A Crowning Mercy (55 page)

'Keep it for me! I'll collect it within a week, Mr Slythe. Within a week!' The last words were shouted back from the cantering horse that, urged by Devorax's heels, went into a gallop, scattering the crows from the butchered offal. Devorax's men swerved behind their leader, galloping beneath the rain-darkened gallows and following him westward into the murk.

Ebenezer watched them go, then walked his own horse beneath the huge beams and stared down at the horrid mess Devorax had made. Maggots writhed in the entrails. He glanced up at the second hanging man, twisting slowly, the rain dripping from the death-darkened feet into a puddle below. He considered trying to cut the body in half with his own sword, but knew his strength was not sufficient. No matter. Soon he would have the strength of thousands. Soon the Covenant would be his.

He smiled, wrenched his rein, spurred back and shouted for his men to follow him. They rode south towards Whitehall. The seals were being gathered.

30

Persuading Sir Grenville Cony was not quite as simple as Ebenezer and Devorax had supposed. Sir Grenville was no fool, he had survived too long in a troubled political world to believe that every opportunity was to be taken. He was sceptical. 'I'm an old, old man, Ebenezer. You sip ambrosia, but I smell poison.'

'You don't believe Devorax?'

'I haven't met him.' Sir Grenville stared out at the river. Rain pelted on to the surface. He turned back to the desk. 'The seals are real enough. Why did he go to you? Why not me?'

'My name was on the reward offer.'

'True.' Sir Grenville said it grudgingly. 'Yet Lopez has the reputation of being a generous man. I don't understand the complaint of this Devorax.'

Ebenezer shrugged. 'Lopez has been generous to Devorax. He saved his life, he's employed him ever since. I don't think the fault lies with the Jew, it's with Devorax. He's greedy.'

Sir Grenville nodded. The bulging eyes looked palely at Ebenezer. 'Should we kill him?'

'He doesn't want much. Pension him off.'

Then news came that the soldiers sent to the Southwark house had been successful. Sir Grenville had feared an ambush, but instead they found Lopez's house unguarded, and its furniture, books, rugs and ornaments were being removed. Sir Grenville was pleased. 'A blow! Ebenezer! A blow against the Jew!' He laughed. 'Unless it's simply a ground bait to take us nearer the hook.' He stood up and sidled his huge belly past the desk. 'You say Devorax is taking the bitch to Amsterdam. Why? She only has the use of two seals.'

Ebenezer played his best piece. 'Devorax says that Aretine's alive. That he'll add the Seal of St John to hers in Amsterdam.'

Sir Grenville's face lost its cheerfulness. He turned aghast. 'Alive?'

Ebenezer shrugged. 'So he says. Perhaps he just meant that Lopez has the fourth seal. I don't know.' He pointed at the two lumps of red wax on Sir Grenville's table. 'We know the girl has those two, I hate to think of what will happen if Aretine is alive.'

'You hate! You've not met the bastard! Dear God! You say Devorax is taking her out of the country at this place Bradwell?'

Ebenezer nodded.

'When?'

'He said he'll let me know.' Ebenezer was playing the story by ear, but he had been pleased by the panic engendered by the mention of Kit Aretine.

Sir Grenville shouted for his secretary. 'Morse! Morse!'

'Sir?' The door opened.

'I want Barnegat, now! Tell him I'll pay double, but get him now!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Wait!' Sir Grenville looked at Ebenezer. 'You think it will be soon?'

'Within a week.'

'I want a dozen men sent to a village called Bradwell, Morse. Ebenezer can tell you where it is. They're to search the place and wait there! And Morse!'

'Sir?'

Sir Grenville ran a hand through his white curls. 'Make sure the travelling coach is ready. I'll need it within the week.'

'A week!' Morse frowned. 'But you're supposed to meet the French ambassadors this

'Get out!' Cony snarled at him. 'Get out! Do as I say!'

Sir Grenville turned and stared past Ebenezer at the great painting that hung above his fireplace. Aretine, the most beautiful man Cony had ever seen. Was he alive? Had that beauty come back to pursue him and humiliate him? The lawyer walked to the fireplace, reached up, and closed the lime-washed shutters over the naked body. 'You had better be wrong, Ebenezer. Pray God you are wrong.'

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The next night, Wednesday, Vavasour Devorax came back to the city. Campion would not have recognised him. The filthy, stained, greasy clothes were gone. He had bathed, trimmed his hair and beard and then rubbed lamp-black into the greying hairs. By candlelight he looked ten years younger. He was dressed in sober, neat, clean clothes. He wore a broad-brimmed Puritan hat, in his hand was a well-thumbed Bible and his only weapon was a long, slim dagger.

His destination was close to Tower Hill in Seething Lane, and he hammered at the door of a darkened house. It was late, though many citizens would still be up. He had to hammer twice more before the door opened a crack.

'Who is it?'

'My name is God Be Praised Barlow, a Minister of the Commons.'

Goodwife Baggerlie frowned. 'It's late, sir.'

'Is it ever too late for God's work?'

Grudgingly she opened the door wider. 'You're here to see the Reverend Hervey?'

'With God's will, yes.' Devorax stepped inside, forcing Goodwife to step back. 'Is the Reverend Hervey abed?'

'He's busy, sir.' Goodwife was impressed by the tall preacher from the House of Commons. She was ready for bed, a gown pulled hastily over her nightdress and her hair wrapped in muslin.

Devorax gave her a ghastly smile. 'At his prayers, sister?'

'He's got company.' Goodwife was nervous. The Reverend Barlow was a big man and she did not like to contradict his wishes. She frowned. 'It's better you come in the morning, sir.'

Devorax frowned. 'I take no denial from a woman. Where is he?'

A stubborn look came into her small eyes. 'He says he's not to be interrupted, sir.'

'The House of Commons wishes him to be interrupted. Now lead me to him, woman! Lead!'

'You'll wait here, sir?' Goodwife said hopefully, but the tall preacher insisted on following her up the polished staircase. Goodwife stopped at the landing and tried to push Devorax downstairs. 'If you'll wait in the parlour, sir, I'll light a fire.'

'Lead me, woman! My business cannot wait!'

A voice shouted from above them, muffled by a door. 'What is it? Goodwife?'

'Master?' She shrugged. 'He'll be angry.'

'Go on, woman!'

She led him on to a wide, waxed landing. A door opened, held inches from its jamb, and a face peered at them. 'Goodwife?'

Devorax pushed past her. He leered at the face in the door's crack. 'Reverend Hervey?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I come, sir, from the Commons, with good news.'

Faithful Unto Death, who had only had time to throw a robe about his naked shoulders, frowned. 'I will be out in a moment, sir.'

Devorax quoted magnificently from the Psalms. '"Make no tarrying!"' He pushed the door open, forcing Hervey back, then stopped. 'My dear Mistress Hervey, my dear lady, my apologies.'

In the bed, facing him, clutching a sheet over her obviously naked body, was a dark-haired, pretty young woman. Devorax looked at Hervey. 'I had no idea you had taken a wife.' He looked again at the woman, bowed low, and swept his hat off. 'Dear lady, I have urgent business with your husband, will you forgive me?'

The woman, terrified, nodded. Her husband was a lieutenant in Parliament's northern army, she had come to this house to fetch her certificate that guaranteed her body free of a witch mark. The Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey, so eager was he to give satisfaction, had demanded several visits to make sure. Sometimes his devout searching of her flesh lasted a whole night. Devorax looked about the room for a robe to give her. He could see none, only her clothes on a chair. He picked up her cloak and tossed it to her. 'Wait downstairs, madam, my business will not take long.'

He turned his back on her as she pulled the cloak over her shoulders. She cast one terrified look at her other clothes, then decided discretion was the best part of valour. She scuttled past them, going to wait till the stranger left.

Goodwife made to follow her, but Devorax shut the door. He needed a witness. If the woman in the bed had not been so pretty he would have kept her as a second witness, but one was enough. 'You stay, woman.'

The Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey had watched this in confusion. He was gripping the edges of his robe together, in no position for bold action, but now he frowned as the big man turned the key in the lock and pocketed the key. 'Sir! You said good news from Parliament?'

'I did?' Devorax nodded. 'Indeed I did.' He tipped the absent woman's clothes from the chair and set it for Goodwife. 'Sit down.'

Goodwife frowned at Faithful Unto Death Hervey, but sat obediently. Devorax smiled at the minister. 'May I suggest you seat yourself, Reverend?'

It was a comfortable room that bore witness to Hervey's considerable success. Opposite the shuttered and curtained windows was a whole wall of books while a solid table and chair stood on a great rug before the blazing fire. The table was obviously Faithful Unto Death's desk, piled high with books and papers, and lavish with three great silver candlesticks. More candles burned on the mantel and on two low tables beside the bed. Searching for witch marks needed illumination.

This was the most difficult moment for Devorax. In his left sleeve he had concealed a length of rope which now, as Hervey's back was turned, he whipped free and looped about Goodwife's body. She screamed.

'Keep your mouth shut or I'll scrape the tripes out of you.'

'Sir!' Faithful Unto Death had turned. He stared at the huge man who yanked the rope tight about his housekeeper. Devorax's growl had terrified Goodwife, yet the soldier knew she might begin to struggle at any moment.

'You'll be dead meat if you make a sound.'

'Sir!' Hervey still clutched the robe over his nakedness. He hovered, irresolute and appalled.

Devorax's voice came strong. He was stooping to tie Goodwife's ankles, then her wrists, one to each arm of the chair. 'The business of the Commons is strange, sir, but all will be explained.'

He straightened, went behind Goodwife, and took a handkerchief from his pocket. He had her trussed now, tighter than a roasting chicken, but for good measure he gagged her. It had been easier than he thought. His threats had kept her still, and now her small, red-circled eyes stared in fright at him. He walked towards Hervey, a smile on his face. 'I come for knowledge, brother.'

'Knowledge?' Hervey backed away.

'Indeed.' Devorax smiled, reached out a hand then pulled the robe from Faithful Unto Death. Hervey clung on, but Devorax yanked it with all his power, jerking it free, then laughed at the naked, white minister. 'Sit down, bastard.'

Hervey clutched two hands over his manhood. 'Explain yourself, sir!'

Devorax's knife hissed out of its scabbard, whipped round in a blur of candle-reflected light, and pricked at Hervey's chest. 'Sit.'

Hervey sat. He crossed his thin legs and kept his hands cupped at his loins.

Devorax laughed at him. 'Do you shave your chest, Hervey?'

'Sir?'

Devorax sat on the corner of the table. Goodwife watched through wide, terrified eyes. The big soldier smiled at Hervey. 'You're not married, are you?'

Hervey did not reply. He was watching the blade of the knife with which Devorax idled. The knife blade suddenly swung towards him. 'I asked if you were married.'

'No, sir. No!'

'Finding texts in someone else's Bible were you?'

Hervey was in sheer terror. He could not take his eyes from the horridly pointed steel. Devorax's voice was amused. 'A whore, is she? Her price above rubies?'

'No!'

'Oh! A volunteer. Giving it away.' Devorax laughed. 'They'll be the ruin of a perfectly good profession one day.'

Hervey summoned his courage. He pressed down with his hands, drew up his knees, and frowned. 'What do you want, sir?'

'Want? I want a talk with you.' Devorax stood up and walked about the room, peering at books, at ornaments, glancing at Goodwife tied to her chair. He could think of no better way of proving Aretine's supposed presence in Europe than this public punishment of an avowed enemy of Aretine's daughter. He needed the witness to carry what he said to Sir Grenville Cony. He stopped, turned to the scared, naked minister and raised his voice. 'I came to talk to you about Dorcas Slythe.'

He saw pure terror in Faithful Unto Death's eyes. 'You remember her, Hervey?'

Faithful Unto Death nodded.

'I didn't hear you, Reverend.'

'Yes.'

Devorax kept his voice loud, kept it slow. 'My name, Reverend, is not Barlow. Nor do I work for that rat-hole you call Parliament. My name is Christopher Aretine. Does that mean anything to you, Reverend? Christopher Aretine?'

Hervey's pale face shook. His Adam's apple shot up and down. 'No.'

Devorax whipped round on Goodwife, the blade pointing at her. 'Christopher Aretine! Do you know the name?'

She shook her head. Her eyes watched him. He knew she had heard. Devorax strolled back to the table and perched himself on the corner. He tapped the knife blade into his palm. 'Where was her witch mark, Reverend?'

Faithful Unto Death Hervey stared at the grim face. He did not understand what was happening, but the stench of a horrid danger was all about him. 'On her belly, sir.'

'Her belly.' The knife blade still tapped into the palm. The steel edge was eighteen inches long. 'Show me on the excuse you have for a body, Reverend.'

'Sir?'

'Show me!' The blade moved like a snake striking, suddenly appearing before Hervey's eyes.

Hervey moved his right hand slowly. He pointed to his solar plexus. 'There, sir.'

'Bit high for her belly, Reverend. Did you search her breasts?'