The Body in the Thames (13 page)

‘Damned milksop,’ muttered Killigrew. ‘He was made a colonel during the wars, just because he minded Prince Rupert’s dog.
But he never saw any
real
action. I, of course, saw several battles.’

‘Did you?’ asked Chaloner, feigning polite interest.

‘Mostly from a distance, I admit,’ Killigrew elaborated. ‘But I saw them even so. They looked very nasty. How about you? No,
you would have been much too young.’

Chaloner was spared from having to reply, because Hannah interrupted: not everyone at Court would be impressed to learn that
his regicide uncle had enrolled him in Cromwell’s New Model Army when he was just fifteen. He had taken part in several major
battles, the
last of which was Naseby, when he had been injured by an exploding cannon. His leg had never fully mended, and he still walked
with a limp when he over-exerted it.

‘Judith has offered to take Tom and me home in your carriage,’ said Hannah, smiling at Killigrew. ‘It is kind, because I do
not feel like walking. It is too hot.’

But Chaloner
did
feel like walking, and was more than happy to give up his place to Bates, who was claiming that sitting on the ground for
so long had done him irreparable damage.

‘Do not be long,’ warned Hannah. ‘Or I shall be asleep when you come in, and there are things we need to discuss.’

Chaloner was not sure he liked the sound of that, but promised he would hurry. He said his farewells, and slipped away from
the crowds, wanting time alone to reflect on the music, and to replay some of the more inspired sections in his mind. He aimed
for the gate near Charing Cross, relishing the growing silence as he left the Court behind.

But it was a short-lived peace, because the moment he left the park, he found himself in an area that was thick with taverns.
The patrons that spilled out of them were rowdy, and heat and large quantities of ale made them feisty, too. One apprentice
collided with him as he passed, clearly in the hope of starting a fight, but Chaloner jigged away, ignoring the challenging
jeers that followed.

There was a lot of traffic, too, much of it from St James’s Park, as courtiers travelled home in private coaches or hackney
carriages. One had had a mishap. It stood at a precarious angle, a wheel missing, and it was obvious that its driver had failed
to negotiate one of
the drainage channels that ran along the side of the road. A crowd had gathered, and there was a lot of shouting and shoving.
Chaloner began to skirt around the mêlée, but stopped when he heard a familiar voice.

‘Please!’ It was Secretary Kun, and he sounded frightened. ‘We do not want trouble.’

‘Do you not?’ sneered one onlooker. ‘Well, I am afraid you have found it.’

With a sigh, Chaloner saw that whatever Hannah had wanted to discuss would have to wait.

The man taunting Kun had disguised himself by donning the kind of face-scarf intended to shield the wearer from London’s foul
air, but his voice and posture revealed him as Kicke. Chaloner looked around quickly, and saw a second figure that was the
right size and shape to be Nisbett.

‘We do not want trouble,’ Kun said again, pleadingly. He had dressed for an evening with royalty, and although Dutch fashions
were not as flamboyant as those of the English Court, his clothes were still fine. To the mob that was gathering, which comprised
mainly the poorer kind of tradesmen, apprentices and the unemployed, they were like a red rag to a bull.

‘We want only to go home.’ It was Zas, similarly attired – and similarly alarmed by the situation.

‘Home?’ echoed Kicke. ‘Do you mean the Savoy? Why should sly Dutchmen live in a grand palace, while honest Englishmen are
forced into mean tenements, like animals?’

There was a rumble of approval from the crowd. Chaloner edged forward, careful not to jostle anyone who might use it as an
excuse to fight him.

‘You are probably spies, too,’ Kicke went on. ‘Stealing secrets, so you can cheat when hostilities break out. The tale is
all over London that you stole documents from the Lord Chancellor.’

There was another growl from the onlookers, and this time there was anger in it. Chaloner wondered what Kicke thought he was
doing: if van Goch’s secretary was killed by a mob, the peace talks would stall for certain. Or was he acting under orders
from the Lady, because she was one of those who itched for war?

‘You look as though you are planning to intervene,’ came a low voice at Chaloner’s shoulder. He turned quickly, and saw Griffith,
his elegant clothes hidden by a plain dark coat. His silent servant was at his side. ‘Do not try it. Nisbett is an excellent
swordsman, and will cut you to pieces.’

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Chaloner, glancing around hopefully. Perhaps other courtiers were to hand, and would help
him extricate the diplomats from their predicament.

Griffith made a moue of distaste. ‘There was no room for me in my friends’ coach, so I was obliged to walk.
And
I was forced to borrow Lane’s coat, to conceal my finery.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He was not very nice about it, either.
I cannot abide the fellow, and will dismiss him as soon as I can find a replacement. How dare he—’

‘How many English babies have you roasted on a spit?’ Nisbett’s voice was loud as he taunted his victims, and drew Chaloner’s
attention away from Griffith’s tirade. ‘And how many honest English merchants have you cheated, you piece of Dutch—’

The rest of his sentence was lost as the mob surged
forward with a furious roar. Kun screamed, and Chaloner whipped his sword from its scabbard.

‘No!’ cried Griffith, grabbing his arm. ‘You cannot win against so many. Not alone.’

‘He is not alone,’ said Lane, the first words Chaloner had heard him speak. There was a grim smile on his face as he drew
his weapon. It was an expression Chaloner had seen before, and told him Lane was a warrior, probably one who had cut his teeth
during the civil wars.

Another howl from Kun, audible even over the vengeful yells of the mob, made Chaloner turn quickly and begin beating a path
towards him, careful to use the flat of his blade. He had no wish to kill, not even men who were behaving like animals. It
was not easy, though. People were pressed tightly together, and there was not enough room to wield any weapon effectively.
He was aware of Lane at his back, similarly handicapped.

When he finally managed to reach Kun, the elderly secretary was on his knees, clothes torn and bloody. He was praying, and
Nisbett was holding a dagger against his neck.

‘Cut his throat!’ yelled a butcher. ‘Do it now!’

Chaloner stepped forward and knocked the dagger from Nisbett’s hand. Furious that they were to be deprived of a show of blood,
the onlookers began a chorus of boos and hisses.

‘You!’ exclaimed Nisbett, recognising him. Then his expression turned vengeful, and he raised his voice. ‘Here is a traitor
who wants to protect cheese-eaters! Will you let him do it? Tear him limb from limb, in the name of England and St George!’

Cheering patriotically, several apprentices leapt
forward to oblige, but fell back when Chaloner proved he could defend himself. Meanwhile, Lane had reached Zas, and was standing
over him protectively. Griffith hovered nearby. He had drawn his sword, but made no attempt to use it.

‘Kill the traitors!’ screamed Kicke, launching himself at Lane. There was an ear-shattering clash as steel met steel, followed
by an appreciative bellow from the crowd.

‘Run him through!’ shrieked the butcher, almost beside himself with delight at the spectacle. He was, however, careful to
stand well back as the weapons began to flash.

Watching them almost cost Chaloner his life, because Nisbett attacked him while his attention wavered, and it did not take
many moments for the spy to see he was in the presence of a master. Chaloner was accomplished, but Nisbett was better, and
Chaloner was forced to give ground again and again.

Grinning malevolently, Nisbett began to toy with him. In a display that had the mob baying its approval, he performed a fancy
manoeuvre that scored a gash down Chaloner’s forearm. While the spy staggered, Nisbett strutted at the edge of the crowd,
doffing his hat to their compliments.

Then there was a collective groan of disappointment. Lane had managed to disarm Kicke, who was cowering on the ground. At
that point, Griffith minced forward, all effete flourishes and elegant footwork. Some of the onlookers started to laugh, causing
the colonel to glare at them.

Piqued by the loss of attention, Nisbett attacked his opponent anew. This time, he came in earnest, and it was not long before
Chaloner’s sword was wrenched from his hand. The dagger in his sleeve fell to the ground at
the same time. He managed to twist away from one blow, but he knew it was only a matter of time before he was skewered. The
crowd began to chant for Nisbett to finish him, and with glittering eyes, the thief stepped forward to oblige.

Suddenly, there was an urgent clatter of hoofs, and horsemen bore down on the crowd, swords flailing. Chaloner recognised
Buckingham and Sir Alan Brodrick among the riders, and understood at once what was happening: a gaggle of courtiers, at a
loose end after the music in St James’s Park, was looking for entertainment. And tackling a mob fitted the bill perfectly.
Clearly afraid of being unmasked, Kicke and Nisbett joined the frantic horde that scattered in all directions.

Chaloner leaned against the broken carriage and watched. Whooping and shrieking, the horsemen pursued the panicking throng,
jabbing wildly with their blades. Zas knelt next to Kun, a comforting hand on his shoulder, while the secretary wept his relief.

‘Did you recognise the two men who started all this?’ Chaloner asked, when Lane and Griffith came to join him.

Griffith regarded him askance. ‘How could we? Their faces were covered by scarves. Damned villains! Parrying with them has
put dust all over my best stockings.’

Chaloner’s heart sank. He could not accuse Kicke and Nisbett without another witness – it would look like sour grapes on his
part, and would probably make them more popular than ever.

‘I think they were courtiers,’ said Lane helpfully. ‘They fought too well to be common men.’

‘You do say some curious things,’ said Griffith, gazing at his servant with wide eyes. ‘And you cannot be right,
because Buckingham would not have attacked them if they had been from White Hall.’

‘He might, if he did not know who they were,’ Lane pointed out.

Chaloner watched Buckingham and his cronies drive away the last of the spectators, and it was not long before Charing Cross
was empty. When it was, the Duke came to accept the gratitude of those he had saved. Zas made a pretty speech of thanks, but
Kun was still too shaken for talking.

Buckingham peered at the Dutchmen in the dim light cast by a nearby tavern. ‘Good God! It is van Goch’s secretary and the
lawyer from the Savoy!’

‘Yes,’ replied Zas. ‘Our driver swerved to avoid a dog, but the manoeuvre broke a wheel. People immediately swarmed towards
us, presumably to steal. But when they saw who we were, they dragged us out, and …’

‘I see,’ said Buckingham. He sounded disgusted, and Chaloner wondered whether he would have dashed to their rescue with such
élan had he understood what was happening. He was, after all, one of those clamouring for war. ‘Then I suppose we had better
see you safely home. You can ride Brodrick’s horse. He will not mind.’

The following day was hotter than ever, and Chaloner woke breathless and sweating from a nightmare in which he was locked
in one of Williamson’s Newgate cells with Aletta. He rarely dreamt about his first wife, but when he did, it invariably left
him unsettled. A wave of guilt washed over him when he opened his eyes and saw Hannah lying next to him. Discomfited, he slid
out of the bed, moving carefully so as not to wake her.
Unfortunately, he stumbled over a discarded blanket en route to the door, and she sat up.

‘Where are you going?’ she demanded. ‘It is still dark, so it is far too early to be up. Come back to bed, or you will be
tired in the morning.’

He smothered a smile – she was a true courtier in her horror of early starts. ‘It
is
morning.’

‘I doubt it is four o’clock yet, and
that
is the middle of the night. Do you have a fever? We should have summoned Surgeon Wiseman to tend your arm last night.’

‘Christ, no! There is nothing wrong. Go back to sleep.’

‘You still have not told me what happened. I am not sure how, but we ended up discussing my worries until we fell asleep,
and I neglected to ask about yours.’

Which was exactly how Chaloner had engineered it, for her protection, as well as his own. He wondered how long it would be
before she realised that he always sidetracked her when she asked about his day. And how long it would be before their marriage
suffered because of it.

‘You were telling me about Charles Bates,’ he said, hoping the subject that had put her in such a lather the previous night
would distract her again that morning. ‘And his wife Ann.’

Hannah grimaced. ‘Yes. After the music, when we were travelling home in Killigrew’s carriage, Charles told us how Kicke is
intent on seducing her. He had confided in the Duke, too, who said Charles should call him out. But Charles is no fighter,
and Kicke is likely to kill him.’

‘Duelling is illegal, anyway,’ said Chaloner, supposing he should not be surprised to hear that Buckingham dispensed such
impractical advice.

‘Yes, but it does not stop anyone from doing it.’ Hannah regarded Chaloner in sudden alarm. ‘Is
that
how you came by the cut on your arm?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘But there is worse,’ Hannah went on. ‘Some villain is blackmailing Charles – demanding money in return for not braying that
Ann is as besotted with Kicke as Kicke is with her.’

‘Bates should not pay. If you and the Duke know about the situation, it cannot be a very closely guarded secret. People will
start talking about it soon anyway.’