Fire

1. To Kill A King-2

‘I do.’ Pitman took a big swallow before he continued. ‘We are summoned to the service of the state. Again.’

‘Shit.’ Coke reached over and took Pitman’s ale from his hand, near draining it, before setting it down. ‘And what service are we doing it in this tavern, pray?’

‘According to the whisper Sir Joseph heard, we are here to thwart a conspiracy that will begin here.’

‘It’s aim?’

‘To assassinate the king.’

Strangely, Coke felt his anger leave. Perhaps it was the ale. ‘Oh. Merely that?’ Coke laid his head back onto his forearms. ‘You make me tired, Pitman. We are not spies, nor government agents, nor guards of the king’s person. Why would Sir Joseph seek our aid?’

It was another thing that Pitman truly did not wish to discuss. Yet he must. ‘Because he believes the conspiracy is hatched by our old enemies, the Fifth Monarchists. That the man over there still checking his watch, and this other he awaits, are both members of that infernal crew.’

The captain reached up to pinch between his eyes. And so it circles back, he thought. The fanatics who made Sarah Chalker a widow, who near killed us all, now seek to kill the king – again. ‘Other? What other?’

‘It was the one additional whisper that Sir Joseph’s agents had caught. The arrival in London of a most dangerous man. So dangerous he does not have a name. Merely a nickname.’

‘Which is?’

‘Homo Sanguineus.’

Coke frowned. ‘I ever regret that the late deplored wars forced me to exchange further classical education for bullets and blades. But does that not mean “man of blood”?’

‘It does.’

‘I see. So what now, Pitman? What would our master have us do? Play the role of damned spy? Observe, report? Arrest? I am not a constable, sir. Unlike you.’

‘I fear, as does Sir Joseph, that the affair might be more pressing than that. Do you know what today is?’

‘6 April.’

‘And what does that signify?’

‘Just tell me, man, before I lose the will to live.’

‘Very well.’ Pitman glanced across the room, to the man now scratching hard under his expensive wig. ‘In ’61, Major General Harrison was executed. You may have heard of him.’

‘He was a regicide, was he not? Signed the death warrant of our late king, Charles I?’

‘He did. And suffered the fate of a traitor for it. He was hung, drawn and quartered. Yet ’tis said that, despite the horrors visited upon his old body, the general never stopped singing hymns. Right up to the moment when they were extracting his guts with hot tongs . . .’

Coke raised a hand. ‘I beg your favour – you can spare me the details.’

Pitman smiled. ‘I always forget what a weak stomach you have, Captain. Odd for a military man. Well,’ he continued, ‘that was five years ago to this very day.’

Coke lifted his head. ‘You do not mean –’

‘I do.’ Pitman nodded. ‘Sir Joseph believes they will attempt their revenge on the anniversary of Harrison’s . . . martyrdom, as they would have it.’

Coke frowned. ‘Easily countered. His Majesty may spend the day cavorting with one of his many mistresses in his apartments at Whitehall with a troop of cavalry to guard each door.’

‘He may, but he will not. For he has an appointment.’

‘Where?’

Instead of answering, Pitman bent and plucked something from the floor, and laid it on the table before Coke. It was the playbill he had but lately been perusing. Announcing a performance to be given of the Tragedy of Hamlet – in less than one hour’s time. ‘Betterton is His Majesty’s favourite player. He never misses his first assay of a role,’ Pitman added.

Tragedy of HamletCoke barely heard him. He rose.

‘Calmly, man. Where do you go?’ Pitman said.

‘To the playhouse. Sarah’s there. And if these fanatics are there as well –’

He half turned – and Pitman reached and seized his arm. ‘They are not, man. They are here. And our best chance is to intercept them is –’

He was interrupted, not by Coke’s argument but by the main doors beside them banging open, and by the shout given by the man in a long, black cloak who entered. ‘The judges are returning!’ he yelled. ‘The courts are in session. All persons with business before their Worships to come forthwith.’

Where there had been quiet, now there was noise, as lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, all rose, drained tankards and loudly made their last points. Where there had been space, it was now filled as men flooded the area before the Seven Stars’ trestle. Coke and Pitman turned, seeking through the sudden mob. But as the smoke cleared through doors flung wide onto the street, and as the lawyers streamed out, they saw that the man they’d been watching so assiduously had gone.

‘The back door, swiftly!’

There were still enough customers to hinder them and despite his size it took near half a minute for Pitman to push through, Coke in his wake. The back door gave onto a dank alley. But its only occupants were five men adding to its reek by pissing against its walls. The man they sought was not one of them.

‘The playhouse!’

Coke set off at a good pace, Pitman level with him. ‘Tell me,’ he said, as they dodged between the yellow puddles, ‘how did you single out this fellow amongst all the others? Did you take my advice?’

‘In a way. I used this.’ He tapped his nose.

‘Ah good! Your sixth sense.’

‘No. I used this.’ He tapped again. ‘The man reeked.’

this‘Not uncommon in London. Marry, my Bettina says that if I do not take my fortnightly bath –’

‘You mistake me. This was a particular kind of smell. Such a one as I have scented only one place before. You will have smelled it too.’

‘Where?’

‘On a battlefield. In the late king’s wars, you may have fought for Parliament and I for the King, but I wager our comrades smelled exactly the same going into a fight for the first time. I know I did. It is the scent of terror,’ he nodded, ‘and this man reeks of it.’

They rounded the corner and were gone.

Had Pitman not been so distracted he would have noticed something in the alley – for he was famed for his seeing of even the smallest detail. And this was not even that small, truly. A man near as large as the thief-taker, leaning against the wall, unbuttoned. A man engaged in the act of pissing yet voiding nothing. A man who tucked himself away now, buttoned his breeches and followed, at a steadier pace, those three who hurried to the theatre. The ones he’d spotted immediately in the tavern as they looked elsewhere – for he had a good eye for an enemy, born of the experience of having had so many.

He need not hurry, knowing he had ten minutes before the new rendezvous he’d arranged in a swift whisper with the man who – he had to agree with the government toady – smelled none so well. Though he wished the time were shorter so that he could relieve himself of the large metal ball that pressed against his spine.

Shifting it a little, the man known as Homo Sanguineus walked slowly towards a royal death.