The next morning, Aphra Behn, Phineas Musk and I set out westward in the state coach of the Earls of Ravensden, bound for Chelsea College along the road that ran from Westminster through Tothill Fields and the open country beyond. Musk, who had often assisted Charles in his role as Lord Percival, had been admitted to the secret purpose of the mission and to Mistress Behn’s true identity the previous evening, shortly before ‘Lady Astraea’ and I supped at Ravensden House with my wife Cornelia and Captain Ollivier.
This did not go well.
It might have passed off rather more smoothly if Francis Gale had been there, able to amuse and divert the company with his stock of anecdotes, but he had been summoned back to Bedfordshire by my mother, the Dowager Countess. There was some talk of the arch-dissenter Bunyan being released from Bedford Gaol, and she wished Francis to second her in ensuring that no such calamity occurred (my mother detested dissenters more than head lice). As it was, Captain Ollivier related tales that ranged from the splendours and scandals of the French court to the customs of the naked savages of the Carribee. There was a little too much repetition of the word ‘naked’ for my liking, and rather too many knowing glances toward my wife. For her part, Cornelia seemed to take an instant dislike to Mistress Behn, who traded stories with both Ollivier and I, calling upon her own recollections of Surinam just as I did upon my voyage to Guinea and the Gambia river, some years before. My wife, who had never been anywhere more exotic than Rotterdam, listened intently to the Frenchman and dutifully to me, but she scowled and fidgeted throughout every one of Mistress Behn’s discourses. She knew enough of my brother’s secret life not to enquire too closely into why he should want me to work in harness with this person. But Cornelia was, at bottom, a woman, and a noticeably pregnant woman at that, who might well have wondered if her husband’s attentions would stray toward this alluring and significantly less rotund new dish.
So there were glances. And sighs. And more glances.
‘You are a widow, then, Mistress Behn?’ asked Cornelia, glancing.
‘My poor husband – he was German – fell victim to the plague,’ said Aphra. ‘We were married only a matter of months.’
‘How tragic. How very tragic.’ Cornelia sighed, and nibbled thoughtfully upon a piece of mutton, but sympathy was evidently not her principal emotion. ‘And you say you wish to become a writer?’
‘I do, Lady Quinton. Why should a woman not become a writer? If we can now act upon the stage, why should we not write for it?’
Cornelia could clearly think of dozens, if not hundreds, of reasons, but kept them to herself. Her own writings, even of household accounts, mangled the English language beyond all reasonable measure, and her native Dutch only a little less when she wrote in that, so the notion of a woman doing such a thing for a living was evidently quite beyond her comprehension.
‘Not so strange, perhaps,’ said Captain Ollivier mildly, flashing one of his smiles at Cornelia. ‘Why, in France, we have the likes of Mademoiselle de Scudéry and Madame de Villedieu… ’
For once, Cornelia ignored him, cutting across Ollivier to address Aphra once again.
‘And you hope the Earl will be your patron in the theatre, perhaps?’
Ollivier looked at me and raised his eyebrows, as if to say: Is it usual for such anarchy to prevail in English households?
‘We have not discussed the matter,’ said Aphra, ‘but Charles’ interest in the stage is of very long standing, and we are old friends. Who knows what the future might bring, Lady Quinton?’
The revelation that this strange creature was somehow an old friend of my brother came as news to both Cornelia and me. But I could see from my wife’s face that her mind was already building an entire edifice of supposition upon that one simple fact, and although this edifice was probably preferable to the other – that Aphra and I were about to fall into bed together – it was only marginally so. Charles Quinton had already been tempted into marriage once, albeit very much against his inclinations. What was to say that, if he lived and prospered, he might not return to the matrimonial altar, this time with a bride entirely suited to him, who shared his twin worlds of intelligence and the theatre, rather than the murderous harlot he had wed before? And if Aphra Behn became the new Countess of Ravensden, she would immediately displace Cornelia as mistress of this household.
Who knows what the future might bring?
Chelsea College was a large, square building, rather like an Oxford college, with a single quadrangle, a tower framing its gateway, and grounds stretching down to the Thames. It had been a pet scheme of that most curious King, James the First, who had wanted it to become a hothouse where great theologians and controversialists would be trained to do intellectual battle with the rampant Jesuitical legions of the Pope. Regrettably, very few had shared his enthusiasm for the project, so the college soon withered. My uncle Tristram once told me that he and John Thurloe inspected it during the days of the Rump Parliament, with a view to it becoming a training college for intelligencers – a school for spies, in other words. That, and all the other projects for making some new use of it, came to naught, so in due course it was demolished, and the present hospital for retired soldiers was erected on its site. But back then, in the year Sixty-Six, its thick walls and large rooms made it an ideal prison for some of the thousands of Dutch prisoners we had taken during the war, others of whom were lodged in the likes of Leeds and Portchester Castles.
‘De Wildt, you say,’ said the Keeper, as he led us along the loggia on the east side of the quadrangle. ‘There is no man of that name on our musters, Sir Matthew.’
‘He will have adopted an alias,’ I said, parroting the words Aphra had spoken to me in the coach. ‘But our intelligence out of Holland states that he was aboard the Tholen.’
‘Ah,’ said the Keeper, ‘the Tholen. Forgive me, Sir Matthew, but was it not your ship that captured her?’
‘That it was,’ said Musk, on my behalf. ‘After a damned hard fight.’
This was not strictly true; the Tholen had been severely damaged before we came upon her and forced her surrender. Nevertheless, she had been the Royal Sceptre’s prize, and Phineas Musk was not a man to shirk from taking credit for anything at all.
The Keeper summoned half a dozen of his turnkeys to our backs: large, vicious-looking rogues with a range of cudgels and blades at their belts. Then he led us into a high, square, poorly-lit room that must once have been some sort of lecture theatre, and we were thrust at once into a circle of Hell.
The stench assailed us even before we stepped through the door. There must have been three hundred men in the room, all of them unwashed and wearing the clothes in which they had been captured, some weeks earlier. The single toilet seemed to be a bucket in the corner, which had overflowed some hours previously. Men were shouting and arguing in Dutch, but those nearest to us fell silent as we entered. Several dozen pairs of eyes fell upon Aphra, and the mouths beneath them broke into leers.
‘Should have drowned the lot of them when we had the chance,’ said Musk.
I could hear obscenities galore, all of them about Aphra and what they proposed to do with her, but also other remarks.
‘Not the usual time for a muster. What’s going on?’
‘Isn’t that the goddeloze staartman English captain that took us?’
‘Tighten up, lads.’
What the crew of the Tholen did not know was that I spoke Dutch with a considerable degree of fluency, thanks to my wife and the time we had spent living in her home town of Veere before the King’s Restoration. Admittedly, my fluency did not stretch to understanding why the Dutch might elect to describe an Englishman as goddeloze staartman – a godless tailed man – but I was not alone in that.
‘That group of men, in the far corner,’ I said to Aphra. ‘Let’s make towards them, then work back from there.’
‘He’s not in these front ranks,’ she said. ‘I’d swear upon it.’
The Keeper and his turnkeys formed up in front of and at the sides of us, leading us like an arrowhead into the heart of the throng. A few prisoners pressed forward menacingly, but were swiftly cudgelled back into place. All the while as we advanced, Aphra scanned faces methodically, her head moving from side to side, ignoring the obscene gestures and lewd catcalls from the prisoners. We made directly for the group that had shuffled closer to each other, and seemed to have something to hide.
‘I don’t like their mood,’ said the Keeper. ‘Don’t like it at all.’
‘Too many of them for my liking,’ said Musk, ‘and far too few of us.’
‘They wouldn’t dare attempt anything,’ said the Keeper. ‘They’ll have no prospect of an exchange if they do.’
But he did not sound as though he was convincing even himself. Ranks of prisoners were closing in behind us, growling menacingly, talking of rushing us and overpowering the turnkeys. Time to surprise them.
‘My friends!’ I shouted, in Dutch. Aphra looked at me in surprise. ‘Fellow mariners! I am Sir Matthew Quinton, a friend of your former captain, Pieter de Mauregnault!’ This news, and my fluency in their language, stopped both the advance and the murmuring. ‘We seek one man, a gunner. An old man, perhaps fifty or more. His name is de Wildt, although he may have adopted another. Double allowance for a month for the man who shows him to us!’
The murmuring began again, but quieter this time, to prevent me hearing it. No man stepped forward. And still the group straight in front of us kept tightly together, like Romans guarding a bridge.
The Keeper was increasingly nervous, and now took matters into his own hands.
‘Make way, there!’ he cried, and beckoned two of his turnkeys forward.
The phalanx stood firm. Cudgels were raised in warning. Still no movement.
‘Fuck this – begging your pardon, mistress,’ said Musk, pushing his way to the front and then throwing himself, head first, at the nearest Dutchman. Taken by surprise and winded, the fellow fell back, making a gap in the line.
And revealing the dead body on the floor, lying in a pool of blood.
‘Christ,’ said the Keeper, ‘it’s Jackson, the turnkey who lets in the slop-boy!’
‘Goodman,’ said Aphra. ‘Mene Tekel. It must have been. He’s freed de Wildt. We’re too late!’
There was a cry in the crowd. ‘Nothing to lose now, boys! Kill the English!’ The guard at the door shouted for the alarm bell to be rung. And the mob came at us.
I drew my sword and waved it from side to side in front of me, slowly clearing a path for us toward the door. This tactic kept a dozen of them at bay, but I knew it was only a matter of time before someone plucked up the courage to charge. Or they might work round behind us, but for the time being the Keeper and his turnkeys were guarding that flank, cudgelling and stabbing at any man who came close enough. Musk was in his element, punching any stomach or chin that strayed within reach of his fists. But the most astonishing sight was that of Aphra Behn. From somewhere within her skirts, she had produced a vicious pin, several inches long and nearly thick enough to be classed as a dagger. With it, she lunged expertly at any man near her, showing at once no fear and a very fine grasp of strategy. She was evidently well-versed in this kind of combat, as the Dutchman who took a vicious stab through the left shoulder swiftly discovered.
At last, two prisoners charged me, one with fists alone, one with a rough, bloodied blade that he must have somehow concealed from his gaolers – perhaps the very weapon that had killed Jackson. I lunged at the bladesman, forcing him back, then cut sharply into the side of the other fellow, slicing open his flesh below the ribs. He screamed and fell away, just as the bladesman came at me again, his grip reversed, stabbing high and hard for my head. I had the advantage of reach, though, and thrust straight for the heart. I felt my sword enter the body, saw the blood spill out over his shirt, saw the look of death-horror in his eyes, withdrew the bloodied blade, and took guard again, menacing any other man who thought to be so brave.
The Dutch were still shouting defiance and obscenities, but now there were new sounds: the familiar sounds of soldierly boots running on flagstones, and cries of ‘For God and the King!’ The first red-coated soldier ran into the room, followed by a crowd of his fellows, brandishing muskets and halberds. The prisoners fell back, and the soldiers made a path for us through to the door.
Later, in the Keeper’s quarters in the gate tower, we took wine and recovered ourselves.
‘Don’t usually take on so many at once with the other Lord Percival,’ said Musk. ‘Hope that’s not going to be your way, Sir Matthew – taking on the sort of odds that Phineas Musk finds daunting. Can’t be doing with that, at my age.’
‘I’ll try to bear it in mind, Musk,’ I said. ‘But Mistress Behn, if I may venture such an enquiry – when did you learn to fight in such a manner?’
She did not hear me at first, being distracted by a tear in her sleeve that she seemed to find particularly distressing.
‘Mm? Oh, your brother gave me some lessons, in Flanders before the Restoration. And in Surinam, well, a woman had to be resourceful.’ She looked up, and gave me her full attention once again. ‘But I did not realise you spoke Dutch, Sir Matthew – and like a Dutchman, too.’
‘My wife and her brother would disagree with you, Mistress.’
Indeed they would. Captain Cornelis van der Eide of the Zeeland Admiralty took a particular delight in correcting me on minor points of Dutch grammar and pronunciation.
‘No matter. It puts me in mind of a way in which we might pursue Goodman into his lair. It will involve some play-acting, Sir Matthew, and a little script of my devising. Your brother, the Earl, is always willing to play such roles. Is the new Lord Percival, I wonder?’
We parted at Ravensden House, Mistress Behn to work on her ‘little script’, I to report to my brother. But I very nearly failed to make it alive to his room. In the entrance hall, I was assailed by a furious Cornelia, her face scarlet and sodden from copious tears.
‘Schurk!’ she cried. ‘Villain!’
‘My love…’
She struck me hard on the left cheek. Reeling from the shock, I managed to grab hold of her hands before she could strike again.
‘Moordenaar! Leugenaar! Murderer! Liar!’
‘Cornelia, in hemelsnaam! For heaven’s sake, what’s the matter, woman?’
She struggled to escape my grip, but I held her firmly. She looked around wildly, as though seeking an exit or a weapon, but finally held my gaze. Her eyes were blazing with anger.
‘Terschelling,’ she said, almost spitting out the word. ‘You lied to me about Terschelling.’
I could think of no reply, because, in truth, she was right. I had kept my explanation to her of ‘Holmes’ Bonfire’ as brief and general as I possibly could. It was hardly a story to recount with pride or honour, even if one’s wife was not Dutch.
‘People died, Matthew. People were killed. Innocent people. Peaceful people.’
‘We are at war,’ I said, without conviction, for her words simply echoed my own doubts about what we had done.
‘Oh, and do I not know that? Do I not know it every time I venture out of the door, and see the hostile looks on faces, and hear the catcalls of children? England is at war with the Dutch, I am Dutch, ergo I am an enemy of England. I know that. I live in England’s capital, so I accept that. I accept that you must fight the navy in which my brother fights. You are both warriors, it is what warriors do – I am no cloistered nun, husband, shut away from such worldly affairs, and I know it is what you both must do. But to kill and burn on the soil of my country – to bring my own father – the father of your own wife – to the brink of ruin…’
‘Your father?’
She blinked away more tears. ‘A letter came from him today. He had five cargoes at the Vlie. Five. All burned by you and your friends, husband. His credit is ruined. He does not know you helped to command the attack, but he tells of the fate of the poor Mennonites, and demands God’s righteous judgement upon the devils who perpetrated such a crime.’
I was struck dumb. I had never been close to my father-in-law, Cornelis van der Eide the elder, a dour Calvinistic merchant of Veere. But he had taken me in when I was a penniless, wounded exile, and he had consented to my marrying his daughter, whom he might have bestowed on any sea-captain of the Zeeland Admiralty, or any rich burgher of Rotterdam. The beautiful, spirited daughter with whom I had fallen passionately in love, and who had loved me passionately in return, without really believing that my King would ever return to his throne, that she might one day be Lady Quinton, perhaps set fair to be Countess of Ravensden. He had given her the Calvinist faith, and thus the fatalistic acceptance of predestination, that enabled her to accept – in truth, to accept far better than I – all the long years when we tried, and failed, to have a child, a boy, the heir who would allow my family’s inheritance to continue.
‘I could not have known,’ I said.
But even as I spoke them, I knew the words were utterly hollow, and Cornelia’s cold, staring eyes showed that she knew it, too. It is what warriors do. We both knew it would not have mattered a jot if I had known that my father-in-law’s ships were in the Vlie anchorage. I had my orders, I had my duty to my King and country, and I would have burned them all the same. After all, the ruining of merchants like Cornelis van der Eide the elder had been one of the explicit purposes that Prince Rupert and Robert Holmes had ordained for our expedition.
If anything, Cornelia’s Calvinist faith should have told her all this. In her mind, what I did at Terschelling could only have been predestined by God; and if that was the case, she took out her anger on me chiefly because she could not take it out on He who was truly responsible.
‘We are at war,’ I repeated, the words coming out as barely a whisper.