It had been a calm evening, but the wind was strengthening, the tops of the forest trees rattling in its sway. Mercia herself felt anything but calm, tied to a solitary elm in the field beyond the plantation house palisade. Fighting her rising panic, she watched as Sir Bernard and Lady Markstone drew painting after priceless painting from the saddlebag of a horse, setting them in amongst a pile of logs and straw laid all around her: the Oxford Section finally in reach, and yet never so far away. A pistol from the house lay at Sir Bernard’s feet. It had already been used to encourage the guards to wait patiently in the strongroom with van Arnhem.
‘Please,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘People will ask questions if I die.’
‘So they may,’ said Sir Bernard, holding a burning torch. ‘But they may also believe you lost your head and fled into the forest, perhaps to be devoured by a bear, or to live amongst the Indians. I am told it has happened before.’
She squirmed in the ropes that held her. ‘How will you explain my corpse?’
‘No one is coming, Mrs Blakewood. I shoot you, I light the pyre, the flames devour your body, and your precious Oxford Section is gone. By the time one hour is over, maybe two, the fire will be extinguished. It will not be hard to dispose of your blackened body in the forest.’
‘Lady Markstone!’ Mercia’s words quivered with fright. ‘Please! I have a son!’
Lady Markstone bowed her head, but in the wavering torchlight Mercia could see her biting her lip. Her nervousness was infecting the horse. It was unable to keep still, agitated by the flickering of the torch.
‘You should have thought of that before you left England,’ said Sir Bernard, setting down a vivid depiction of the Venetian canals, astonishing in its detail. He looked on grimly. ‘Now I imagine he will become a ward of court.’
‘I did this for him, Lady Markstone! Like you did this for your son.’
Lady Markstone hesitated as she placed the final painting on the pile, an allegorical work of goddesses and satyrs, overwhelmingly green and of flesh. ‘’Tis true, Bernard. Young sons need their mothers. Perhaps his life could be the price of her silence.’
‘Millicent, she knows everything. Do not let your woman’s sentiments delude you now. Think of Robert. He would want you to be safe.’
‘Robert would want you to admit the truth,’ said Mercia, and she knew she had overstepped a line, for Lady Markstone’s face set.
‘How dare you tell me what Robert would want! Your precocious son is nothing compared to him!’ She took the horse’s bridle in her hand. ‘Do as you like, Bernard. The paintings are in place.’ She walked briskly away, leading the horse back inside the palisade.
‘Farewell then, Mrs Blakewood,’ taunted Sir Bernard. ‘America was not so kind to you after all.’
‘You will not succeed,’ she trembled. ‘I will not allow it. Nathan will not allow it!’ She struggled violently against the ropes. They loosened slightly, but did not give her up.
‘Keyte will hang for treason. And you can hardly protest, tied to this tree.’ He flexed his left hand. ‘I had thought to be merciful. I told Millicent I would shoot you before burning your lifeless corpse.’ He leant in closer. ‘But you have caused me such trouble, Mercia Blakewood. The truth is, I do not intend to shoot you at all.’
‘No!’ she cried, a great fear piercing her heart. ‘You cannot!’
‘Burnt alive. A fitting punishment for a witch.’ He spat out the word. ‘And amongst all the paintings you thought to bring you hope.’ He smiled. ‘Mrs Blakewood, there is no hope.’
He threw the flaming torch on the straw.
The speed with which the flame took hold was astonishing. Much of the dry straw burst into fire within the first awful minute, the edges of the paintings setting alight where they rested on the burning mass. Mercia watched horrified as irreplaceable masterpieces by the greatest artists the world had known began to crackle and blacken at her feet. The fire spread quickly across the pile, consuming its expensive prey with hungry relish.
For a moment Sir Bernard stood transfixed by the flames until he turned to walk away. ‘Coward!’ she cried through her terror. ‘Stay to look on what you do!’ But in the noise of the fire he could not hear, or chose not to, and bathed in orange light he disappeared behind the palisade.
The logs atop the straw began to sizzle, whistling and popping as moisture was spirited away. Mercia could already feel the air being polluted with asphyxiating fumes. She worked frantically at the rope, rubbing her wrists together, pulling at the knots with all the strength her confined arms could muster. The rope came a little looser, but still she could not pull free. With a mighty effort, she kicked at the pile around her with her unbound legs, trying to keep the encroaching fire at bay. There a pastoral landscape, there the portrait of Charles I himself, there all the other paintings that had been thought lost, fulfilling their destiny by burning to ashes in this far-off land.
The wind whipped up, blowing the smoke and flames outward, giving her a few seconds’ respite. She rubbed and tugged some more, never giving up. The rope slipped slightly, and now she could reach the knots with the tips of her long fingers. She worked as quickly as she could, scrabbling at the knots, scratching at the rope, cutting into her skin with her nails. It seemed an age, the fire burning, always burning, but finally the loop around her left wrist fell loose enough for her other hand to grasp. Crying with pain she tore her wrist through the loop, stripping away sore layers of skin, but her hand was free.
By now the fire was singeing her boots where the straw had been piled closest. The smell of burning leather began to permeate the air. Quickly she freed her other hand and bent towards the heat, wrists bleeding, clawing at the rope around her waist. But there Sir Bernard’s rope work was firmer; coughing in smoke, she shifted left and right to agitate the bindings against the rough bark, but with little result, and as the flames grew ever hotter, the hems of her dress caught alight.
Deeply scared, she looked into the eyes of Charles I, whose image was now blackening around his neck in a perverse parody of his beheading. In turn he stared out at her, calm, composed, facing his fate as the real King had done fifteen years before. In that instant, Mercia was infused with the spirit of her father’s struggle to throw down tyranny, and an image of her son filled her mind, motherless and afraid.
‘I will not … let them … win!’ With an agonised cry she pulled at the rope round her waist, pulled hard and true, drawing on all her father’s strength, her mother’s pain, her brother’s courage, her son’s love. The rope began to give; she pulled harder, still harder, until a weak strand frayed and with an almighty effort she was able to wrench herself free.
She began to climb, the bottom of her dress still burning. Only when she reached the safety of a higher branch did she stop, ripping off leaves to rub the fire from her hems. She was safe, for the moment, but the flames would soon follow, and she was sad, so desperately sad, that the paintings she had dreamt she would bring home in triumph were shrivelling to nothing beneath her, and even sadder to know the truth of who had stolen them.
The logs amidst the straw below were now firmly caught, smoke rising ever thicker and greyer. Inhaling the noxious fumes, she was beginning to gasp for breath when she thought she heard shouts from the forest. She stared through the smoke, straining to listen over the crackling of the fire, until through gaps in the haze she saw three dark horses racing towards the house. A small light appeared from behind the palisade, bobbing in the air, a torch held by a man’s black silhouette. The horses encircled him, walking round and round before one broke clear of the rest, tearing the short distance to the burning tree. Reining in, its rider leapt from the saddle.
‘Mercia!’ Nathan cried. ‘Dear God! Mercia!’
‘I am here!’ she yelled. ‘High in the tree!’
He looked up. ‘I can see you!’ He came nearer, recoiling against the wall of heat, but he forced himself to bear its intensity. ‘Jump!’ he shouted. ‘I will catch you!’
She hesitated. The smoke was making it impossible to see the ground, and she was beginning to feel light-headed.
‘I will catch you,’ he repeated. ‘I promise.’
She needed no more encouragement. She inched towards the end of the branch, coming as low as she dared. Then she leapt out into space. She fell, feeling the rush of the night air against her face, until Nathan caught her firmly in his arms.
He pulled her away from the burning tree, holding her close. For a few seconds she stayed still, gulping in the sweetest air she had ever breathed, before a violent coughing took control. She staggered backwards, bending over until the fit subsided.
‘The paintings!’ She looked up in desperation. ‘Nat, they have burnt them!’
He looked at the pile, now a blackened mess roaring out of control. The heat was penetrating the branches just above, and as they watched, the first leaves and twigs burst into flame. He turned to Mercia, taking in her bruised wrists, her singed dress, her dirty face.
‘To hell with the damned paintings. How are you?’
She gasped in air. ‘He was going to kill me, Nat. Burn me alive.’ For a moment she stood there, shocked, uncertain whether to be angry or to cry. Then she turned towards the house, where the silhouetted figure trapped against the palisade had coalesced into the hated features of Sir Bernard, and she knew. She stormed towards him, the fury inside her raging as surely as the fire now devouring the elm tree behind.
She struck him in the face, as hard as she was able. ‘I will see you hang for this,’ she hissed. ‘You are the worst kind of man.’ But the anger in her words rekindled her cough, and she bent to the ground, retching. Nathan put his arm around her, holding her upright.
One of the two other horsemen looked down, his face rugged under matted blonde hair. ‘Hello, Mercia,’ he said, holding a pistol at Sir Bernard. ‘We seem to have caught your rat.’
‘Nicholas!’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘You came for me too.’ She looked between him and Nathan. ‘But I saw you being captured. How did you escape?’
Nicholas nodded at the third man, still enshrouded in darkness. ‘We had help.’
The man came into the light. ‘I know I said you were unpopular,’ he said. ‘But this is in the extreme.’
‘I thought you had ridden north!’ She looked on James Davids in wonder. ‘Mr Davids, once again you have helped me.’
From the corner of her eye she saw Sir Bernard leaning forward, examining Davids’ face. Nicholas jangled his pistol, but Sir Bernard ignored him. His mouth fell open in surprise.
‘Dixwell!’ he exclaimed. ‘By the Lord, you are still alive!’ He looked at Nathan. ‘Do you know who this man is?’
‘He is Davids,’ frowned Nathan.
‘Oh, he is not.’ Sir Bernard’s eyes roved back to Davids. ‘So, Dixwell. You will hang now we have you.’
‘I think it more likely you will hang, Sir Bernard,’ said Davids, spitting out the ‘Sir’. He moved his horse around the prisoner, keeping him close against the palisade.
‘But this is John Dixwell,’ Sir Bernard persisted. ‘Think, Keyte! He is wanted as one of the late King’s murderers. Anyone found helping him is committing treason.’
Mercia thought back to the London customs house where the likenesses of the men who had signed the old King’s death warrant, the so-called regicides, had been laid out. Was that where she had seen his face before, why it seemed so familiar? She looked at Davids. ‘Is this true?’
His face glowed in the firelight. ‘It is. But believe me, I am no demon. I did what I thought was right.’ He turned to Sir Bernard. ‘They are not helping me. I am helping them. I do this gladly for the daughter of Rowland Goodridge.’ He produced a pistol of his own. ‘Now be silent.’
Sir Bernard smirked, his head defiantly erect. Behind her Mercia realised she could feel a growing heat. She looked round to see the entire elm tree now madly ablaze. The wind was carrying burning leaves and twigs over the palisade, as far as the house itself. Some floated in through the open bedroom window, settling on the contents within.
She stepped further from the tree, out of range of the expanding smoke that was swirling in all directions with the changing mood of the wind. Then another five horsemen burst from the forest. They cantered towards the burning tree, wielding pistols of their own. Their leader urged his horse forward, ordering his men to surround the rest. Mercia closed her eyes in resignation.
‘By the heavens,’ Sir William cried. ‘This is a strange affair. Why is that tree burning so?’
Mercia looked around her. Nicholas had his gun still on Sir Bernard, while Davids was steadying his pawing horse, eyes on Sir William. Over Nathan’s head she could see an orange glow had sprung up through the open window.
‘Arrest this ring of murderers and spies,’ Sir Bernard shouted. ‘Especially him.’ He pointed at Davids. ‘Take a good look at his face, William. ’Tis John Dixwell.’
Sir William nodded. ‘I know who he is.’
‘Then order your men to seize him.’
Mercia waited. Beside her Nathan laid his hand on her shoulder.
Sir William rode slowly round the group, taking time to look at each of them, his expression unreadable. Finally he turned to Sir Bernard. ‘Oh, my old friend. I think not.’
Sir Bernard frowned. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Do you not? Then let me make it clear.’ Sir William sat up in his saddle. ‘Sir Bernard Dittering, under the orders of Governor Nicolls, I am commanded to arrest you on charges of murder and treason.’ He signalled to his men. ‘Take him. Use force if you must.’
Mercia stared as Sir William’s men moved in on the fallen man, a heady relief coursing through her body. Briefly Sir Bernard struggled, but a hefty soldier subdued him with a well-timed punch.
Sir William moved his attention to Davids. ‘You have been of use this night, helping us catch this murderer. So I have decided you were never here. I presume these others will act likewise.’
‘I thought I would have to fight my way out.’ Davids smiled. ‘Sir William, we have had our differences, but thank you.’
Sir Bernard seethed in the guard’s grasp. ‘You cannot do this, Calde. I will tell Nicolls what you did after the war, how you passed information to Cromwell while claiming to support the King.’
‘While you yourself were pure, I suppose.’ Sir William laughed. ‘Bernard, you stand accused of trying to thwart the King himself. You would say anything for clemency.’ He turned back to Davids. ‘And you, Dixwell. Should I be asked, I will say the man who helped tonight was named Davids. But if you are found again, you will be taken yourself. Is that clear?’
Davids nodded, taking up his reins. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Blakewood.’ He bowed to her from his saddle. ‘I hope we meet again.’
Then he rode towards the forest, heading for who knew what new shores.
A bang shook the air across the palisade. Everyone turned to the house. Above the gate, Mercia saw flames licking around the upstairs window. She gasped, putting her hand over her mouth.
‘Lady Markstone! She may still be inside!’
‘Millicent?’ said Sir William. ‘Why should she be here?’
‘She is involved in this. I have not seen her leave. Come!’
Ignoring her breathlessness she ran through the gate. A shadowed figure was lurking behind the palisade: Lady Markstone, facing the gate to watch events unfold. Seeing Mercia approach she retreated rapidly to the house. Dimly aware of pursuing footsteps, Mercia followed her into the hall where the top of the staircase was filling with smoke, enveloping the canvas of Rembrandt’s Amsterdam. Unsure where Lady Markstone had fled, Mercia dodged one of the porphyry vases to run through the salon to the study, but it was empty, a gaping space above the fireplace, the portrait of the King’s family gone.
She returned to the hall, colliding with Nicholas as Nathan skidded to a halt beside them. She led them to the sitting room where she had first entered the house. On the threshold of the outside door, Lady Markstone was panting, out of breath, a rolled package against her side. She looked up, the tiredness of years sapping her pained face. Then she surprised them, darting outside and slamming shut the door. A low thump signalled she had blocked it.
Nicholas ran to bang his shoulder against the door, but it did not give. He tried again; it moved slightly, but remained closed. ‘Together,’ said Nathan, and the two of them launched into the wood, crashing it open, sending the pole that was securing the door flying into the night. They rushed through, Mercia just behind.
The brief delay had given Lady Markstone time to mount her horse, but it could sense her nervous panic. As she struggled to fit her package into the saddlebag, Nicholas leapt at the reins, but the horse swung its powerful neck at him and he fell back. Leaning forward, Lady Markstone caught Mercia’s gaze, a transitory plea in her old eyes for – what was that? Forgiveness? She urged the horse on, but it was fearful of the elm burning over the palisade, and the fire now taking possession of the upstairs of the house. It whinnied and writhed, scared by the noise and the light, careering in random directions, not knowing where to go.
A loud crash from inside the house startled it. It reared up on its hind legs, the action too much for Lady Markstone, struggling with the saddlebag, to control. She was flung from the horse, hitting the ground with an awful thud. Terrified, the horse sped away, but finding its path obstructed by the grove of trees, it swept around, looking for a means of escape. It saw the open gate into the field beyond, illuminated by the flames, and with no other option raced towards it. But the prone body of Lady Markstone lay directly in its path. Mercia turned away, horrified, as the horse rode over the unseen woman, trampling her with its shod hooves. It fled through the gate, its loose saddlebag tumbling to the ground.
Mercia ran to kneel where Lady Markstone lay still. The horse had forced her breath from her body, her ribcage completely crushed. But then her fading eyes flickered, and she looked up to the sky, a spark of life catching for a last, brief moment. Slowly, she raised her arm to a tiny white light that was shining through the haze. When she spoke her voice was almost nothing, just a flutter of air.
‘Robert,’ she shivered. ‘Robert, is that you? Oh my precious boy. I am coming now. Your mamma is here.’
Then her eyes closed, her arm fell, and she went to the stars to walk with her son.
Mercia stood up, brushing away a tear. As she looked towards Nathan and Nicholas, deeply upset, she caught sight of the package Lady Markstone had been struggling so hard to take, a creased canvas tube now fallen on the ground. Bending to pick it up, she carried it to the gate where there was sufficient light to see.
She beckoned to Nathan to help her. But even as they unrolled it, she knew what she would find. The one thing that could be used as a bargaining tool, should a deal with the King ever be needed. The one painting from the Oxford Section he coveted above all the rest, above the town of New York itself. Mercia glanced at Lady Markstone’s body, admiring her ingenuity and her guile, before she looked down to see a man, his wife, and their six children, gazing serenely out.