‘Then I will come with you,’ said Leybourn, in the kind of voice that suggested objections would be futile. ‘I fancy a jaunt on the river. How far will you be going?’
Chaloner regarded him coolly. Was he employed by the new government to watch men who had once been in Thurloe’s pay? Or was he hired by Kelyng or Downing, and his tirades against them were a ruse to gain the confidence of dissenters? Or was he just a nosy bookseller, and Chaloner had been an agent for so long that he was apt to be wary of everyone? He studied the thin, eager features as they walked, and all his experience failed him: he could not tell whether Leybourn was friend or foe.
The quickest way to the nearest pier – the Westminster Stairs – was through the Holbein Gate, a sturdy but shabby edifice that straddled King Street and was a major obstacle for carts. Drivers regularly clamoured for it to be demolished, but the King stubbornly resisted any attempts to reduce the size of his palace. The gate boasted several stately chambers, and their current occupant, Chaloner learned from Leybourn, was Lady Castlemaine. Chaloner suspected that most of the stories about the King’s favourite mistress were wildly exaggerated. When he had visited his boyhood home in Buckinghamshire that summer, his brothers had told him she regularly amassed gambling debts of a hundred thousand pounds, and his sisters thought she was a secret drinker. Now Leybourn was claiming she was pregnant with another of the King’s brats, although her meek husband declared it was his own.
‘It is not, of course,’ declared Leybourn, negotiating his way along King Street. For a major thoroughfare, it was wretchedly narrow. Vehicles were nearly always at a standstill, and the congestion sometimes had to be sorted out by armed soldiers. The squeal of metal wheels on cobbles was amplified by the towering buildings on either side and, combined with the yells of traders and the racket of cattle being driven to the slaughterhouses, Chaloner could barely hear Leybourn bawling in his ear. ‘I doubt Lord Castlemaine has been within a mile of his wedding bed for years. That honour is reserved for those with the funds to buy her expensive gifts.’
They reached the mighty façade of Westminster Hall, where a small crowd lingered around the place where the heads and limbs of traitors were displayed. Chaloner looked away, not wanting to see the decaying remnants of men he had met in life. Leybourn led the way to a damp wooden pier that boasted a jostling flotilla of waiting boats. Immediately, another clamour assailed their ears, as rivermen vied for their custom, offering improbably low prices that would be inflated with hidden extras at the end of the journey. Leybourn seemed to enjoy the barter, and eventually selected a villainous-looking fellow with no teeth. Chaloner followed them down the slick green steps and into a bobbing craft.
He scanned the pier as he scrambled into the bow, alert for any indication that he might have been followed. He did not think Kelyng could have caught up with him, since he had rushed off in the opposite direction, but Bennet might have managed. However, there was nothing amiss, and he began to relax, grateful to rest his aching leg. Leybourn and the boatman continued to haggle as they moved away from the jetty and eased into the powerful current that carried them north and then east, towards Temple Stairs where Chaloner intended to disembark. He had no idea what Leybourn would do, since Cripplegate was a good way from the river.
Then he heard running footsteps. It was Bennet. The chamberlain seized a riverman by the shoulder, pointed at Chaloner’s craft, and silver flashed. The message was clear: more would be given if the fellow caught up. The boatman grabbed his oars, clearly intending to have whatever had been offered. Chaloner watched, aware that a vessel containing three people could not possibly outrun one carrying two, the driver of which was already hauling as though his life depended on it. It was gaining, while Chaloner’s man was enjoying a niggardly debate with Leybourn about the cost of oysters. With nowhere to run, and no means to escape, Chaloner was trapped like a fish in a barrel.
Chapter 2
Bennet knelt in his boat, bracing himself against the rocking motion, and took a pistol from under his cloak. If his riverman thought this irregular, he made no comment, and only continued to haul on his oars for all he was worth. Chaloner’s own man faltered when he saw the weapon.
‘Pull,’ Chaloner ordered, scrambling forward and grabbing an oar. The boatman obeyed with mute terror, and they began to ease ahead. Then Chaloner saw Bennet extend his arm and squint along the barrel. Even the most dire of marksmen could not miss at such close range, and he braced himself for the impact.
But Leybourn hauled something from his doublet. ‘Fireball!’ he yelled, hurling it at the other craft. It landed with a thud that was audible even at a distance. Bennet’s oarsman gave a shriek of horror and dived overboard. Bennet tried to maintain his balance in the savagely bucking craft, but soon disappeared with an almighty splash. Chaloner’s man cheered wildly, and stood to make obscene gestures at the bobbing heads that surfaced a moment later. Leybourn sat with a satisfied smile stamped across his thin features.
‘What was it really?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Tobacco,’ replied the bookseller. ‘A customer gave it to me in exchange for one of my pamphlets. I am sorry to see the Thames have it, but it cannot be helped.’
‘It is a waste,’ agreed the boatman. He elbowed Chaloner away, wanting the craft back under his own control. ‘This will affect the fare, gentlemen. Me being threatened with firearms costs extra.’
‘And you being you rescued from gun-toting lunatics does not come cheap, either,’ retorted Leybourn tartly. ‘I charge for that sort of service, so I advise you to stick to our original agreement or you may find yourself in debt at the end of the journey.’
‘He was trying to kill your friend,’ objected the boatman. ‘You endangered me, by making me carry you when Gervaise Bennet was after your blood. If you got on his wrong side, then you had no business asking me to take you upriver. I might have been killed.’
‘You are mistaken,’ said Leybourn smoothly. He pointed forward, to where another boat was in disarray, oars in the water as it rotated hopelessly out of control. A large, heavily paunched man in a red wig, and a pretty, fattish girl carrying a long-handled parasol were shrieking their alarm while their boatman paddled ineffectually with his hands. ‘Bennet was aiming at them. It was my quick thinking that saved the day, but they were the ones he was trying to shoot.’
‘I doubt it,’ said the boatman, inspecting the stricken craft as they passed. ‘The passengers are Sir John Robinson and his daughter Fanny. Bennet would never risk harming Fanny.’
‘But he does not feel as benevolent towards her father,’ argued Leybourn. ‘He might well want to put a ball in Robinson’s heart.’
The names meant nothing to Chaloner. ‘Who are they?’
‘Robinson is Lord Mayor of London,’ replied the boatman, regarding him askance. ‘Every decent soul knows that. He is a powerful and wealthy merchant, with fingers in every pie worth eating.’
‘Robinson is also Lieutenant of the Tower,’ added Leybourn helpfully. ‘Bennet wanted to marry his daughter, but his offer was declined in no uncertain terms.’
‘Bennet is a chamberlain,’ said Chaloner, surprised. ‘Yet he set his sights on the Lord Mayor’s daughter? I would have thought he was aiming somewhat above his station.’
The boatman nodded, relishing an opportunity to give his opinion. ‘So it was no surprise when he was turned down.’
‘No surprise to most folk,’ corrected Leybourn. ‘It came as a great shock to Bennet himself, however. Rumour has it that he dressed himself in his finest clothes and arrived bearing a bribe of forty silver spoons. Apparently, he was stunned when Robinson told him to leave.’