A Conspiracy of Violence (39 page)

‘What are you talking about?’

He shrugged, and wished he had not mentioned it. ‘There is a certain society that preaches against fanaticism. But let’s not
talk about religion tonight. It is Christmas.’

‘But Christmas is …’ She saw he was laughing at her, and slapped him on the knee before settling again. ‘So, you bought
me a brush for my hair. Do you think it a tangled mane, then? I always imagined you considered it rather beautiful, like a
painting by Rubens.’

He smiled, thinking about what Sarah Dalton had thought of the old Dutch Master. ‘You are not fat enough to be one of his
subjects.’

‘It is nice in here with you tonight, Tom – quiet, safe and warm. I wish it could last.’

‘It will,’ he said. ‘We have the rest of our lives together.’

‘Yes,’ she said, but her voice was wistful and held no conviction. ‘I suppose we do.’

On Christmas morning, Chaloner rose hours before dawn and scrambled over the wall to the back door of North’s house, hoping
there would be no repetition of the furore that had ensued the last time he had done it. He fiddled with the lock, working
quickly and silently in the darkness. When the door was open, the turkey marched past him, its head held high, as though it
had business of its own planned for that day. Then he returned to his rooms before Metje realised he had been gone.

He insisted on walking with her to the chapel, claiming he did not care if North saw them. He pointed out that it was only
a question of time before she could no longer conceal what was happening to her, while she maintained she would rather inform
North herself than be seen stalking brazenly out of his neighbour’s bedchamber. Chaloner felt his spirits soar, making plans
and thinking about the pleasant changes the future would bring.

‘Marry me today,’ he said, taking her hands and stepping inside the chapel’s dark porch. ‘We can ride to Buckingham tomorrow,
and Meg can be born on my family’s manor.’

She smiled, although there was a sadness that should not have been there. He understood her unease: she was past thirty, and
the two boys from her previous marriage
had died in infancy. ‘I thought you wanted to be a London clerk.’

Chaloner thought about his unsettling interview with Kelyng, Bennet driving lions at him, Snow blasting away with pistols,
horsemen with swords and Robert Leybourn challenging him to duels, and realised he no longer wanted the life of a spy. Suddenly,
nothing seemed as important as Metje and the spark of life inside her. Thurloe and Clarendon would not miss him, and he certainly
would not miss them. In fact, ever since he had chased after Thurloe’s empty satchel, events had spiralled out of his control,
and he no longer wanted any part of them.

‘My brother will give us a few fields,’ he said. ‘And I can teach.’

‘But I do not want to be a farmer’s wife, thinking about chickens and pickled apples. I want to shop in busy markets, see
plays and watch the King go riding. I would suffocate in the country.’

‘Then I will ask Dalton if he can find me something more permanent.’

‘You said you had already spoken to him,’ she pounced accusingly.

‘I mean I will ask again,’ he prevaricated.

She looked hard at him, then relented. ‘Meanwhile, I can earn a little more before Mr North realises he has harboured a harlot
all these months. And then I will marry you.’

‘Chaloner,’ he said suddenly. ‘My name is Thomas Chaloner. My uncle was a regicide, and I worked as an intelligence officer
under Spymaster Thurloe. That is what I was doing in Holland – gathering potentially damaging information about your country.’

She gazed at him. ‘So I was right when I accused you of underhand activities? You really
are
a spy?’

Chaloner pressed on with his confession, wanting to finish now he had started. ‘I sent weekly reports to Thurloe, telling
him all I had learned about the movements of Dutch ships, militia and arms. Although I worked for Downing, Thurloe was my
real master. He secured me a post with the Lord Chancellor on Monday, although I am not sure how long I can keep it. These
are the reasons I go out at odd hours, and why I have never been able to tell you what I do.’

She continued to stare. ‘Is it dangerous?’

He shrugged, then nodded. ‘My family sided with Cromwell during the wars, and my regicide uncle was passionate about the cause,
so most Royalists would be extremely suspicious of a Chaloner once employed by Thurloe. One day, there will have been enough
bloodletting, but now there are still too many people who would like to punish me for what my uncle did.’

She sighed. ‘Is that all? I thought it was something terrible – you had another wife or were an escaped felon. But you are
just a spy and the nephew of a king-killer?’

He wondered whether she was being facetious. ‘You do not mind?’

‘I mind you not trusting me sooner. But I must go, and we shall talk about this later. Kiss me, then go to see Dalton – or
demand more work from Thurloe.’

‘I cannot work for Thurloe. It is unreasonable for him to assign me an investigation and then only give me half the facts.
It might see me killed, and I want to see Meg born.’

She regarded him soberly. ‘If Thurloe offers you the best opportunity, you should take it. If it proves to be risky, then
you will just have to be careful.’

He was startled. ‘That is rather callous advice.’

‘I shall be making sacrifices, too – such as giving up a life I love. Faith believes a wife’s place is in her own home, and
will never condone me leaving mine to sit with Temperance.’

To Chaloner, such considerations paled into insignificance when he considered what they would gain. He kissed her with a wild,
happy passion that left her breathless, then laughed as he released her, grateful to have shed his burden at last and pleasantly
surprised she was not angry about it. He would not have been so sanguine, had she announced that she had been spying on
his
country.

The door clanked, and Metje flew away from him. North stood there, Faith and Temperance behind him. Temperance beamed at Chaloner,
and did not seem to think there was anything odd in him being in a dark porch at such an hour. Faith did, though, and Chaloner
watched her face crease with concern when it occurred to her that he might have been lying in wait for her daughter.

‘God’s blessings, Thomas,’ she said in a voice that was far from benedictory. ‘You are up early.’

Chaloner was tempted to announce that he was on his way to fight a duel in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and that, assuming he survived,
he and Metje would marry. He also experienced a strong desire to describe how he intended to tell Thurloe to find another
fool to investigate Clarke’s death, but that he still planned to locate some treasure for the Lord Chancellor, in the hope
that it would eventually see him sent to The Hague. Holland would be a safer place for his new family, and Metje would not
spend her life in fear of an attack by people who detested Dutch Puritans. But he was not in the habit
of acting on reckless whims, and settled for nodding agreement.

‘Why are you here?’ demanded Faith suspiciously. ‘To see Temperance?’

‘Are you?’ asked Temperance, eyes shining with pleasure.

Before he could think of a reply that would mollify one and not hurt the other, the door clanked a second time, and Preacher
Hill entered, resplendent in a large white collar and a new hat.

‘God’s greetings,’ he boomed. ‘Killed the turkey yet? They need a lot of roasting, so if you plan to eat it today, it should
be in the oven already. I am something of an expert on turkey meat, and—’

‘Well?’ demanded Faith, cutting across him and glaring at Chaloner.

‘Mr Heyden has been very kind,’ said Metje, stepping forward to smile at Faith. ‘He was worried about me walking from Mrs
Partridge’s house in the dark this morning, and came to accompany me. Then he refused to leave until you arrived, and he knew
I was safe from bomb-throwers and window-breakers.’

North nodded his thanks, then pointed upwards. ‘Another pane was smashed last night, and it is only a matter of time before
a person is hurt. It is good of you to be solicitous, Heyden.’

‘It is a pity you were not as determined with that burglar,’ remarked Faith unpleasantly. ‘You should have dragged him back
to face the justice of my gun.’

‘He is
so
brave with the ladies, but a rank coward with felons,’ sneered Hill. ‘He has designs on their virtue, no doubt. Gentle Puritan
women are considered fair game these days, among his kind.’

‘His kind?’ asked Faith in alarm. She clenched her fists, and Chaloner took a step away from her.

‘Catholics,’ said Hill in a low, vicious whisper that hissed around the chapel.

‘I thought you were Anglican,’ said North, regarding Chaloner uneasily. ‘Perhaps you should join us for our morning service,
and we shall pray for your release from the tyranny of Rome.’

‘He has an appointment with his
Anglican
priest,’ said Metje. ‘He is going to ring the bells.’

North wrung his hands unhappily. ‘Bells are
Roman
fripperies. But we must be about our business, or the congregation will arrive and we shall be all confusion. Good day, Heyden.’

Chaloner left, disconcerted by Faith’s simmering hostility, and took a series of shortcuts to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Despite
the fact that he was slowly losing the favour of the family that paid him a regular income, there was a spring in his step
and he sang to himself. His daughter would be born in the summer, when the sun shone and the days were hot and sultry, and
each year they would celebrate her birth with a feast under a shady tree.

Lincoln’s Inn Fields comprised a substantial expanse of land, some laid down to agriculture, but most left wild or as grazing
for cattle. It was the haunt of robbers during the hours of darkness, and was used by turbulent men to gain satisfaction at
daybreak. Thurloe once wrote in a letter to Chaloner that he often heard firearms discharged or the clang of steel as the
first tendrils of dawn appeared.

Chaloner reached the place where Robert Leybourn had suggested they meet, and set himself to wait – dawn
was still some way off. The trees were winter-bare and dusted with frost, and although the snow had not settled on the streets,
it had done better on the grass, and lay in gauzy sheets. It made the ground slippery, and Chaloner knew he would have to
watch his footing when he fought. Eventually, he saw a shadow moving towards him, so he stepped into deeper shadows. It was
William Leybourn, looking terrified. When Chaloner emerged from his hiding place, the bookseller jumped in alarm.

‘Where is your brother?’ asked Chaloner, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, and ready to react immediately if Leybourn
informed him he was taking his sibling’s place.

Leybourn gave a sheepish grin. ‘I slipped a dose of something in his wine last night, and he is now sleeping so soundly that
his wife is alarmed. But better the sleep of Lethe than the sleep of death, which is what he would be doing if he crossed
blades with you.’

‘You said he was a good swordsman. He may have won.’

‘He would not, and you know it. He has a hot temper and regrets challenging you, but he is not a coward. He was determined
to see the matter through. But his boy is not yet a year old, and I refuse to see him grow up without a father, not over such
a petty quarrel.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, thinking of his own circumstances. ‘That would be a pity.’

Leybourn swallowed uneasily, and took a deep breath. ‘Are you going to insist honour is satisfied with me, or can we agree
to forget the matter like civilised men?’

‘That depends. Will you answer some questions?’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘About the Brotherhood, mostly.’

Leybourn seemed relieved, and Chaloner wondered what sort of interrogation he had anticipated. ‘All right. We will talk about
the Brotherhood, and then I want this spat forgotten – no resurrecting it if Rob annoys you in the future. The Brotherhood
then. Ask away.’

‘How long has Robert been a participant?’

Leybourn thought carefully. ‘For about a year.’

‘How many members are there?’

‘Thirteen or fourteen. There were others, but it was founded many years ago, and some of the originals have died – natural
deaths, before you jump to the wrong conclusions.’

‘What is its purpose?’ Chaloner did not point out that Barkstead’s death was hardly natural, and neither were Hewson’s, Clarke’s
or Wade’s.

‘To promote moderation and tolerance – nothing sinister. But you know that already.’

‘Then why the secrecy?’

‘Because some of its most powerful members – men like Downing and Robinson – maintain it will have a greater impact if it
keeps out of the public view. People are more likely to resist an openly vocal group, than a string of individuals all saying
the same thing. Or so they say.’

‘Name the other members.’

‘Lord, Heyden! You certainly expect your pound of flesh! You must never tell Rob what I did today – he may forgive me for
drugging him, but revealing the confidences of his friends is another matter entirely.’ He saw Chaloner’s cool expression.
‘All right, names. I have mentioned Downing and Robinson, and you know about my brother. Dear Thomas Wade is also a member,
while two men named Livesay and Hewson are dead.’

‘They were regicides,’ said Chaloner, not mentioning that Wade should also be counted among the late members. ‘Dangerous characters
with whom to form an alliance. Who else?’

‘A Puritan called North, who thinks the world would be a better place if everyone prayed more. A stupid soldier called Evett,
who wants to rule the navy. Ingoldsby, on the other hand, owns a deadly deviousness – like Downing – and is Cromwell’s cousin,
so not to be trusted. Then there is a vintner called Dalton, who has a pretty wife – Sarah.’

‘Is she a member?’

‘Do not be ridiculous – she is a woman. And those are all I know. I am not a member myself, do not forget. Just the brother
of one.’