The King’s Evil. Andrew Taylor

in the last few months, and she navigated its perils with confidence. The small, forlorn figure of Brennan was waiting for her in the entrance court of the King’s Theatre in Brydges Street. He darted forward when he saw her. A link boy was beside him, the flame of his torch flaring and dancing in the breeze. By its light she saw that Brennan’s face was pale, and his sharp features were drawn with anxiety.

      ‘You’ve come – I wondered if you’d change your mind.’

      ‘Of course I’ve come,’ Cat said. ‘Were you successful?’

      ‘Yes. It’s all arranged. Have you got the money? If not, I can lend it—’

      ‘I’ve got the money.’

      ‘We’d better walk there.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you mind? Would you like to take my arm?’

      ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Can we manage without a link boy to light us?’

      He nodded. ‘I know the way well enough.’

      At first they had little need of a link, for their way took them up Bow Street and into Long Acre, which were almost as busy as Covent Garden itself. Up by St Giles’s Fields, though, it was a different story, with long, unlit stretches; it was muddy underfoot and there was the constant danger of stumbling into the gutter. But Brennan was as good as his word and guided her safely, though she grew increasingly irritated by his habit of enquiring regularly how she was managing or whether he was going too fast for her.

      ‘I do very well, thank you,’ she snapped at last. ‘I’m not made of glass. But I’d rather save my breath for walking.’

      ‘Would you like me to come with you tomorrow? It’s Sunday – I’m not needed at the Drawing Office. I could walk back afterwards, when I know you’re safely there.’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s best I go alone. And what if Mr Hakesby finds me gone? He will send for you at once. You must be there to reassure him. Tell him you don’t know where I am but I’d said I was seeing a friend.’

      The inn was a small, low building near the church of St Giles-in-the-Fields. They went through the central passageway to the yard, where there was a long range of stables.

      ‘Uncle Mangot doesn’t trust them,’ Brennan said in a whisper. ‘It’s not his horse, you see. It’s hired from a neighbour and he can’t afford to have it stolen. Anyway, it’s cheaper to sleep in the yard, and just as safe as inside after the gates are barred.’

      They found Brennan’s uncle at the end. The horse was in its stall and the old man was in front of it, sitting in a small covered cart in the yard outside. It was difficult to see him clearly. A rushlight in an earthenware pot hung beside the cart, but his face was little more than a blur against the surrounding darkness.

      Brennan hung back, touching Cat’s arm. ‘I almost forgot: if my uncle asks about me, it’s best not to mention that we’ve been working at Clarendon House.’

      ‘Why?’ Cat whispered.

      There was a rustling of straw, and a man’s voice quavered, ‘Who’s that?’

      ‘Uncle Mangot,’ Brennan said. ‘It’s me. I’ve brought her.’

      The man in the cart leaned towards them. ‘You’re late. Is this the girl? You’ll have to sleep here tonight, with me. We leave when it’s light.’

      ‘Very well,’ Cat said.

      ‘She’s my friend, Uncle,’ Brennan said. ‘You’ll treat her well, won’t you? You’ll let her sleep in the house? She can pay for everything.’

      ‘If you wish.’ The old voice sounded papery and uncertain, as if its owner rarely used it. ‘But there’s nothing to buy. She can work for her keep, eh? A long time since I had a servant.’

      ‘No one must know she’s with you,’ Brennan said. ‘Promise to keep her safe.’

      Mangot spat over the side of the cart. ‘I won’t blab if she don’t and you don’t.’ There was a wordless sound in the darkness which might have been laughter. ‘She’ll be safe enough, Nephew. We don’t get many visitors. The refugees frighten away the ungodly.’

      Cat came forward into the glow of the rushlight. ‘Five shillings,’ she said. ‘For one week. That’s what your nephew told me.’

      ‘And a room on her own,’ Brennan put in.

      Mangot sniffed. ‘You didn’t mention that before. Seven shillings.’

      Brennan tried to argue but the old man was obdurate. Cat put an end to it by taking out her purse and finding the money.

      ‘One more thing,’ Mangot said to her as he counted the coins in the palm of his hand. ‘You’ll have to share the cart on the way back.’

      ‘Who with?’ Cat said.

      ‘His name’s Israel Halmore. He used to be a glover. Before the Fire, he had a shop on Cheapside, and now he’s got nothing.’

      Mangot’s Farm was a few miles outside London in the direction of St Albans. It was on the outskirts of a village called Woor Green.

      True to his word, Mangot set out from the tavern at dawn. Cat had spent a chilly night, huddled in her cloak and half-buried beside a pile of sacks containing flour. She had shivered almost continuously, though that had not been solely because of the cold. Israel Halmore had arrived at some point in the early hours, waking her from a light sleep. He had been a long way from sober and he had fallen asleep almost at once.

      As well as the flour, the cart was laden with rolls of canvas that smelled strongly of fish, and with bags of nails. Mangot was equipped with a pass signed by a magistrate, which permitted them to travel on a Sunday. The streets were quieter than usual and they made good time through the outskirts of London. Halmore woke up and insisted on their stopping so he could relieve himself against a tree. Afterwards, he sat up with Mangot and took the reins from the old man. In the daylight, he was revealed as a gaunt giant of a man, with strongly marked features and a shock of grey curls. His fingers were twisted and swollen with arthritis, which must have made it impossible for him to carry on his trade.

      In the back of the cart, Cat pretended to doze while the two men talked together in low voices. Her mind was full of her own thoughts, which were bleak. Unless there were a miracle, she could not see how she could safely return to her old life in Henrietta Street. Once the hue and cry had died down, perhaps her best course would be to flee abroad, to Holland, perhaps, or even to America, where many of her father’s friends had found refuge.

      She was distracted by Halmore saying, more loudly than before, ‘Well, I wasn’t going to say no, was I? Not when the Bishop was buying ale for anything on two legs.’ Mangot started to speak, but Halmore overrode him: ‘Clarendon’s a greedy rogue, master, and he’s in league with the Papists.’

      ‘May God damn him,’ Mangot said.

      ‘Aye. The Bishop’s doing God’s work in his way.’

      ‘But it was dangerous,’ Mangot said. ‘Notwithstanding the cause is just. You could have been arrested.’

      ‘No. Not me. When I was there, we were just standing outside Clarendon House and shouting and booing. I threw a few stones, but only when the light was going and no one could see who it was.’

      ‘Who’s this Bishop then?’ Mangot asked. ‘What’s his real name?’

      ‘I don’t know. But he carries a deep purse and he’s open-handed. That’s what matters.’ Halmore had a low, resonant voice that carried easily, even when he spoke quietly; a preacher’s voice. ‘We all had half a crown apiece, as well as the ale. Know what they’re saying? He’s the Duke of Buckingham’s man. That’s where the money comes from, and that’s why the Bishop said we don’t have to worry about being arrested. The Duke will see us right. He’s always been a friend of the people and a good hater of Papists. As for Clarendon,