The Judas Blade (22 page)

‘By God, I’ve torn the wound again!’ he gasped. Then he squinted down at Betsy. ‘Are you hurt?’

Half-dazed she shook her head. There were running
footsteps
, and lights dancing towards her. Men crowded round; there seemed a horde of them. The one she remembered with the musketoon was brandishing it dangerously. She gazed about her, and flinched.

But a few feet away, the body of her would-be murderer lay on his back, eyes open. There was a gaping wound in his head where something unpleasant welled out, shiny in the torchlight.
The
chinqueda
– the blade that would have ended her life – was still in his hand.

‘That was a lucky shot, Crabb.’

The man with the musketoon bent down to peer at the corpse. ‘If you’d let me fire my piece, we’d have been sure …’ He straightened up, looking round. The other men turned too, as Marcus Mullin hurried up. As he drew close he checked himself, taking in the situation quickly.

‘Well, is no one going to help her up?’ he said at last. Then he leaned down and offered Betsy his hand. She took it, and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. Her legs felt weak, but she was unharmed.

‘You did well, Crabb.’ Mullin was short of breath himself, but calm enough. ‘You’ve kept your word and avenged Eleanor.’ Wincing with pain, the young man looked away. ‘As for you, madam …’ The captain faced Betsy. ‘I imagine your part’s over now.’

He glanced at the body, then round at his men. But they had drawn back, leaving the others alone. The three members of Mr Lee’s Family eyed each other … and at last Betsy spoke.

‘I imagine it is,’ she answered. Then with a final glance at both men, she walked off towards Bishopsgate.

As she went she heard voices, saw windows open and lights showing. Faces peered out at her, and for a moment she almost felt like taking a bow.

S
OME DAYS LATER
, on a cold but bright afternoon, Betsy Brand entered the Star Tavern in Cheapside, and was shown into a private upstairs room. There was a single occupant seated at a table by the window. As she came in, the man rose and inclined his head.

‘This is a surprise, Mr Lee,’ Betsy said. She wore her favourite blue gown and a cream-coloured whisk, and her face was flushed from walking. ‘I confess I was taken aback to receive your message … is anything wrong?’

‘Not at all, madam.’ Joseph Williamson, in his habitual black coat and periwig, gestured her to a chair facing him. As they sat he indicated a jug at his elbow. ‘Will you take a cup of Rhenish with me?’

Betsy nodded her acceptance. ‘I never thought to see you in such a public place,’ she said, as he poured wine. ‘Yet I’m glad – for I am curious to know how matters stand.’

‘They stand well,’ Williamson answered. ‘In brief, two days ago a house in Coleman Street was raided, and a great deal of seditious material seized. But more importantly, a man who was hiding there was also taken: Thomas Prynn, of whom you know. He lies now in a place that’s also known to you: the King’s Bench. He has much to answer for.’

At mention of the prison, Betsy lowered her eyes. ‘And what of the other man?’ she ventured. ‘Phelps?’

‘Dead.’ Without expression, Williamson took a sip of wine. ‘He tried to shoot his way out, and paid the price. But what
matters is, that web of treachery is broken. Of course there may be others, but …’ He shrugged. ‘The crown’s reach is long.’

Still wondering why the spymaster had asked to meet her, Betsy took a drink too. She hoped it was to pay her what was owed. The last few days, though filled with glad reunions – with Tom Catlin and Peg in particular – had been difficult. Money was still in short supply, and Catlin still troubled. As for her fellow-intelligencers, she had not seen Mullin or Crabb since she had left them in the street by The Spital Field, beside the body of the murderer Jerome Kyte.

‘And our work is endless – though you’ve grasped that already, I think.’ Williamson was eyeing Betsy with an intense look. So, seizing the moment, she decided to talk business.

‘I don’t wish to be importunate, Mr Lee,’ she began, ‘but I must touch upon the subject of my wage. I believe I’ve done my part in breaking the conspiracy. Captain – I mean, Girvan – certainly thought so.’

The other gave a brief nod. ‘That’s one reason I asked you to come. I believe the two of you worked well enough together. I’d like to ask you to consider the offer I made when we first spoke. In other words—’

‘I fear not, sir.’

Betsy spoke more sharply than she’d intended. ‘Or at least, not in the near future,’ she added, forcing a smile. ‘I … I find I’m not a good traveller. I’d hardly left London before my little adventure. As for the duties a female intelligencer might perform, I found them limiting – and more dangerous than I’d anticipated.’

‘Nonsense!’ the spymaster retorted. ‘From what Girvan says, you thrive on danger.’ He put on a mirthless smile. ‘Don’t tell me you prefer to return to a life upon the stage?’

‘That’s precisely what I prefer,’ Betsy replied. ‘I’m an actress, sir, who’s about to play a new role.’ She spoke the truth. The day before, she’d had a meeting with her employer and mentor Thomas Betterton at his house in Long Acre. Though displeased
by her lengthy absence, the great actor was more than willing to let her return to the Duke’s Theatre; however the role she coveted was now gone to another actress. Instead of Lady Waspish, she would play the comic role of an ageing bawd. She thought to model it on Mother Curll.

‘Is it truly so?’ Williamson gazed at her, and when she nodded, a frown appeared. ‘Then you disappoint me, Beatrice. Of course I’ll settle my account with you, if you desire it. Though I’d hoped you might agree to defer payment until later, in which case a larger sum could follow. Do you understand me?’

‘I do, sir,’ Betsy answered firmly, ‘yet my mind is made up. So if you’d kindly let me have what I’m owed?’ She waited, until at last Williamson put a hand in his coat pocket, drew out a small pouch and tossed it on to the table.

‘Well, then you’d better count that,’ he said shortly.

Betsy opened the pouch and shook gold coins out on to the table top. Counting them did not take long at all. ‘Twelve pounds?’ she looked up. ‘That is all?’

The spymaster shrugged.

‘For this, I risked my life?’

‘You know there are always risks,’ Williamson said. ‘Crabb’s lucky to be alive; Girvan too, for that matter.’

‘As am I,’ Betsy replied. ‘I was nearly murdered—’

‘Yes, I’ve had their testimony,’ the other broke in. ‘I thought to do you the honour of a private meeting, instead of merely sending your payment by messenger. It’s not a courtesy I extend to other agents …’ He trailed off, and put on a somewhat different smile. ‘But then, you are not like the others. It occurred to me, should you wish for preferment, we might come to another sort of arrangement. A more personal one, perhaps, that would no doubt give pleasure to us both.’

And with that he leaned back and regarded Betsy deliberately, whereupon her heart sank.

‘Now it’s you who disappoint me, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘And more, I doubt it would afford me any pleasure at all.’

There was a moment, then Williamson sat up smartly. Betsy thought he would fly into a rage, but instead his face had become a hard mask.

‘Then you’d better take your money and be gone,’ he said icily. ‘Perhaps I’ve overestimated you. And, I might add, madam, that your first mission was somewhat less than a success. It has put me to considerable expense: horses, the cost of rooms … I’ve even had to arrange for the man Blunt to be conveyed to London by coach to recover from his wound. He’ll be unfit for weeks.’

‘Yet the King’s life was saved, without him even noticing it.’ Betsy’s temper rose quickly. ‘What if the assassin’s blade had killed Dowell – or Mullin? Forgive my calling him that, but I was Mistress Mullin for a while. It’s difficult to forget.’

Williamson gave a weary sigh. ‘I thought you understood enough not to expect thanks,’ he said. ‘Loyalty is its own reward – or should be. Others have given their lives—’

‘I know it,’ Betsy broke in. ‘I watched Eleanor die!’

The spymaster said nothing.

‘I saw her die – in my place,’ she went on, trying to master herself. ‘So I need no reminders, sir. I expect only fair payment for my service …’ Suddenly she gave a start. ‘I also asked you to pay a sum in advance, to my sister in Chelsea,’ she added quickly. ‘You agreed to do so.’

‘Did I?’ A puzzled frown creased Williamson’s brow. ‘I cannot recall such.’ With a nod, he indicated the coins lying on the table. ‘In any case, you have your payment now. What you do with it is your affair.’ He stopped, as without warning Betsy rose to her feet.

‘You lied to me!’ she cried. ‘You promised to do what I asked, as I tried to do your bidding! I was almost stabbed – not to mention nearly drowned, assaulted, half-starved and—’

‘You grow tiresome, Beatrice.’ The man’s frown was back. ‘You carried out your task and you’ve been paid. Had you been willing to work for me again, we might have discussed new
terms – yet you’ve spurned my offer.’ Then he leaned forward, and raised a warning finger. ‘But let me remind you of
something
else,’ he added. ‘Everything you’ve learned since you entered my service – everything you’ve seen, heard and done – must remain utterly secret. On pain of death, I told you, and I repeat it now.’

Still on her feet, Betsy gazed back at him. One word sprang to her mind: betrayal. There were many varieties, she decided; some great, some small … With almost a shiver she recalled Marcus Mullin’s words, in a chamber in Neiuwpoort. To steady herself she lifted the cup, took a final drink of wine and set it down with a thud. Then she scooped up the gold coins and thrust them into her gown.

‘The Children of Judas … that’s what some call us, is it not?’ she said. ‘I find it apt – more so now, than I ever expected.’

‘No, you are wrong.’

The spymaster looked at her coldly. ‘The Judases are traitors – men like Venn, Prynn and Phelps. And those devils abroad: regicides who fled to save their miserable hides, like John Kyte, and madmen like Thomas Lacy! They’re the ones who must be dealt with – by whatever means available! Do you think your life so important, that it be set above the safety of England and her sovereign?’

‘Perhaps not,’ Betsy answered. ‘Yet I was foolish enough to think I was trusted – even valued. Instead, those of us who laboured in the Low Countries found we’d been marked from the start, merely because one of the King’s ministers and his own deputy don’t trust each other! And who like boys, strive to outdo one another! Where does that rank in the scale of betrayal, sir, can you answer that?’

Stung, Williamson sprang to his feet, but he was too late. Betsy had delivered her parting line, and had no intention of letting anyone spoil it. Before the man could speak she was at the door. It banged shut, and all the spymaster could do was listen to her wooden heels clumping down the stairs.

Once outside, she began walking; there seemed no other way to work off her anger. She passed the Saddlers’ Hall, turned left into Old Change and then right, skirting the south side of St Paul’s. The sounds and smells of London were about her, as familiar as her own heartbeat. Breathing hard she threaded her way up to Ludgate, then left the City. Soon she had crossed the Fleet Bridge and passed St Bride’s – and at last, above the rooftops rose the Duke’s Theatre with its familiar cupola. Still she didn’t slow her pace until she had opened the side door and entered the pit. There at last she stopped, drew a breath… and blinked: the place was deserted. Then she remembered – it was Sunday.

With a sigh, she sank down on a bench and gazed at the empty stage. The festoon curtain was up, but the great
candle-hoops
had been lowered to the floor. At the rear, the sliding flats of the last scene played were still in place, but there were no actors. As always, without cast or audience the place was as dead as a mausoleum.

‘Betsy Brand, is it you?’

She looked round to see a figure standing by the scene-room door. Then recognition came: Hannah Cleeve, the widow whom Betsy had helped to the post of wardrobe-mistress, came forward with a look of surprise.

‘Why, you look like you’re lost!’ she exclaimed.

‘I did forget myself, Hannah.’ Betsy managed a smile. ‘I’ve been away, you know—’

‘That I do!’ Hannah broke in. ‘Who don’t know it? Some said you was sick, some that you’d gone into the country.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Me and a few others, we thought you might have got yourself into trouble – you know, Nelly Gwynn sort of trouble. Woman’s bane …’

‘What, you thought I was with child?’ Betsy blinked. ‘No, I swear not.’

‘That’s well …’ Hannah nodded. ‘So, you’re all right, then?’

‘Yes, I suppose I am.’ With a glance round the auditorium,
Betsy stood up. ‘And now I should get myself home. I’m to rehearse tomorrow; you’ll need to find me an old dress fit for a bawd.’

‘Those I have aplenty,’ Hannah said wryly. ‘Back home, I mean…’ She gave a start. ‘Here, I knew there was something: a fellow left a message for you.’

‘For me?’ Betsy raised her eyebrows. ‘When?’

‘Yesterday. I have it somewhere …’ Hannah rummaged in the pockets of her loose frock, then produced a folded paper, unsealed. ‘I can’t read, so I don’t know that’s in it,’ she said, thrusting it at her. ‘But I won’t forget the fellow who brought it: big as a mountain, he was. Built like a castle and handsome to boot!’

Betsy stiffened. ‘I thank you, Hannah,’ she said, and took the letter. Then with a nod she went out.

In Water Lane she stopped, gazing down at it. To her surprise, her hand shook a little. But without further delay she unfolded it, and read:

It was signed ‘A Captain of Horse.’

She stood in the lane and read it again, then crumpled it and thrust it into her pocket. Head down she walked up to Fleet Street where she halted. Her first instinct had been to tear up the paper and cast it away; now she knew she would do no such thing.

In fact, she found herself smiling.

And that was why in the evening, with a link-boy to light her way, she walked by Wych Street and Drury Lane to Little Russell Street, which led to the Great Piazza of Covent Garden.

There on the corner of Brydges Street stood the notorious Rose Tavern, haunt of rakes and rogues of all kinds: a fitting abode for Captain Marcus Mullin. Soon she was entering the
noisy, smoke-filled interior – and the first person she set eyes on was Peter Crabb.

‘Wrestler!’

Her face lit up, as did Crabb’s – and at once he was elbowing his way through the topers to stand before her. The moment he drew near, Betsy put her arms about his huge body and squeezed.

‘I’m most glad to see you,’ she said, and stood back.

‘Have a care … my arm’s newly stitched.’ Somewhat flushed, though more with embarrassment than pain, the young man smiled at her. ‘We didn’t get chance to say farewell, the other night, did we?’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘He’s in the back … Will you come with me?’

‘I will,’ Betsy replied, whereupon the two of them made their way to the rear of the crowded room. The place stank of stale beer, wine and strong tobacco. Men drank, spat, laughed and shouted, and at sight of Betsy a few threw out ribald remarks – but a look from Crabb was enough to quell them. Soon they had reached a crowded table, where they stopped. At the same moment a familiar figure seated by the wall raised his head, then to her alarm cried out, ‘By God, it’s my wife! Now I’m caught!’

Marcus Mullin jumped to his feet, bumping into the man beside him. All those at the table were men: gallants and carousers of the sort to be found anywhere in Covent Garden. In surprise, they looked round, and laughter broke out.

‘Caught is it, Dark?’ one shouted. ‘Damn, I wish I’d someone like that to capture me!’