would indicate a place where you wish to be picked up in due course, please show him. The tides serve this week to give us a flood during the evening, so any rendezvous near midnight will be ideal …’

  ‘And the moon is waning.’

  ‘’Twill be new on the twelfth and high water, full and change.’

  ‘That will suit us very well hereabouts if we can accomplish our business. Let us make a rendezvous at the place of my appointment on the twelfth at midnight,’ Faulkner said, warming to Sackler’s incisive approach. ‘What is the name of your officer?’

  ‘Septimus Clarke, my junior lieutenant.’ Sackler paused a moment, then added, ‘He is a deserving young man, Sir Christopher. If my conduct pleases you, you would oblige me by over-seeing him.’

  ‘Let us not bank too much on what may well miscarry, Captain Sackler.’

  ‘If we prepare for the worst, we may also hope for the best,’ Sackler responded sharply, and Faulkner smiled in the gathering darkness. Here was indeed an old Commonwealth man. As if divining Faulkner’s thoughts, Sackler said, ‘I was never for the execution of the late King, sir. Only his deposition, as indeed many were. You and I both served in the Interregnum.’

  ‘Then I think that we may rely upon each other, Captain Sackler.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  An hour later, the Blackamoor lay hove-to, her main topsail to the mast as her boat pulled lustily towards the now obscured coastline. Lieutenant Clarke peered occasionally at a small hand-compass and adjusted the boat’s course as the tide augmented the efforts of the oarsmen and carried them into the wide, deep channel known to the English as the Herringfleet. Downing and Miles huddled in the stern sheets alongside Faulkner and Clarke, their light baggage under their feet, awkward and uncomfortable. From time to time both men peered around them, helplessly lost and entirely in the hands of the seamen. A few dim lights indicated the distant location of Brielle, and the banks closed imperceptibly in, though the channel remained wide and exposed. They passed a few boats fishing, and Faulkner summoned his stock of Dutch to call, ‘Zoll!’ – meaning that they were customs officers – and, ‘Good night,’ in his best Dutch as they swept past.

  The night was filled with the low grunts of the oarsmen and the gentle knocking of their oar looms against the thole pins. The black water slid by on either side, a faint swishing accompanying its passing. The three passengers huddled in silence until Downing broke it, leaning forward and touching Faulkner’s knee to gain his attention. Faulkner lent towards him as he said in a low voice, ‘Once we are ashore matters are in my charge. Is that clear?’

  There was, in Downing’s tone, more than a hint of threat; as though he anticipated some assumption of superiority by Faulkner. Faulkner recalled putting Miles in his place back in Wapping. Was that the root of Downing’s anxiety? If so, it was easily quashed.

  ‘I never assumed anything else,’ Faulkner replied, his response as bare of courtesy as Downing’s own address. ‘I am entirely in your hands as regards my own task.’

  ‘Quite.’

  No further exchange took place as the boat pulled closer inshore.

  ‘Helvoetsluys,’ Clarke said eventually, in a low voice, pointing off on the larboard bow.

  Faulkner stared into the night. It had grown cold, but this sharpened the air and he could just make out, though his eyes were not what they had once been, the jagged outline of roof tops, a spire and a windmill, dully distinct from the sky and a contrast to the low undulation of the channel’s dyked banks. ‘Pass above the town,’ he said to Clarke, ‘about half a mile and you will be able to lie inshore. There is some staithing there, and there may be ships moored …’

  ‘I see it, sir. Two … three vessels hard under the bank.’

  ‘Run in just below them. I think we may disembark there.’ Faulkner recalled the place where what constituted the North Sea squadron of the Royalist fleet had once lain. It almost seemed a happy time in recollection.

  They were not challenged as they ran in towards the bank. A few reeds grew at the water’s edge, and the boat’s bow ran into them with a sibilant hiss, followed by the dull clatter of the crew sto
wing their oars.

  ‘I’ll lead,’ Faulkner said, getting to his feet, hitching his sword and working his way forward between the oarsmen. There was a rocking of the boat, a muffled curse as Miles almost lost his balance after so long a period inactive. Faulkner chuckled. The cavalry officer’s long legs must be tormenting him now. Downing was more circumspect. An accomplished deceiver, Faulkner concluded. Once the three men were ashore, their traps followed, passed ashore by the boat’s crew. Then, somewhat to Faulkner’s surprise, he found Clarke at his elbow.

  ‘The staithes will help me get my bearings another time, sir. But if the ships are gone I may need another landmark.’ He looked about him from the vantage point of the dyke. ‘The church will do very well. May I wish you good fortune, gentlemen.’

  Faulkner took the outstretched hand. It struck Faulkner that this man might have been himself a lifetime earlier; the professional interest, the easy courtesy and the desire to please. Odd, he had never thought of himself in that way before.

  ‘Come. We have no time to waste.’ Downing touched him on the arm, and Faulkner relinquished Clarke’s hand.

  ‘Until we meet again, Mr Clarke.’

  ‘Until then, sir.’ Then he was gone, slithering down the bank and into the boat, which was shoved off immediately.

  ‘Come,’ Downing repeated peremptorily. ‘We must find our horses.’

  Faulkner turned. Both Downing and Miles had their saddle-bags over their shoulders, and he hefted the portmanteau. Then, in straightening up, he found Downing confronting him. For a moment the two men faced each other and Faulkner was about to ask what was amiss now, when Downing spun on his heel and led the trio along the dyke. Faulkner was at a loss, especially when Major Miles fell in behind him. He had the uneasy feeling that he was a prisoner.

  As they trudged along towards the town, Faulkner consoled himself with the thought that whatever happened was Downing’s avowed responsibility. It was a comfort as cold as the night itself but it went some way to reconcile Faulkner to his situation. Within an hour, however, he felt easier, for it was clear that Downing had matters arranged to a nicety.

  Although no-one expected the arrival of the three Englishmen, Helvoetsluys was a packet-port, the twin of Harwich on the English shore, and used to the comings-and-goings associated with the transfer of passengers and mails. Notwithstanding the simmering suspicion between the two countries, the inhabitants of both sea-towns continued their business of commercial intercourse. Even in the darkness Faulkner recognized the cobbled streets through which they walked, remembering them from his sojourn in the place years earlier.

  Downing led them directly to a post-house where, with the expenditure of some guilders, Miles – who spoke good Dutch – secured three horses. They were of indifferent quality but, before the chimes of midnight had faded behind them, they enabled the travellers to be on the road towards Dordrecht. Here they hoped to cross the River Maas and head north-west towards The Hague.

  They stopped and sheltered in the lee of a water-pumping windmill after about three hours, resting men and horses. Dozing fitfully, they woke at dawn to a sleeting drizzle. This set Downing to cursing a country bereft of decent shelter and which seemed, in the bleak light of day, to go on and on without relief to the very edge of the world.

  It rained all day, and neither Faulkner nor Miles demurred when Downing announced that they would lay the night at Dordrecht. As they rode into the city Downing led them to an inn and ordered Miles to dispose of the horses while he and Faulkner arranged their lodgings. Downing then proceeded to the burgomaster’s house and presented his diplomatic credentials, thus informing the authorities of his presence on Dutch soil. He also begged the burgomaster to arrange for a coach to be made available the following day, confident that the burgomaster would do nothing that day in respect of informing his masters at The Hague of his arrival, but would nevertheless wish to hurry the English ambassador on his way. Then, at table that evening, Downing announced his plan to his two companions.

  ‘Tomorrow we go directly to Delft. ’Tis best this matter is put in train without delay. The partridges we seek will know that I am out of the country and will not expect me to make them my first call on return. I shall then proceed alone to The Hague and muster my forces, leaving you Miles to watch and wait, and you, Sir Christopher, to seize your own quarry. I am ordered to allow you this advantage, which is both against my instinct and all common sense, but I swear to you that if you bungle it and word gets abroad that something is afoot, I shall personally see to it that you hang as you deserve.’ Miles grinned his agreement with Downing.

  Faulkner bridled at Downing’s insulting tone and, recalling the sensation of being a prisoner, rose to the occasion. ‘I shall endeavour not to follow your example, Sir George,’ he said evenly, referring to Downing’s mishandled attempt at the abduction of Edward Dendy.

  Downing leaned forward. ‘That is precisely why I urge circumspection upon you,’ he said, his voice low and insistent. ‘We play a low game for high stakes … very high stakes … and much falls to me. Do you do your part.’

  ‘How may I do my own part?’ Faulkner interrupted. ‘Particularly when I rely upon you to indicate where my quarry lies.’

  ‘You will be conducted thither when we reach Delft,’ Downing said. ‘Miles here will keep you company, at least until your quarry is secured. Now,’ he said in a changed tone of voice, leaning back and becoming suddenly affable, ‘let us have another stoop of ale before retiring.’ He added a light-hearted remark upon the day’s ordeal as though the intensity of his exchanges with Faulkner had never occurred. An hour later the three men each lay between clean sheets. As Downing had remarked as they bade each other good night, the one thing you could rely upon in Holland was clean sheets.

  The Birds Caged

  March 1662

  They set off at first light, the coach lurching over the wet road, its three passengers wrapped in the silence of their own thoughts. After about an hour Downing leant forward and spoke in a low voice to Miles. It was clear to Faulkner that he was giving the cavalry officer precise instructions, and as he leant back in his seat he said to Faulkner, ‘On our arrival at Delft, you will go with Major Miles who has an errand to perform before he accompanies you to your wife’s lodgings. Once your wife and son are in your hands he will leave you. You will wait, keeping a close watch on your charges, until you hear from me.’

  ‘I made a rendezvous with Sackler for the twelfth, around midnight,’ Faulkner put in.

  ‘I know, but that is of no interest to me. As I said earlier, now we are ashore, matters are in my hands. Sackler has his instructions and will lie off the Herringfleet until he receives further orders. In due course you will get your instructions, either from Miles here, or from a man named Abraham Kick. He is a go-between, familiar to the Regicides but in my pocket. If he brings you a written order signed “Nebuchadnezzar” you may assume it comes on my authority and act accordingly. You will meet him in Delft. Is that understood?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And one further thing: if I find that any laxity, caused by compassion or any other sentiment, results in either your wife or that damnable son of yours escaping your custody, you will answer at your peradventure. Is that understood?’

  ‘It is.’

  That was the last that was said until they arrived at Delft after a journey during which it seemed that they had crossed at least a dozen wide water-courses on floating bridges or ferries of singular description. Lesser streams had been easier as they passed over by way of the curious draw-bridges of which the Dutch seemed fond. Faulkner lost count of the neat towns, the wind-mills and the churches, which they half-glimpsed through the curtains of the coach, remembering only the inns at which they stopped to change horses and where he obtained relief for his over-pressed bladder. For as much of the journey as was possible, they dozed, aware that their wits would be best needed after dark. Despite the uncomfortable motion of the crudely sprung vehicle, Faul
kner had to be woken from a deep sleep.

  ‘Wake up, Sir Christopher,’ said Miles, shaking him to consciousness. ‘We are arrived in Delft.’

  The coach door was already open, and Miles descended, dragging his saddle-bags and Faulkner’s portmanteau after him onto the cobble-stones of the yard. Faulkner followed, his sword clattering after him. It was already dark as Faulkner turned and looked back into the coach. Wrapped in his cloak Downing was almost invisible in its unlit interior. He raised a gloved hand in valediction, and Faulkner, gathering his wits, remembered he was going on directly to The Hague.

  ‘Come,’ Miles said abruptly, handing Faulkner his portmanteau. The new horses were being put-to, and Miles tossed some coins to the ostlers before leading Faulkner into the bright warmth of the inn. Pinching a passing maid’s plump backside, Miles ordered food and beer in his tolerable Dutch – good enough not to raise any suspicions in the girl – before indicating to Faulkner that he should make himself comfortable.

  When they had eaten, Miles belched discreetly, finished his stein of beer and leaning forward said, ‘Be outside with our traps in half an hour. Wait for me, have a pipe of tobacco and look as though you are taking the air. When I return we will surprise your family.’

  Then, having dropped some guilders by Faulkner’s hand, Miles left him. Faulkner felt his heart-beat quicken. Within the hour he would confront Judith and Henry. Clearly, Miles, and presumably his master Downing, knew their whereabouts, but beyond that he had little information to go on. He must steel his heart against the inevitable and hysterical excuses, protestations and accusations that his estranged wife would undoubtedly hurl at him. But what of Henry? He realized with a sudden quickening that his son was steeped in treason, active treason, not some long ago act of vengeance like the Regicides. He would be desperate, and he was a fit, strong young man. Judith Faulkner he could deal with, but Henry? Henry in this milieu was an unknown, a complete and utter unknown.