Rebels and traitors

Chapter Seventy-Eight — Shoe Lane: 1656

Orlando Lovell kept the shop under observation from a doorway for several hours. The building was narrow-fronted, one room wide, perhaps two deep, three storeys high, better maintained than those next door. It stood halfway down an alley off Shoe Lane, in a commercial district, more dingy than dangerous. There were worse stink-holes in London. A prostitute had accosted him in a desultory fashion as he turned the corner, but she made no move to follow him down the alley, nor did she curse him when he ignored her. Sparrows pecked in the gutter.

A succession of women in all shapes, sizes and qualities, some of them servants, called at the shop; most went away carrying little parcels. Through the bright crown-glass panes it appeared they were served by a young girl. Sometimes she came to the door when they left, curtseying politely. About sixteen — far too young to be the shopkeeper, she seemed to be unsupervised today. She wore a brown unbleached apron over a saffron skirt and collared jacket, her hair hidden respectably by a white cap. Though her face was like a half-baked white muffin, she had eyes that a man who thought he had been chaste for too long could convince himself were lascivious. Lovell ogled her, as a cavalier was bound to, although the belief that she was employed by his wife acted as a natural deterrent.

About mid-afternoon he became bored. The young girl was no longer visible inside the shop. He walked across; he had already heard that a bell hung on the door but by opening it extremely slowly he managed to squeeze indoors with no alarm, only a faint quiver. The shop was neat, packed with products, thriving. He stood for a moment, contemplating the unpleasant fact (to him) that his wife, Juliana Lovell, was now engaged in trade. What bastard with no sense of the appropriate had put her up to that?

He walked quietly past the long counter, into a lobby at the foot of the stairs where he listened but heard nothing. He noticed an old sword, which he thought he recognised, hanging on a nail. Making his way along a slabbed corridor, he came to the back yard. He passed two bowls of cold water, presumably for dogs. His wife still had not acquired the garden she once hankered for, but barrel-halves stood in a line on the sunniest wall of this internal space, full of growing pot-herbs. An unappealing horse huffed over a stable door at him. He discovered the privy and, being the man he was, blatantly made use of it.

When he emerged he heard movement. He walked back to the shop, expecting to surprise a woman; he saw nobody, passed into the room, then was startled as a tall fellow straightened up behind a counter, holding a plank. Apparently he was about to nail up an extra shelf. Orlando Lovell found himself being assessed as a potential snatch-thief by what he presumed was a hired workman.

The fellow was in shirtsleeves, his blond hair casually tousled. He had the kind of half-translucent fair skin that accompanied near-invisible eyelashes and blue eyes. There was nothing effeminate about him, however. His face was masculine, his build strong, his manner competent. He would be defined for the rest of his life by his past service in the Parliamentary army. There was far more to him than Lovell yet saw.

Some men can put up shelves. They know their superiority. Others merely stand about, pretending they could do this if they had to. Orlando Lovell, the interloper, was one of the latter. As a part-time joiner, Gideon Jukes knew what he was doing. He was the son of a man who had loved projects; John Jukes had had to equip himself with skills, or he would have been at the mercy of half-hearted craftsmen who promised to come on Thursday, then failed to show up.

With a mouth full of nails, Gideon did not bother to speak. Hammer in one hand, shelf in the other, he turned his back and more or less calmly continued his carpentry. Having tapped in a support at one end, he levelled the shelf by standing a saucer of water upon it, knocked in the other support lightly then made good with strong blows. Perhaps these blows were a little harder than necessary. Only when he had relieved his feelings did he turn and face Orlando Lovell.

Gideon knew who it was. Since Elizabeth Bevan's visit he had been waiting for this. Surprise was on his side, although he found that did not make the situation any easier.

Gideon surveyed his rival. Orlando Lovell, alias Boyes, looked like someone to be reckoned with. He was compact, small-boned, sanguine-complexioned, assured to the point of arrogance, with hooded eyes that saw too much and kept much hidden. He had long brown hair, sun-bleached at the ends where it curled down on his shoulders. He wore a beard, though Elizabeth Bevan had said she had seen him with it trimmed close. He was currently passing himself off as a gentleman. His suit was gunmetal, his cloak and hat black. A gloved hand lay easily on the basket-hilt of a sword. If he had brought pistols, they were not visible.

He seemed not much older than Gideon. A few years, maybe. Any appearance of other experience was due to their absolute difference in looking at the world. Nothing would change that. It was why they had fought their war.

'You must be Colonel Lovell.'

'And who the devil are you?' A well-bred accent. Haughty enough to rile a Londoner.

'Your wife's husband!' answered Gideon cheerfully. He allowed a tactful pause so the statement would sink in. 'This is awkward, for us both. I suggest we don't shake hands.'

Lovell stared. Gideon had the satisfaction of seeing the man grow hot under his weathered skin. But Lovell recovered; he knew how long it was since he contacted Juliana and he accepted that she might have made other arrangements. That did not mean he would allow it. 'You have stolen my wife! Where is she?'

'Not here. You will have to rampage at me.'

'You are a Roundhead!' Lovell accused him with disgust. He used Roundhead as a term of abuse; Gideon only squared up and was proud of it. 'I suppose it gives you satisfaction, to ravish one of the enemy — '

Gideon kept his temper. 'That's a cavalier trick! Besides, Juliana is no enemy of mine.'

'You dog! Who are you?'

'Captain Gideon Jukes, late of the New Model Army. Everything you fight against, everything you hate.'

That was certainly true, thought Lovell sourly. 'A rebel!'

'No, sir. A Commonwealthman. You are the rebel now.'

'I'll not take this from you.'

'Oh you will, Colonel. You are proscribed. The authorities know you are in London. You will be apprehended.'

Lovell was infuriated by the man's calmness. 'I have come for my wife.'

'Then you will go empty-handed.'

'We shall see.'

'You are a dead man to her.' Gideon Jukes pretended to explain: 'She thought you were drowned. You left her to think it, abandoned and destitute. The time allowed by law expired. She married me — she'll have none of you now.'

'You have made my wife a rebel!'

'Made her? Oh no.' Gideon rebuked him gently. 'Not Juliana! I liked her just as she came to me. I never sought to change her.'

Lovell's chin came up. He could hardly believe this outrage, yet controlled himself enough to say with mock politeness, 'Well, sir. I thank you for the care you have taken of my family. Your task is done. I retrieve them from you. I will have what is mine — '

'No, sir!' snapped Gideon crushingly. 'They are mine now!'

He surprised himself. He surprised Lovell too.

Orlando Lovell gripped his sword, though the room was too narrow to employ the weapon. Gideon saw his thought. He bent swiftly, opening a low drawer where Juliana stored an expensive braid. The wound cards were bulky; a man's wedding suit could take a hundred yards of ornamental ribboning. But this was hideous, spangled purple stuff. Gideon had been confident Juliana would not look here. He was right and he found what he had hidden, preparing for this moment. Nestled among the cards of decorative braid, a weapon lay. When Gideon stood up, kicking the drawer shut, he held a carbine. Lovell had no way of knowing whether it was pre-loaded, but he saw it was set at half-cock. It was a good gun. It was new, bright, well cared for, not some rusted antique hidden under a bed for a decade. The tall, fair Roundhead handled it with confidence. He put the carbine at full cock with a smooth and confident movement, keeping his eyes fixed on Lovell. He knew guns.

'You were expecting me!' jeered the cavalier, still struggling to get the measure of the situation. 'But you will not fire.'

'Try me.'

Gideon released a safety catch. His calmness was close to contempt, his steadiness said everything. He was not some half-witted, rabbit-scared shopkeeper. Lovell saw that this man had indeed been a soldier, the kind who would never forget his training or his service mentality, a man who could kill without bothering to work up hatred, then justify it coldly.

Lovell took no risks. He had been a soldier too, a good one; he had outlived many desperate circumstances. He always used his head.

'Go now,' ordered the Roundhead. 'Take yourself off, do not come here again. Leave us in peace, Colonel Lovell.'

Lovell made one last try: 'I have come to visit my wife, to see my boys — '

Gideon knew this was a distraction. He raised the carbine from covering Lovell's heart to aiming steadily between his eyes. The weapon was heavy, but Lovell would not know how this strained his shoulder. They were ten feet apart; less than that, allowing for the length of his arm and the two-foot gun barrel. Gideon could not miss.

Orlando Lovell never lacked courage. He took a pace forwards. 'You cannot kill an unarmed man, Captain — '

Gideon pulled the trigger.

The carbine failed to go off.

Gideon hurriedly dragged open another drawer.

'Damme!' Lovell had gone pale; Gideon was too fair-skinned for any pallor to show. For an instant, despite themselves, they shared the fleeting grins of soldiers who had had a narrow escape. 'You have the pair?'

'Of course!' boasted Gideon. Carbines and pistols came boxed in twos. They were cavalry weapons, one for each saddle bow, one for each hand. Two shots. A man who loaded one would load them both. Any ex-soldier who fired one, would be prepared to fire two. The next shot could be good.

Lovell let out a 'tsk!' of annoyance, shrugged, and while Gideon rummaged in the drawer noisily, the cavalier gave up. Turning on his boot-heel, Lovell flung open the door and, as the bell jangled, walked out of the shop. He made no threats; he knew absence of comment would feel more sinister. The bell stilled, the door closed. Gideon slowly pushed in a drawer of ruffle lace. He was sweating more than he liked; this had been a bluff; his second carbine was upstairs.

As soon as he recovered composure, he went to the door and looked out. There was no sign of Orlando Lovell in the alley. Gideon came in and locked the door. He unloaded the carbine for safety, cursing this new, useless gun. Rather than investigate immediately what had gone wrong, he hid it again, then ran quickly upstairs.

In their bedchamber, Juliana was asleep; so too was their tiny daughter, newborn only the evening before. Juliana looked peaceful, but was still exhausted. The baby was too small for her lace cap and gown, as yet insignificant in her deep cradle. Gideon checked them — even touched a knuckle gently to the babe's cheek — but woke neither. Unless he had to, he would not tell Juliana of today's encounter.

Colonel Orlando Lovell was no longer a shadowy figure who could be ignored. He was here. He was in London for a reason. It might not be primarily to find his deserted family, but he had said that he came for them.

The man had intelligence and courage; he exuded menace. He was also better-looking than Gideon had imagined. The haughty expression and rakish tilt of his hat would haunt Gideon annoyingly.

His decision to keep quiet was overturned. Gideon had to confess everything that very night. A disaster occurred. When Catherine Keevil went out to fetch Tom from his music lesson, she was followed. On Fleet Street, as they were passing Sergeants' Inn, a man approached them.

'Thomas Lovell! Well, my boy — do you remember me, I wonder?'

Tom stopped dead. Catherine saw the boy's young face light up. She tried to drag him on their way but he shook her off, crying with joy, 'It is my father, come home!'

The man embraced him, seeming to wipe away a tear of emotion. 'Why Tom! My dearest son, this is a lucky accident — now I have found you, come with me and I will tell you of adventures we can share — ' He then turned to Catherine and, changing his manner, muttered with deadly earnest, 'Scamper off home, wench. Tell Mistress Juliana Lovell not to feel anxiety. Her son has come to his father, who will take the most loving care of him — ' Then, as he caught Catherine by the arm with a grip that bruised her under his fingers, Lovell dropped his voice further so the boy could not hear. 'And tell that meddler Captain Jukes, not to do anything! He will understand.'

The last Catherine saw was the pair of them walking away towards Temple Bar. Tom was still bowed under the weight of his cased viol, which he wore slung on straps on his back. The man had his arm around Tom's shoulders and was carrying his music bag. To Catherine, the boy looked like a prisoner. To anyone else who noticed them, they were the picture of a happy father and his son.