The Lion of Midnight (8 page)

North smiled dismissively. ‘I was merely an attendant, Sir Matthew, as you have observed. My Lord Conisbrough, though – who better as a secret envoy to the Three Crowns than a personal friend of the late King Gustavus? My Lord knew intimately all those who now hold power in Sweden – the Queen Regent, the High Chancellor –’

‘Then his death is doubly unfortunate,’ I said, sadly. ‘His Majesty will have to despatch another envoy to complete his mission. Or if you truly have the confidence of Lord Arlington, Mister North, then perhaps you could undertake it yourself?’

North’s expression was curious. ‘I am a mere functionary, Sir
Matthew
– a boy, a nobody. Or so I would be perceived, I fear.’ His tone suggested that his perception of himself was rather different; in that moment, Lydford North chafed to be a man of years, and at the very least a viscount. ‘By the time a new envoy could be selected, and
prepared
himself for the expedition, and had a ship appointed for him – Sir Matthew, you know as well as any man the speed at which our English government moves. By then months will have passed, the moment will have been lost, and perhaps England will already be overrun by the armies of our foes.’

The dread had begun as the slightest dryness in my throat. By the time North concluded, it was a pounding within my head. For I could see beyond his logic, and knew full well what was in his mind.

‘I have my duty,’ I said tentatively. ‘It is to the mast-ships. They are in danger here – who knows when another attack on them may be attempted? Besides, Mister North, I gave my word to the masters that I would see them home, and I cannot disobey the Lord Admiral’s order to bring them safe back to England.’

‘Nor shall you, Sir Matthew,’ said North smoothly. ‘But you have a higher duty too, as a knight of the realm and the heir to one of
England
’s most illustrious titles. It is a duty that your honour, and your high birth, demands of you – that your king would demand of you, were he present.’ A confident youth indeed, to divine the wishes of absent
Majesty
! And a relentless youth, too: ‘You must take Lord Conisbrough’s place, Sir Matthew. You must undertake the secret embassy to Sweden.’

‘But I know nothing of diplomacy! I cannot speak Swedish – and I must bring back the mast-ships –’

North smiled, but it was a smile from the same mould as Charles Stuart’s: the crocodile smile of the arch-dissembler. ‘The Swedes are excellent linguists, Sir Matthew. Not English, of course, but all of them have the German, in which I am fluent, and most have French, as do you and I. The High Chancellor, Count De La Gardie, is one such – indeed, he is the grandson of a Frenchman, as, I believe, are you.’ A French woman, in my case; and my paternal grandmother, the erstwhile and formidable Louise-Marie de Monconseil-Bragelonne, would not have taken kindly to having her name taken in vain by such a stripling. ‘The embassy need not delay the sailing of the mast-fleet by more than
a week or two,’ North continued, ‘given that the ice shows no sign of melting. All that is required is for a man of rank to open proceedings face-to-face, thus displaying our sovereign lord’s respect for his
child-equal
King Karl. The more detailed negotiations will take longer, but they are invariably delegated to those of lesser rank.’

‘Namely yourself,’ I said.

‘Namely myself and my Swedish counterpart, whosoever he may be, another nonentity whom history will forget.’

‘But how can this mission be accomplished so speedily? Surely the Swedish court is at Stockholm or Uppsala – the other side of the
country
? In a winter such as this, will it not take weeks to travel in just the one direction?’

‘True,’ said North, seemingly indefatigable in his argument, ‘and thus we can discount the audience with the young king and the Queen Regent that Lord Conisbrough expected to have to endure. But that would have been merely for the sake of protocol, Sir Matthew, and in my experience, protocol can always be adjusted.’ Experience! And yet I, who had fought against the combined armies of Marshal Turenne and Oliver Cromwell when I was barely eighteen, should have been the last man to dismiss the possibility that Lydford North had started young, and experienced much. ‘No, it was always intended that the real
business
would be transacted with the true power in Sweden – the High Chancellor, De La Gardie. He favours the French, but not blindly so – he is amenable to argument, and even more so to money. It happens that the High Chancellor has an estate barely a hundred miles from here, where he is building a quite remarkably grandiose palace,’ said North easily. ‘It is no inconvenience to His Excellency, and naturally arouses no suspicion, for him to be resident there. He has business in these parts – or so he has told the Queen Regent. Thus even now, with the land frozen, you can be there and back in days. Two or three formal but secret audiences, Sir Matthew. That is all that will be required.’

I felt my heart’s beat. North was so plausible, and yet this was truly
terra incognita
for Matthew Quinton. The oath I had sworn meant I could consult no-one; none at all, apart from this strange creature, at once impossibly young and impossibly old, that stood before me. ‘If we encounter unforeseen delays – if, then, the masts fail to reach England,’ I said tentatively, ‘the navy could not fight one battle –’

‘Sir Matthew,’ said Lydford North sharply, ‘if we do not have the Swedish alliance, there may be no England to fight for.’

For the only time that I could recall, I wished with all my heart that my brother was in my place. Charles Quinton, Earl of Ravensden – a man of undoubted rank, a man who had negotiated with kings, cardinals and criminals alike, a man used to acting the part that was required of him. Dear God, Charles would have known how to answer this upstart North. Charles would have known how to disport himself in secret negotiations with the ruler of another land, especially since he was already familiar with the land. Charles would not have dreaded –
did not dread
– the prospect of failure, and with it the possible wrath of Arlington and King Charles the Second. But my brother was not in that low, dark room at that moment. In his place was young Matt, acting the part of Sir Matthew Quinton, whoever he might be.

And yet…

Yes, and yet. True, I had a responsibility to the mast-fleet that lay
icebound
within the road of Gothenburg, but perhaps I had also been given a God-given opportunity to ensure that it would not be the last such fleet to reach England in the present war. If the High Chancellor had ordered the embargo on new supplies, was it not at least possible that he could be persuaded to reverse that policy by the envoy of His Britannic Majesty?

There was another vista before me, too. Landtshere Ter Horst had refused to sanction the deportation to England of the vile regicide Bale. Might not the intercession of King Charles’s ambassador with King Karl’s High Chancellor ensure that the wretch finally came to the
righteous
and divinely ordained sentence of hanging, disembowelment, the burning of entrails, castration and quartering?

At the very least, that would make my mother happy: especially if she was able to watch.

‘Very well, Mister North,’ I heard myself say, ‘you have your
ambassador
.’

We buried Peregrine, Lord Conisbrough, after the English fashion, that is, by torchlight in the evening, the service being held within the great German church upon the broad canal that bisected the town. The Swedes found this perplexing, as it is their custom to leave their dead unburied for months, if not years, until the ground unfreezes sufficiently to dig graves and they have saved enough lucre to be able to afford a grand interment for the deceased. It was with only some difficulty that we had persuaded the pastor of the German church, a sullen Brandenburger, to permit a Baron of England the honour of a grave beneath the floor of his south aisle.

Thomas Eade, the chaplain of the
Cressy
¸ delivered an adequate and thankfully brief eulogy, and led us briskly through the funeral service: the bitter cold of a Swedish winter night was repelled not a jot by the walls of the German church, broad but relatively low by English standards, nor by the blazing torches within, so many of those within the congregation, myself included, were visibly shivering. I could see my breath rise in little clouds before my eyes. My teeth chattered. My hands were gloved, but I seemed to have precious little feeling in them. And yet I kept my eyes upon the coffin – the very large coffin – upon its bier before the altar, mourning the man who lay within.

‘Now is Christ risen from the dead,’ Eade proclaimed, reciting the
words in his flat Westmorland tones, ‘and become the first fruits of them that slept. For since by man came death, by man came also the
resurrection
of the dead…’

As Eade droned on, I reflected that my old friend and comrade-
in-arms
Francis Gale would have made a rather better fist of the interment. Indeed, I had not realised until that moment how much I missed Francis’s counsel and steadying presence at my side. Certain it was that he had a God-given duty to tend to his flock in my home parish; his last letter had spoken of the ever-increasing insolencies of the dissenters in our part of Bedfordshire, among whom a certain Bunyan held a particular sway. Even more certain was the unbridled wrath that could be expected from my mother if Francis forsook that duty once again to serve at sea alongside me. But I knew I could handle my mother, and vowed there and then that I would take Francis to sea once more in my next command.

Thus lost in my thoughts, I was briefly unaware of a sudden
commotion
at the back of the church, by the west door. North, sitting to my right, had already turned to face it, and I, too, inclined my head in that direction.

‘By Heaven, the presumption!’ hissed North. ‘The killer comes to mock his victim!’

Within the west door stood John, Lord Bale, surrounded by a dozen or so supporters who were clearly heavily armed.

There was confusion in the church. All heads were turning westward. There was much angry murmuring, especially from the Cressys. Phineas Musk, in a pew across the nave, had his hand inside his jerkin, and I knew for certain it would be resting upon the hilt of a knife. The
prospect
of a pitched battle upon holy ground seemed imminent indeed, and my honour would not permit such a desecration. Which meant but one thing, if we were to avert bloodshed –

‘North,’ I said sharply, ‘with me. Now.’

I stood, and with Lydford North at my side, I strode up the nave toward the west door, my hand outstretched to command all Cressys to
remain where they were. Bale looked upon my approach curiously, but stood his ground. The men of his little army tensed, their hands going to concealed weapons.

I halted before the regicide. ‘In the name of God,’ I said, ‘what is it that you do here? Why do you show such disrespect to the dead, and dare show your face among those who mourn?’

Lord Bale did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked me up and down appraisingly before greeting me with perfect courtesy. ‘Sir
Matthew
.’ His attention turned to Lydford North, who seemed barely able to contain his rage. ‘And you will be Arlington’s creature. I am surprised the noble lord sends one so very young to kill me.’

This took me aback, but it clearly had no such effect upon
Lydford
North. There was no denial: rather, there was a grim half-smile of acknowledgement. ‘You killed My Lord Conisbrough,’ said North, ‘as you killed the king. I shall merely be the instrument of God’s righteous judgment upon you.’

‘The killing of Charles Stuart I have no choice but to acknowledge,’ said Bale casually, the murder of a monarch reduced to a mere matter of fact. ‘But I did not kill Conisbrough. You can believe that or not, but having murdered a king, as you would put it, why would I not admit my guilt for the very much lesser killing of a baron?’ There were angry cries behind me, and again I raised my arm to quell the revolt.

‘Then what is it that you do here?’ I could not bring myself to bestow the correct dignity of ‘My Lord’ upon this villain.

‘Two reasons. First, Sir Matthew, I tell you to your face that the noble lord, there, was killed not by me, but by another. There is a dark force abroad in this land, an enemy to us all -’

Lydford North scoffed at that. ‘You are the only dark force here, John Bale. And you will perish at my hand, that I swear.’

‘This,’ I demanded contemptuously, ‘would be the same dark force that sought to kill me upon the streets of this city so very recently? A dark force that you yourself have unleashed?’

Lord Bale ignored North; his eyes were fixed upon me alone. ‘Believe whomsoever you wish to believe, Sir Matthew Quinton. I have been here for six years, you for barely six days, and I now know this land nearly as well as did the noble lord, yonder. I say there is an evil at work in this benighted realm of Sweden – an evil that transcends the petty quarrel of Cavalier and Roundhead. Yes, those who tried to kill you served it, but they did not serve
me
.’ He nodded toward Conisbrough’s coffin. ‘And if you seek proof that I did not kill he who lies yonder, consider my second reason for wishing to come here tonight.’

‘That being?’

‘Correct me if, in my absence, the present King Charles’s
Parliament
has passed new laws to the contrary,’ said Bale heavily, ‘but as I recall, it has always been customary in England for a man’s closest relation to be the chief mourner at his funeral.’ I glanced at North, but his face was impassive. ‘Conisbrough was my good-father,’ Bale continued. ‘His daughter is my wife, although I have not seen her these six years. Why do you think I chose Gothenburg as my place of exile, when I could have lived out my days in warmer climes? I have been under his secret protection all this time, despite his
detestation
of my part in the High Court of Justice.’ Thus the malcontents termed that illegal monstrosity, the sham-court which condemned a King of England to death by beheading. ‘He hated me and the fact that his daughter loved me, but I loved and respected him, Sir
Matthew
. Believe it or not, for that is your prerogative, but for me to kill Peregrine Conisbrough would be akin to killing myself. Our quarrel at the Landtshere’s was brought about by our differences over the future of one dear to us both.’ Bale’s eyes narrowed. ‘And that, gentlemen, is the crux of my innocence. For think upon this. What man would kill his own son’s grandfather?’

With that, Bale nodded curtly to me and turned, making no acknowledgment at all of Lydford North. With Wood and his guards flanking him, he walked out into the bitter Swedish night. Through the open
west door, I saw that the snow was falling again.

I was in my great cabin aboard the
Cressy
, making final preparations for the embassy to the High Chancellor. Or rather, Musk was making the preparations, commanding such-and-such to be placed within my travelling chest and such-and-such to be removed, ordering my young servants Ives and Upton hither and thither, while addressing me with only a modicum of greater respect.

‘Will Sir Matthew really be requiring a
third
sword upon the journey? A good snowfall will do for Sir Matthew’s better hats. Lady Quinton will be displeased if Sir Matthew ruins yet another pair of French breeches –’

‘Enough, Musk, in God’s name!’ I was still not best pleased with him for concealing from me the knowledge of my brother having been in Sweden; I had tasked him with the matter during our journey back to the
Cressy
, but he pleaded innocence as only Phineas Musk could. ‘Forty-nine was a desperate year,’ he said, ‘and My Lord was employed much upon missions to garner support for the new king. Sweden,
Denmark
, Holland, France, Spain – wherever there might be a prince willing to lift a finger for one of their own kind. I knew no more than that, Sir Matthew. Spent most of that year barricaded in Ravensden House so as the rude mob didn’t pillage it. One week all I had to eat was one old dead rat I found behind a close-stool.’

Young Kellett suddenly burst into the cabin without ceremony. Musk rounded on him and was clearly prepared to fire off one of his most ferocious bellows, but the lad forestalled him. ‘Mister Farrell’s
compliments
, Sir Matthew, and he requests your immediate presence upon deck. Lookouts have sighted something untoward, sir.’

More than a little relieved to be removed from both Musk’s evasiveness and his vision of domestic organisation alike, I made my way to the quarterdeck. Kit and Jeary were at the starboard rail, their telescopes trained on a craft moving toward us through the islets of the
archipelago. Both turned and saluted as I approached, and Kit at once offered me his eyepiece.

‘A galley,’ he said. ‘Large one. But whose?’

I focused on the fast-approaching vessel. I had seen galleys before, of course: those of the French, the Ottomans, the Venetians, the Knights of Malta and the Barbary corsairs in the Mediterranean, as well as those of the Sallee rovers off the west coast of Africa. In those seas, they were to be expected. But here, in the icy waters of the north?

‘The Danes still have a few,’ said Jeary gruffly. ‘Perhaps the Swedes, too, although I have never seen any of theirs. They were once common in these waters. Not so nowadays.’

‘Most likely a Swede, then,’ said Kit.

‘Most likely,’ I said.

‘The Swedes have a galley-dock upstream, beneath the old Elfsborg castle,’ said Jeary. ‘She’ll probably be making for that.’

I continued to watch the galley. She was lower and beamier than those I had encountered in the Mediterranean; a long slender hull with a single bank of oars and some sort of shed-like wooden structure
covering
where the quarterdeck would have been on a warship. Three large cannon were mounted as bow-chasers overlooking the beakhead. She flew no pennant or ensign. And as I watched, I felt a growing sense of unease. The galley’s bow wave seemed to be growing; I knew the water would be spilling over the ram hidden under the waterline, below the beakhead. I counted in even time to thirty as I watched the sweep of her oars into the water, then counted the same again. I lowered my telescope. There was no mistaking it now.

‘The oarsmen are increasing the rate,’ I said. ‘She’s picking up speed. Why would she do that, if she means to come to an anchor or go up to the galley-dock?’

Kit, Jeary and I looked at each other in the same moment, the same thought evidently in all our minds. And we could not move. Even if some magic could be found to bring up our double anchors in the blink
of an eye, there was not a breath of wind upon the waters.

‘Surely the Danes would never dare,’ said Kit. ‘Attacking us in
Swedish
waters? Risking war between themselves and this country?’

‘Did we expect them to fire upon us at Bergen?’ I replied.

Not the Danes, boy
, a voice in my head seemed to say; and indeed, it would surely have been madness, if not suicide, for King Frederik to order an attack on the kingdom that had utterly humiliated his own only a few short years before. But then I recalled the ingenious, desperate attack on the mast-ships, and also I heard John Bale’s words:
There is a dark force abroad in this land, an enemy to us all.
Perhaps the regicide was right after all.

‘Sir,’ said Jeary urgently, ‘should we clear for action?’

I looked again at the distance between us, calculated the speed of the galley, and recalled the demonstrations of the speed of such craft that I had witnessed in the Mediterranean. There had been a Venetian galley off Ithaca that astonished me, seeming almost to fly across the sea –

‘No time,’ I said. ‘We will never clear and run out a broadside before she is up with us. And what if she is a Swede after all? But man as many guns as we can upon the upper deck, Mister Farrell. Break out swords, muskets and half-pikes. Trumpeters, there!’

Purton and Drewell, the ship’s two young trumpeters, emerged hesitantly from the tiny hutches in the poop that constituted their cabins; they had only just returned from ashore and were evidently attempting to sleep off the effects. But they saw to their duty with a vigorous, if not entirely note-perfect, rendition of a shrill clarion-call. Meanwhile Kit was at the quarterdeck rail, barking orders to
Lanherne
, Carvell and as many of the ships’ petty officers as were within earshot. And all the while the galley came on, relentlessly, seemingly faster and faster, heading directly for our starboard quarter, apparently intent upon ramming.

Cressys spilled out onto the upper deck, each more bewildered than the last. At last men were coming up from the armoury clutching
armfuls of weapons. Phineas Musk emerged from below, too, and thrust a familiar scabbard into my hand.

‘Third-best sword,’ he said. ‘Already packed the other two.’

We had men along the rail now: a makeshift force, unlikely to mount anything more than a token resistance if the galley was truly intent on ramming and boarding, as it surely seemed to be. Its bow wave was formidable now, and despite myself, I had to admire the spectacle. The oars cut the water, emerged, swung forward and cut again with almost immaculate rhythm –