On reaching home Faulkner found Gooding awake, wrapped in a robe and sitting beside the parlour fire which he had made up. Gooding rose wearily, about to speak until he saw the tall figure of Major Miles follow Faulkner into the room.
‘This is Major Miles, Nathan; Miles, my partner and brother-in-law, Nathan Gooding.’
Each man made an acknowledgement of the other, and Faulkner bade Miles make himself comfortable in the parlour, asking Gooding to accompany him to the room above.
‘Is your brother-in-law …?’ Miles asked pointedly, though without finishing the question.
‘Is my brother-in-law to be trusted, is that what you were about to ask, Major?’ Faulkner said, drawing the rolled commission from his doublet.
‘I have my orders, Sir Christopher,’ Miles said darkly.
‘I have mine too, Major, and this commission –’ Faulkner laid the paper on the parlour table – ‘which you may read at your leisure whilst I gather a few effects for our journey.’
‘What journey?’ interrupted Gooding.
‘I’ll tell you in a moment.’ Having silenced Gooding, Faulkner turned back to the cavalry officer who was now sprawling in the chair recently vacated by Gooding, his boots out towards the fire, his feathered hat on the table and his gloved right hand drawing the commission towards him. ‘That commission makes it clear that I am, and have been for some time, a Captain in His Majesty’s Navy, so I would be obliged, Major Miles, for a moment or two to myself.’
Leaving Miles to grin sardonically, he turned and shoved Gooding before him up the stairs. Once in the room above Faulkner bid Gooding remain silent and listen.
‘I have no time, Nathan, for lengthy explanations, but the King has thrown me a line and posted me a Captain. I am to go abroad into the Low Countries to smoke out Judith and Henry. If I can get them home I think that we might be cleared of trouble, but ’tis a mighty gamble. If not, God alone knows what will happen to us, but I need you to do exactly as I say. It is now the end of February. In a week from this night, do you have old Toshack bring the Hawk to Harwich. He is to watch for a small man-of-war called the Blackamoor. I think her to be a pink, or some such vessel. If he sees her he is to await orders from me. If she does not come by the end of March and he has heard from neither of us, he is to return to his moorings. Is that clear?’
Gooding nodded and Faulkner went on. ‘Tomorrow you must send Hannah to wait upon Katherine Villiers at Leicester House. Do you know where that is?’
Gooding had baulked at the mention of Katherine’s name, but he nodded and said: ‘Near Drury Lane.’
‘Yes. Hannah is to present her compliments to Mistress Villiers and introduce herself. She is to explain that Mistress Villiers will be welcome here as soon as she is quit of her responsibilities and duties in settling the affairs of the late Queen of Bohemia –’ Gooding looked up as Faulkner drove on – ‘to whom she has been principal Lady-in-Waiting. Hannah is to tell Katherine that I have been sent by Lord Clarendon’s personal order upon a special service. You know its nature and purpose but it is unnecessary that either Hannah or Katherine is made aware of it at this time. Tell Hannah that I rely upon her to execute this instruction as I do you to ensure all this is accomplished, for I cannot do it myself.’
Gooding nodded. ‘I understand … at least I understand that which you wish me to undertake.’ He hesitated, and Faulkner was about to speak when he went on, ‘Kit, does this foray into the Low Countries have anything to do with the Regicides there?’
‘I cannot tell you that.’
‘You already have. Is Judith …? Yes, I see that too. What shall you do? You cannot despatch her in preference for this … this Villiers woman.’
‘I am not without honour, Nathan. I am simply without alternatives. You must trust me to act as best I may. I would not have Judith dead, no, nor Henry … especially not Henry, but now I must go and gather my effects. Do you go and quiz that fellow below stairs.’
‘I would rather walk to Hell on hot coals.’
‘I think that is what I am about to do,’ Faulkner said, turning his back and making for the small attic room where he threw his precious telescope, his wheel-lock, some powder, balls, his cuirass and a few other useful odds-and-ends into his portmanteau before clattering down the stairs to his bedroom; here he added small clothes. By now the house was roused, and in his haste he was aware of the inquisitive faces of the maids. Then Hannah, wrapped in a blanket, met him at the head of the lower stair.
‘Father, what is it? Why all the noise?’
Faulkner lowered the portmanteau and drew Hannah towards him. ‘I am called away on state business, my dearest Hannah. I shall be back in a week or two; your uncle will tell you all about it and what you are to do in my absence. I am sorry, but I have no time now and must be off.’
‘But where are you going, Father?’
Faulkner did not answer; picking up his traps he drew them downstairs and left them by the front door. Summoning Miles from the parlour, where he picked up his commission and returned it to his doublet, he shook hands with Gooding and went out into the night. Hoisting the portmanteau up behind his saddle, he mounted and an instant later he and Miles had gone.
Captain Tobias Sackler was a thin, pinch-faced man who seemed to feel the cold north-north-easterly wind coming off the North Sea to churn the brown waters of Harwich Harbour into a nasty little chop as a personal assault. A pendulous dew-drop hung from the end of his nose, which was unusually large, as though his Creator, in forming Sackler’s proboscis, had drawn most of its substance from his face. Thus his cheeks were drawn and hollow, his jaw pointed and his eye sockets deep-set. Only his round dome of a forehead seemed to have resisted this process, while his eyes reinforced the notion of a man permanently frozen, being of an icy pale-blue. He wore no wig, the lank wisps of hair that protruded under the brim of his plain round hat made a poor attempt at a fringe, shedding a considerable quantity of dried scurf which clung tenaciously to the shoulders of his cloak as he stood to greet his guests upon the wind-swept deck of His Majesty’s Pink Blackamoor.
Downing suggested they went immediately to the cabin, where if he expected a glass of fortifying wine he was to be disappointed. In the coming days Faulkner would learn that, whatever first-appearances suggested to the contrary, Tobias Sackler was a stickler for doing his duty and had no time for fol-de-rols. He was pure Commonwealth, through-and-through, which made him an odd choice for this mission. If Faulkner foresaw trouble in this assessment it was clear from the start that Sackler was a seaman of competence. Nor did he seem in the least aggravated by Faulkner’s presence, the purpose of which Downing made clear as he handed Sackler a written order from the Admiralty Board.
‘You will see from your orders, Captain Sackler, that you are required to place yourself and the vessel under your command at the direction of myself and Captain Sir Christopher Faulkner. Sir Christopher has a commission—’
Sackler looked up from his brief scanning of the Admiralty letter. ‘Sir Christopher’s reputation is well known to me, Sir George,’ he interrupted. ‘I am perfectly acquainted with my duty. I have the cable hove short and this wind, being in the nor’-nor’-east, will allow us to leave if we do so before it veers.’ He paused a moment, and then went on. ‘The Blackamoor provides but poor accommodation, I fear, but please make yourselves at home. I have ordered dinner, such as it is, for an hour hence, though I have no table-money.’
‘I have that if you wish to obtain some provisions,’ put in Downing.
‘It seems scarcely worth the wait. I can have you off Helvoetsluys by tomorrow evening; until then there is enough. I will gladly accept the money and provide some viands for the homeward passage.’
‘Very well,’ said Downing, whereupon Sackler left then to attend to his duties on deck. Downing looked about him. ‘Looks as though we shall be on short commons gentlemen,’ he said to Faulkner and Miles.
Short commons they may have been, but after a sleepless night and a jolting journey from London to Harwich, made at a fast clip thanks to frequent changes of horses, they were sufficient to enable Faulkner to sleep. He woke, uncomfortable and stiff, shortly before the following dawn. The Blackamoor had cleared Harwich and doubled Landguard Point before dark. In threading his way out though the sands to the Sunk, before finding deeper water, Sackler proved himself a master of his craft, reacting to the cries of the leadsman in the fore-chains as the pink’s head was set for the Herringfleet and the Dutch port of Helvoetsluys.
Sackler was still on deck when Faulkner, wrapped in his cloak, dopey from sleep and stiff beyond remedy, staggered out onto the wet deck. Sheets of spray flew inboard over the weather bow, and at first it seemed to Faulkner that Sackler, a thin figure that seemed part of the Blackamoor herself, was the only man on deck. Then he was aware of others hunkered down under the weather rail, out of the wind, and a brace of men at the tiller, their pale faces faintly illuminated by the binnacle lamp.
Faulkner moved uncertainly across the deck, staggering uphill against the heel and grasping the after mizzen shroud.
Sensing his presence, Sackler turned. ‘Good morning, Sir Christopher.’
‘Captain Sackler,’ Faulkner responded shortly. The two stood in silence for a moment, then Faulkner observed, ‘I regret I have not my sea-legs; it is some time since I was at sea.’
Sackler grunted, but said nothing more, returning his attention to the distant horizon. Faulkner was at a loss to know quite what he was doing on deck, for they were clear of the land and the off-lying shoals and, while half a dozen smacks were in sight to leeward, there seemed nothing pressing that an officer-of-the-watch might not handle.
‘You have competent officers, Captain Sackler?’ Faulkner said, provoking Sackler to turn round. The first light of dawn fell upon his odd features, causing a skeletal impression, but there was enough light for Faulkner to watch as the dew-drop fell, only to be replaced, a few moments later, by another. Sackler’s thin lips drew into a smile; even in the half-light it was a surprisingly warm smile, which struck Faulkner as odd in the extreme, appearing as it did upon the face of a man who might have passed for Jack Frost himself.
‘I prefer to remain on deck at night, Sir Christopher. My officers are very good, but young and prone to hiding from the wind. We have been some months on the fishery, and they are best in daylight when their services are most needed. Young men need sleep more than older men so I cat-nap in the daytime and, when on a passage such as this, prefer my own company on deck.’ Without any change in tone or pace Sackler added, ‘We served under Blake together, Sir Christopher. I was in his flagship off the Kentish Knock and Dungeness.’
‘Ahh. I thought you a Commonwealth man.’
Sackler shrugged. ‘Times change and a man must earn his bread, if only for his dependants.’
Faulkner thought for a moment and then threw caution to the winds. ‘What do you know of your present duty?’
‘Why, sir, to convey our Minister to the United Provinces back to his post at The Hague by way of Helvoetsluys.’
Faulkner thought Sackler’s response was guarded, and he remarked with an air of casual amusement, ‘A most diplomatic reply for a diplomatic mission.’
‘I am less sure of your own purpose though, Sir Christopher,’ Sackler replied. ‘The Blackamoor is small enough not to require too many officers of rank, yet you are to direct her. That strikes me as a little odd.’
‘Yes, I am to land and assist Sir George. I do not know how long we shall be ashore, but I shall be returning and hope to have company. I shall require you to convey us back to Harwich.’
‘And would this company consist of Regicides, Sir Christopher?’
‘Not those that I am in quest of,’ Faulkner said.
‘And what of those that others are in quest of?’
Faulkner considered the matter for a moment and then asked, ‘What would be your position if I were to say that it is very likely that they may be Regicides?’
‘I should deplore the fact, Sir Christopher, but I should do my duty.’
‘As you see it, or as I see it?’
‘As you command me, sir,’ Sackler responded, his voice cold.
‘You see,’ Faulkner said, his tone one of reason rather than rank, ‘if it went against your conscience, I could order you to put about now and to return to Harwich where, in a day or so, I shall have my own vessel at my own disposal.’
‘You mean, Sir Christopher, the matter will happen, whether or not Tobias Sackler has as hand in it?’
‘I fear that the affair upon which I am engaged will indeed happen; at least, it will if it lies within my power to accomplish it.’
‘I would not survive such a dereliction,’ Sackler said shortly. ‘I pray you remember this conversation was initiated by yourself. I have already said that I shall do my duty and that I have those who depend upon me.’
Faulkner bit his lip. Who does not? he thought to himself, but this was not at all what he had intended, though he had known his approach might well miscarry. ‘I seek only an assurance that we shall not be betrayed and that I may rely upon your presence in the offing when I require it,’ he said.
‘Needs must, when the devil drives. You may rely upon me.’
‘I would have your hand upon it,’ Faulkner said, removing his right gauntlet and extending his open fist.
Sackler took it, his own hand dry and frozen. ‘You may have my very soul, Sir Christopher.’ For all its feeling of bloodlessness, Sackler’s hand gripped Faulkner’s with a consoling firmness.
‘I shall count upon you, sir,’ he said. Having relinquished each other’s grip they stood a while regarding the scene about them. Then Faulkner remarked, ‘She goes well to windward.’
‘Aye, she is a weatherly little bird,’ said Sackler, patting the rail beside him. ‘We shall be off the Herringfleet just after dark. Would you have me heave-to until daylight?’
‘Let us see what sea is running at sunset.’
‘Very well.’
The wind had dropped at sunset and backed round to the westward so that Sackler stood inshore under easy sail, and he passed word to Faulkner who came on deck after a frustrating day. He had hoped that Downing would have discussed their affairs and how he proposed to manage them after they had landed, but Downing spent the day dozing and Major Miles lay prostrated by sea-sickness, a weakness that proved the only thing to lighten Faulkner’s mood during the entire passage.
Having pointed out the failing breeze, Sackler indicated that he was intending to stand as close inshore as he could, a plan attested to by the low, monotonous call of the leadsman in the lee fore-chains as they crept inshore. The Dutch coast lay to leeward, a dark smudge across the darkening horizon, its uniform flatness broken, even in the twilight, by several church spires. Faulkner cast a quick look round then at the ensign at the stern.
‘Dutch colours,’ Sackler explained briefly.
‘Do you have a competent boat’s crew?’ Faulkner asked.
‘The best. And a good young officer to accompany you. If you would indicate a place where you wish to be picked up in due course, please show him. The tides serve this week to give us a flood during the evening, so any rendezvous near midnight will be ideal …’
‘And the moon is waning.’
‘’Twill be new on the twelfth and high water, full and change.’
‘That will suit us very well hereabouts if we can accomplish our business. Let us make a rendezvous at the place of my appointment on the twelfth at midnight,’ Faulkner said, warming to Sackler’s incisive approach. ‘What is the name of your officer?’
‘Septimus Clarke, my junior lieutenant.’ Sackler paused a moment, then added, ‘He is a deserving young man, Sir Christopher. If my conduct pleases you, you would oblige me by over-seeing him.’
‘Let us not bank too much on what may well miscarry, Captain Sackler.’
‘If we prepare for the worst, we may also hope for the best,’ Sackler responded sharply, and Faulkner smiled in the gathering darkness. Here was indeed an old Commonwealth man. As if divining Faulkner’s thoughts, Sackler said, ‘I was never for the execution of the late King, sir. Only his deposition, as indeed many were. You and I both served in the Interregnum.’
‘Then I think that we may rely upon each other, Captain Sackler.’
‘Indeed.’
An hour later, the Blackamoor lay hove-to, her main topsail to the mast as her boat pulled lustily towards the now obscured coastline. Lieutenant Clarke peered occasionally at a small hand-compass and adjusted the boat’s course as the tide augmented the efforts of the oarsmen and carried them into the wide, deep channel known to the English as the Herringfleet. Downing and Miles huddled in the stern sheets alongside Faulkner and Clarke, their light baggage under their feet, awkward and uncomfortable. From time to time both men peered around them, helplessly lost and entirely in the hands of the seamen. A few dim lights indicated the distant location of Brielle, and the banks closed imperceptibly in, though the channel remained wide and exposed. They passed a few boats fishing, and Faulkner summoned his stock of Dutch to call, ‘Zoll!’ – meaning that they were customs officers – and, ‘Good night,’ in his best Dutch as they swept past.
The night was filled with the low grunts of the oarsmen and the gentle knocking of their oar looms against the thole pins. The black water slid by on either side, a faint swishing accompanying its passing. The three passengers huddled in silence until Downing broke it, leaning forward and touching Faulkner’s knee to gain his attention. Faulkner lent towards him as he said in a low voice, ‘Once we are ashore matters are in my charge. Is that clear?’
There was, in Downing’s tone, more than a hint of threat; as though he anticipated some assumption of superiority by Faulkner. Faulkner recalled putting Miles in his place back in Wapping. Was that the root of Downing’s anxiety? If so, it was easily quashed.
‘I never assumed anything else,’ Faulkner replied, his response as bare of courtesy as Downing’s own address. ‘I am entirely in your hands as regards my own task.’
‘Quite.’
No further exchange took place as the boat pulled closer inshore.
‘Helvoetsluys,’ Clarke said eventually, in a low voice, pointing off on the larboard bow.
Faulkner stared into the night. It had grown cold, but this sharpened the air and he could just make out, though his eyes were not what they had once been, the jagged outline of roof tops, a spire and a windmill, dully distinct from the sky and a contrast to the low undulation of the channel’s dyked banks. ‘Pass above the town,’ he said to Clarke, ‘about half a mile and you will be able to lie inshore. There is some staithing there, and there may be ships moored …’
‘I see it, sir. Two … three vessels hard under the bank.’
‘Run in just below them. I think we may disembark there.’ Faulkner recalled the place where what constituted the North Sea squadron of the Royalist fleet had once lain. It almost seemed a happy time in recollection.
They were not challenged as they ran in towards the bank. A few reeds grew at the water’s edge, and the boat’s bow ran into them with a sibilant hiss, followed by the dull clatter of the crew stowing their oars.
‘I’ll lead,’ Faulkner said, getting to his feet, hitching his sword and working his way forward between the oarsmen. There was a rocking of the boat, a muffled curse as Miles almost lost his balance after so long a period inactive. Faulkner chuckled. The cavalry officer’s long legs must be tormenting him now. Downing was more circumspect. An accomplished deceiver, Faulkner concluded. Once the three men were ashore, their traps followed, passed ashore by the boat’s crew. Then, somewhat to Faulkner’s surprise, he found Clarke at his elbow.
‘The staithes will help me get my bearings another time, sir. But if the ships are gone I may need another landmark.’ He looked about him from the vantage point of the dyke. ‘The church will do very well. May I wish you good fortune, gentlemen.’
Faulkner took the outstretched hand. It struck Faulkner that this man might have been himself a lifetime earlier; the professional interest, the easy courtesy and the desire to please. Odd, he had never thought of himself in that way before.
‘Come. We have no time to waste.’ Downing touched him on the arm, and Faulkner relinquished Clarke’s hand.
‘Until we meet again, Mr Clarke.’
‘Until then, sir.’ Then he was gone, slithering down the bank and into the boat, which was shoved off immediately.
‘Come,’ Downing repeated peremptorily. ‘We must find our horses.’
Faulkner turned. Both Downing and Miles had their saddle-bags over their shoulders, and he hefted the portmanteau. Then, in straightening up, he found Downing confronting him. For a moment the two men faced each other and Faulkner was about to ask what was amiss now, when Downing spun on his heel and led the trio along the dyke. Faulkner was at a loss, especially when Major Miles fell in behind him. He had the uneasy feeling that he was a prisoner.
As they trudged along towards the town, Faulkner consoled himself with the thought that whatever happened was Downing’s avowed responsibility. It was a comfort as cold as the night itself but it went some way to reconcile Faulkner to his situation. Within an hour, however, he felt easier, for it was clear that Downing had matters arranged to a nicety.
Although no-one expected the arrival of the three Englishmen, Helvoetsluys was a packet-port, the twin of Harwich on the English shore, and used to the comings-and-goings associated with the transfer of passengers and mails. Notwithstanding the simmering suspicion between the two countries, the inhabitants of both sea-towns continued their business of commercial intercourse. Even in the darkness Faulkner recognized the cobbled streets through which they walked, remembering them from his sojourn in the place years earlier.
Downing led them directly to a post-house where, with the expenditure of some guilders, Miles – who spoke good Dutch – secured three horses. They were of indifferent quality but, before the chimes of midnight had faded behind them, they enabled the travellers to be on the road towards Dordrecht. Here they hoped to cross the River Maas and head north-west towards The Hague.
They stopped and sheltered in the lee of a water-pumping windmill after about three hours, resting men and horses. Dozing fitfully, they woke at dawn to a sleeting drizzle. This set Downing to cursing a country bereft of decent shelter and which seemed, in the bleak light of day, to go on and on without relief to the very edge of the world.
It rained all day, and neither Faulkner nor Miles demurred when Downing announced that they would lay the night at Dordrecht. As they rode into the city Downing led them to an inn and ordered Miles to dispose of the horses while he and Faulkner arranged their lodgings. Downing then proceeded to the burgomaster’s house and presented his diplomatic credentials, thus informing the authorities of his presence on Dutch soil. He also begged the burgomaster to arrange for a coach to be made available the following day, confident that the burgomaster would do nothing that day in respect of informing his masters at The Hague of his arrival, but would nevertheless wish to hurry the English ambassador on his way. Then, at table that evening, Downing announced his plan to his two companions.
‘Tomorrow we go directly to Delft. ’Tis best this matter is put in train without delay. The partridges we seek will know that I am out of the country and will not expect me to make them my first call on return. I shall then proceed alone to The Hague and muster my forces, leaving you Miles to watch and wait, and you, Sir Christopher, to seize your own quarry. I am ordered to allow you this advantage, which is both against my instinct and all common sense, but I swear to you that if you bungle it and word gets abroad that something is afoot, I shall personally see to it that you hang as you deserve.’ Miles grinned his agreement with Downing.
Faulkner bridled at Downing’s insulting tone and, recalling the sensation of being a prisoner, rose to the occasion. ‘I shall endeavour not to follow your example, Sir George,’ he said evenly, referring to Downing’s mishandled attempt at the abduction of Edward Dendy.
Downing leaned forward. ‘That is precisely why I urge circumspection upon you,’ he said, his voice low and insistent. ‘We play a low game for high stakes … very high stakes … and much falls to me. Do you do your part.’
‘How may I do my own part?’ Faulkner interrupted. ‘Particularly when I rely upon you to indicate where my quarry lies.’
‘You will be conducted thither when we reach Delft,’ Downing said. ‘Miles here will keep you company, at least until your quarry is secured. Now,’ he said in a changed tone of voice, leaning back and becoming suddenly affable, ‘let us have another stoop of ale before retiring.’ He added a light-hearted remark upon the day’s ordeal as though the intensity of his exchanges with Faulkner had never occurred. An hour later the three men each lay between clean sheets. As Downing had remarked as they bade each other good night, the one thing you could rely upon in Holland was clean sheets.