6

SIREN CALLS

‘And what is that?’ Coke asked. ‘The small square that abuts the main bedchamber?’

The builder peered. ‘That, sir, is a second privy office. You do not wish to be feeling your way downstairs in the middle of the night, nor be groping for pots – neither you, nor especially Mrs Coke.’

Coke grunted. Sarah did not hold that title yet. His hope was that today’s enterprise might convince her to assume it. Still, he hesitated. It was a great deal of money, this business of buying a house.

‘These lines?’ he said, jabbing down.

‘Water pipes.’ It was the second man who replied. He had not been there with the master mason the first time Coke had visited the site. His assistant no doubt, a strange-looking fellow with a nose that had once been badly broken by a blade, probably in the late king’s wars. Coke had the odd sensation that they had met before, but he put that down to his nerves. They had probably fought against each other. The fellow had the crop-haired look and sober demeanour of an old Parliament man.

He continued, his voice a smooth roll. ‘Master Tremlett has contracted with the New River Company to supply each of his houses on West Harding Street with water. Think, sir! Fresh water flowing into your home all the way from the pristine meadows of Hertfordshire via the reservoir in Islington. No more going to the parish pump for water that may well have come straight from the murky Thames.’

Running water, thought Coke. It would be pleasant. Sarah would find it pleasant, surely?

He nodded, looking also at the area map beside the house plans. Really, he was asking questions merely to delay a decision now. Everything had been explained twice. The location was excellent. Not far to the north, there were bowling lawns and some pasture still; to the west, a short walk away, the more urban pleasures of Covent Garden and indeed, Lincoln’s Inn. Would Sarah wish to return to the playhouse after she was delivered? She’d joked that actresses were known to drop a child at eleven of the morning and be on the boards playing Juliet by one. He hoped that she would not desire it. His own mother had never worked, being the lady of the manor, but that was not it. Sarah’s ‘manor’ was the streets of St Giles, the toughest in the city.

He knew he could not make her into something she was not. But the theatre, where all women were treated like the whores several of them had once been? Was she so enamoured of the life that she would insist on going back to it? It had been a step up from the slums, sure. Marrying the son of a knight, albeit one who had lost both title and lands in the wars, would be another. And owning a new house, perhaps, the last?

But who would own it? ‘Sir, a question. Can a second also sign here, and be a part owner?’

‘What second?’

‘My…a woman.’

Tremlett pursed his lips. ‘A woman? It would be highly unusual. And if you are referring to your wife, well,’ he smiled, ‘it is simpler, more expedient, to specify her as your heir in your will, sir.’

My will, thought Coke. The next paper I must draw up. ‘You will take a deposit now, you say?’

‘Indeed.’ The florid-faced mason beamed as he unbent from the charts. ‘A quarter on signing, a half when the hearth joist is laid, last quarter upon completion.’

He decided. ‘Well,’ Coke straightened too, ‘I have the first with me.’

His share of the reward for the thwarting of the assassination was in the purse he now placed upon the house plans. Tremlett tipped the contents out, spreading them to be sorted. These were mainly the new coinage, milled-edged, with Charles’s profile handsomely embossed – though, given the continual shortage of coins, there were the usual foreign ones, too: Spanish ducats, French crowns, Dutch florins. Still, a swift tally left both men satisfied.

‘And now, Captain,’ said the broken-nosed man, after the other had swept the coins into a box, ‘your signature?’

‘Captain?’ Coke halted his reach for the pen. ‘Who told you I was called so?’

There was no hesitation in the man’s reply. ‘I am sure you did, sir. Maybe to my master here, at your previous meeting.’ He smiled, crookedly. ‘Or perhaps it’s just your military bearing.’

He held out the pen again and Coke took it. He was trying to stop people calling him Captain, without much success, even with Sarah, or his ward, Dickon. The wars were long over, and he was no longer even a highwayman, where every ‘knight of the road’ assumed what had – for him at least – been a genuine rank. ‘Plain Mr Coke will do,’ he muttered and, dipping the pen in the inkwell, leaned down. This is it then, he thought, the full nib hovering over the line. The last contract I signed was the one that joined me to the regiment. And look where that led!

Then a vision came – of Sarah, smiling. He took a deep breath and signed, both the mason’s copy and another that he would take.

The second man scattered some sand to blot the ink. All three smiled. ‘Bravo, sir,’ said the mason, reaching out a hand to shake. ‘You will not regret this for a moment.’

I already do, Coke thought, his head curiously light. Though when he reached, it was only to pick up and roll his copy, not to snatch both and destroy them. Tucking it into his cloak, he bowed his head. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and left.

Only when the footfalls on the stair had entirely faded did the man with the sabre scar breathe out a satisfied, ‘Excellent.’

The mason exhaled too, though his face was a frown. ‘Are you sure, Brother S? It seems…’

‘What?’

‘Elaborate.’ He grunted. ‘Are there not simpler ways of being avenged?’

‘A blade in an alley, perhaps, Brother Tremlett?’

‘That’s one.’

Simeon Critchollow shrugged. ‘Where is it written that vengeance be simple? When God’s light shines on a world of such glorious complexity and richness, why should revenge be taken only in the dark?’ He smiled. ‘When you told me that this Coke had come to you, I thought it a coincidence. Until I remembered: there is no coincidence in God’s great plan.’

‘Praise Him indeed. But how will this proceed?’

‘Slowly.’ Simeon licked dry lips. ‘If I were still a gambling man, as in my days of sin and ignorance I was, I would wager I know whither the captain is now bound. He goes to see a Jew. And he will find us waiting.’ He reached for his hat and stick beside the paper. ‘Ha! I’ve just noticed something. Talking of God’s providence. How have I not noted this before?’ He laid the tip of his stick on the charts. ‘Do you have Latin?’

‘Enough for my trade. Customers like it on the plans.’

‘Look at this wonder.’ Simeon tapped the chart’s masthead. ‘If you were to lay out every Roman numeral, what is their total?’

‘Let me see.’ The mason’s brow furrowed. ‘M is a thousand. Add five hundred for D. C is a hundred. L is, ah –’

‘Fifty. X is ten, V, five. One is one.’

‘So?’

Simeon beamed. ‘Add them together.’

‘One thousand, six hundred and…Oh!’ Tremlett’s eyes widened. ‘Their total is sixteen hundred and sixty-six.’ He raised his hands, palms up. ‘Praise God!’

‘Praise him indeed,’ Simeon nodded, ‘for this, another example of His providence! God’s plan is so far-reaching that two thousand years ago he made the pagan Romans adopt numbers that would add up to this year. The one foretold. The year the Fifth Monarchy arises.’ He went to the door and turned, his eyes ablaze. ‘Oh yes, brother. With yet another example of the Lord’s infinite precision revealed, I believe we can allow vengeance to be…a little elaborate, don’t you?’

—

The flute was beautifully played, its notes piercing even the din of Little Eastcheap at full trade. The player, Coke saw, was a handsome lad of about twenty or so, with some admiring servant girls gathered giggling before him, and coins in his cap that both music and looks had earned. Coke added another before he strode the few steps further on and entered the premises of Isaac ben Judah, goldsmith.

But his friend was not behind the counter. Another of the tribe was there who related the disturbing news: Isaac was ill and in his bed, three doors down the street.

There Coke hastened, the sound of the flute following him.

‘Mr ben Judah.’ Coke threw his cloak and hat upon a chair, leant his stick, then knelt by the bed, taking the hand of the man upon it. ‘You are not well.’

‘I am not, Captain.’ The voice was weak, his long grey hair lank, his face pallid. He began to cough, a dry scratchy sound. From the corner of the room came a young woman Coke had not noticed. She carried a mug, bent to lift Isaac up and held the vessel to his cracked lips. When the cough was stilled, and Isaac lay back down, the girl began to adjust the blankets.

‘You have not met my daughter,’ Isaac said. ‘Rebekah, this is Captain William Coke. A special friend.’

‘Honoured.’ Coke rose and bowed. He guessed the girl to be about fifteen, though she could have been older. Tall for her age, she had midnight-black hair within a headdress, thick dark eyebrows, a straight nose and firm mouth. There was no make-up on her face at all and her paleness, especially against the hair, was severe.

She regarded him with as bold an appraisal as he gave her. ‘Sir,’ she said, her voice low, executing a short curtsey before turning back. ‘Father, since you have a friend here, perhaps now would be a good time to run my errands. To fetch you medicine and the house some food.’ She turned back to Coke. ‘Are you able to attend him while I do so, sir?’

He nodded. Even if he was keen to get back to Sarah, there was something about this girl that could not be denied.

‘Out and straight back,’ her father called as she wrapped a shawl around herself and crossed to the door. ‘No footling.’

She smiled. ‘I am not sure, Father, I know what that is. So how shall I avoid it?’

With that, she was gone, and Isaac, who’d raised himself upon an elbow, sank back. For a moment both men listened to her footfalls on the stairs and, beyond them, the flute’s rising notes.

‘Your daughter is most lovely,’ Coke murmured, drawing up a small stool and sitting.

‘She is. She is!’ Isaac sighed. ‘The very picture of Leah, her mother. Indeed, since my wife’s death, I think my daughter is becoming more like her every day. In looks at least.’ He coughed again but waved Coke down when he rose to fetch the mug. ‘I fear her character is not as calm as her mother’s, though. She is…wilful. Too tempted by what is out there. I do not like to let her go onto the streets alone. But with my sister in York, and me here –’

‘And why are you here, my friend? You were not sick when we spoke last week.’

‘I was, though I was at pains to disguise it.’ A slight smile appeared. ‘We were doing business after all, and no man wants to seem weak when conducting that.’

‘Did you think I would exploit you?’

‘Nay, Captain. You are one of the very few Gentiles I know would not. Habits of a lifetime, eh?’ He shrugged, winced. ‘But this sickness can no longer be concealed. Especially since I may die of it. Or of its cure anyway.’

‘Do not say so.’ Coke reached to take the man’s hand again. He did not have many beyond acquaintances in London and though he did not know the Jew well, they had always been plain in their dealings and their mutual regard. He liked the man. ‘And tell me how I may help?’

Isaac glanced to the sword at Coke’s side. ‘How delicate are you with your blade, Captain? Could you cut me open and extract the root of my malady?’

Coke whitened. ‘If I could, you would not want me to. For a man who was so often at war, I have a devilishly weak stomach for some of its consequences.’ He nodded downwards. ‘So it is the stone?’

‘Aye. My old problem.’ Isaac winced again, as a spasm shook him. ‘Each time before, I have, with some difficulty, managed to piss it out. Not this one. My physician tells me he must cut to cure.’

Coke took a deep breath. ‘Many undergo that operation and live. Is your surgeon good?’

‘He is, and of my tribe. But as you know, howsoever good, many, indeed perhaps most, patients do not survive this.’ Isaac shrugged. ‘As ever, I am in God’s hands. So, Captain, shall we leave me there and turn to you?’ He nodded to the table in the corner. ‘I was not so ill that I could not deal with your affairs.’

Coke rose, went to the table. A purse was there, the contents of which he knew he need not count. He tucked it into his cloak. Their contract also lay there. Second in a day, he thought, though now he picked up the pen with no hesitation.

‘You should read it again, sir,’ Ben Judah called. ‘I have had to alter it slightly due to my illness. I have specified to whom your debt must be paid, should I, ah, be unable to collect.’

Coke looked at the second page, where a name had been written in. Rebekah bat Judah. The correction was initialled and he added his ‘WC’. Did the same on the second copy, then signed both. ‘There, sir,’ he said, putting up the pen. ‘I am in your debt.’

‘You are. Do you know when you will be requiring the last payment?’

‘The builder said on completion. He seems to have many labourers so it may be within the fortnight. Of course, I may have earned the money ere then but if not –’

‘If not, you will find the sum here. Though it may coincide with my operation. I will leave word if…well, if.’

Coke looked across. The man did look ill. ‘I meant what I said before…Isaac.’ He used the man’s given name deliberately for the first time. ‘How may I be of help?’

‘If the need arises, you could – you could look to my daughter.’ He came up on one elbow again, though it pained him. ‘Most of our family is in York. In Rotterdam. She may need some temporary protection until they can be summoned should anything…’ He trailed off.

Coke came over, knelt and took the man’s hand again. ‘And she shall have mine, Isaac. You may trust me on that.’

‘Very good, Captain – William. Then I shall.’

The two friends sat silent for a while, listening to the high, beautiful notes sounding nearby.

—

The youth did not need to cease his tune to smile. But he did to speak.

‘Hello again,’ he said, lowering his flute.

‘Keep playing,’ replied Rebekah bat Judah.

He did, just as beautifully. Several people paused to listen, to tap a foot. Some dropped a coin into the cap on the cobbles before moving on. Rebekah did not move, or sway, just stood regarding him, her dark eyes wide.

The tune ended on a single high note, wonderfully sustained, clinging in the air a long moment after he lowered the flute. A passer-by threw in a last groat. The player knelt, running his fingers over the coins, then looked up at her, his blue eyes dancing under his shank of golden hair. ‘A goodly haul,’ he said. ‘May I spend a portion on you, Rebekah? Buy you a drink?’

Her face stayed grave. ‘You know that is not possible. I do not go anywhere, with anyone. Especially –’ She gestured at him. ‘I do not even know your name, though you stole mine.’

‘Stole? Nay,’ he laughed, ‘I took it in exchange for my heart!’

‘Tut!’ she scoffed, though she was pleased. ‘Your name, sir?’

He rose, his face serious now. Pouring the coins into a pocket of his coat, he clutched the hat before him. ‘Daniel,’ he said, and gave a formal bow.

‘Daniel?’ she echoed. ‘ ’Tis a name…a name of my people.’

‘I know. My parents honoured them. As do I. I wish –’ he hesitated, ‘I wish I could be one of them – of you. Especially now.’

‘Why now?’

The smile returned, the face lit. ‘Because then maybe you’d let me buy you that drink.’

‘Tut,’ she said again. ‘Are girls of your people allowed to do such things with a stranger?’

‘No. Though I would not truly know. I have had little to do with girls. I haven’t wanted to until –’ He broke off, his shy smile returning. ‘I have brought you something. A token.’

‘What?’

He looked around. People were staring at this young couple, both handsome, so different. The Gentile and the Jew. The light and the dark. ‘I think some of your tribe are disapproving that we talk so long. Come.’

He stepped away. She did not move. ‘Where?’

‘Just a few paces.’ He pointed to an alley’s narrow entrance. ‘There.’ When she still did not move, he smiled. ‘Come. Do not fear. We will stay near the entrance, in the light.’

‘Tut,’ she said, for the third time, though there was little disapproval in it now.

He led her two paces into the alley, halted, delved into his coat and pulled out an object.

‘A banana?’ she exclaimed, then laughed. ‘It is not even heart-shaped, sir!’

‘Have you tried one? The queen eats little else, they say, since they came to the realm but recently.’

‘I have not.’ She reached, drawing her hand back. ‘We are not allowed to eat many things.’

‘But this is a fruit, not – not a pig! Here,’ he broke the skin, peeling it in four sections, broke off a nub and offered it to her. When she shook her head, he ate it himself. ‘Hmm! Delicious. Are you sure?’

He tore off a much smaller piece, held it out. She shook her head again, so he ate her piece, folded up the rest of the banana in its skin and put it away.

‘Well, sir,’ she said, taking a step, ‘if that is all –’

‘Nay. That was just…lunch.’ He reached again into his coat. ‘This is dessert.’ He held out a paper-wrapped package. After a moment she took it and held it.

‘Open it,’ he said.

She unwrapped it and gave a little cry – of delight. In her hand, was a tortoiseshell object the size of her palm. Delicate teeth curved down; while above, on the main body, a pattern of flowers, iris and bluebell, had been inlaid in some shining shell.

‘It is to hold the hair in place. The seller named it a barrette and told me that this,’ Daniel ran his finger across the blue-green shimmer, ‘is “abalone”, a sea creature from across the globe, from the land of Mexico.’ He took her hand, tilting the shell to the light. ‘Can you see those southern seas, its blues and greens, in its sheen?’

‘Oh, I can. I can.’ She tilted it herself, delighting in it, then stopped as she became aware of his touch. Withdrawing her hand, she continued, ‘I may get a chance to see them by candlelight and in their proper place when my father has gone to sleep. I – I thank you. But I should –’ She took a step back. His cry halted her.

‘By candlelight? Hidden in a room for only yourself to see? Nay, I beg you. Let me see it.’

‘Now? It is not possible. I must keep my head covered.’ She touched her shrouding headdress. ‘I cannot –’

‘One glimpse?’ His blue eyes beseeched. ‘A small enough return for my heart, surely?’

She went to say ‘tut’ but could not. Instead, and after a long moment, she looked around, then passed him the barrette and reached up to her scarf. When she had taken it off, she hesitated again. But his eyes were wide as he stared up, and she reached again, releasing the tight ball of hair allowing the thick coils to burst upon her shoulders like waves on a midnight shore. She shook the tresses, smoothed them down and looked up. Wordless, he handed her back the barrette.

She placed it in her hair, taming one small part of the wild. She swept it around, turning for him to see, one eye upon him. ‘Well, sir?’ she said. ‘Well – Daniel?’

He did not reply – only raised his hand. When his fingers were a palm’s breadth away, she moved her head back slightly. ‘You should not do that,’ she whispered.

‘Then tell me to stop.’

Their gazes held. She did not speak again. He moved the little distance and ran his fingertips beneath the barrette and up into her hair. She closed her eyes to his touch.