Jones was thrashing furiously, creating great spumes of foam that made it difficult for Chaloner to see. He lunged for the spy again, but missed. Was this what had happened to Swaddell? He had been ensnared by a drowning man, and had been unable to escape? Suddenly, there was a crack as the crossbow was fired again, audible even over Jones’s noisy splashes. Then the fat man was gone. Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of lapping water and the distant barking of dogs.
‘It is done,’ said the leader eventually. ‘You two stay here, on the chance that he escaped and is waiting to climb out. The rest can go home.’
While he talked, Chaloner forced himself underwater, groping in the darkness for Jones, but he soon gave up. The tide had just turned, and the current had almost certainly swept the hapless Yeoman downstream. It tugged at Chaloner as he clung to the pillar, and made the seaweed undulate. He saw a ladder leading up to the quay, but he had lost his sword, and he could not fight the two remaining guards without it. He realised he was going to be trapped in the water until either they left or the tide went out, allowing him to walk to safety along the beach.
He knew he should concentrate on devising a solution to his predicament before the icy river sucked away his life, but his mind kept wandering. He thought about the fact that the pier was provided with a lantern, even though coal was unlikely to be landed at night. Ergo, it was used to light some other activity. Then he considered the train-band. They had appeared very suddenly, and were determined that he would not escape. Of course, the leader had mentioned the ring, which meant they knew it was him they had met in the Painted Chamber. And after he had jumped, they had referred to him in the singular. He could only assume that they thought he and Jones were one and the same — that the feeble lamplight had not allowed them to see two men in the water. Three, counting Swaddell.
His grip on the pillar was starting to loosen, and he was aware of a warm lethargy taking hold of him. It would be easy to close his eyes and sleep, but something deep within him stirred, and he felt his resolve begin to strengthen. He could not climb this ladder, but there were other public stairs. All he had to do was let the current take him. He would have to ensure it did not sweep him to the middle of the river, because then he would never escape its frigid embrace, but he could stay near the edge. Without giving himself too much time to think, he took a deep breath, let himself slide under the water, and gave himself to the pull of the tide.
He stayed submerged until his lungs felt as though they would burst, then surfaced with a gasp that sounded deafening to his ears. He glanced behind him and saw the lamp, but he had been carried beyond the point where the soldiers would be able to see him. He was safe — or as safe as he could be in a fast-flowing river in the dark. He could see the Westminster Stairs a short distance ahead, so he struck out towards them. But the current was too strong, and carried him past.
He swallowed water, and began to cough. Then he saw lights ahead, and knew they were his last chance, because the cold was now seriously weakening him. Mustering every last ounce of his strength, he swam towards them. Were they closer, or was he imagining it? He closed his eyes, summoning reserves of energy he did not know he had. Then he felt something solid beneath his feet, and could hear the lap of waves on stone. Struggling to make his limbs obey, he clambered out of the water, and collapsed in an exhausted heap at the top of a flight of steps. He was not sure how long he lay there, but it was enough to bring back the warm lethargy. He forced himself to stand.
He knew, from the number of lights, that he was at White Hall, but he was not on the main pier. His heart sank when he realised he had fetched up on the Privy Stairs, which led to the rooms used by the King and his Queen. Now what? he thought. He was not inclined to jump back in the river and aim for a more suitable landing spot, so he supposed he would just have creep through the royal apartments without being seen. It would not be easy, but his cold-numbed mind was failing to come up with any other options. With water squelching in his boots and weighing down his clothes, he picked the lock at the top of the stairs, and let himself inside.
It was a relief to be out of the wind, although the little chamber in which he found himself could hardly be described as cosy. He climbed more steps, then picked a second lock, to find himself in the Shield Gallery with its long line of statues, ghostly sentinels faintly illuminated by the light of the lamps in the alley outside. Happier now he was in familiar territory, he stumbled along it, aiming for the door that led down to the lane. From there, he could reach the Earl’s offices, where there would be a fire — the Earl liked his rooms permanently heated on account of his gout, and kept blankets to hand for the same reason. Chaloner would thaw himself out, then go home. Or better still, visit Hannah, who would know how to banish the aching chill from his bones.
He had almost reached the end of what felt like an inordinately long chamber, when a door opened. Instinctively, he dodged towards a statue, aiming to hide behind it, but his legs would not do what his brain suggested, and he did not move nearly quickly enough. Light from a powerful lantern flooded the chamber, and there was nothing he could do to prevent himself from being caught.
Chaloner waited for the yell of outrage that would see soldiers racing to arrest him. Then he would be bundled into some dismal cell until the Earl rescued him, which was likely to be hours, given that they would be loath to disturb the great man until morning. Chaloner hated gaols with a passion, and did not relish being locked up when he was soaking wet. Briefly, he considered fighting his way free, but he was in no condition to do battle with anyone — especially without his sword.
‘Thomas?’ came a voice full of astonishment. ‘Is that you?’
Chaloner blinked against the light. It had sounded like Hannah. Footsteps clattered towards him.
‘It is your lover?’ The question was asked in heavily accented English, and Chaloner was horrified to recognise Queen Katherine. He tried to bow, but was too cold to move properly, and Her Majesty was lucky he did not topple into her arms.
Soldiers immediately seized him, and he resigned himself to a night in prison. He hoped the Earl would not arrive too late for work the following day — or worse, decline to take responsibility for him, because it would be an easy way to dispense with his services. Being caught near the Queen’s bedroom was not something that could easily be explained away, and he saw he was in very grave trouble.
‘My friend,’ corrected Hannah primly. ‘The Earl charged him to investigate the King’s missing statue, which I imagine is what he is doing here.’
‘Let him go,’ ordered the Queen, addressing the guards. She was not long recovered from a serious illness, and her small, delicate face was far too pale.
‘That would be unwise, ma’am,’ said the captain, stepping forward to prevent his men from doing as they were bid. He pointed at the water that had gathered in a pool around Chaloner’s feet. ‘I do not believe he is investigating the theft, because he would have used the door from the lane, like any normal person. But he came via the river, suggesting he plans to steal something himself.’
‘Steal what?’ demanded Hannah archly, gesturing at the large paintings and heavy sculptures that surrounded them. ‘Some of these? How? By swimming off with them? He is not a fish!’
‘My husband’s statue was stole at night,’ said the Queen slowly. ‘It is recreating the crime.’
‘Of course!’ cried Hannah in delight. ‘How exciting! We shall help you, Tom — Her Majesty cannot sleep, and this will be much more fun than walking up and down until she wears herself out.’
‘She should not be here anyway,’ muttered the captain. ‘The roof was damaged in the last storm, and it has not been mended yet. It may not be safe.’