The Pirate and the Pagan (51 page)

“The courtyard at Whitehall has grass growin’ up between the cobbles,” he said.

“Aren’t there any businesses left open?” she asked, worried about where she would get food.

“The wheel of fortune turns,” he told her philosophically. “Londoners have lived high for so long, thumbing their noses at the rest of humanity, but now that luck has deserted them they are overwhelmed with grief. Once the King and Queen deserted her, the rest followed suit like a pack of cards. The court fled, then every other citizen with the means to do so fled. The theaters closed, its actresses thrown out of work turned to whoring, but for once even that trade didn’t thrive, for who would couple with a diseased body? The gravediggers are thriving, thieves are doing a bang-up business looting deserted houses. Anybody willing to nurse the sick can make a fortune. Any cookshops left open are charging ten times normal for food and folk are fightin’ to pay it. Even poor old
sods like me are collectin’ gold pieces.” He winked at her as they turned into Cockspur Street.

“I suppose there are many like me,” she said absently, listening with only half an ear.

“Nay, lass—I earn gold every night cartin’ off the corpses.”

“Oh, my God.” She shrank back from him in horror as she realized her trunks were being carried on a death cart. She paid him his money, glad to be rid of him. She unlocked the front door and dragged her trunks into the beautifully appointed entrance hall. It was a cool haven for her and she leaned her back against the door, thankful that she could withdraw safely and shut out the whole of the plague-riddled city.

A note had been shoved through the letter box in the front door and she bent to retrieve it. Her heart gave a jolt as she saw the handwriting was Spider’s. She took it through to the small salon, where she drew back the curtains to let in the daylight. She slipped her shoes off her aching feet and anxiously scanned the lines from her brother. A great knot of anxiety formed inside her chest as she read his note.

His friend had been under the weather … what if he’d been sickening with the plague? The premonition of danger to her brother was so strong that she knew she must go to him. The only thing she found in the cupboards was some dry biscuit, and as she choked it down she wondered where she would find the courage to go out into the streets of London and look boldly into the face of the Grim Reaper.

L
ord Helford was early for his appointment with King Charles, but the King was seldom tardy and had been up since the crack of dawn. Actually Salisbury was beginning to wear on his nerves. The town had opened its heart to him and his court, but the confines hemmed him in considerably and the respectability and even the sheer cleanliness of the place set him longing for brawling, sprawling London.

The King’s brother, the Duke of York, arrived with his father-in-law, Chancellor Hyde, and Charles gave Ruark a speaking glance to be careful of what he said. “I take it you’ve been in contact with your brother Rory?” said Charles, cutting to the heart of the matter.

“I have, Sire. The
Phantom
slipped in and out of Southampton last night. He delivered the secret messages to The Hague suggesting negotiations to a peaceful settlement of this war and I regret that they were rejected.”

Charles flushed angrily at the affront to his pride. “We should never have lowered ourselves to make the offer!”

Chancellor Hyde held up his hand to soothe Charles. “There is no shame in offering a means to an honorable peace.”

“God damn Parliament for tying my hands. I’d like to blow the Dutch out of the water, and would do so if they didn’t control
every damned penny in the Exchequer.” His big fist cracked down onto the table to emphasize his frustration.

Hyde placated as best he could. “I will go back to Parliament and demand money for this war. If they know I am committed to it, perhaps they will loosen the purse strings.”

Ruark Helford chose his words carefully. “My brother arranged a secret meeting with de Ruyter himself.” The three men riveted their attention upon him. “De Ruyter concludes, as my brother and I conclude, that our sea power is too evenly matched for a clear and decisive victory in this war.”

Charles gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, Helford, at least you tell me the unvarnished truth and not just what I want to hear. Well, Chancellor, you must feel most gratified that you were right and hotheads like Buckingham, Lauderdale, and myself were wrong.”

The old man’s hand went up again. “No, no, if they are not yet ready to negotiate a peace, then I must get money from Parliament and we must pursue and harry them with a vengeance until they are damned glad to open negotiations.”

Charles gave his brother a signal to leave and take his father-in-law with him. When he was at last private with his friend Helford, he asked, “And the other delicate matter I entrusted to that damned pirate?”

Ruark Helford grinned. He reached inside a leather case and withdrew a sealed document from the King of France. “He jumped at the chance to buy back the city of Dunkirk.”

Charles ripped open the letter. “He offers double what I asked … two hundred thousand pounds!” he said with pleased disbelief.

“Er … that was Rory’s idea. He’s a most devious fellow, I’m afraid; he told him you asked two hundred thousand.”

Charles was elated. “I’m glad you had sense enough not to mention it in front of the others. They’ll know only when it’s a fait accompli. After all, bloody Dunkirk belongs to France … just because Cromwell’s army captured it doesn’t make it part and parcel of England. You’ve no idea how sick and tired I am of being penniless and going hat in hand to Parliament like a sodding beggar with a tin cup. I’m so poor, I haven’t a pot to piss in or a window to throw it through. When do you think I’ll get the money?”

Lord Helford grinned again. “The gold was transferred from the
Phantom
to the
Pagan Goddess
last night.”

“God’s flesh, the Helford brothers are mighty good to know,” he said, winking.

“If you’ll excuse me, Sire, I shall seek out Lady Helford and remind her of her wifely duties.”

“Summer isn’t here in Salisbury,” corrected Charles.

“You must be mistaken, Sire. I don’t think she’s been here long. Stubborn wench had to be pried away from London, but my brother assures me he gave her safe passage here.”

Charles shook his head and winked at Ruark. “I know Summer isn’t here or I wouldn’t be so damned bored.”

“She must be staying with Lady Richwood,” said Lord Helford, unable to keep the annoyance from his voice.

Charles grinned. “Get her with child, it will effectively clip her wings.”

“I’ve already done that, Sire, but it doesn’t stop her from running off on her adventures.”

    Before Summer left the security of Cockspur Street, she wanted to be sure she had everything she might need. First and foremost was money; it was ever so. Then she decided if she was carrying a tidy sum of money through half-empty streets, she would need her pistol. She found a valise and put in a package of the dry biscuits and a bottle of full-bodied port wine. She put in a fresh change of clothes and a pair of soft slippers along with her toilet articles. Knowing she would likely have to walk for two or three miles into the city proper, she knew she could not carry more.

She set off along Northumberland to the Thames, Perhaps she would be lucky enough to find traffic on the river which would take her to Paul’s Wharfe. There was an occasional wherry passed in midstream, but no matter how loudly she hailed it, she was totally ignored. Finally she gave up and resigned herself to walking. As she made her way along the Embankment she noticed all kinds of disgusting rubbish had collected and where the filth had fallen into the water, it had turned into a loathsome broth. Emaciated dogs rummaged in reeking piles of rotting filth and Summer had to avert her eyes. Gulls and even crows were picking at bloated objects floating farther out in the Thames and Summer’s graphic imagination made her gorge rise.

Between White Friars Stairs and Black Friars a navy patrol boat
pulled close enough to call out to her. “If you enter the city, you will not be allowed to leave, and there is a curfew.”

“I must find my brother,” she called back.

“Over seven thousand died last week. Guards are posted in the streets to keep people inside.” He did not await her reply. He had warned her and if she was pig ignorant enough not to heed him, then plague take the wench.

She turned north from the river at Bridewell Prison and wished to God she hadn’t. What furniture and mattresses had been supplied the prisoners were now heaped into the street on bonfires and guards were in the process of carrying out the corpses of women who were dying like flies. The bodies were half-naked. All had bare legs and feet; the rest of their emaciated bodies were garbed in tattered rags. The stench was unbearable and every last one was smeared with the grime and filth of years.

She began to shake uncontrollably and turned back to the river to cut through by Baynard’s Castle. That also was a mistake. Seamen lay in the street. At first she thought they were plague victims, but before she could avoid them, they crawled after her and clawed at her skirts, begging for food. A few were drunk, but most were genuinely starving, for no ship would take back its crew members once they had been in the City of London and sailors by the score had nowhere to go, no money, and no food. Their eyes were filled with apathy and misery and malice.

Summer gave them all the dry biscuits she had and literally pulled her skirts from their beseeching hands. She ran from the river all the way to St. Paul’s then turned into Warwick Lane and looked for number 13. There was a yard with a water pump, but it seemed deserted. All the ground-floor houses which had the even numbers were empty. Her eyes lifted to the odd-numbered dwellings upstairs and she spotted the ominously numbered 13. With her heart in her mouth she hammered on the door and was swept with a wave of relief when no one answered her knock. He must be safely in Oxford. She sat down on the landing of the outside staircase to catch her breath. Now that she was past the halfway mark of her pregnancy she found she wasn’t as quick and agile as she had been and exertion left her quite breathless.

As she sat resting the sound of someone softly crying came to her. She lifted her head warily like an animal scenting danger. Suddenly she knew it was her brother, even though she hadn’t heard him cry since he was three. She looked through the window
which was slightly ajar and saw him sitting with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth.

“Spider, it’s me, Cat,” she called to him. When he didn’t seem to hear her, she pushed hard against the door and found that it was not locked after all. The stench which met her nostrils was so offensive it staggered her. She went on her knees before him. “Spider, it’s Cat … what’s the matter?” she demanded. He lifted his head slowly and looked at her with glazed eyes. Then he seemed to become aware of her for the first time. “Is your friend sick?” she demanded.

He nodded his head. “Edwin … he’s got the plague,” he whispered in a terrified voice.

“Where is he? Through here?” she asked, standing up and going toward an inner door.

“No, Cat, for Christ’s sake don’t go in there. He’s finally gone to sleep.”

“The stench in here is unbearable; come on, you’ll have to help me clean it up,” she said, looking with distaste at a pile of soiled towels and sheets. “These should be burned. Do you have more?” she asked. He shook his head wearily. “Well then, I’ll just throw them down into the courtyard and wash them later. I’m going down for water from the pump. We’ll have to scrub this place to eliminate some of the stink.” She had to busy herself or her thoughts would have driven her mad. If Spider had nursed Edwin, he was sure to have been infected. She struggled up the steps with the heavy bucket of water and called, “Damn, Spider, get off your arse and help me.” It was then she noticed he was not just filled with apathy, he was flushed.

The silence in the fashionably appointed bachelor apartment gave her a creepy feeling. On impulse she opened the hall doorway and went into the first bedroom. This was definitely the source of the stench. The floor was slippery with excrement and vomit. In fascinated horror she drew closer to the bed. The young man’s face was bloated and going black. She had no way of knowing how long he had been dead.

She ran back into the salon. “Spider, Edwin is dead!” she cried.

“No … no … he’s just gone to sleep,” Spider mumbled.