‘Nonsense.’ Marshall raised a hand when Chaloner began to argue. ‘I complained to Mr Jones about the Piccadilly Company’s odd habits this morning, and he explained everything. He said he and his friends still export glassware, but they just do it on a larger scale, which is why they are so keen on secrecy. It is a lucrative business, apparently.’
Chaloner wondered how Marshall could have believed the tale. ‘But Fitzgerald is a-’
‘Mr Jones says Fitzgerald is a changed man now the Royalists are in power,’ interrupted Marshall with a smile. ‘He has given up piracy, and will make his fortune honestly instead.’
‘I seriously doubt-’ began Chaloner.
‘It is true,’ insisted Marshall earnestly. ‘He is respectable now, and has even been granted audiences with the King — he preyed on Cromwell’s ships during the Commonwealth, you see, which is considered patriotic these days. Indeed, he is in the Banqueting House at this very moment, invited there to watch the King devour his dinner.’
Chaloner was astounded. ‘A pirate is welcomed at Court?’
‘The King considers him a hero for what he did to the Roundheads,’ said Marshall. ‘He is a pirate no more. He took Harley and Newell with him, to cheer them up after losing their friend.’
Chaloner tried again to warn him about the danger he was in, but Marshall declined to listen, and there was nothing Chaloner could do to make him. He took his leave and began to walk to White Hall, wishing Thurloe had not shackled him with the promise to stay away from Fitzgerald, because an interview with the man might answer all manner of questions. However, while he was forbidden to approach the pirate, he could still speak to his cronies — and it was high time he had a serious discussion with Harley and Newell.
The Banqueting House was a large, airy building with huge windows and a ceiling painted by Rubens. It was never easy gaining access to it when the King was eating, because it was a popular event and places were limited. Surprisingly, the solution came from Chief Usher Dugdale, who ordered Chaloner to don a liveried hat and coat, and take his place in the Lord Chancellor’s retinue. Chaloner obliged happily, and Dugdale’s eyes narrowed in instant suspicion.
The procession set off, Kipps at the front bearing the seal. Clarendon and his wife were next, followed by their son Hyde, while the gentlemen ushers brought up the rear. All eyes were on the Earl, because he was wearing expensively fashionable shoes that were far too tight, and he waddled outrageously, more of a caricature of himself than anything his cruel mimics could ever manage.
They had not been settled for long in the gallery that overlooked the main hall before the King arrived. He sat at the table that had been set ready for him, his Queen on one side, and his mistress on the other. Poor Katherine was dark and dowdy compared to the glorious Lady Castlemaine. She looked miserable, and it was clear she wished she were somewhere else.
A blaring fanfare heralded the arrival of the food, which not surprisingly was a good deal more appetising than rancid venison pastry. There were huge pieces of roasted meat, elegantly decorated pies, whole baked fish and sweet tarts. The King fell to with an enthusiasm that was heartening, watched intently by spectators who must have numbered in the hundreds. Because it was hot in the Banqueting House with so many of them crammed together, and because best clothes had been donned for the occasion, the air was thick with the reek of sweat and moth-repellent.
Chaloner looked for Fitzgerald, Harley and Newell, but they were nowhere to be seen. He wondered whether they had spun Marshall a yarn, and the pirate was no more welcome at Court than any other man with a brazenly criminal past would be.
There were plenty of other people he recognised, though. They included Leighton, the Adventurers’ secretary, whom Kipps had described as the most dangerous man in London. Was it true? There was definitely something compelling about the fellow, with his button-like eyes and unsettlingly bland face.
Leighton was next to O’Brien and Kitty, whose newly acquired wealth was evident in their fine but tastefully understated clothes. Chaloner recalled being told several times that they were the King’s current favourites — although apparently not enough to be asked to join him at his feast. Kitty looked especially lovely in a green dress that matched her eyes, her auburn hair in tight ringlets around her face. O’Brien’s obvious excitement with the occasion made him seem more boyish than ever, his fair curls bobbing and his eyes flashing with unbridled delight.
Leighton kept tapping O’Brien’s arm to claim his attention, but O’Brien was more interested in the King’s feast, and Chaloner could see them growing exasperated with each other. Meanwhile, Kitty had been cornered by Brodrick, who had a dark, sinister figure at his side — John Swaddell, who had worked for Spymaster Williamson until seduced away by the prospect of better wages. Surely, thought Chaloner uneasily, Brodrick had not hired the man? He doubted the Earl’s cousin could afford him, and he wondered whether there would be a murder to investigate when Swaddell learned he was never going to be paid what he had been promised.
After a few moments, Hyde and Dugdale joined them, and Leighton began to address the whole ensemble, although O’Brien and Kitty were obvious in their preference for watching the King instead, and it was not long before he gave up. Brodrick took up the reins, relating some tale that had them rocking with laughter, and Leighton promptly moved away, his expression difficult to read.
Eventually Chaloner spotted Fitzgerald, Harley and Newell in the opposite gallery, and supposed they must have told Marshall the truth after all. They were with several others he had seen in the Crown, all members of the Piccadilly Company. Chaloner abandoned the Earl and edged towards them, aiming to come close enough to eavesdrop. As he did so, he studied Fitzgerald carefully, curious about the man who had bested Thurloe.
The pirate was wearing a fine blue suit with a matching eye-patch, and his red beard had been allowed to flow free, so it covered his chest and a good part of his stomach. In all, it made for an arresting appearance. His peculiarly high voice was audible over the general hubbub, as he told a sullen Harley a tale about a chest of silver.
Newell was with the swarthy man whose clothes had led Chaloner to assume he was from Lisbon. When a trumpet blast announced the beginning of another course, the fellow jumped in alarm and blurted a curse in Portuguese. Chaloner nodded his satisfaction: he had been right.
A short distance away, ‘the nice Mr Jones’, complete with red ribbons in his boot hose, was chatting to Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon, although people were scowling at them, disliking Hollanders in their midst when the two countries might soon be at war. At first, Chaloner did not rate their chances of escaping the event in one piece, but then he saw that they were accompanied by several burly soldiers. Clearly, they were aware of their unpopularity, and had taken measures to protect themselves.
Chaloner did not think he had ever seen a couple more obviously Dutch. Janszoon looked as though he had stepped directly out of a painting by van Dyck, with a wide-brimmed hat and the kind of collar popular among Amsterdam’s burgomasters. There was a vivid scar on one cheek, which made Chaloner wonder whether an assault had prompted the hire of bodyguards. Margareta’s clothes were dark and sombre, with a maidenly wimple of a kind never seen in England. Perhaps as a sop to London fashions, both had used liberal amounts of face-powder and rouge.
‘The King eats with his fingers,’ she remarked to Jones in heavily accented English. ‘How curious. In Amsterdam, we use forks.’
Her voice had not been loud, but the comment coincided with a lull in other conversations, and those around her heard it quite clearly. There was a collective murmur of indignation, and Jones moved away sharply, his handsome face burning with embarrassment.