Blood on the Strand

Chapter 1

Westminster, late May 1663

Hailstones as large as pigeons’ eggs pelted the royal procession as it trooped down King Street from the palace at White Hall, and any semblance of dignity was lost in the ensuing scramble for shelter. Horses pranced and bucked at the sudden commotion, and the Earl of Bristol was not the only courtier to take a tumble in the chaos when the cavalcade reached Westminster Abbey. His retainers dashed forward to drag him upright, but not before his red, ermine-fringed cloak was irretrievably stained with the dung and filth from the road. His bitter enemy, the Earl of Clarendon, allowed himself a small, spiteful smirk before tossing the reins of his own mount to a waiting servant and hurrying up the steps to the abbey’s great west door. Clarendon’s massive new periwig, made from the hair of a golden-maned Southwark prostitute, had been expensive, and he did not want it ruined by the weather – not even when it was to gloat at the gratifying sight of his rival wallowing in muck.

A handful of flustered trumpeters did their best to produce a regal fanfare when King Charles leapt from his saddle, but His Majesty was disgracefully late, and most of the musicians had grown tired of waiting and had wandered off. They came running when they heard the clatter of hoofs, but too late to do their duty. Meanwhile, it had been raining hard all morning and water had seeped inside the instruments of those who had remained, so all that emerged was a series of strangled gurgles. One youngster had had the foresight to keep his horn dry under his hat and proudly stepped forward to prove it, but in his eagerness, he forgot what he had been told to play, and graced the royal ears with a lively rendition of a popular alehouse song. The King shot him a startled glance, and Thomas Chaloner, who had been assigned ‘security duties’ for the day and was in disguise as a raker – a street-sweeper – struggled not to laugh.

Somewhat belatedly, a bell began to chime, but an administrative hiccup had seen the ringers provided with their barrel of refreshing ale far too early in the day, and most were now incapable of performing the task in hand. The man who had been assigned the largest bell hastened to make up for his colleagues’ shortcomings, and produced a deep, sepulchral toll that was more redolent of a royal funeral than a celebration to mark the third anniversary of the King’s coronation. Yet if any Londoner did think the monarch was dead, he shed no tears: in the three years since Charles had been restored to the throne, his Court had earned itself a reputation for debauchery, vice and corruption, and Chaloner was not the only one to think England might have been better off under Cromwell and his sober Parliamentarians.

Courtiers, barons and members of the Royal Household hastily followed their ruler’s example by abandoning their steeds and scurrying inside the church to escape the battering of icy missiles from the sky. Chaloner was astounded by the number of people who were taking part in the procession, and thought it small wonder that the King was always clamouring for money to maintain them all. There were grooms, pages and gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, masters of hawks and buckhounds, ladies-in-waiting, and keepers of the King’s wine cellars, jewel houses, kitchens and laundries, all combining to make a dazzling spectacle of red, blue, gold, purple and silver.

The most glorious of all was not the King, whose taste in clothes was comparatively modest, but the ebullient Duke of Buckingham. Buckingham was the brightest star of the dissolute Court, and one of its leaders in fashion and mischief. The man who bore the brunt of his spiteful waggery tended to be Lord Clarendon – Chaloner’s master. The Duke was always jibing the older man about his obesity and prim manners, and their paths seldom crossed without some insult being traded. That day, Chaloner watched Buckingham give a fair imitation of Clarendon’s short-legged waddle up the abbey steps. The voluptuous Lady Castlemaine laughed uproariously at the performance, but no one dared rebuke her – as the King’s current mistress, she could guffaw at whomsoever she liked.

Behind Buckingham stamped the Earl of Bristol, swearing furiously under his breath – poor horsemanship had nothing to do with his fall into the mud, of course; incompetent servants and the weather were to blame. He was a handsome, although portly, man with thick brown hair and a thin moustache, like the King’s. He hurled his soiled cloak at one of his retainers, revealing that underneath he wore an overly tight doublet with ruffs, and the kind of ‘bucket-topped’ boots that had been popular during the civil wars. Either he could not afford fashionable clothes, or he did not care that he had donned an outfit that would not have looked out of place thirty years before.

Next to Bristol, his face an aloof, impassive mask, was Joseph Williamson, head of the country’s secret service. Before the Earl of Clarendon had offered him work, Chaloner had entertained hopes of being hired by Williamson. He had been a spy for a decade – a long time in an occupation so fraught with danger – and was an accomplished intelligence officer. The only problem was that those ten years had been in the service of Oliver Cromwell’s government, and Williamson was naturally suspicious of agents who had been employed by the King’s enemies; the fact that Chaloner had only ever plied his skills against foreign powers, and had certainly never spied on the King, was deemed immaterial. Williamson wanted nothing to do with him, and Chaloner was lucky Lord Clarendon was prepared to overlook his past.

At the top of the stairs, the King offered his Queen a solicitous hand across the treacherous carpet of hailstones, although Chaloner thought there was scant affection in the gesture. There was, however, a great deal of fondness in the arm he proffered to Lady Castlemaine. The royal paramour wore a triumphant smirk as she strutted inside, head held high. When she had gone, the King and Queen turned to salute the assembled masses together. The King had insisted on doing this, despite rumours that someone might try to assassinate him that day, because he liked to think of himself as a man of the people. He had even declared a public holiday, so work would not prevent the citizens of London from coming to see him.

The citizens were mostly elsewhere that inhospitable Friday morning, however, and the ‘crowd’ that had gathered to watch him ride from White Hall to Westminster Abbey was pitifully small. There was a smattering of merchants representing various city companies, along with a few Royalist fanatics who were always present at such occasions, and a gaggle of beggars who hoped someone might throw them some coins. When the King had returned from exile three years before, London’s streets had been packed with cheering, jubilant supporters, and Chaloner was amazed that Charles and his Court had managed to alienate the population quite so completely within such a short period of time.

Knowing a lost cause when he saw one, the King disappeared inside the church almost before he had finished the royal salute, but the Queen lingered. Chaloner raised his hand in greeting, because he thought a raker would probably do so, and was surprised when she waved back. It was the second time she had smiled at him since his arrival in England a few months earlier, and he was oddly touched.

‘There is no need to go overboard,’ snapped Adrian May, the agent with whom Chaloner had been assigned to work that day. ‘And while you leer at the Queen, an assassin might be priming his gun.’

Chaloner resisted the urge to point out that an assassin could prime all he liked, but the King was now inside the building, and so safe from danger. He nodded noncommittally, reluctant to quarrel.

May was a thickset man with a smooth bald head and a vast collection of wigs to cover it; Chaloner had never seen him with the same hairpiece twice. That day he sported a cheap grey one, because he was in disguise as an abbey verger. May not only held high rank in the government’s fledgling intelligence service, but was a Groom of the King’s Privy Chamber, too. Combined, these made him an influential figure in the world of British espionage. Sadly, he had scant aptitude for the business, and Chaloner disliked both him and his dangerous incompetence intensely.

Meanwhile, May disapproved of Chaloner because he had been away from England for so long that he was a virtual stranger in the country of his birth – after the civil wars, Chaloner had completed his studies at Cambridge and Lincoln’s Inn, then had immediately been assigned duties overseas. He had returned to England after the collapse of Cromwell’s regime, only to find himself regarded with suspicion and distrust by almost everyone he met. And May’s suspicion and distrust were the most fervent of all.

Pushing his antipathy towards May to the back of his mind, Chaloner began another circuit of the abbey, plying his broom as he went. Hailstones cracked under his feet, although the storm had abated and the deluge had dwindled to a hearty drizzle. May grabbed his arm and stopped him.

‘How many more times are you going to walk around?’ he demanded. ‘Williamson’s informant said the assassination attempt would be made during the procession – and the procession is now over. After a few prayers, everyone will go his own separate way, and the King’s life will be the responsibility of the palace guard again.’

‘He still has to come out, though,’ said Chaloner, too experienced to be complacent. ‘And that will be an ideal time to attack.’

‘But we have already searched for lurking killers,’ argued May, falling into step beside him. Chaloner wished he would go away – real vergers would not keep company with rakers and any would-be regicide with a modicum of sense would know it. ‘The streets are clear. Besides, there are a dozen threats on His Majesty’s life each week, and few ever amount to anything. We are wasting our time.’

‘You just said an assassin might be priming his gun,’ Chaloner pointed out, unwilling to let him have it both ways.

May’s voice became mocking. ‘I suppose the great Spymaster Thurloe taught you to be ever cautious. However, a good agent knows which threats are real and which are hoaxes, and only a fool treats them with equal seriousness.’

Chaloner did not reply. John Thurloe, who had masterminded Cromwell’s highly efficient intelligence network, had taught him his skills, and his decade-long survival was testament to the fact that he had learned them well – too well to be cavalier about matters as serious as threats to the King’s safety.

May grimaced in annoyance when Chaloner declined to discuss the matter. ‘You are not very talkative today. What is wrong with you?’

Chaloner pointed to St Margaret’s Church, a handsome building of pale-yellow stone that stood between the abbey and Westminster Hall. ‘See that beggar? He has been loitering in that porch for the last hour. Perhaps the threat of assassination is real after all.’

Rain pattered in the mud as May regarded Chaloner in astonishment. The deluge had turned his wig into a mass of sodden strands that reeked of horse, and his shoes squelched as he walked. An explosion of laughter came from a group of palace guards, who were waiting to escort the King back to White Hall. Their leader, Colonel Holles, hastened to silence them, afraid they would disturb the ceremonies inside the abbey. Meanwhile, May’s surprise at Chaloner’s statement turned to disdain.

‘It has been pouring all morning and beggars shelter where they can. As I said, you must learn to distinguish between real menaces and imagined ones, Heyden. You are a fool if you see anything sinister in that fellow’s presence.’

Tom Heyden was Chaloner’s usual alias, and only a handful of people knew his real identity – because he was kin to one of the fifty-nine men who had signed Charles I’s death warrant, Chaloner was a name best kept from Royalist ears. The older Chaloner had died of natural causes shortly after the Restoration, but there were still plenty of Cavaliers who would be delighted to wreak revenge on a member of his family. It was unfortunate, but there was not much Chaloner could do about it, except wait for the righteous anger to cool.

‘Look at his boots,’ he said shortly, becoming tired of May’s condescension. As they were obliged to work together, the man could at least try to conceal his antagonism. Chaloner had managed it, and he expected the courtesy to be returned, so they could concentrate on the task in hand. ‘How many vagrants do you know who can afford such good-quality footwear?’

May raised a laconic eyebrow. ‘I saw one with a fine lace waistcoat yesterday, which had clearly been filched from someone’s washing line. Decent boots are more indicative of a fellow’s morals than his designs on the King’s blood.’

Chaloner was not so sure. ‘I am going to talk to him.’

May moved his coat to one side, revealing the dag – a heavy handgun – he had shoved into his belt. ‘Go on, then,’ he jeered. ‘And if you do learn he is a dangerous fanatic with a musket under his rags, rub your nose with your left hand. Then I shall put a hole in him for you.’

Chaloner made his way towards the beggar, sweeping his brush back and forth to clear a path among the sodden litter of old leaves and rubbish that carpeted the ground. May leaned against a wall, affecting a relaxed attitude by removing a pipe from his pocket and tamping it with tobacco. The operation took both hands, which meant he would be unable to retrieve the gun very fast in an emergency. It made Chaloner realise yet again what a dismal intelligence officer May was, and was surprised Spymaster Williamson tolerated such flagrant ineptitude.

He moved closer to his quarry, keeping his head down to conceal his face, but at the same time watching the vagrant intently. The man’s face was far too clean, and the stubble on his chin indicated that although he had not shaved that morning, he had certainly done so the day before. He was about Chaloner’s own age – early thirties – and his demeanour was that of someone in a state of high agitation. He lay on his side, in an attempt to look as though he was sleeping, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the hem of his cloak, and his dark eyes were full of unease as he stared at the abbey’s door – through which the King would emerge within the hour.

Chaloner pretended to notice him for the first time. ‘You cannot stay here,’ he said, prodding him with his foot. The dagger he always kept hidden in his sleeve slid into the palm of his hand, and it would be embedded in the fellow’s heart long before May could draw and aim his gun. ‘Go and sleep somewhere else.’

The ‘beggar’ made a show of coming awake, rubbing his eyes. ‘It is raining,’ he whined, trying without success to disguise a voice that was cultured. ‘Do not oust me until it eases. I mean no harm.’

But Chaloner had detected a bulge under the man’s cloak that could only belong to a weapon. Since few regicides hatched their nefarious plans alone, he knew Williamson would want to question this one about his associates, which meant taking him alive. He made a halfhearted swipe at a patch of sludge with his brush, then let the broom handle slide from his hands. It dropped into the man’s lap. He leaned down, as though to retrieve it, then made a grab for the gun instead. The vagrant was no match for his speed and dexterity, and Chaloner had him disarmed in an instant. The fellow’s jaw dropped in horror when his own dag was pressed against his temple.

‘This is not how it appears,’ he gabbled in alarm, promptly abandoning his rough speech. He was round and plump, with an ancient scar above one eye that looked as though it might have been earned in the wars. ‘It is nothing to do with the King. I need to speak to Spymaster Williamson, but his servants refuse to let me see him, and I am desperate. All I want is a few moments of his time. Please!’

‘That can be arranged,’ said Chaloner, thinking the fellow would be speaking to Williamson now, whether he wanted to or not. He stepped away and indicated with a jerk of the gun that his captive should stand. ‘What do you want to talk to him about?’

The vagrant struggled to his feet. ‘There has been a misunderstanding that must be put right. I am accused of dreadful things, but I am innocent, and Williamson is the only one who will believe me.’

Chaloner raised his hand to summon May, but his colleague’s attention was focused entirely on his pipe: the rain was making it difficult to light. He was glad he was not rubbing his nose in a frantic plea for help. ‘That verger will–’

‘No!’ cried the beggar urgently. ‘Your “verger” is a spy called Adrian May – one of the men who refuses to let me speak to Williamson. Do not call him, I beg you!’

‘He will not stop you from seeing Williamson now,’ said Chaloner dryly, indicating the weapon he had confiscated.

‘I know I should have devised another way, but my wits are too frayed for sensible thought,’ said the man miserably. Chaloner was under the impression that he was speaking more to himself than to his captor. ‘It occurred to me to throw myself on Lord Clarendon’s mercy, but his secretary is even more protective of his master than Williamson’s minions are, and he guards him like a jealous dog.’

‘What is your name?’ Chaloner placed his hand on the fellow’s shoulder and began to propel him towards Colonel Holles – as Master of the Palace Guard, it fell to Holles to transport suspects to a place where they could be interrogated. But before his prisoner could reply, May became aware that the situation had changed while he had been preoccupied with tobacco. He dropped his pipe and hauled the dag from his belt.

‘He is going to shoot!’ cried the beggar, stopping in horror. ‘He is aiming right at me!’

‘May, wait!’ yelled Chaloner, watching his colleague cock his gun so it was ready to fire. He held the confiscated weapon aloft, to show him there was no danger.

‘He has a knife!’ bellowed May in reply. Chaloner glanced at the beggar’s hand and saw it was true, although it posed no danger. Chaloner still held his own blade and, if he missed, handguns were designed with large, bulbous butts that could be used as clubs. There was no possibility of him being bested in a scuffle.

‘He is going to kill me!’ shrieked the vagrant, becoming more agitated as May ran a few steps nearer, dag held in both hands. ‘I meant no harm – my gun is not even loaded. Look for yourself.’

Chaloner did not need to look. First, the weapon reeked of burned oil, and he knew such a very dirty gun was unlikely to work. Secondly, the powder pan was empty, which meant there was nothing to ignite the charge and make the missile fly. And thirdly, there was no ball in the barrel anyway.

‘Disarm,’ he called to May, knocking the blade from the beggar’s unresisting hand. May was now quite close. ‘He is harmless.’

May took a firmer grip on his dag and squinted along the barrel. The beggar grabbed Chaloner’s arm and cowered behind him. With a sense of shock, Chaloner saw May intended to shoot anyway.

‘Terrell is not what he says,’ stammered the vagrant, desperately trying to shield himself. ‘Tell Williamson that, but no one else. And then save Dillon.’

‘What?’ Most of Chaloner’s attention was on May, who was jigging this way and that as he tried to get a clear view of his intended victim. If he did shoot the fellow, it would be cold-blooded murder, and Williamson would be furious that an opportunity to question a possible assassin had been lost.

‘Dillon,’ repeated the beggar, tugging Chaloner’s coat hard enough to make him stumble. It was a stupid move, because it exposed him to May. ‘You must save Dillon, and Burne is another who is–’

There was a sudden crack, loud enough to startle a flock of pigeons and send them flapping into the air. Immediately, Holles appeared with a sword in his hand, looking around wildly. Next to Chaloner, the beggar dropped to the ground, while May shook the smoke from his gun and replaced the weapon in his belt.

There was a moment of silence, then pandemonium erupted. So many soldiers rushed from the abbey that Chaloner wondered whether any had remained behind to guard the King. He thought about the danger of diversions, and suggested some went back inside. No one listened to him.

May was the hero of the day. He maintained a cool, dignified poise as the palace guards clapped him on the back and congratulated him for dispatching a would-be assassin. Colonel Holles snatched the gun from Chaloner, eager to inspect the weapon that was to have been used. He did not approve of regicide on his watch, and was incensed by the notion that a plot might have come close to succeeding.

‘This dag is a disgrace,’ he said with a good deal of professional disdain. ‘It is not even loaded – and probably would not have worked if it had been. What sort of murderer was he?’

‘A dead one,’ said May smugly. ‘And one we shall not have to pay the executioner to hang.’

While May basked in the glory of his achievement, Chaloner bent to examine the vagrant. He moved the ragged jacket aside to look at the hole caused by the ball, and was surprised May’s gun had caused such massive damage – it was not a large-bore weapon. Of course, May had fired from very close range, and Chaloner had seen enough death on the battlefield to appreciate the deadly power of firearms when their victims were only a few yards distant. A red splatter on his own cloak indicated how near to him the beggar had been standing, and he glanced uneasily at May, wondering how confident he had been of his own marksmanship.

‘It would have been better to keep him alive,’ he said in an undertone, when the soldiers’ attention had moved to Holles and the deplorable state of the felon’s weapon. ‘Now we do not know his name or the identity of the man who sent him – assuming he was an assassin, and not just someone who wanted an innocent word with a member of His Majesty’s government.’

He was not sure what to believe about his brief conversation with the beggar, although he was unwilling to share details with May – the man would assume he was trying to undermine him, and he did not want the animosity between them to escalate any further.

May was dismissive. ‘He was not working for anyone. You can tell from his pathetic disguise that he was a rogue fanatic, acting alone. If you were familiar with London – as a spy should be – then you would be aware that these lunatics appear at regular intervals.’

Chaloner was unconvinced. ‘Now he is dead, we will never know, will we?’

‘He had a knife,’ argued May. ‘And do not tell me you had seen it already, because I saw your surprise when I pointed it out. I saved your life, and you should be thanking me, not criticising me.’

Chaloner was astonished May should have drawn such a conclusion. ‘I was in no danger–’

‘That is not how it appeared to me,’ said May icily. ‘And I shall say so in my report to Williamson, along with the fact that you bungled the arrest. If you had searched him properly, he would not have drawn a dagger and I would not have been obliged to kill him. This death was your fault.’

Chaloner sighed, knowing May would do exactly what he said. And he was loath to admit it, but May was right: he should have looked for other weapons on his captive. However, that did not detract from the fact that May had been very eager to open fire. Chaloner wondered why. It would certainly not have been to protect his colleague from harm.

May smiled unpleasantly when he made no reply. ‘I saw him muttering to you before I dispatched him. What did he say?’

‘He was begging not to be murdered, because he had important information to pass to the Spymaster General. Will you include that in your report, too?’

May did not believe him. ‘How could a low villain like him know anything to interest us?’

‘He was not a “low villain”. He was well spoken and he talked about White Hall as though he had been there. I suspect you have made a grave mistake by murdering him.’

‘If you say it was murder once more, I shall bury you next to him. You were bad enough in Ireland last month – we could have crushed that rebellion in half the time if you had not been so damned cautious.’ May became aware Chaloner was barely listening to him, so said something spiteful in an attempt to regain his attention. ‘Williamson will never hire you, you know.’

Chaloner was inspecting three pale bands on the beggar’s fingers, which suggested the man had worn rings until recently. What pauper habitually donned jewellery? ‘I do not need him to hire me – not any more. I am perfectly happy with Lord Clarendon.’

May sneered at him, unconvinced. ‘The feud between your new master and the Earl of Bristol means you will never be promoted to the secret services. You see, if Williamson does employ you, it will look as though he is taking sides – trying to harm Clarendon by depriving him of a useful retainer.’

‘I doubt Clarendon sees it like that,’ said Chaloner, sure it was true. He was useful to the Earl, but a long way from being indispensable. He wished it were otherwise, because courtiers were constantly being urged to ease back on their expenditure, and he was always worried that the Earl might see eliminating the salary of his spy as an easy way to cut costs.

‘We shall see. Do not think you will come to Williamson as long as I am his friend, anyway. He listens to me, and I shall oppose any application you make.’

Chaloner turned away, not dignifying the threat with a response. He thought about what the beggar had said before he was shot, and wondered how best to communicate it to the Spymaster. Finding a way to Williamson’s White Hall offices without May’s knowledge presented no great challenge, but he suspected that appearing unannounced would not be a good idea – Williamson was likely to have him arrested before he could speak. He would have to find another way to pass on the information.

Or should he? The vagrant’s words had meant nothing to him, and if they were meaningless to Williamson, too, then was there any point in relaying them? He decided to make a few enquiries first, to see if he could unravel their meaning. Repeating garbled sentences verbatim was likely to make him look stupid, and he needed to provide Williamson with solid, useful intelligence if he wanted to make a good impression – and despite May’s warnings, Chaloner would apply for work with the government if his earl ever dismissed him. Therefore, he had to determine why Terrell was not what he claimed, who Burne was, and why Dillon required saving.

So it was decided. Only when he had answers would he ask to speak to Williamson.

It was still raining when the royal party emerged from the abbey, and there was an undignified scramble for horses and carriages. The King and Lady Castlemaine were first away, eager to escape the damp chill of the medieval building. Buckingham and the Queen were quick in following, but Bristol took rather longer, hopping about with one foot in the stirrup when his lively horse would not keep still as he tried to mount it. Eventually, he took a second tumble. Clarendon happened to be watching, and this time he sniggered openly. Bristol scowled in a way that made him look dangerous.

Williamson nodded to May, silently ordering him to assist the wallowing noble, although Chaloner could not tell whether he did so from compassion, friendship or pity. Virtually the entire Court had taken sides in the Bristol–Clarendon dispute, but no one knew where Williamson stood. Chaloner assumed he was waiting to see who would win before committing himself, which was the sensible option for any ambitious politician.

Eventually, all the courtiers had been helped on to horses or into carriages, and Colonel Holles came to stand down the security detail. His Majesty had been pleased with their diligence, he said, especially when it transpired that an assassin had indeed been waiting. As an expression of appreciation, he had provided a few shillings for ale, so they could drink to his health that evening. There was a cheer, which faltered somewhat when it transpired that the King’s idea of ‘a few’ was two, which would not go far among so many men.

Chaloner knew his earl would want an eyewitness account of the beggar’s death, so he decided to stop at White Hall on his way home. The streets were strangely quiet, and the churches, which had been compelled to hold special services of thanksgiving for the three-year anniversary, were mostly empty. The stalls that lined busy King Street were dutifully shuttered, although their owners had been furious at the royal decree prohibiting trade that day – Fridays were always good for commerce because of the many markets taking place. Dogs scavenged among the rubbish that carpeted the cobbles, and a preacher stood on a box and informed passers-by that the world would shortly be consumed by fire and brimstone, so folk had better repent while they could.

The sprawling Palace of White Hall, London’s chief royal residence, had been built piecemeal as and when past monarchs had had the money and the need, and the result was a chaotic settlement with dozens of separate buildings, few of which seemed to bear any relation to their neighbours. Thus ancient, windowless halls rubbed shoulders with flamboyant Tudor monstrosities, and dark, grubby alleys sometimes opened out into elegant courtyards fringed with glorious gems of architecture.

Chaloner was still dressed in his street-cleaner’s disguise, which was simultaneously an advantage and a drawback. On the one hand, no one would recognise him, which was always a good thing, but on the other, he was more likely to be challenged as an intruder. Relishing an opportunity to practise his skills, he made his way undetected through the maze of yards, halls, sheds and houses, coming ever closer to the sumptuous apartments that overlooked the area of manicured grounds known as the Privy Garden, where the Earl of Clarendon had his offices.

Like most good spies, Chaloner worked hard at being nondescript. He was of medium height and stocky build, with brown hair and grey eyes. He had no obvious scars or marks, although his left leg had been badly mangled at the Battle of Naseby, and he tended to limp if he was tired or had engaged in overly strenuous exercise. That Friday had been an easy day for him, however, and he walked with a perfectly even gait along the corridor that led to the Earl’s offices. He opened the door quickly, using a thin piece of metal to assist him when he found it locked, and stepped inside to wait.

It was not long before Lord Clarendon arrived. He stood in the hall outside, congratulating May for shooting the wicked traitor who had come so close to murdering the King. Williamson was with him, and his softer voice added its own praise. Chaloner grimaced. People were assuming that May had acted correctly, which meant any attempt to tell them what had really happened would look like sour grapes on his part – they would think he was making excuses for not killing the man himself. Eventually, Clarendon finished the conversation and bustled into his rooms. In his wake was a short, smiling man with bushy brown hair and dimples in his cheeks.

The Earl of Clarendon, who currently held office as Lord Chancellor of England, had gained weight since the Restoration. The Court’s rich food was unsuitable for a man who tended to fat and whose working day revolved around sedentary activities. Chaloner had even noticed a difference in the Earl’s girth between the time he himself had been dispatched to Ireland to help quell a rebellion back in February and his return five days ago. The Earl knew he was expanding at an alarming rate, but blamed it on a nasty brush with gout, which had confined him to his bed for much of the past three months.

He had dispensed with the enormous blond wig he had worn in the procession, and had donned a smaller, more practical headpiece. He had also removed his elaborate ceremonial costume and wore a pair of peach-coloured breeches and a coat of dark green – although there was more lace on it than Chaloner thought was possible to attach to a single garment, and he hoped the man took care near naked flames. The Earl was chatting to his companion about a popular new cure-all called Venice Treacle, asking whether it might help with the residual pains in his lower legs.

When several minutes had passed, and the two men had still not noticed him in the shadows near the curtains, Chaloner cleared his throat. The Earl almost jumped out of his skin. He spun around in alarm, and then closed his eyes and rested a plump hand on his chest when he recognised the intruder.

‘I wish you would not do that,’ he snapped. ‘One day my heart will leap so much that it will stop and never start again. And then where would you be?’

‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Chaloner, contrite. The Earl had asked on several occasions not to be startled, but noisy, attention-grabbing entrances tended to be anathema to a spy.

‘I think I might be able to do something about a stopped heart,’ said the other man comfortably. ‘I am a surgeon, after all, and intimately acquainted with that particular organ.’

‘This is Thomas Lisle,’ explained the Earl to Chaloner. ‘He is Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, here to help me with my gout.’

‘And you are a raker,’ said Lisle, his eyes crinkling in a smile. ‘However, as you have made your own way to My Lord Chancellor’s rooms, and as he is not surprised to see you here, I surmise you are actually something rather different, and I shall enquire no further.’

‘He is Thomas Heyden,’ said Clarendon, obviously feeling an explanation was in order anyway. ‘He has been at Westminster Abbey today, protecting the King against assassins.’

‘We live in a wicked age,’ said Lisle, shaking his head sadly. ‘No one can be trusted, it seems.’

‘You are right,’ agreed the Earl sombrely, ‘although Heyden has proven himself loyal to me twice now – once in retrieving some missing gold, and once when I sent him to Ireland with some of Williamson’s men to thwart the Castle Plot. He acquitted himself admirably both times.’

While the Earl was speaking, Lisle produced several flasks from the bag he carried looped around his neck, and began to mix them in a goblet. He barely reached Chaloner’s shoulder, and had the look of a gnome about him, with his brown face, kindly eyes and slightly stooped posture. He wore the red-trimmed gown and hat that identified his profession, and he hummed under his breath while he worked. When he had finished, he handed the cup to Clarendon with a conspiratorial grin.

‘The apothecaries will be after my blood if they learn I am dispensing medicines – tonics are their domain, and they jealously defend their sole right to concoct them – but I refuse to watch a patient suffer when I can help him myself. The head of a young kite boiled in wine is the perfect remedy for gout, although you will not find an apothecary who will ever share such a closely guarded secret.’

‘Thank you,’ said Clarendon, wincing as he swallowed the draft. ‘It was kind of you to come the moment I experienced a twinge. The damp weather must have aggravated my condition and I am eager to nip it in the bud this time. I do not want to be laid up for another three months.’

‘Keep your legs warm and dry,’ instructed Lisle, packing away his empty phials. ‘And apply that poultice I gave you before you retire tonight. There is nothing like an ointment of crushed snails, suet of goat and saffron to ease your particular trouble.’

‘Lisle is a good man,’ said Clarendon, when the surgeon had left. ‘The only thing I do not like about him is his association with another medicus called Johnson, who is a loud, blustering fellow, full of wind and unfounded opinions. He openly supports that vile heathen, the Earl of Bristol.’

‘Lisle does?’

‘Johnson does. Lisle is like Williamson – he declines to take either side – although anyone with an ounce of sense will see that I am in the right and Bristol is wrong. However, as Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, Lisle will not want to offend half his members by declaring an allegiance with me.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs, sir,’ said Chaloner in a way that he hoped would discourage further confidences. Clarendon had ranted at him about Bristol before, and the tirades were difficult to stop once they had started. He tried to think of a way to change the subject, but nothing came to mind.

Clarendon looked pained. ‘Bristol is determined to destroy me, you know, Heyden.’

‘You are Lord Chancellor of England, sir,’ said Chaloner, when he saw the matter was not to be avoided, ‘while Bristol holds no official post whatsoever. You are in a far stronger position to fight any battle than he.’ He wondered if it was true – the gay and witty Bristol was much more popular at Court than the stuffy, respectable Clarendon.

‘I suppose so.’ The Earl pulled himself together and forced a smile. ‘You did not come to talk about my troubles, though. I assume you are here to give me your version of today’s shooting?’

‘I thought you might have questions.’ Chaloner did not like the way the Earl had phrased his question – it made it sound as though he was expecting to hear something other than the truth.

‘I do – especially since Colonel Holles told me what really happened. He saw you apprehend the beggar without incident, and thinks someone was overly hasty with the trigger. He has a point: it does seem to be a pity that we have lost the chance to interrogate a would-be regicide.’

‘Will Holles tell Williamson this?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.

Clarendon shook his head. ‘I said he should keep it to himself. May has a wicked temper, and we do not want him thinking you have been going around questioning his actions to all and sundry. As I have told you before, your old mentor Thurloe sent you to me on the understanding that I am careful with you. And while Thurloe lost most of his power when the Restoration saw him dismissed from his posts as Secretary of State and Spymaster General, he still has teeth and claws aplenty. I do not want him coming after me because May has skewered you in a silly duel.’

Chaloner tried to conceal his exasperation. When he had arrived in London the previous year, penniless and desperate for employment, Thurloe had indeed recommended him to Clarendon with the stipulation that his life was not to be needlessly squandered. However, the ‘request’ had been issued at a time when other spies had been murdered while working at White Hall, and that particular danger was long over. The Earl’s continued unease about what Thurloe might do if Chaloner was harmed was beginning to be a nuisance.

‘With respect, My Lord, I can look after myself – especially against May.’

‘So you say, but your profession is a risky one. How many elderly spies does one ever meet? None! And it is not you I am worried about, anyway – it is me. Thurloe has too many old friends like you – dangerous men who will still do anything for him. I have no intention of crossing him.’

Chaloner was astonished that the Earl should consider him dangerous, sure he had never given him cause to think so. He ignored the comment and addressed the slur on Thurloe’s character instead. ‘He is not a vindictive man, sir.’

The Earl raised an eyebrow. ‘You do not serve seven years in government without learning something about neutralising your enemies, believe me. But let us return to today. Did you manage to talk to this beggar before he died?’

Chaloner decided he was unwilling to divulge the vagrant’s gabbled claims to anyone at White Hall until he had at least some idea about what he had been trying to communicate. ‘A little,’ he replied vaguely. ‘He claimed he had information to impart, but declined to confide in me.’

The Earl stroked his tiny beard – a thumbnail-sized patch under his lower lip; it matched his little moustache. ‘Do you think May shot him to prevent this information from being passed on?’

Chaloner frowned, puzzled. ‘Why would he do that? The beggar seemed to think the government might be interested in what he had to say.’

The Earl raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Because of what Holles told me: that the fellow was killed after you had relieved him of his dag. May is a devious fellow, with fingers in a great many pies. Perhaps he has his own reasons for wanting to still the beggar’s mouth before it started flapping.’

It was an intriguing notion, although Chaloner was wary of embracing it too eagerly; he did not want his dislike of May to lead him astray. ‘If Williamson is worth his salt as Spymaster, he will have reservations about the necessity of the execution, too.’

‘May said he did it to save your life, and Williamson believes him. This beggar had a knife.’

‘He posed no danger, and May should have known it. Besides, I suspect Williamson would happily sacrifice me for the chance to converse with a would-be assassin. Perhaps you are right, My Lord: May did want to silence him before he said anything incriminating.’

‘What did the fellow say to you?’ asked Clarendon curiously. ‘Holles says he saw you chatting for several moments before the shot rang out.’

Chaloner hesitated. The Earl could not always be trusted to keep secrets – not from any desire to cause trouble, but from his tendency to be overly trusting of the people he met – and if his suspicions about May were correct, then Chaloner would be safer if no one knew the beggar had died reciting names. ‘He was declaring his innocence – telling me he was no king-killer.’

‘And what do you think? Did he intend to shoot the King?’

Chaloner considered the question carefully. He had believed the man’s claim that waylaying Williamson had been his main objective, and the weapon had been in no state for a serious attempt at regicide anyway. ‘Not everyone in possession of a gun is bent on murder,’ he said eventually.

The Earl walked to the window and stared out at the wet garden. The wind blew misty sheets of rain across the perfectly symmetrical flower beds and the tiny clipped hedges. Chaloner went to stand next to him. He did not like the artificial neatness of White Hall’s grounds, and preferred the tangled, chaotic jumble of places like Lincoln’s Inn, where long grass grew among wild flowers, and where trees were gnarled and misshapen with age. It was some time before the Earl spoke.

‘May brought the body to White Hall, and it looked familiar to me. I am sure he was no vagrant.’

Chaloner was startled that Clarendon should recognise the man. ‘Where might you have seen him before, sir?’

The Earl shook his head slowly. ‘That is the annoying thing: I cannot recall. Perhaps I am mistaken, what with his stubbly chin and his dirty clothes. Yet there was something about him … ’

‘Would you like me to find out who he was?’

Clarendon shrugged. ‘If you like. I do not have much else for you to do at the moment, and it may transpire to be important, I suppose. Yes, carry on, if you cannot think of anything better to occupy your time.’

He could not have sounded less enthusiastic had he tried.

One of the advantages of having a monarch, rather than a Commonwealth, was that His Majesty’s subjects were often allowed inside White Hall to watch him dine, should they feel so inclined. The Earl of Clarendon was so inclined, because that Friday was a special occasion, and the King’s cooks had been ordered to produce something suitably impressive. As a man deeply interested in food, Lord Clarendon was keen to know what they had devised. Chaloner borrowed a cloak to conceal his raker’s rags and accompanied him to the Banqueting House, where the spectacle was due to take place. Personally, the spy failed to understand the appeal of the event – as far as he was concerned, all it did was make him feel hungry.

The Banqueting House gallery – a raised wooden structure that allowed observers to look down on the floor below – was so full that Chaloner wondered whether it was in danger of collapse. Between the jostling onlookers, he caught glimpses of a table laden with gleaming silver dishes and platters. The King’s dark wig bobbed this way and that as he conversed with his fellow diners. His Queen sat beside him, although she ate little, and seemed more interested in watching the flirtatious antics of Lady Castlemaine than in doing justice to the splendid repast that lay in front of her.

It was difficult to see much, so the Earl, becoming bored, began to ask questions about Chaloner’s recent visit to Ireland. Chaloner tried to point out that a crowded gallery was not the best place for a briefing about such a sensitive matter, but the Earl dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand.

‘You arrived home five days ago, but when you gave me your initial report, I was preoccupied with a nasty remark Bristol had made about me. Tell me again. What did you say the Castle Plot was about? Discontented soldiers, who had bought estates during the Commonwealth, but who had had them confiscated when we Royalists returned to power?’

Chaloner nodded as he glanced around him. No one seemed to be listening. ‘The disinherited farmers took exception to the ruling, so they decided to storm Dublin Castle and kidnap the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland – hold him to ransom until their land was returned.’

‘But unfortunately for them, the plot was doomed, because Spymaster Williamson had wind of it months ago. He sent secret agents to infiltrate the rebels, and I lent him your services because he needed all the intelligencers he could get – even ones who once worked for Cromwell. Did you tell me William Scot was among the government’s army of spies, or did I hear it from someone else?’

‘Someone else,’ replied Chaloner, a little indignantly. He was not in the habit of braying about his colleagues’ exploits to those who did not need to know about them, and Scot was a friend. Not only had they known each other since childhood, but both had been in Thurloe’s pay during the Commonwealth, and Scot’s father, like Chaloner’s uncle, had been a regicide. Wisely, Scot had taken the precaution of changing sides before Cromwell had died, so was not regarded with the same suspicion as was Chaloner, and he was currently in Spymaster Williamson’s employ.

‘May told Williamson that the revolt failed because of the ingenuity of one man: May himself,’ the Earl went on. ‘Scot’s brother Thomas was one of the conspirators, and it was May who persuaded Thomas to betray his fellow rebels. The affair ended with a whimper, and no lives were lost on our side.’

Chaloner nodded cautiously. The plan to ‘turn’ Thomas had actually been Scot’s, although the notion had been mooted in such a way that May genuinely believed it was his own. It had allowed Scot to save his brother from a traitor’s death, while simultaneously protecting himself from any later accusations of favouritism towards a kinsman. May, of course, had been more than happy to take the credit that should, by rights, have gone to Scot.

‘So, Thomas sold his fellow insurgents in exchange for a pardon,’ the Earl concluded. ‘And there was a happy conclusion to the affair – for everyone except you and the plotters.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. Secretly, he had been sympathetic to the rioters’ complaints. His own family had given every last penny to the Roundhead cause, and had been compensated with land when Cromwell had won the wars. But now the Royalists were back, those estates had been reclaimed – along with others legally purchased during the Commonwealth. He appreciated the fact that the original owners wanted what was theirs, but some farms had been bought for a fair price and worked for twelve years, and he felt ownership was not always a straightforward matter. However, he had never confided his opinions to anyone, so there was no way the Earl could know his real thoughts.

‘You played too small a role in crushing the revolt,’ elaborated the Earl, much to Chaloner’s relief. ‘Others – like May – claimed the glory, while you stayed in the shadows. Why?’

Chaloner felt he should not need to explain the obvious – and he had actually worked very hard in Ireland, successfully completing a number of tasks that the other intelligencers had deemed too dangerous or impossible. ‘If I had exposed my identity by clamouring for recognition, I would be no use to you, sir. Spying and fame are not good bedfellows.’

‘May does not seem affected by the attention,’ argued the Earl. ‘And neither does William Scot.’

Chaloner tried not to sound patronising. ‘Have you seen Scot, sir?’ The Earl thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘That is because he left for Surinam as soon as the Castle Plot was unmasked, and although people know his name, no one knows what he looks like. He has maintained his cover.’

‘May has not.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘May has not. And every rebel in England knows him.’

The Earl dismissed his point by flapping his plump fingers. ‘His report said you were no help at all, and Williamson believes it – I heard the Spymaster say he expected no less from a former Parliamentarian. However, I am prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, and that is what really matters. I know you, and you are not a fellow to shirk his duties.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering what he could do to make May stop his libellous campaign. Such documents had a habit of reappearing at awkward moments, and he did not want to be permanently tarnished by one man’s spiteful writings, especially given their inaccuracy.

Suddenly, the Earl tensed and seized his arm in a painful pinch, his attention fixed on the King’s table. ‘Bristol is dining with His Majesty. Look!’

Chaloner freed himself, wincing. ‘So he is.’

‘How dare he!’ raged Clarendon, working himself into a temper. ‘I am Lord Chancellor of England, and I was not invited to be there, so why should he be? It is insupportable! He is like a filthy bluebottle, always showing up in places where he is not wanted.’

Chaloner refrained from pointing out that Bristol looked anything but not wanted – the King was obviously enjoying his company, and even the Queen was smiling. As if he sensed their gaze upon him, Bristol glanced up at the gallery and his eyes lit on the outraged earl. With calculated insolence, he raised a lace-draped hand and waved. Clarendon gaped at him, then turned and shouldered his way outside. Immediately, Bristol threw back his head and laughed, making sure he did so loud enough for his enemy to hear.

‘Horrible man!’ snarled Clarendon, when he and his spy were alone again. ‘Did you see how he mocked me? How can His Majesty sit beside him and permit such low antics?’

‘He had no idea what Bristol was doing,’ said Chaloner soothingly. He had seen the puzzled look the King had shot in his companion’s direction at the sudden explosion of mirth.

Clarendon regained some of his composure. ‘No? Well, that is something at least. Did I ever tell you the origins of the quarrel that has turned Bristol so violently against me?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Chaloner, trying not to sound bored or insolent. As far as he could tell, the dispute was far from black and white: Bristol had done some very nasty things to Clarendon, but Clarendon had reciprocated in kind. ‘You debarred him from holding any official post because he is Catholic. I can understand why he finds that annoying.’

‘You take his side against me now?’ cried Clarendon in dismay. ‘I expected more from you! And it was not my decision to ban him – I was merely following the law. It is illegal for papists to hold political positions, and it would have been remiss of me to overlook the matter of his religion.’

Chaloner had never liked the notion of religious suppression, mainly because history showed such tactics tended to breed fanatics. ‘Such a rigid stance will bring you trouble, sir,’ he warned.

‘It has already brought me trouble. Bristol hates me, and is recruiting like-minded villains to stand with him. His latest ally is the Lady.’ Clarendon’s voice dropped to a disgusted whisper when he made reference to the King’s favourite mistress. So intense was his dislike of the Countess of Castlemaine that he could never bring himself to utter her name.

‘I am sorry, sir.’ Chaloner was sorry; he would not want Lady Castlemaine as an enemy, and thought the Earl was in deep water if she had thrown in her lot with Bristol.

‘Did you know that Bristol spends so much time with the King – playing cards – that I am obliged to make appointments days ahead when I need to see him on important affairs of state? And he reeks of onions!’

‘Onions?’ asked Chaloner, nonplussed.

‘He has a penchant for them, although I cannot imagine why – they are peasants’ food. Perhaps he likes them because he is a papist.’

Chaloner did not know what to say to such a distasteful remark.

‘I cannot forget that mocking laugh he just directed at me,’ Clarendon went on worriedly. ‘Do you think it means he knows something I don’t – he has instigated some plot that will see me harmed?’

Chaloner was sure of it – a clever, ambitious man like Bristol was not going to let himself be deprived of lucrative honours without recourse to some kind of revenge. ‘You might be wise to be ready for–’ he began.

‘You are right. Forget the beggar – or better yet, investigate him in your spare time – and concentrate on learning what Bristol intends instead. That is far more important now. You must adopt a disguise and infiltrate his lair.’

Chaloner’s pulse quickened. He liked disguises. ‘Do you have anything specific in mind, sir?’

The Earl was thinking fast. ‘My London home – Worcester House – is due to be redecorated, and I have asked several famous artists to submit plans. Bristol’s abode on Great Queen Street is also in need of refurbishment, which means he is sure to try one of two things: poach the man I hire in order to cause me inconvenience, or try to recruit him to spy on me.’

‘You want me to pose as a decorator and–’

‘We call them upholsterers, Heyden.’ Clarendon rubbed his plump hands together gleefully. ‘This is an excellent plan! Why did I not think of it sooner? A spy in his own house! What could be better?’

But Chaloner could see problems. ‘It is a good plan, sir, but there is one flaw: Bristol is notoriously short of funds, and cannot afford the services of an upholsterer – or be able to bribe one to spy on his enemies.’

The Earl was not listening, however. ‘And because you know nothing about interior design, you can make a mess of his house at the same time. You speak Dutch like a native, so you can be Kristiaan Vanders from The Hague. I wrote inviting him to visit, but he is indisposed.’

And there was another problem. ‘That would be inadvisable, sir,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘Vanders died three years ago. Can we choose someone else?’

‘No. This is a brilliant idea. My mind is made up, so do not argue with me.’

Chaloner fell silent, thinking it was a good thing that Williamson was in charge of the intelligence services, because the Earl would be a disaster. His skill in diplomacy and politics was legendary, yet Chaloner had seen him make some astoundingly idiotic decisions where spying was concerned. When he saw no further objections were forthcoming, the Earl continued, somewhat defensively.

‘I had not heard of Vanders’s demise, so the chances are that no one else will, either. It is a perfect disguise for you, with your knowledge of Dutch affairs. Find out all you can about Bristol, because if I lose my war against him, I will not be his only victim – who will employ you if I am in the Tower?’