A Crowning Mercy (56 page)

Hervey was shaking with fear. He was not a brave man.

'I asked you, Reverend, if you searched her breasts.'

'Sir?'

'If you don't answer me, scum, I'll spit out an eyeball on this blade.'

'I did, sir! Yes, sir!'

'Why?'

'It is normal, sir, normal!'

'Explain it to me.' Devorax pulled the knife blade back. He had made the question conversational, almost reassuring.

Faithful Unto Death Hervey swallowed, his Adam's apple going up and down while his right hand returned to his crotch. 'The witch mark, sir, is a teat. One expects a teat in the area of the dugs.' He nodded vigorously, as if to confirm the truth of his statement.

Devorax smiled at him. He tossed the knife into the air so that the blade cartwheeled in the candlelight. The handle smacked back into his right hand. His eyes had not left Hervey. 'What's my name?'

'Aretine, sir. Christopher Aretine.'

'Good, good. Did you enjoy searching Dorcas Slythe's breasts?'

'Sir?' Hervey's fear flooded back. For a moment he had thought that he was turning the conversation into a reasonable course, now the torment was starting again.

'I asked if you enjoyed searching Dorcas Slythe's breasts.'

'No, sir!'

The knife blade began to describe vague circles and figures of eight before Hervey's eyes. 'I think you did, Reverend. She's very beautiful. Did you enjoy it?'

'No! I do a necessary task, sir. I search out God's enemies, sir. One does not seek enjoyment!'

'Tell that to the whore downstairs. Did you stroke Dorcas Slythe's breasts?'

'No!'

The knife blade was within an inch of Hervey's right eye. Faithful Unto Death had put his head back, but he could see the glittering spark of light looming at his eyeball. Devorax's voice was very soft. 'I'll give you one more chance, scum. Did you stroke her breasts?'

'I touched them, sir, I touched them!'

Devorax chuckled. 'You're a liar, Hervey. You probably wet yourself as you did it.' He pushed the blade forward till the steel rested on the skin below Hervey's eyeball. 'Say goodbye to your eye, scum.'

'No!' Hervey wailed and, as he did, he lost control. His bowels loosened in sheer terror and a foul stench filled the room.

Devorax laughed, leaned back with his blade un-bloodied, and shook his head. 'I've seen nicer things than you fall out of a hog. Don't move, Reverend. I'm going to tell you a story.'

He stood again. The room stank, but Hervey dared not move. His eyes watched as the big man paced slowly between the shuttered windows and the bookshelves. Goodwife watched, too, her ears avid for the big soldier's words.

'Years ago, Reverend, I was a poet in this fair city. That was before scum like you turned it into a cesspit. I had a daughter and, do you know, I've never seen her from that day to this. But I know her name, Reverend, and so do you.' He grinned at Hervey. 'What do you think it is?'

Hervey did not reply. Devorax grinned at Goodwife.

'You know who it is, don't you?'

She knew. Ebenezer had recently told her that Dorcas was not his sister, but she had never known, till this moment, who the girl's father was. The Slythes, keeping to the promise they made to Martha Slythe's parents, had kept Dorcas's illegitimacy a secret all their lives. Goodwife watched, horrified, as the black-haired soldier turned back to Faithful Unto Death Hervey.

'Her name, Reverend, is Dorcas Slythe. Or was. She's married now, she's a Lady.'

Hervey's head was shaking. 'No. No.'

'I'm going to kill you, Reverend, and everyone will know that Christopher Aretine came back to take his revenge on you.' He grinned. Hervey was quivering in his own filth. Devorax raised his voice, making sure Goodwife heard every word. 'And not just you, Reverend. Tomorrow I'm going to Amsterdam, but I'll be back in two weeks and then it will be the turn of Sir Grenville Cony. Do you want to know how I'll kill him?'

Hervey summoned all his bravery, which was not much. He knew death was coming, and he tried desperately to fend it off with words. 'You're mad, sir! Think of what you do!'

'I do, Reverend, I do.' Devorax was walking slowly towards Hervey. 'And you think, as you die, why you die. You die for what you did to my daughter. Do you understand?'

'No! No!'

'Yes.' The knife blade was levelled, going towards Hervey, and Devorax's voice was as unforgiving as the winter wind. 'She is my daughter, filth, and you used her. You played with her.'

Goodwife watched. The Reverend Hervey, not daring to move or fight, had tipped his head back away from the blade. His Adam's apple was still, his eyes wide, and his lank, straw hair was on the table top. Devorax held the knife vertically above the priest's tilted face. 'I hate you, Reverend, and I'll see you in hell.' He began pushing the blade down.

'No!' Hervey shouted, and the blade went between his lips, his teeth, and he clamped his bite on them, but the big man laughed, pushed, and Faithful Unto Death's last scream was choked off as the blade went into his mouth, down, forced down, until Devorax was grunting as he pinned the head to the table top.

'You'll be dead soon, filth.'

He left Hervey there, his naked body arched above the fouled chair, one hand reaching for the blade. The noise was awful, but Devorax ignored it. He walked to Goodwife, whose eyes showed a horror equal to that of the dying man. Devorax blocked her view. 'Were you unkind to my daughter?'

She shook her head vigorously.

'I hope not, but I'm sure she'll tell me, and I'll be back in two weeks. Tell that to Sir Grenville.'

She nodded.

The noise had stopped. Blood soaked the table top, dripped on to the rug. Devorax walked to the dead man and jerked the knife free. It scraped on teeth. The lank hair, bloodied now, flapped as the head jerked up and Devorax pushed it free. He wiped the blade on the curtains, sheathed the knife, then turned again to Goodwife. 'Give Sir Grenville my regards. Tell him Christopher Aretine does not forget.'

He scooped up the woman's clothes, unlocked the door, and went downstairs. He found the woman in the parlour, shivering beneath her own cloak and one she had taken from the hallway. Devorax grinned at her. 'I wouldn't go upstairs, love.'

She looked at him, nervous.

He smiled. 'What's your name?'

She told him, then her address. Devorax tossed her clothes at her feet. 'Your husband with the army?'

She nodded.

He grinned. 'You wouldn't want him to know about this, would you?'

She shook her head. 'No. Please!'

He put a finger to his lips. 'No one will know, except you and me. And I'll find you soon.' He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. She laughed. Devorax kissed her cheek. 'And remember what I said, don't go upstairs. Promise?'

She nodded. 'I promise.'

He left her, thinking what profit she was for a night of evil, and then hurried through dark alleys until he saw Mason waiting with the horses in an entry near Aldgate. Devorax laughed as he swung himself into his saddle. Mason grinned at him. 'Colonel?'

'Nothing.' He laughed again. 'You go to kill a man and find a woman, not bad, eh? Drink?'

Mason laughed as he handed over a stone bottle which Devorax tipped to his lips. He drank deep, and felt the brandy sear down to his belly. 'God, that's good. Clothes?'

Devorax stripped off the black jacket, kicked off his square-toed shoes, and pulled on his leather jerkin, his tall boots, and finally strapped the sword to his side. He laughed again.

'Sir?'

'Nothing, John.' He was thinking how scared Sir Grenville would be in the morning when Goodwife brought the news, how the fat lawyer would be convinced that Aretine was back. He drank more brandy, then turned to Mason. 'You're to go to Mr Slythe, John.'

'Now?'

'Yes. Tell him to meet us on the coast Monday night. Seven o'clock at the latest.'

Mason repeated it.

'And tell him that if he's got no news of Aretine by ten tomorrow morning to send a patrol to the Reverend Hervey's house. He'll know where it is.'

'Sir.'

'And you're to meet me at the girl's house in Oxford tomorrow night.'

Mason seemed to think nothing of such a journey in such a short time. 'Oxford, tomorrow night, sir.'

Devorax laughed. 'The cat's in the dovecote, John. Tooth and claw! Off you go!'

He watched as Mason turned his horse, listened to the hoofbeats in Leadenhall Street, and then urged his own horse forward. He left the shoes and jacket in the alleyway, then bullied his way through Aldgate. He shouted at the guards to hurry, called the captain a whoreson piece of filth, then urged his horse into the brief stone tunnel.

He turned left outside the gate, planning to circle London to the north before joining Oxford Street at St Giles. After a murder it was best to be outside the city gates.

He let his horse gallop across Moorfields. He could smell rain in the night wind, but he did not care. He put his head back and laughed at the cloud-shrouded moon. 'Kit Aretine! You bastard! You'd have been proud of me! Proud!'

He laughed and rode west into the night.

31

Sir Toby Lazender was tired. He had spent a fruitless day leading a hundred men in a chase beyond Wallingford. Roundheads were said to have raided a village, stripping the barns of the winter's grain, but the stories turned out to be false. He came back to Oxford tired, wet and irritated, only to find that new problems awaited him. His mother met him in the hall. 'Toby!'

'Mother?'

'There's an extraordinary man here. My dear boy, you're soaked. He insisted on talking to Campion alone. I don't like him. He was quite rude to me. You're to find out what's happening.'

Toby pulled off sword, jacket and boots. He looked up from his seat on the hall chest as James Wright took them away. 'Who is he, mother?'

'Devorax.' Lady Margaret sniffed. 'I know he saved her life, Toby, but that's no reason for drunken rudeness. He positively barred me from the room! I can't imagine that he's related to that nice Sir Horace Devorax. Do you remember him, Toby? He ran very good hounds in Somerset.'

Toby shook his head. 'I don't remember. Where are they?'

'Still in Somerset, I should think. Unless our enemies have declared war on hounds.'

Toby smiled. 'Where are Campion and Devorax?'

'In the garden room. I suspect you're leaving us, Toby.'

Toby suspected his mother had listened from the garden. He leaned his dark red curls against the hall's panelling. 'Amsterdam?'

'Yes. It appears the seals are being gathered.' She looked down at him. 'I won't stay in Oxford, Toby.'

He smiled. 'I know.' It seemed there was a small but fine house in Wiltshire that could be rented. The money had come from Lopez's loan to Campion, but Toby knew his mother's desire to go to Wiltshire arose because of a small, kind, sightless man. 'I don't suppose we'll stay long in Holland, mother.'

She sniffed. 'Devorax says there are things to arrange there, whatever that means. It will be nice to have money again.' She stopped, staring down at her son. 'I don't trust him, Toby. I'm not sure that either of you should go.'

He stood up, smiled, and kissed his mother on the forehead. 'Let me talk to him. And don't listen outside the window. You'll catch cold.'

'I can't hear the half of what he says,' Lady Margaret said imperiously. 'He mumbles and growls. You tell me. Now go on! I want to know what's happening!'

Common courtesy alone dictated that Vavasour Devorax should stand when Sir Toby, the master of the household, came into the room, but the soldier stayed slumped in the best chair, his grey eyes looking morosely at the newcomer. Toby ignored the rudeness.

'Colonel? You're welcome.'

The ugly face nodded. His beard and hair, Toby noted, were strangely streaked with black. A bottle of wine, half emptied, was by his side.

Campion came to Toby, lifted her face to be kissed, and he saw the relief in her eyes that he had arrived. He smiled. 'Hello, wife.'

She mouthed at him, her back to Devorax. 'He's drunk.'

Toby looked at Devorax. 'Do you want food, sir?'

The face shook. 'No. Do you want to know what's happening?'

Toby sat beside Campion on the settle. The candles flickered about the room. Vavasour Devorax groaned, pulled himself straighter in the chair and stared at Toby. 'I've told your wife. Cony's dead, we've got his seals, and you're to take them to Holland.'

Campion stared at Toby, Toby at the grim soldier who now put the bottle to his lips.

'Cony's dead?'

'Sir Grenville has gone to meet his maker.' Devorax put the bottle down. 'I don't suppose his maker will be very pleased with what he made.' He laughed.

'How?'

'How?' Devorax laughed. 'How do you think? I killed him. With this.' He tapped the hilt of his sword.

Toby could hardly take the news in. He shook his head. 'Didn't he have guards?'

'Of course he had guards!' The question seemed to annoy Devorax, but then he sighed, leaned back, and told the tale in a toneless, bored voice. 'There was a murder in London last night. The Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey was also despatched to his maker. I did it. Then I went round London to Sir Grenville's house, demanded entry with my men on the plausible pretext that we were the watch and wished to talk to a man who had known the Reverend Hervey, and once inside we did our business.' He smiled. 'The fat little lawyer fought surprisingly hard and I ruined a perfectly good rug with his blood. We had to blow the locks of his strongbox, and inside were the two seals: Matthew and Mark.'

Campion was holding Toby's hand, gripping his finger stumps beneath the thin leather glove. Toby stared at Devorax. 'You have the seals?'

'Not with me.' He smiled pitifully at Toby. 'You really think I'm going to ride halfway across England with half a fortune in my pouch? Of course I don't have them. My men have them. They're taking Lopez's ship to the place where it will meet you.' He flourished the bottle at them. 'All is over, children, your fortune has been secured by Vavasour Devorax.'