It was the fifth day when, in longing rather than in any hope, he walked past the house again as the bell rang eight. And there it was. He kept straight on, disdaining the safer, circuitous route, even cutting through the Piazza di Spagna and straight past the Caffe degli Inglesi with his hat brim down. No countryman hailed him and he was soon in the park, swiftly at the tree. A paper was there, not the three sets of numbers he knew now would condemn him still to wait and watch, but a whole series that he did not recognize. Eagerly he rushed back to his lodgings, took the crib from its hiding place, translated the phrase. The first four words thrilled: ‘We take them tonight.’
At last! It was going to happen. The waiting was ended. Almost too excited to try, he none the less decoded the last two words.
‘Return home.’
Jack sat there, staring. Return home? He was not even to be there at the kill? That was beyond disappointment, it was an insult. Without him, they would not have Red Hugh McClune. And now they were dismissing him?
It did not take him long to realize that this was an order he would not, could not obey. They did not know how he watched from his eyrie in the closed-up house. The least he would do was see the man taken. And then he had business of his own to conclude. For if they thought he was leaving Rome without seeing her …
His hand shaking, Jack reached for his strike light and flint, his bowl of leaves. The dog on the floor below had begun its high-pitched yapping. As the paper caught alight, his eyes fixed on the insulting six words: ‘We take them tonight …’
Them?
‘Shite!’ he muttered aloud, reaching burnt fingers to his mouth. He picked up the crib and, even though the letter was ash, turned to the page, tracked the line, found the word. There was no doubt. Them.
Turnville was not just taking Red Hugh. He was going to take the whole Jacobite brood. He was going to take … Letty!
Jack stared ahead, his mind swamped, the barking below filling it, shutting out all thought. He had previously summoned a host of huge rough men to guarantee the taking of the Irishman. Now he saw that same man seizing Letty, throwing her into some foul cell, a man like Turnville coming into the room, signalling his man to begin …
It could not be allowed to happen.
The sudden hammering on his door seemed monstrous, accompanied by an upsurge in yaps and what sounded like groans beyond the wood. Shocked, Jack seized the bowl, ran to the window, tipped the still-smouldering ashes out. The sounds at the door were loud enough to make him fear that it would soon be burst in so there was no time to replace the Herodotus in its hole. Flinging his coat over it, he unsheathed his sword, crossed to the door, turned the key and flung it open.
Watkin Pounce fell into the room. Hanging off him by its teeth was a small creature. ‘Save me,’ he gasped, ‘Hotspur has me by the throat.’
The dog was, in fact, joined to the fat knight at the knee end of his breeches. Jack’s shod toe caused it to release and run yelping out of the door.
Pounce had fallen onto the bed, which groaned but did not collapse. ‘That cur! I did nothing but enquire of it the way to your room.’ His breaths were coming in great heaves, pushing out the huge cheeks. He looked like a goldfish jerked rudely onto a riverbank. ‘How do you live so high up? I do not think I have climbed so since … ever.’ A fat wrist flapped. ‘Have you no refreshment?’
Jack sheathed his sword with a grunt. ‘Do you not think, Watkin, that this is an early hour, even for you?’
‘I will alleviate your concern, sweet wag, by saying that I do not seek the first of the day but the last of the night.’ He smiled. ‘Is that an Orvieto I spy in the corner? Why, ’tis barely wine!’
Jack shook his head and went to the rope-wrapped bottle. He had two mugs and filled one. Then after only a moment’s hesitation, he filled the second. ‘Your health, sir,’ he said, handing one across.
‘And yours.’ Pounce drank half the mug. ‘You still look feverish, though, and have lost weight. Are you not recovered?’
Jack had sent word that a fever had taken him to excuse his absence from the Angelo and Pounce’s company. ‘Nearly. It was virulent, whatever took me.’
‘The marshes of the campagna spread contagion into the city. Those who can, leave Rome for the summer months. Those who must, stay.’ He sighed, drained his mug, held it out to Jack, who dutifully filled it. He sipped now, studying Jack as he did. ‘But there’s something else in your eyes, lad, beyond a sickness. Or is it another kind? The effects of Cupid’s arrow?’
Jack looked at the man sprawled on his bed. In a strange way, he was the closest thing he had to a friend in Rome and though he had deceived him about who he was, and what he was about, he had largely confessed the truth about Letty. ‘I am still hard struck, it is true,’ he said, hesitantly, ‘the worse because … because the lady in question has now appeared in Rome.’
‘No!’ Pounce raised himself on one elbow. ‘Tell me all.’
Jack adapted the story to a circumstance that did not include Jacobites. He spoke of seeing her at the opera, of following her, of how his feelings were as strong as ever. The knight nodded and sighed. Finally, with a great effort, he sat up. ‘You know what must be done.’
‘What?’
‘You must carry her away.’
It was Jack’s turn to sigh. ‘How?’
‘How? What sort of word is that for a lover? The only words that need concern you are when and where! Establish those and how will resolve itself.’
‘But to approach her will be nigh impossible.’
‘Another craven word. Where does she stay?’
‘In the Palazzo Cavalieri.’
Pounce whistled. ‘I know it. Di Cavalieri’s one of the richest families in Rome. The aged count himself lives there and if she is under his protection …’ He shook his head. ‘You must not attempt those walls. Is she never alone?’
‘I do not think so. She goes from the house to the chapel then back to the house then to the opera, always accompanied, always—’
‘Which chapel? Where does she worship?’
‘She’s Protestant, so—’
‘So she goes to the Palazzo Muti. My boy!’ Pounce actually levered himself up to sitting in his excitement. ‘There is your opportunity. None of di Cavalieri’s servants will accompany her into that chapel. Papists to a man!’
‘But how do I get in there?’
‘Why, Pip,’ he replied, ‘you have the token still, do you not? The silver token that gains you admittance? Do you mean to say you have not used it?’
Jack thought. He had not followed Letty into the chapel for fear of being spotted by her. He got up now, searched through his various pockets. At last, in a waistcoat he had not worn in a week, he found it. ‘Here it is,’ he said.
‘Will her aunt accompany her?’
Jack shook his head. ‘She’s always alone, except for servants, who wait at the gate.’
Pounce beamed. ‘Then it should be easy enough for you to seize a moment with her. Enough to pass her a note at least, arrange a further rendezvous. And that’s where you will carry her off.’
Jack thought about what the note had promised for the evening. We take them tonight …
‘It would have to be today, this afternoon, and …’ Then he remembered one of the few other places he knew well enough in Rome. ‘I suppose I could get her to meet me at the gardens on Monte Pinchio.’
Pounce snapped his fingers. All effects of drunkenness seemed to have left him. ‘Excellent! So many entrances. Do you know the cart track beside the Palazzo Barberini?’
‘I do.’
‘Good! I will rendezvous with you there at four in the afternoon, shall we say? With horses, laden with enough to get you to Civitavecchia. From there, a felucca to take you to Genoa. If Neptune favours lovers with a fair tide, you would be out of the Papal States in a day.’ He frowned. ‘Alas, though, I am afraid I will need, uh, a little gold to do this for you.’
Jack stared at him. This w
as madness! He had attempted exactly the same thing in Bath not two months previously and had failed. Yet, how could he not try? If she felt about him as he did about her, perhaps she would just come away with him. Especially as he would be saving her from Red Hugh’s capture and fate. As he would save her later from a charge of treason. For they would not condemn their own spy’s wife, surely? ‘By God, sir,’ he said, thrusting a hand forward to be shaken, ‘I will do as you advise.’ He reached into the hole under the planks that usually contained the Herodotus, pulled out his purse. ‘Would forty scudi be enough?’ he said, counting coins.
Pounce dabbed sweat from his forehead. ‘Fifty would secure it, and a dozen bottles of the Montepulciano to accompany you.’
Jack handed the coins over. ‘What time is the service?’
‘Eleven.’
Jack looked at his pocket watch. ‘But that’s less than an hour.’
Pounce rose, swayed, settled. ‘Then I suggest we should be about our business. You to the chapel. Me to the farrier.’ He reached forward, took Jack’s hand. ‘I will see you with the horses. And I will weep as I watch you ride off for I will then remember too clearly how I missed my chance to do the same. What might I have been if I had, eh? What might I have been?’ A tear ran down his cheek, he waved a hand and was gone. His shouts and the dog’s yaps faded, accompanying Jack’s scribbling upon a scrap of paper.
It was only when he was on his way to the Palazzo Muti that Jack realized what this would mean if all his hopes were gratified, if Letty did indeed love as he loved and would give up everything, risk all these dangers, for that love. He would not be there at the taking of Red Hugh McClune. He would, with luck, be on a felucca bound for Genoa.
What is revenge, he thought, compared to love? With a chuckle he realized that he was obeying his orders, those of his scoutmaster to return home. Yet nowhere did those orders say he had to return home alone.
– THREE –
The Taking
Though he could have visited the Palazzo Muti before, Jack had shown little desire. As King James III had already left for his summer villa, those few who remained in Rome to endure the swelter were the obvious face of Jacobitism – courtiers and administrators, part of whose labour was to cultivate those who visited and try to turn them to the Cause. Jack had had enough of that at the Angelo.
Yet he cursed himself now for not taking the opportunity, because then he would not be lost! His token had gained him admittance at the main entrance where the porter had gestured vaguely through another and muttered, ‘Cappella.’ But the door had led to a courtyard, a colonnade around it, doors leading off. The three he tried opened onto empty rooms, furniture shrouded and windows shuttered. At last he found a stair that took him up but the corridor there was equally deserted and the one serving girl he found had no English and his careful pronunciation of the word ‘cappella’ produced no response. He strode along, barely glancing at the portraits that hung every few feet, Stuart kings, princes and their consorts gazing down upon lost kingdoms. A clock had struck eleven when he questioned the maid. He was, as ever, late.
Then he saw it, and only because it was just closing, the door no more distinctive than most of the others. Close to, he observed a small stone cross on the pediment, wreathed in Stuart oak leaves. The hand was still on the knob the other side as he jerked it open and a man stumbled out.
‘Scusi, signore, is this … cappella?’ And then he saw that it was, not needing the man’s whispered Italian jabber to confirm it. The hand guided him inside, the door closed behind him.
It was dark in the royal chapel, and cool, for the interior seemed to be all marble, floor to ceiling, the light coming mainly from candelabra, though in the roof he could see two small windows that admitted a little sunshine and air. The casements were the plainest things on display for though he knew that the service to be held was Protestant, the chapel certainly wasn’t, for it served the Catholic king as well. Statues of angels and the beatified gazed to heaven; the small choir was carved from mahogany, rococo angels clutching lyres over clouds and stars. Though incense did not burn now, its stale musk clung to the pews and the statuary. It was not a large space, no bigger than a small parish church in Cornwall, and thus overcrowded, claustrophobic. Jack stood for a moment to let his heart settle and his sight adjust.
It took him some moments to find her. When he did, he moved immediately to the right aisle. She sat on the extreme end of the pew, gazing up to the altar. The Rector was just commencing the service. There was hardly space in the pew behind her but Jack created some, forcing a large woman to gather her bulging dress and slide along. Movement rippled down, people adjusting with whispered protests.
Her head did not turn to the slight commotion, her gaze remaining fixed on the vicar. He could only see that small part of her but it was enough to make his breathing shallow, for he had not been this close to her since their parting in the garden in Bath. He saw the same neck he’d kissed, the wave of finest down rising up at the back to the hair; saw the edge of the ear he’d run his tongue along, making her laugh, then making her sigh. Saw the nose, one cheek, both powdered now, not then, for the rain had washed it off in the garden, leaving him to marvel at the tracery of freckles scattered on her skin like stars across the sky.
He couldn’t help the moan that memory brought; and the vision before him instantly changed. A flush ran up the neck, into the hairline; the head began to turn. He leaned forward. ‘Hush,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Do not cry out.’
A scolding ‘Shh!’ came from the woman beside him, a louder gasp from the one in front. Then both were fortuitously drowned by the first notes of the organ introducing the hymn. All rose, though Jack had to grab Letty’s elbow to support her. She steadied, as the singing began.
The verse was not loudly sung, the largely English congregation displaying the usual national restraint. Only the woman beside him truly raised her voice. It was not tuneful, but it gave Jack the chance to lean in again.
‘Do not turn around,’ he said, ‘but it is I, Jack. I have come for you.’ Letty half-turned, her lips parted in shock, not song. ‘Jack,’ she mouthed. ‘How … ? Oh, Jack.’
He found that he had no more words. The singing continued, a murmur further off, a roar nearby, yet even that dissonance seemed fitting somehow, a reminder of a world out of harmony. Something he was there to set right.
He found his voice again. ‘You must come with me,’ he said.
‘What?’ she replied, though he did not know whether she heard or she doubted. Perhaps both.
‘Come with me,’ he said, just as the hymn suddenly ceased. His words, spoken loudly, carried into the near silence.
The woman next to him was emboldened, since she was not the only one now disturbed. ‘This is the house of God, young man, not some drawing room! Worship ye and flirt ye no more.’
‘I assure ye … you, madam, I—’
‘Silence there! Silence.’ The voice came from the vicar, peering down over his pince-nez. Others joined in a general mumble of condemnation.
‘You must go.’ Letty’s voice was a gentle contrast. ‘Please, Jack.’
He stepped from the pew, his back to the crowd, quickly taking her hymnal from her as he did so. The transfer of the paper he’d scribbled at his lodgings into it took just a moment and he laid the book on the shelf before her. ‘Sing well,’ he said and then he was moving, accompanied by a general clucking of disapproval, to the door.
As he found his way to the lower floor and the front door, he realized he would never be admitted back into the select congregation who attended the Chapel in the Palazzo Muti. He did not care. For if she sang lustily, read swiftly, came to their rendezvous promptly, the only church he ever wished to see after that would be the one in which he married her. Then, hang him if he was ever caught worshipping anything else again! Aside from her, of course.
He approached the gardens on the Monte Pinchio by his usual route, via the Piazza Barberini. No fat Ja
cobite with laden horses awaited him there, and he cursed the necessity of trusting a drunkard, until he remembered that he was early and that Watkin Pounce, even now, should be swaying to the rendezvous. And if he was not? Well, there were other stables nearby, and he had some scudi sewn into bits of apparel and fifty more in a purse in his satchel. The only matter of importance lay ahead of him, up the slope of Monte Pinchio, under the pine trees. Now he was there he was aware of the stupidity of arranging this meeting just where he collected his orders from his scoutmaster, but he had been in a hurry and it was, after all, one of the few places he knew well in Rome. There was a young cypress tree growing next to the fence. Kneeling, he wedged the satchel into a crook of branches. It could not be seen from the path. Buckling on his swordbelt, Jack strode up the hill.
Although he knew he was early it did not lessen the anxiety that grew as his pocket watch’s hands crawled up the face to four. Had he been clear enough in the note? What if her guardian had detained her? What if Red Hugh had forsaken the night and swept them both out of Rome, the English trap betrayed by one of the myriad double agents who lurked in the city?
The appointed hour came, confirmed by a bell ringing in the villa that surmounted the hill, hidden from his view by the stand of pines. He stood square in the middle of the main avenue, just by the statue of the dryad who, if she had possessed arms, might have pointed the way to the oft-visited tree. The heat was near overpowering but at least it kept most Romans indoors, behind their shutters. No one disturbed the walk.
Where was she? Four o’clock he’d scrawled and it was now a quarter past. Suddenly, he was convinced that she could not come; or that she would not, her courage failing her; or, worse – far worse – that she had chosen not to because she did not love him enough. The thought made his gaze fall to the ground, to the prints made by his shuffling boots in the dust and sand.
And then she was there. He did not hear her for the dust swallowed the sound of her running feet and she was yet far enough off for her harsh breaths not to carry. But he looked along the avenue and there she was indeed, moving fast towards him. He closed the gap at an equal pace.