The Judas Blade (4 page)

‘Did you speak of clothes, and water for washing?’

‘I did.’ All at once, the young man smiled: not the warning smile he had used on the boat, but a real smile. He even allowed himself a sigh of relief: that of a man who has faced a daunting task, and seen it through. Turning to the servant, he opened his mouth – then gave a start.

Fortunately he possessed quick reactions; or so Betsy would think later. For the present all she did was stagger and fall, while her surroundings swam dizzily about her. But before she could hit the floor she was caught, by the same pair of strong
arms that had brought her from the King’s Bench prison to safety.

And after that she was dimly aware of being carried, before blackness settled over her, and a blissful oblivion.

B
ETSY SLEPT HEAVILY
, finally waking with a jolt. She looked about … then remembering that she was no longer in the prison cell, sank back upon the pillow and gave herself up to overwhelming relief. But a moment later she tensed: something was odd. She felt her body, and found she was wearing only a linen shift. Uneasily, she sat up.

She was in a small room with drawn curtains, through which a streak of daylight showed. The only furniture was a chair, piled with what looked like bedding. Turning the coverlet back, she got up quickly … too quickly. Her legs wobbled, and with a thud she sat down on bare floorboards. And there she stayed, leaning back against the bed, until the door opened.

‘Is anything wrong, mistress?’

Feeling rather foolish, Betsy looked up to see someone walk in. The figure went to the window and pulled back the curtains, revealing herself as the young maidservant who had admitted her to the house. ‘I heard a noise,’ she said. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘I don’t believe so.’ Betsy managed a smile. ‘I’m just a little weak … would you mind helping me?’

The servant came forward and took her arm. Putting her other hand on the bed, Betsy heaved herself to her feet and stood, somewhat shakily.

‘My thanks.’ She eyed the girl. ‘Was it you who washed me?’

The other nodded. ‘You were insensible. I had to cut your clothes off before I could soap you. I burned them – they were fit for naught else.’

‘Again, thanks.’ Betsy glanced at the chair, which she now saw was heaped with women’s clothing. ‘Are those for me?’

‘Yes, mistress. It’s only fripperers’ ware, but clean.’ Moving to the pile, the girl took a petticoat and held it up to the light. ‘If you rummage, you’ll find garments to suit … there are shoes here too.’ She looked round. ‘You’ll be hungry – there’s a herring pie in the kitchen.’

As if in answer, Betsy’s stomach rumbled like thunder. ‘That sounds splendid.’ She glanced out of the window and saw that she was on the first floor of the house. From below, street noises rose.

‘Wrestler … did he carry me up here?’ she asked.

‘Mr Crabb’s downstairs, with Mr Lee,’ the girl replied, nodding. ‘Mr Lee has let you rest, but I wouldn’t keep him waiting much longer. It’s past two of the clock – you’ve slept for over seven hours.’ With a shy smile she started for the door, whereupon Betsy stayed her.

‘Who is Mr Lee?’

‘He’s our master. An important man.’

‘And your name?’

‘It’s Eleanor,’ came the reply.

Betsy gazed at her absently. Only now were yesterday’s events coming into sharper focus. She put a hand to her lip, and found it was swollen.

‘I cleaned the dry blood from your mouth,’ Eleanor told her. ‘I’ve some witch-hazel downstairs, will help it heal.’

‘You’re a treasure, Eleanor,’ Betsy said, much to the girl’s embarrassment. ‘I’ll dress and come down to the kitchen. Then I suppose I had better go to Mr Lee.’

‘Indeed you must,’ the girl said. ‘And I’d choose a different garb from the one you had. Mr Lee’s very proper.’

With that she hurried out. Thoughtfully, Betsy moved to the chair and began to pick through the clothes.

The Important Man’s real name was not Lee, of course; she had already suspected that. When she found out who he was, however, she was surprised and impressed.

‘Lord Caradoc speaks highly of you, mistress,’ he said, peering down at her; he was a tall man. ‘Yet it remains for me to judge whether you’ve earned the trust placed in you – do you follow?’

Stiffly, Betsy signalled assent. She had rested, been washed clean, dressed herself in clean clothes and eaten a good meal; things she had longed for inside the King’s Bench. Yet now, seated in this candlelit room with the windows shuttered, she was ill-at-ease. The well-dressed, imposing man in the black periwig, who had received her somewhat coolly, was one reason: the other was the presence of Peter Crabb, sitting in the corner. He no longer played the dim-witted bruiser Betsy had known in the prison. Now he was regarding her keenly, which made her uncomfortable.

‘Ask me what you will, sir,’ she said, meeting Mr Lee’s eye. His accent was unfamiliar, though she knew it hailed from the far north. ‘For I’ve much to tell …’ But she broke off when he held up a hand.

‘Soon,’ he said. ‘First, I have things to say to you.’

He was standing near the window, where he had been since Betsy entered. Now he moved to a small table on which lay papers and writing materials, and sat down beside it.

‘I’m Joseph Williamson,’ he said. And when Betsy showed her surprise, he added, ‘I see the name’s known to you.’

‘You’re Lord Arlington’s deputy,’ she murmured, naming one of the Cabal – the King’s closest ministers.

‘His Under-Secretary,’ Williamson corrected. ‘But you will know me always as Mr John Lee.’

Putting on a respectful expression, Betsy gave silent thanks to Eleanor for telling her to wear suitable clothes. This severe man had no time for flummery, she thought, and no doubt little for actresses. She could only hope the plain russet gown and
black bertha would serve. She glanced at Peter Crabb as another thought struck her – then saw that Williamson had anticipated her.

‘You guess correctly,’ he said. ‘Crabb is not this man’s real name. As you will use that of Beatrice … provided, that is, you continue in my service.’

‘
Your
service, sir?’ she echoed. ‘I thought I was in the employ of Lord Caradoc.’

‘Then you were mistaken,’ came the swift reply. ‘His lordship is a loyal friend, and has often helped our office in the past, but the gathering of intelligence is my task.’

‘You mean … spying?’ Betsy blurted out.

A frown crossed Williamson’s brow. ‘I advise discretion, Beatrice,’ he murmured. He picked up a sheet of paper and ran his eyes down it. ‘However, Crabb’s report is favourable. You have acquitted yourself well inside the King’s Bench – far better than I expected.’

Betsy looked at Peter Crabb, who threw her a brief smile. ‘Some of us had work to do while you slept,’ he said –
whereupon
she sat up sharply.

‘Is that what you were doing inside the prison?’ she asked. ‘Spying on me?’

Williamson answered instead. ‘It’s not important,’ he said shortly. ‘Crabb can answer your questions later, if he’s a mind. You and he will be spending some time together – that is, if you agree to work for me.’

But now, Betsy was forming a picture. ‘Do you mean to tell me the days I spent in that vile place were merely a test of some kind?’ she asked. ‘Then, what of Venn? And what of—?’

The other raised his hand again. ‘Please. I know what you have endured, and yet—’

‘Do you indeed, sir?’ In spite of the man’s status, Betsy’s temper was rising. ‘Do you also understand the dangers I faced there? Exposed to sickness, let alone hunger and cruelty—’

‘Enough!’ Williamson was impatient now. ‘I know very well what the prisons are like,’ he snapped. ‘As do my agents, most of whom have suffered far worse hardships than you in the service of His Majesty – even paid with their lives.’

Silence fell. With an effort Betsy calmed herself, whereupon the man continued in a softer tone, ‘Believe me, mistress, when I tell you that your stay in the King’s Bench was more than a test – far more. I’m not so well supplied with agents that I can afford to waste such opportunities as may arise.’ He paused, then: ‘You spoke with the conspirator, Venn. Are you ready to tell me all that he told you?’

‘I suppose I am,’ Betsy answered after a moment. ‘Although I believe I could have learned more, had he not been murdered. He was awaiting important news, he said. But I’ve committed every word he said to memory.’

‘Good!’ The under-secretary leaned forward so suddenly that Betsy blinked. There was a gleam in his eye that seemed out of character. This man relished his work, she thought. On impulse, she spoke up.

‘Why did you say Mr Crabb and I would be spending time together, if I agreed to work for you?’

Williamson paused, then, ‘Are you telling me that you would consider doing so?’

Now Betsy was silent. All of a sudden, the situation seemed fantastical. Only hours ago she had been sat in a damp, filthy cell, shivering with cold. Now she seemed to be discussing her future with a member of the government.

‘Would I have to go to prison again?’ she asked finally, to which the other shook his head.

‘That isn’t what I had in mind.’

‘Then, what did you have in mind?’

‘A very different role – one you would no doubt find more congenial.’ Williamson glanced briefly at Crabb. ‘But the choice is yours. After you’ve given me your intelligence, you may take your payment, leave here and return to your life in the theatre –
if you must. Though you’ll remain sworn to secrecy with regard to all that’s passed – on pain of death.’

‘And … if I were willing to continue in your employ?’

‘Then you would make me a contented man. Especially as I have no other female agents at the present. You could prove invaluable … And with regard to payment, you would not find me ungenerous.’

‘Indeed?’ Betsy lowered her gaze. Thoughts of her father’s troubles, and those of Tom Catlin, flitted across her mind to be replaced by another notion. Despite all she had endured – including the tiresome role of a Moorfields trull – she felt excited. Williamson was speaking of acting, but not for an audience of city fops. Nor would this be acting from words penned by others, but those fashioned by herself to meet many occasions – occasions in which failure could mean real danger. She swallowed, and looked up to find both men watching her closely.

‘I would like a sum in advance,’ she said, making her voice flat. ‘Paid not to me, but to Mistress Mary Luxton in Chelsea. She is my sister.’ Then, taking Williamson’s brief wave of his hand for assent, she added, ‘Upon that, Mr Lee …’

‘Upon that?’ Williamson’s tone matched hers.

‘We are in agreement,’ she finished.

‘Then, you have my word,’ he said. ‘And if that concludes the wrangling, I’d now like to hear all that Venn told you before his untimely death – and I mean everything. Is that clear … Beatrice?’

‘It is, Mr Lee,’ Betsy replied. And with that, she began her testimony.

It took less time than she thought. To her relief, she found that most of it made sense to the under-secretary. Moreover, as she recounted Venn’s hurried words to her from memory, the man’s interest grew until he was hanging on every word. When she had finished, however, he sat back abruptly.

‘This news he expected, from outside the prison. Have you
no clue as to what it concerned, or who the bringer might be?’

Betsy shook her head. ‘He spoke of a friend. I thought it might be a gaoler.’

‘Then the pathway isn’t mapped – indeed, it’s as dark as pitch.’ Williamson frowned at Crabb, as if it were somehow his fault. ‘If only we knew who killed the wretch, we’d at least have a trail to follow. Could you learn nothing from your turnkey?’

Crabb shook his head. ‘No known associate of Venn’s was in the prison,’ he said. ‘I’d swear to that. As for the guards …’ He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t trust a single one of them.’

Williamson’s eyes shifted towards Betsy, but he wasn’t looking at her. She sensed a sharp mind, sifting and calculating; and at last he seemed to reach a decision.

‘Well, then – you know where you must go next?’ he said, turning back to Crabb. The younger man nodded, though he looked far from pleased.

‘Will you instruct Beatrice in her part?’ he began, ‘Or—’

‘You can do that on the journey,’ Williamson answered. ‘It will give you time to practise your roles. I’ll send Eleanor too.’ He faced Betsy, who was now feeling quite alarmed.

‘Journey?’ she repeated. ‘Where am I— where are we going?’

‘Isn’t that obvious?’ Williamson retorted. ‘We need to find this bogus priest, discover what mischief he’s planning – this
projection
Venn spoke of. You must take ship for the United Dutch Provinces – there are boats from Dover. You’ll go as a gentlewoman, with the others as your servants. You should leave in three days at the most.’

‘So soon?’ Betsy started. ‘But if I’m to play a lady, I must make ready. I’ll need clothes … I should go home.’

‘You have three days,’ the under-secretary repeated. ‘Crabb will meet you, at a place of your choosing. He’ll have a purse of guilders, and my instructions, which you should study when you reach your destination. Now, if you’ve no further questions, I have much to do!’ And with that dismissal he looked away.
Flipping open an inkwell, he seized a quill, dipped it and at once began writing.

In silence, Betsy rose. Crabb was already on his feet. Moving to the door, he opened it and made a bow. ‘Your servant, madam,’ he said gravely. Whereupon with barely a glance, she walked outside to the hallway.

‘Shall I find a chair to take you home?’ The blond giant closed the door and stood by respectfully. Yet when Betsy turned to him she saw no mockery in his gaze – instead, she found something quite different.

Cods
! she breathed.
As if I didn’t have enough to fret about
… but keeping a straight face, she nodded. Once he had gone out, however, she went to the staircase and sat down heavily on the bottom step.

She was filled with foreboding, though not by what she had seen in Peter Crabb’s eyes. The young man, it seemed, was besotted with her, but that was something she could deal with. Far more alarming just now, was her rash decision in agreeing to become a spy for King Charles’s Government!

In three days she was to travel to the Dutch Provinces as a gentlewoman. She would have to make more excuses to Tom Catlin and Peg, and send a message to Betterton… She gulped. She had never been on a ship in her life – never left England. For a moment, she thought about going back into the room and telling Williamson that she had changed her mind – that the whole thing was absurd.

But she didn’t.

Instead, three days later, she found herself crossing the grey, freezing expanse of the North Sea on a heaving vessel, racked with a violent nausea. And as if that weren’t enough, when she finally staggered ashore after dark onto the quayside of a small West Flanders town, there was no one to meet her.