Lady of the Ascendant

CHAPTER ONE

‘From lightening and tempest, from plague, pestilence and famine, from battle and murder, and from sudden death, Good Lord deliver us.’

The Litany, The Book of Common Prayer

Thursday 22nd September 1642

One cheerless September morning in the ancient city of Chester Sarah Astbury sat by her fireside in Trutina House waiting for her husband to come home. When at last she heard his boots clacking on the flagstones as he approached the parlour she rose to greet him, preparing for the worst.

The handle turned and she saw him framed by the doorway, the feather in his dark high-crowned hat just touching the lintel. His scowl increased her misgivings as he stalked into the room, tugging off his stiff riding gauntlets and complaining: ‘Is the meal to be late again?’

Disregarding his irritation she forced herself to smile in welcome and reached out to take the gloves from him. ‘Darity’s just about to serve it.’ She decided to wait until after he had eaten before confronting him. Perhaps his humour would improve after the mullet pie. ‘Come, rest by the fire and warm yourself, husband. The wind’s bitter today.’

Ignoring her, he strode over to the small table by the window. With rising alarm she watched him as he pulled off his black Geneva cape, folded it carefully, laid it on a chair and placed his hat and gloves on top. Tall and powerfully built, with his observant heavy-lidded eyes, silver-flecked iron grey hair and taciturn presence he looked every inch the distinguished physician. He sat down, gazing out at the orchard beyond, waiting in louring silence for the food to arrive. His rejection of her always hurt but as usual she hid her feelings. Since her miscarriage in the summer she had learned the futility of expecting warmth or even courtesy from him.

After a while she summoned the courage to join him, choosing the seat opposite him so she could gauge his mood from her lowered eyes, terrified of provoking his rage. But as he began to drum his fingers on the polished wood her own exasperation overcame her usual caution. Whatever his reaction she could no longer contain her own impatience. She had to find out exactly what was going on.

‘A gentleman called for you this morning, Matthias, but Darity couldn’t persuade him to say who he was or what he wanted…’

‘What did he look like?’ His voice was sullen, yet she steeled herself to reply.

‘I didn’t see him myself. I was in the parlour. Master Dade was painting my likeness as you bade.’ She gestured towards the newly-completed double portrait hanging on the oak-panelled wall at the other side of the chamber, flinching as his face flushed with anger.

‘For heaven’s sake, woman, you must have some idea. I’ve been expecting someone today. Why haven’t you asked Darity? You’re supposed to be mistress here.’ His grey eyes glinted with menace like ice about to crack.

Before she could retaliate the door opened and a large-boned woman bustled in. Her cheeks were crimson-veined, the streaked colour of the apples ripening in the orchard outside, and woolly white hair frizzed out of the sides of her cap in an untidy cascade. She banged a laden tray onto the carved chest near the table and began to transfer crockery with a clatter of practised movements. Matthias glared at her. ‘Stop that noise and listen to me, Widow Hancocke. This is a physician’s household, not a quartermaster’s cookhouse. Meals must be served quietly and at the appointed hour if you wish to keep your position. Do I make myself clear?’

Sarah held her breath. To speak to a servant who had worked for her family all her life in this way was reckless as well as uncivil. Good cooks were hard to find, and even harder to keep in Chester, where taverns were plentiful and the city overflowing with voracious strangers. To her relief Darity merely frowned at Matthias as if he were a truculent child and continued to remove the lids of the serving dishes.

A cloud of pungent steam rose from the vegetable platter, obliterating the expression on Matthias’s face, but his voice betrayed his vexation. ‘Now, be good enough to describe the person who called for me this morning.’

Darity seemed far too impressed by the visitor to be affronted. ‘A very peacock, he was, doctor. Big be-ribboned hat and such a strange green silk fringed cloak! Bucket top boots with spurs…And his shirt -great billowing sleeves like a ship’s sail with cuffs of Brussels’ lace that must have cost enough to feed a family for a year.’

‘His age? His colouring? His build? You speak of a coxcomb, not a man.’

She considered for a moment. ‘Taller than most, about thirty. Fair hair in one of them Cavalier curly braids over one shoulder…’

‘Tall… in his prime with a love-lock…’ he mimicked her soft Cheshire accent with scorn. ‘That could be any court gallant. What did he want?’

Darity held her ground. ‘He wouldn’t say. He didn’t look ill though. I don’t think he was a patient. If it’s important he’ll call back I dare say.’ She set a pie before him, its crust shiny and golden.

He sniffed at it with distaste. ‘Why do you serve fish again? It’s not Friday.’Sarah hastily intervened. ‘Beef’s costly now, Matthias. It’s the war. Things are getting scarcer by the day.’ No matter to him, she thought, resentment welling up. He spends little enough time eating at home.

‘Four pence a pound!’ Darity expostulated, snorting with disgust. ‘Every victualler in Chester’s cashing in now Sir Thomas Aston’s new regiment needs provisioning! And what with all these fugitives from Ireland flooding in…’

‘Enough!’ Matthias snapped, silencing her with a fierce grimace. He vented his annoyance on the cutlery, picking up a serving spoon and thrusting it into Darity’s hand. ‘This is greasy. Send it back to Alice and make her scour it again. She’s a feckless impudent slattern. Set her slicing white horehound for chest poultices this afternoon. God knows we’ll need more of it now this new contagion’s here.’ He turned back to Sarah and glowered. ‘Why can’t you make her pull her weight? She’s enough of it after all.’

Darity vanished into the kitchen, clearly unwilling to witness yet another battle between husband and wife. Sarah was mortified, hating Matthias’s malice, but nevertheless taking his carping to heart. The time she had spent sitting for the portrait he had commissioned had prevented her from supervising Alice closely, and the girl had become recalcitrant and disobliging. Sarah was well aware the tiresome creature pilfered from the larder and was growing larger by the day. Guessing she only ate to assuage her homesickness Sarah had said nothing to her about the disappearing apple cakes. Evidently this had been a serious error on her part.

‘I’m sorry, husband. I’ll deal with her. She can’t blame all her idleness on the falling sickness.’

Alice’s family had begged him to employ her, hoping that as a physician he would feel compassion and could cure her convulsions. Yet despite all his efforts with peony and black hellebore she was little improved. He said nothing but compressed his lips. Outside she could hear cartwheels rumbling along Eastgate Street and the raucous cries of vendors, but still he paid her no attention.

She brushed back a ringlet of brown hair snaking loose from the crochet filleting that restrained her top-knot. Then she sat motionless, staring down at her long bony fingers and at her gold wedding ring. ‘Is the contagion spreading?’ she ventured at last when she could stand the strained silence between them no longer.

‘It’s reached the Watergate now. Two weeks to get there from the skinners’ shacks by the Gloverstone…’ Matthias sighed, his handsome face clouded with a look Sarah could not read. ‘If the man

who called this morning returns, he must be made to tell me where he can be found. We’ll need any help we can get if it continues at this fast pace; the mayor may close the city to all outsiders if it can’t be contained.’

‘I’ll let you know at once. But where will you be this afternoon?’

‘Send Jed with any messages to the Crown and Glove.’ Jed, their stable boy who helped in the

garden and with errands, was in the orchard sawing logs.

She wondered why anyone with the vanity to be so absurdly dressed could be of use in stopping the relentless progress of the pestilence. She pondered the matter as she picked at her meal. Perhaps, like the chapman who called from time to time, he had access to substances Matthias could not obtain by lawful means. Could he be bringing goods the apothecary could not supply? Items Matthias might need for his ungodly alchemical experiments her father had warned her were the work of the devil. She knew her husband would pay handsomely for rarities that were impossible to get hold of in Chester if he thought they could help him fight the contagion.

‘Besides white horehound, what other remedies are you using?’ she asked. He was a gifted physician, whatever his shortcomings as a husband, and his skills were invaluable to her own work as midwife.

‘Ask at the apothecary if you want details of my receipts. How can I make you understand how busy I am?’

He shot her a malevolent look. ‘I’m sure Katherine will be more than happy to instruct you.’

Tears welled up but she did not give way to them. She would not give him the satisfaction of letting him see the pain he inflicted on her each day. He knew only too well the difficulties she always had with Katherine, who had been her step-mother until her father’s sudden death in July.

Sarah’s own mother had died of an ague eleven winters ago and Sarah’s father James Ravenscroft, a Master Apothecary, had married Katherine earlier in the year. Twice-widowed Katherine, whose first husband Randle Trafford had also been an apothecary, now ran the shop with the reluctant help of her younger son and apprentice Luke. Katherine’s continual hectoring and the unwanted attentions of her over-familiar elder son Nathan had forced Sarah to abandon the work she loved preparing roots and herbs in the compounding room. Finally, at her father’s urging, she had agreed to marry Matthias and to move to nearby Trutina House. Now she felt his eyes scanning her face, making her feel utterly lacking in whatever it was he wanted from a wife.

‘For heaven’s sake, stop looking so damned morose all the time. You look like a widow at a wake.’ He stood up. ‘I’m off out now. Don’t forget, I want details of all callers.’

A full head and shoulders taller than her, his height intimidated her and she remained seated, nodding in acquiescence. She saw it was dangerous to persist. She would have to discover what he was up to in some other way. ‘When may we expect your return, husband, so Darity can prepare your dinner? Perhaps she can find some mutton…’

‘Can’t you ever stop fussing, woman! How should I know? How long does it take for a fever to break, for a patient to die? I’ll eat out.’

He flung his cape round his shoulders, then picked up his gauntlets and hat. He was about to depart when Sarah’s voice exploded into an extraordinary outpouring of rage that clearly astounded him, and shocked her to the core. ‘You speak as if you’re the only one with burdens, Matthias,’ she spat, springing to her feet. ‘But everyone in the city’s living in fear of misfortune! Fear of the effect the contagion will have on trade. Terrified of the soldiers and the commissioners of array, terrified their houses will be sequestered and their plate melted into coin to buy guns. Especially the women, with the streets full of ale-sozzled louts and thieves. I’m terrified too!’

Even when she saw his lip curl in contempt she could not stop. ‘How do you think Darity and Alice feel, petrified you’ll bring this foul pestilence home? They’re distraught now the king’s coming to Chester tomorrow to drum up support for this ill-conceived war. They dread Jed being forced to enlist and being dragged off to Shrewsbury when his old mother relies on him!’

She paused for a moment, trembling, but still he said nothing. ‘I’m afraid, Matthias. Afraid of the strangers who come and go at all hours,’ she gasped. Her voice rose shrilly even though she knew he would despise her vulgar lack of self-control. ‘I’m frightened of the company you keep. None are your patients and they never stay long. Why do they come here? I’m your wife! I’ve a right to know what’s going on in my own home!’ She hesitated when she saw his threatening expression but made herself finish. ‘You’re never here when I need you, and everything I do seems wrong to you. What more can I do to please you?’

The look of angry incredulity on his face turned to one of disgust. ‘You’re unfit to be my wife! Your arrogance in imagining I need to explain my activities to you reveals how little you understand what I expect from you. There’s nothing you do that could ever please me. You’ve done nothing to deserve my trust, nothing at all. You fail to supervise the servants, fail to provide me with adequate stocks of physic for

this contagion. Worst of all, you have failed me in my marriage bed - failed even to produce a child!’ He turned on his heel, and without a backward glance, strode from the room.

Afterwards, alone in the parlour she wept. She wept in frustration, fury and humiliation. She had never been so outspoken before. But after the weeks of tension between them she knew she could no more have stopped herself from bringing things to a head than subdued the autumn gales storming into the walled city from the encircling Welsh hills. Would he return after his day’s work was done or would he spend the night with Blanche? Lady Blanche Delamere had invited Matthias to her native city of Chester to set up a new practice after the king had fled Hampton Court in January. As a royal physician he had sought anonymous sanctuary far from the turbulent capital in the thrall of Parliament’s militia. Sarah knew he and the loathsome Blanche had been part of the intimate circle close to the king. Several of them had followed Blanche here to the County Palatine to await the outbreak of war. If Matthias abandoned her for Blanche and went to reside with her at Delamere Hall, what would his new patients think? Some were strict Puritans who would be scandalised, she knew. He could be ruined.

Blanche was a butterfly, wondrously beautiful but frivolous. She had been a protégé of Queen Henrietta Maria at court before Her Majesty sailed for Holland in February to raise arms for the king. Blanche knew nothing of physic, Sarah thought scornfully. How could Matthias continue his work without her own knowledge of remedies and apothecary to assist him? He might castigate her as a scolding harridan but for all his insults he nevertheless depended on her.

Perhaps he intended to freeze her out, though, to drive her back to the apothecary to live with Katherine and her browbeaten son Luke. As a widow, Katherine relied heavily on Matthias’s prescriptions for her income, and he knew Sarah had nowhere else to go. But if he did compel her to leave him, how could she ever find out what was going on in Trutina House?

It was only later that she put aside her anguish about Matthias. Ken Sedgewicke, a skinner she knew but slightly had come to her door and begged for her assistance. His sick wife was in the throes of childbirth, it seemed. As she hurried with him down the overcrowded streets towards the Bridge Gate she prayed the woman had not also become the latest victim of the pestilence. This new contagion had all the symptoms of the Sweat, with patients drenched in noxious perspiration and with megrims which developed into convulsions if they were uncovered too little or too much. Death followed within two days without immediate treatment, but in this deviant form the sweating was accompanied by croup which suffocated those weakest - the very young, the old and women with child.

By the time they had reached the sprawling jumble of riverside shacks where the skinners dwelt, a mist had fallen. Light filtered only intermittently through the tangled willows that overhung the water’s edge and rats scurried among the stacks of decaying carcasses awaiting the tallow man. She followed

Sedgewicke warily, past the slippery edges of the stinking lime pits, past the oak-bark tanning pools, until at last they reached his makeshift cabin. His wife’s screams rent the fetid air.

It was dark before Sarah returned to Trutina House. Jane Sedgewicke had been brought to bed with a still-born girl child afflicted with a misshapen foot. The baby had come too early and dextrous though Sarah was with difficult births the labour had been an exhausting tragedy. Jane was fatigued with grief and after months of chronic nausea believed she had been ill-wished by someone. Her husband blamed Sarah and had flung the close-woven corn rattle she had brought as a birthing gift for the baby onto the midden outside. Neighbours had gathered, staring at her with stony eyes as she left, and she heard someone mutter ‘Witch!’ She tried to shrug it off. Superstition ran deep, especially among the skinners who worked in Chester’s main trade - leather processing - but at least she had seen no sign of contagion.

In the kitchen Darity had prepared a mutton pasty for dinner before she left for her own home that night, but there was no sign of Matthias. A sinking feeling gripped Sarah’s stomach and she could not eat. Jed had gone to visit his mother who had taken yet another turn for the worse and there was no sign of Alice. She’ll be in the attic, Sarah thought. Still incensed at the way Matthias had spoken to her, she decided to wait till later before asking the girl if the ostentatiously dressed visitor had called again.

She wandered into the parlour, sat down by the hearth and looked at the clock. It was already past nine. She poured herself some elderflower cordial and reflected on her confrontation with her husband. A faint smell of drying varnish still lingered and her eyes were drawn to the double portrait of them hanging from the plasterwork cornice. It re-awoke the awkwardness she had felt while posing for Master Dade, wearing the elaborately trimmed yellow silk gown Matthias had insisted she hire for such an important painting. Initially she had ventured to complain the gaudy saffron-lemon would make her look jaundiced, but as usual he had dismissed her opinion with impatient contempt.

Gervase Dade was a talented artist, another member of the dispersing court circle who had fled the capital. He had depicted her husband in sombre garments as befitted a physician. In the lower left corner, within a small cartouche he had delineated the emblem of Matthias’s profession, a serpent twining round the staff of Asclepius the healer. Contrasting with his dark apparel and the glazed black background, his pale clean-shaven skin, slate eyes and pewter-streaked hair shone subtly, producing an image of a man whose integrity and self-command could be relied upon. It was clear why Master Dade had made his name creating tromp l’oeil effects for the royal stage, Sarah thought bitterly. Had he not been paid off this morning she could have demanded reimbursement. Some recompense for his artistic sleight of hand that so cunningly veiled the true nature of the Matthias she had, with so much anguish, come to know.

Rage welled up within her. I won’t give in to him, she resolved. I won’t give up my home however he treats me when, or if, he returns! Why should I be the one to leave, to go back to the apothecary and be the butt of Katherine’s insults when he’s the adulterer! For a brief moment a stab of fear of his retaliating violence at her rebellion cut through her, threatening to weaken her determination, but she held firm. She stood up and raised her glass to her likeness in the portrait. Her oval face, parchment pale and drained of colour by the egg-yolk yellow of the gown - her face which Matthias had told her was too unlovely, too thin and with brown eyes too deep set for any man to admire - seemed to acknowledge and salute her intent.

Opening the parlour door she called Alice down from the attic. She winced as she heard her clog-shod feet clumping down the wooden stairs, but managed a smile as the girl stood in the doorway, clasping her sweaty hands with an anxious look on her plump face. Under her plain linen cap her greasy moleskin-coloured hair hung in lank strands round her shoulders, and her bulky shape quivered as she shifted her weight from one large foot to the other. As usual, she looked pasty and drab in her fustian dress. Despite Sarah’s offer to provide her with work garments of a more cheerful hue, Alice had insisted on wearing only the Puritan Sadd colours: black, or the dull brown shade they called Dying Leaf.

‘Good evening, Alice. Come in. Have you finished the horehound wort Doctor Astbury asked you to prepare?’

‘Yes, mistress.’

‘And did the visitor who called this morning for the doctor call again?’

‘No, mistress.’

‘How was Olwen? Did you read her my letter? Did she understand how to make the tea?’

‘Yes, mistress.’

The girl made a point of saying as little as possible, Sarah noticed, as if she dreaded being contaminated by conversation. Perhaps she feared the contagion was passed by word of mouth. Who knew, she could be right. Folk had a thousand different notions as to how the pestilence seeds spread and once fear took hold there was no way of convincing them otherwise.

‘Is she feeling any better? Fennel tea’s an excellent remedy for the sickliness and costiveness of pregnancy. Did you explain how to make the burdock leaf poultice for her stomach to make the baby stay in place?’

‘She said her husband will get some from the apothecary tomorrow.’

Sarah had given Alice instructions to deliver tea and a letter to Olwen, the young wife of the landlord of the Crown and Glove, a popular city alehouse. An incomer to Chester from Flint, Olwen only spoke Welsh. Unable to read and write, she was so bashful she refused to discuss the ailments of early pregnancy with anyone but a woman, not even with her doting husband. As Alice was a Welsh-speaker, Sarah had sent her on the errand as Darity - who could not understand Welsh in any case - had been out searching for cheap meat. Sarah, who had some Welsh from her Mostyn-born mother, had been about to deliver the remedy herself when she had been called out to help Jane Sedgewicke.

‘Good. I hope you had no trouble at the Crown and Glove with Jed accompanying you?’

‘All alehouses are sinks of iniquity frequented by harlots, mistress. Alderman Alderfly and Preacher Prynne forbade me to set foot in such places. They teach that taverns are the seat of sedition and the nursery of naughtiness,’ she quoted sanctimoniously. ‘They’ll be mightily displeased when they learn you ordered me there with a lad!’ A flush of crimson bloomed across Alice’s fleshy cheeks and her jaw jutted out in angry defiance.

‘Neither the alderman nor Preacher Prynne have any right to remark on your work for me, Alice. It is only with my permission that you may attend their prayer meetings. Do not speak to me again of their opinions.’ Her tone brooked no argument and she gave the girl a stern glare. ‘While under our roof you enjoy our protection. You’re fortunate indeed we’ve taught you to read and write so you’re able to help someone unlettered like Olwen and to study the scriptures.’

Sarah had taught Alice her letters as soon as she arrived at Trutina House. Such skills were as

essential as herb-knowledge if she was to work in a physician’s household. The girl had been given quills, ink and a notebook in which to practice so she could assist in the labelling of medicinal plants. She had proved a surprisingly apt pupil, although she spent most of her free time in the attic poring over religious tracts.

Alice glowered with rebellious eyes but said nothing. Matthias was right, at least in this matter,

Sarah thought. Alice is getting quite above herself. ‘Were here any callers while I was out? Any women in need of me?’

‘No, mistress.’

‘And no sign of Catch, I suppose?’ Catch, her maverick mouser, had disappeared last week, and Sarah was missing him more than she had expected.

‘No, mistress.’

‘Now go back to the attic. I do not require you anymore this evening.’

Alice bobbed a perfunctory curtsy and flounced off upstairs. Sarah sat down by the fire. She still had no appetite and could not stop her mind whirling round the harrowing events of the day. Apart from the terrible row, what was really going on in Trutina House? Why had the coxcomb not returned? There were so many strangers in Chester now with the king due to arrive tomorrow, the first time a monarch had visited the city for twenty-five years. Could Matthias’s mysterious visitor be connected to this?

She had scarcely had time to gather her thoughts when the clatter of hooves on the cobbles at the back of the house brought her rushing to the kitchen. Matthias! Had he come back? Her heart plummeted as she opened the door. In the gloom she could just make out the figure of his mare being soothed by Jed.

‘Is that you, mistress? Quick, come at once! Ebony’s come home without her saddle and with no sign of Doctor Astbury!’

CHAPTER TWO

‘Millenaries are most frequent with us; men that looke for a temporal kingdom that must begin presently and last a thousand years; to promote the Kingdom of Christ, they teach that all the ungodly must be killed, and that the wicked have no propriety in their estates. This doctrine filleth the simple people with a furious and unnatural zeal.’

Anon: A short history of the Anabaptists (1642)

Thursday 22nd September 1642

It was dusk when Zachariah Prynne reached Alderman Robert Parnell’s leatherworks, a ramshackle building beyond the Shipgate without the city walls. Its unprepossessing exterior belied its importance as the epicentre of Parliamentarian resistance in a royalist city. Since Sir William Brereton had been drummed out of Chester last month by Thomas Cooper, the royalist mayor, Parnell, with his wealth and influence, was the only person capable of mobilising the dissident groups in the county. Nevertheless, Zachariah’s enforced dealings with the worldly glover always disgusted him.

The preacher’s mentor William Edwards, a previous mayor and leader of the Puritan faction in the Assembly, had little influence over political development in the city, being outnumbered by the royalist majority, so Zachariah had no choice but to work with Parnell. Even so, he braced himself to do his duty. He knew his sacred task to rid the world of the Antichrist and to prepare for the Second Coming must remain paramount, however sinful the company he had to keep.

A severe figure with his cropped hair and black Puritan garb, his long narrow face was dominated by a prominent high-bridged nose. Strong and sinewy, his build and demeanour gave the impression he was not a person it would be safe to encounter after dark. His stern appearance belied his youth and the wild imagination concealed behind sobriety as he waited in the shadows for Parnell’s skinners to leave. Most had already started to trudge back to their shacks scattered along the banks of the Dee, exhausted after scraping rancid flesh from carcasses since dawn. But Zachariah, with customary caution, stood by the lime pits until the last stragglers had disappeared before pushing open Parnell’s door.

Inside the room a reeking tallow candle flickered on the table, casting grotesque shadows on smoke-blackened walls. The glover glanced up from the ledger he had been checking and beckoned Zachariah inside.

‘Come in, Prynne, but make sure the door’s properly closed. Now, tell me exactly what you overheard. This matter you wrote about could have great importance. It’s a pity I’ve only just got your letter. I’ve been over in Halifax selling fleece.’ With his pot belly, grizzled grey hair and bloated unshaven face he looked like a corpulent spider or toad poised to jump up and pounce as he sat behind his desk, long legs tucked under him, waiting for Zachariah to speak. He gestured to a stool that stood by the wall. ‘Take a seat. Like a drink?’ He proffered a half empty bottle of Canary wine and smirked, knowing full well the only alcohol his guest would consent to drink would be the weakest of small beer.

Zachariah shook his head and kept his wide-brimmed hat on. His steel-grey eyes glinted with distain and religious zeal as he compressed his lips. He had no intention of supping with Satan’s minion, however long a spoon he was offered. He remained standing, glancing suspiciously around the malodorous room crowded with packs of goatskins and fardels of badger pelts waiting to be shipped. It was imperative no-one but Parnell heard what he had to say.

‘There’s a document in Trutina House that could be a forgery, but on the other hand, could be genuine and incriminating. Matthias Astbury’s to show it to the king when he arrives in Chester tomorrow. Only he can confirm its origins. If we needed any more proof what that quack’s up to this is it.’

‘How did you hear of this?’

‘Yesterday I was following two of Captain Gamull’s officers. They came across Yates who was acting suspiciously. I haven’t trusted him for some time either. He was nervy, starting at every sound like a girl. They grabbed him, he struggled and they knocked him out by the corner of Northgate Row. They searched him and found the parchment. I hid behind a post while one of them read it out to the other who couldn’t read. He kept hesitating as he spoke. He may have been barely literate, or it could have been encrypted and he was trying to decipher it.’ Zachariah shook his head. He could still scarcely believe its

contents.

‘Well?’

‘It purports to be from an emissary of the king. It’s to be taken to various recusant aristocrats in Lancashire - all very wealthy - offering religious freedom to all Catholics in the country in exchange for arms and support.’

Parnell’s jaw dropped. ‘What did they do with it?’

‘They decided only Matthias Astbury could be trusted with it. One said the doctor knew the king well; he was one of the physicians who attended the queen at Prince Henry’s birth. He’s to show it to the king tomorrow night.’

Zachariah watched Parnell’s rotund warty face for a reaction, but he was silent, thinking. ‘They left Yates senseless in the Row, walked over to Eastgate Street and knocked on the front door of Trutina House as if they were patients,’ the preacher continued. ‘I saw young Alice Malbon, the serving girl in that evil household, let them in.’

‘I’ll send someone in at once,’ Parnell said. ‘Someone experienced. There’s no time to waste. If Astbury hands it over to the king there’ll be no proof it ever existed. Fake or genuine, it’ll still be a weapon in our hands.’ He thought for a moment then grinned, revealing an uneven row of yellow teeth. ‘I know just the fellow.’ He heaved himself up, opened a small cupboard and produced a quill, inkpot and some clerking paper. He began to write, scratching rapidly across the page with flourishing strokes.

Zachariah frowned. ‘This is a matter of no small risk. I’ll do it myself.’ His heart lifted. He could obtain the document and rescue Alice at the same time. Now he had proof that the Cavalier Matthias Astbury was in league with the Antichrist, namely King Charles I, due in this very city tomorrow, she was in mortal danger. He must act at once. He must convince William Edwards and Alderman Aldersey she must be removed from the house immediately.

‘No.’ Parnell continued to scribble instructions. ‘This man’s an ex-mercenary, skilled at breaking and entering. He’s well in with Astbury already. I’ve got another job for you. I want you to go to Peter Ince’s now and tell him we’re using the stationer’s shop as a collection point tonight. Someone will call for an encoded prayer book…’

‘Peter Ince’s!’ Zachariah exploded. ‘You can’t use him; he’s been under surveillance for months. They’ll hang him for treason this time!’

Peter Ince had been lucky to escape internment after publicly welcoming Zachariah’s uncle, the notorious Puritan pamphleteer William Prynne when he had passed through Chester four years ago on his way to captivity in Caernarvon Castle. William had insulted the king by attacking the queen’s frivolity at court. He had called her a salacious whore for acting in her masques and had been tortured for his treasonous insolence. Peter had only narrowly escaped a similar fate. He had recanted in the Cathedral before that odious Limb of Antichrist, Bishop Bridgeman, and paid a monstrous fine. Despite this regrettable lapse, Zachariah had great respect for Peter’s loyalty to the Puritan cause. When William had been sent to the Tower for an earlier offence; Peter had travelled all the way to London with the celebrated lawyer John Bostock to try to get him freed.

‘Our pious stationer’s only too keen to redeem himself,’ Parnell sniggered. ‘He’s been suffering pangs of guilt for his apostasy. His shop’s the ideal place. After what happened to him, the sheriff will never believe he’d allow it to be used again for such clandestine activities.’ He sealed the letter and handed it to Zachariah. ‘Take good care of this - give it to my man yourself. It contains a sketch of the interior of Trutina House. But first, go and see Ince and tell him to expect a visitor tonight at eight thirty. He’s to hand over the prayer book to a peddler who’ll call for it and who’ll leave at once to take it to Alderman Aldersey. There must be no direct contact between Ince and myself or the alderman.’

‘Why can’t I collect the prayer book? Why involve a peddler?’

‘You’re too well known, you might be followed. The house is being watched, we must befool the

spies.’

Zachariah was outraged at Parnell’s cynical use of Peter, but was forced to postpone taking revenge until after their work to bring down the Antichrist was done. He would settle matters with the self-serving whoreson then. He bowed his head. Such must be the Almighty’s will. Amen

‘After you’ve seen Ince, go down to the herring warehouse by the castle at about eight. Make sure you’re not followed. The peddler will be waiting for you to give him his next instructions. Adam Stockton’s his name. He passes as a chapman but fought with O’Neill’s Irish regiment before he started work for me.’

Parnell guffawed as he saw Zachariah’s horrified face. ‘Don’t worry, he’s not a Papist! He’s a godless mercenary as far as I know, come home from the Continent to fight the malignants after the king declared war on Parliament. I’ve had my suspicions about Astbury for some time, so I sent this fellow sniffing round Trutina House. I’ve discovered he’s been bringing our highly respected physician some very odd goods. Stockton thinks he’s an alchemist, trying to make gold.’ He bellowed with mirth. ‘Would that I could get my hands on the receipt!’

Zachariah was aghast. What new risk would Alice be subjected to with Parnell’s ruthless assassin creeping round Trutina House?

‘When you see Stockton hand him this letter and tell him he’s got to get into Trutina House tonight. When he’s got the parchment he’s to bring it straight to me. Strapping chap with hair as fiery as his temper, you won’t mistake him. He’ll approach you and ask if you want to buy anything. He’ll recommend the calf-skin gloves.’

Parnell reached into his doublet and produced a leather pouch. He counted out five gold coins and handed them to Zachariah. ‘This is for your work tonight. There’ll be more tomorrow if you do well with this.’ He shot him a crafty look. ‘Something big’s coming up. Something that could end the war faster than

you’d imagine. Might suit you.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’ll hear in good time if you’re interested.’

Nauseated at having to accept money from this avaricious self-seeker, Zachariah contained his revulsion by forcing himself to remember his mission. He knew that when he had been baptised he had taken press money to serve under the colours of Christ in the war of the Lamb against the Beast. For this end he must collaborate with Parnell to destroy the king. He pocketed the angels, knowing he needed them to buy information from others.

‘I’m interested.’ He made for the door. The room, already rank from the stinking hides, suddenly became asphyxiating. He could hardly wait to get outside into the relatively fresh fog swirling round the sluggish waters of the Dee.

Zachariah chose a circular route along the back lanes as he headed towards the disused herring warehouse by the castle. To his relief, his brief visit to Peter’s seemed to have passed unnoticed by the authorities. Now, as he walked towards his next assignation he agonised over Alice’s plight. How in heaven’s name could he rescue his earnest young convert? She had come to Alderman Aldersey’s prayer group in such eager sincerity, but he could see no hope for her salvation while she was forced to dwell in Trutina House. No good trying tonight, now Parnell had hired Stockton to break in. But with God’s help he should be able to get her out tomorrow with the aid of John Edwards and the alderman, now there was proof Astbury was working for the king to bring back Popery.

Avoiding the lewd laughter and tuneless singing booming out from the alehouses, he narrowly missed slipping on the vomit of a drunken militiaman sprawled out on the cobbles. Yet when he arrived at the undercroft where he had arranged to meet the chapman he found the place deserted. There was

always the danger someone would betray a man like Stockton, but he waited in the adjoining ginnel all the same, deciding to give him a few more minutes.

As the church bells struck eight a broad-shouldered, muscular figure with unbound flaming red hair skimming his shoulders strolled up to the building and slung his pack down as if to adjust the strap. The empty street was dark and shadowed as he approached Zachariah.

‘Would you like to purchase something, sir? Ribbons for your sweetheart, perhaps?’ he asked, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Or some calf-skin gloves now leaf-fall’s here? And have you anything for me?’ he added softly.

Zachariah made himself speak. ‘An urgent task, Parnell said. He wants you to get into Trutina House tonight, search for an important document and bring it to him immediately, before the king arrives tomorrow. Doctor Astbury’s house in Eastgate Street. Do you know it?’

‘Of course. What kind of document? What’s all the hurry about?’

‘It may be a forgery. Could be useful in our hands, even so, Parnell says. It could make a great deal of trouble for the king.’ He handed him the letter. ‘This is a map of the lay-out of Trutina House and details of what the document looks like.’ He stared at Stockton, at the determined set of his jaw, at the livid scar that ran down his left cheek and at his leonine tawny-flecked green eyes. He looked as if breaking in and thieving would be child’s play. How safe would Alice be if he were to encounter her as he searched? Such a man would stop at nothing.

‘We struggle for truth and justice. There’s much risk involved in this. Does this alter your willingness to help?’

‘Hardly.’ The peddler’s face broke into a mirthless smile. ‘I’ve shed enough blood in the German wars. A little more won’t signify.’

Zachariah relaxed slightly, yet the thought of this professional killer breaking into the house at night while Alice slept haunted him. He struggled to overcome his qualms. ‘May the Almighty bless you and reward you in heaven, brother.’

The chapman laughed cynically. ‘I hope for my reward on earth, brother, and not too long to wait for it either. A new world where folk have justice and enough to eat and where all have the right to vote on the laws of the land.’ He eased his pack effortlessly over his shoulders, adjusting its weight. ‘Farewell.’

‘Wait,’ Zachariah said quickly. ‘There’s more. Parnell wants you to go to the stationer’s shop on Eastgate Street this evening at half-eight. You’re to collect a prayer book which is to be taken to Alderman Aldersey’s place in Watergate Street at the corner of Trinity Lane. You’re to go there first, before you go to

Astbury’s, but make sure you aren’t followed.’

Stockton nodded. ‘That’s simple enough.’ He turned to leave.

‘How will you get into Trutina House?’ Zachariah asked. ‘Parnell insists you break in tonight, but it’s getting late and Astbury keeps the place secure after dark. He has a strong young groom who sleeps in the stables.’

‘I’ll go tomorrow then. The king won’t arrive until the evening, so Astbury will have hidden it somewhere in the house till then. He won’t launch off to see his patients with something so valuable in his medical bag. I’ll find it!’ He grinned again. ‘Parnell always presses too hard. Take what he says with a large pinch of salt. I do. No point in going in through the window when I can talk my way in through the kitchen door. I’m well known to the servants there. I’ll wait until he goes out on his rounds and they’ll admit me. I’ve goods to deliver to him anyway.’

Zachariah’s heart thumped in his chest despite his relief that Alice was to be spared the assassin’s nocturnal visit. ‘You say you know the servants there. Do you know the young serving girl Alice?’

Stockton nodded.

‘How was she? She’s a member of Alderman Aldersey’s prayer group. The elders of the conventicle are anxious about her.’

A concerned expression passed over the peddler’s face that increased Zachariah’s alarm.

‘She complains she’s made to mix up potions and fears sorcery’s at the root. Says she’s seen the Astburys drawing up magical star charts. Says they compel her to pray with the household from the king’s Arminian Prayer Book she detests.’

‘Star charts! Sorcery! When did she tell you this? I must have details to inform the elders!’ Zachariah banged his fist into the palm of his other hand, unable to contain his fury.

‘I call at the house quite frequently, and she’s the one who opens the door. People often confide in a friendly passing chapman.’ He grinned briefly and then looked grave. ‘I was there only last week. I thought she seemed sickly.’ He turned to go, lifting his hand in solemn salute. ‘Farewell again.’

After he had watched Stockton leave Zachariah threaded his way through the bustling crowds towards John Edward’s house where he was lodging for the week. Although only twenty-eight, the harrowing years he had spent in Bristol protecting the Prynne family from sectarian attacks while his uncle was in prison

had left their mark. With the circumspection of a man twenty years older he proceeded warily, frequently glancing round to make sure no one was following.

As he walked, his thoughts returned to the meeting with Parnell. It infuriated him to think he was using Peter’s shop for yet another hazardous endeavour, when everyone at the prayer group knew Peter was a broken man. As if Peter’s unswerving loyalty had not already been tested to the limit, without

Parnell’s exploitation of his longing to expiate his apostasy.

Peter had been unable to face the fate that had been meted out by that evil instrument of Belial, Bishop Bridgeman. The stationer knew more than most the depths to which King Charles and his corrupt minions were capable of sinking. He had seen William in the tower after he had been condemned to the

pillory by Archbishop Laud to endure the agony of mutilation. William’s ears had been cut off to the stumps, and his cheeks branded with the initials SL – seditious libeller – before being fined an astronomical amount and sentenced to perpetual imprisonment for his Puritan principals. Although William had been released two years ago after Parliament had declared the Star Chamber’s judgement on him illegal, in reality the battle against the perversion of religious truth had only just begun. But Peter could not be expected to continue the struggle in his present precarious spiritual state. Zachariah knew he could do

nothing to prevent Parnell using the shop for his devious schemes, but resolved anew to settle his scores with him later.

He made his way with difficulty along the maze of darkening streets. Link boys with flaming torches escorted strangers, forcing their way through the swarming crowds. People were pushing and shoving and shameless women, their breasts exposed in flaunting apparel, proffered trays of cakes and small ale in the wavering light. When he castigated them about their disgraceful attire they shrieked with laughter, gesturing obscenely as they mouthed choruses from bawdy ballads. Shocked, he averted his eyes lest his soul be contaminated by their depravity. He would leave them to God’s just vengeance. He moved on.

Beggars clawed at his sleeve with pox-scarred hands. The stench of their bodies mingling with the fumes of badly cured hides from the undercroft warehouses made even his strong stomach heave. ‘A coin, master! A coin