Plague (11 page)

“Sir,” he called again, pitching his voice a little higher than his own. “It is Thomas Wright ’ere, sir. ’Eadborough of the parish. I could not ’elp but observe your worship, and ’ow’s you must be lost. I come to offer assistance. To guide you from the dark.”

He liked that last—religious folk such as Garnthorpe were always seeking the light. And he was immediately rewarded with a moan. Terror in it.

He thought that perhaps his eyes were accustoming to the gloom, noticed a little brightness ahead; looking up, he glimpsed star shine through a tumble of timbers. A man leaned against them. “Help me,” the man whispered.

“Oh, but I will,” answered John, reaching.

The blow came sudden. A fist caught John on the temple and he saw light then, a lot of it, all whirling. He crashed back into a wall, the man following his blow fast, hands reaching for his neck. Dazed though he was, John shot his own hands up and wide, knocking the other’s aside, the diverted force bringing the man’s face too close to make out his features—but near enough to strike him. So John did, with his forehead. But he couldn’t lean far enough away with the wall behind him and did little more than tap the bridge of the other man’s nose. Still, it was enough to send the man back a pace, which allowed John to bring his razor and cudgel up before him. “Now, you dog,” he shouted, and lunged.

The other man met lunge with lunge, his own hands rising to seize John’s wrists. Fingers like steel bars bore in. For a moment the two men stood locked, force meeting force, neither giving an inch. John knew how strong he himself was, a strength bred in alley scrap and battle. So he was surprised when, after a time, he began to give.

No! It was not possible, this lord, this soft man, pushing
him
back. He cried, bent his knees, surged. But the other took the surge, held it. And John felt his wrists weaken. He tried to jerk them clear of the man’s grip so he could slash up, gut him as John had gutted others. There was no question now of merely cutting him as a warning. He could feel the man’s intent. This had become a fight to the death.

But the grip did not slacken. Instead the razor was bent back, its edge rising toward John’s left eye. He loosed his fingers, let the blade slip onto the stone floor—a noise suddenly bright amid all the dull grunts. Then it was the other who released, just John’s one hand, the one that had held the cudgel.
Had
held it, for now the other man did. Held it and swung it and John Chalker got his guard up too late.
The hard wood drove into the side of his head. Immediately there was light again, a lot of it. It dwindled to black, the fading accompanied not by grunts but by a voice he’d heard earlier:

Another voice then. A man’s. And John’s last thought as the darkness took him was that it did not sound like a noble lord’s at all.

“That’s right, Little Dot,” the man said. “Sing for us.”

Light brought him back. His gummed eyes were hard to open and he couldn’t rub them clear because his hands were shackled high up on the wall to either side of him. He was slumped forward, agony searing his shoulders. Taking his weight on his feet, he stood.

“Praise be,” came a voice. “I thought I might ’ave ’it you too ’ard.”

A soft chuckle. Nausea swept John and he vomited. He felt the wet warmth on his chest then realized he was naked. That thought made him buck against the shackles, which did not shift. He yelled, long and loud.

The man waited for him to finish. “They won’t ’ear ya. There’s a cockpit next door and the bets are down. And this cellar’s two below the one we met in. Even if a bat squeak comes through, well, who pays attention to a scream in St. Giles, eh?” The man laughed again. “You’d never get any sleep.”

John managed to force his eyes open, sticky though they were with what had to be blood. A little light issued from a gated lantern placed on the stone floor. He could see the man before him, but only from the waist down. The man was wearing some sort of leather apron. He held John’s razor.

Seeing it, John moaned.

“This?” the man said. “Oh, no fear, friend. I’m not going to use this on ya.” He flipped the blade, caught it. “Fit only for murder in an alley, this. Like you planned.”

“I didn’t.” John spat, clearing his mouth. “Who—who are you?”

The man put the razor down and picked up something else. “Nah,” he said, “no such toys for me.” When he turned back, he held a long-bladed knife, which he ran up and down his apron. “For I am Abel Strong. Butcher of this parish. And I takes pride in my work.”

May 20, 1665

“No, Lucy! I cannot. No, no, no!”

As he stared at her, Coke damned himself yet again for being a fool. Why had he not simply sent the actress a note of farewell, together with a promise of some money, forwarded when he had it? No written plea could have moved him to come if forewarned that such a boon might be asked of him. Once he’d heard from Isaac ben Judah that his cousin was in York and would not return for near a week and so be unable to value the gemstones—warned by him also in the same note, and by the gunshot that had sent him scurrying, that some huge man was inquiring after them, a thief-taker, no doubt—he should not have forsaken his room at the Aldgate coaching inn, let alone have ventured here. But no, fool that he was, he’d called in—and been trapped, as he had so often before, by Lucy Absolute. Not by her charms, which he noted but was never moved by. Not by her tones, similar to his own, from the West.

But by those damned familiar eyes.

Though he wanted to, he could not look away from them now. It was not her fault that they were the exact same shape and colour as her brother’s. That he saw Quentin in them now, as he never could in mere memory. The man he’d loved, in every way a person can love—as comrade, as friend and once, on the eve of a battle they were sure would kill them both, as a lover. Lying in a ditch, shivering under one blanket, the youths had sought warmth in each other’s bodies, life in the face of death. He had never, not for a moment, regretted the encounter. Indeed, sometimes he felt it was the only meaningful one he’d had in his life.

One of them had been right about death. On Lansdown field, a little after dawn, case shot had scoured every feature from Quentin’s face. But Lucy’s eyes, the Absolute eyes, blue-black as night, acted for him as a key to a casement; once he looked into them, memory opened and her brother’s face was clear before him, and the youth alive again in her. He had sworn to Quentin as he lay dying that he would look after his infant sister. Coke had kept his vow over the years, had tried to be brother and protector.

But this? “Lucy, I came to take my leave
of
you. Not to undertake a quest
for
you.”

“Pish, William. It is hardly a quest. I ask only that you see this letter delivered into his hand.”

“These days, the Earl of Rochester’s hand is rarely far from the king’s. For many reasons it is best I do not go so directly into the public gaze.”

Those eyes, so familiar, brimmed. “You know I would not ask it if my need were not great.”

And what of my need? he thought. I have thirty guineas on my head. How can I do this? For what? A mooncalf passion?

Then her tears overflowed—and suddenly he understood that this was not mere May Day foolishness. “Lucy, you are with child.”

She did not confirm his statement in words. Simply lowered her eyes and wept.

“By Chroist!” he said, anger bringing Somerset into his voice. “By Chroist, I
will
see this earl. And I will drag him back by his ear and hold him by it until he does the right thing by you.”

Anger drove him to the door, boots stamping, sword sheath slapping against his legs. But Lucy was quicker to the door and placed herself before it. “I entreat you, no! You must not tell my John this news.”

“Tell him? I’ll beat it into ’e, the puppy.”

“William. Listen to me. Nay, listen, you ox!”

She slapped his chest and he was so startled he gave back a pace. There was fire, not tears in her eyes now, her accent moving west also, even farther so, to her Cornish roots. “If you go crashing in there like an outraged brother, you’ll spoil everything, you downser. Everything!” She shoved him but then continued more restrainedly, “He loves me—I know he do. But does he love me enough for …?” She gestured to her belly. “That I do not know. And will not, unless
I
am the one to tell him.”

“Lucy!”

“Nay, do not say it. Sarah Chalker has cautioned me enough: ‘He is an earl. He will not, cannot, marry you.’ That may be.” She sniffed. “But if he loves me, truly loves me, then perhaps he will do right by me. Me and the baby.” She wiped her tears away. “Yet I will only be certain of his love, or his lack of it, if I am the one to tell him first—for only then will I see the answer in his eyes.” She held out her letter. “This merely beseeches him to come. Will you risk
a little to put it into his hand? And vow—vow, I say!—that when you do, you will hint at nothing more?”

He looked down at her, at her brother through her. He had made him a promise. If he fled abroad, as he almost certainly must, this might be the last time he could honour that promise, for a time at least. He sighed and accepted the letter. “Content ye, lass. I will.”

“Oh, Will!” She stood on tiptoe, grabbed him by the ears and kissed him full on the lips. “Now, if only you was twenty years younger. Heigh ho for a heart, eh?” Laughing, she twirled away.

He waved the letter at her. “There is still the matter of how I deliver this. If he is with the king, where is His Majesty?” He ran thumb and finger either side of his moustache. “And how can I approach without some kind of concealment?” He had not told her of Finchley, the pamphlet, the reward. Yet she was the only one in London who knew of his other life.

“I have taken care of that. At least, I can put you close to him.” She bent to her table, picked up another folded paper. “I have been to see His Majesty’s surgeon, Mr. Knight, at the sign of the Hare in Covent Garden.”

He frowned. “Who are you—my Lady Castlemaine, with a brood of kingly brats—that you can afford such royal fees for your pregnancy?”

She laughed. “You simpleton. I did not go to consult. I went to get this. It is Mr. Knight’s office that issues these invitations.” She offered the paper. “His Majesty touches for the king’s evil tomorrow at the Banqueting House. The Earl of Rochester never misses it. Says there is no better sport in town than watching the king’s face while the scrofulous bend to kiss the royal arse—sorry, hand!”

She giggled, as Coke gaped. All knew of this “touching.” Many hundreds would line up in the belief that such direct contact with the king would cure their various ailments, not just the scrofula
that plagued so many. “Lucy, for mercy’s sake. You know that I am trying to keep from view until a certain business is concluded. Yet you would send me to the most public place imaginable?”

“Aye. Where Rochester will be,” she replied, waving the note. “Besides, don’t you always say that the finest place to hide is in plain sight?”

“When I am drunk, I may say so,” he said, reluctantly taking the paper. However, a rhythmic tapping at the door prevented further argument

“ ’Tis Sarah,” Lucy said. “I know her by her knock.”

As she heard Lucy approach the door, Sarah leaned her head against it and closed her eyes. So tired! Three nights with almost no sleep. She had searched for her husband all day when she was not playing, and each evening until darkness made the streets too dangerous. Three days he had been missing; and though he had on occasion stayed away a night and not sent word, he had never stayed away two. Anger drove her the first day—if he did not attend the theatre, to rehearse and to play, he would soon be replaced. Davenant, the manager of the playhouse, liked John, but he was a man of business as well as the theatre. Yet when Sarah’s search of the usual haunts revealed not a trace of him, anger gave way to fear. Much could befall a man on London’s streets, even one as capable as John Chalker. She felt fear for herself too—she only survived the way she did, as an actress unbeholden to anyone, under his protection.

As she leaned against the door, she searched for him with her other senses, inherited from her mother, who’d had them from hers. Yesterday she had burned paper with Hebrew words written on it, chanting them as she did. She had sought her husband in coffee grounds and in water poured onto a concave mirror. Now
she simply looked out into the world through her closed eyes. She hoped that it was her mother’s other sight and not her fear that had him living still. Alive and indeed not far away. But where was he?

The opening door caused her to stumble. “Oh, my dear,” she began, then stopped when she saw that Lucy was not alone. A tall man was with her. He had long black hair—his own—curling onto wide shoulders, silver wound through it like filigree. He had grey eyes and a moustache, mainly black, which he was smoothing down with thumb and forefinger. His clothes were simple, dark, well made if not of the latest fashion, yet not so very far behind it that he would stand out. He held an uncocked, unadorned hat in one hand, his other resting on the pommel of a sword. Boots that rose to his knee appeared long worn.

“Sarah, you poor child, come in. Oh, and you must meet my Captain Coke.”

The man bowed, his hat going to the side in a gesture somewhat older than the age demanded. “Mrs. Chalker. I have the advantage of you for I have seen you many times upon the stage. I am a great admirer.”

“You are gracious, sir, and have not much advantage. For are you not the guardian Lucy talks so fondly of?”

“No guardian,” Lucy said, “but a friend. To my poor dead brother first and now to me.” Lucy took Sarah’s hand. “My dear, you look exhausted. Come sit. I will fetch you some cordial. What’s the news?”

Sarah regarded the captain. She did not want to discuss this business before a stranger, however dear to Lucy. So she settled for the common news. “I’ve been in St. Giles. There’re more red crosses than last week. Three more houses shut up with all their occupants on Brewer’s Lane.”