Blood's Revolution

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Two

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Historical note

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  28 June 1685: The English Channel

  The Frenchman who called himself Narrey stood in the waist of the Saint-Denis, his leather-gloved hands clutching the frigate’s gunwale, and looked out at the black, greasy swell of the Channel. Somewhere in the mist-shrouded darkness, somewhere ahead, were the famous white cliffs of his destination.

  He wore a heavy black woollen cloak with a turned-up collar against the spitting rain, and a wide-brimmed black felt hat pulled low over his eyes, so that his lean body was rendered shapeless and his face almost completely hidden. He was tired, deep down into his marrow: the interrogation had been long and the prisoner recalcitrant but, after many hours of labour, almost the whole sea journey from Calais, the fellow had finally confessed. They all did in the end. Even the most stubborn. In the master’s cabin underneath the quarterdeck, which had been put at his disposal for the crossing, the broken clerk was now being put to a last few follow-up questions by Guillaume, his loyal lieutenant, bodyguard and most efficient factotum.

  Narrey, made a little queasy by the suffering he had ordered to be inflicted, had left the cabin to take a breath of sea air before the last act. This barbarousness was necessary, he told himself, for the security of the mission. Nothing else mattered. The mission was everything. One life was nothing against what they hoped to achieve.

  The clerk, Jean Petit, had been caught red-handed by Guillaume going through his master’s always-locked portable writing desk, riffling through his secret correspondence, just as the ship was weighing anchor in Calais harbour. Petit had pleaded that he was merely searching for a spare stick of sealing wax for a private letter but Narrey had looked deep into his eyes and seen the lies and the terror there.

  Petit had stuck to his story for two whole hours, while Guillaume piled the instruments. The clerk had wept and pleaded, screamed too, until the gag had been fitted. There was no need to disturb the sailors of the Saint-Denis unduly. Indeed, Narrey had struggled to mask his own revulsion at the age-old intercourse between a prisoner and his torturer. He had told himself that this was a test from God. A test he had passed, and for which the Almighty had amply rewarded him. For in the end, of course, Jean Petit, the faithless servant, the forsworn spy, had told them everything.

  The clerk had been approached a month ago by a fellow called Jupon, an English merchant living in Paris with a reputation for unscrupulous dealing. Petit had been promised gold and a comfortable retirement in England if he would play Judas and report on Narrey’s every move to Jupon. His ultimate paymaster was the Earl of Danby – a disgraced English minister, once known as Sir Thomas Osborne – who had soared in the English court under the second, the restored King Charles – now four months in his grave. The new English king, James, was Charles’s younger brother.

  James Stuart was a very different man to his brother. He had revealed himself to be a true Christian, even before coming to the throne, acknowledging the one Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, and pledging his allegiance to the Holy Father in Rome. He diligently sought more tolerance for his Catholic countrymen, who were now fewer than a tenth of the whole population and dwindling every year, but many Protestant noblemen such as Lord Danby plotted to thwart the King’s will and expel the last remaining faithful from their heretic nation, to extirpate Catholicism entirely.

  The traitorous clerk had comprehended nothing of Narrey’s mission – praise be to God. The mission was not betrayed, Narrey was certain of that. Even in extremis, Petit had denied that he knew anything of the true reason for their night-time voyage to England. That had been what he was trying to find out for his English paymasters when Guillaume had discovered him with his hands deep in Narrey’s private papers.

  Jean Petit must die, of course – and not just as a punishment for his disloyalty. Much more importantly, Narrey could not allow anyone to learn of this embarrassing penetration of his defences. His position in Versailles was already dangerously weak.

  Narrey looked down at his gloved hands on the gunwale and saw spots of gleaming blood in the moonlight. Disgusted, he reached inside his cloak and pulled out a handkerchief, wiped the gore from the black leather and looked for a moment at the red streaks on the delicate lace. The blood of a sacrifice, he told himself, as he opened his fingers and let the breeze whisk the fine cloth away and into the darkness.

  We must all be prepared to make sacrifices. Just as Our Lord Jesus Christ did. Jean Petit must make his sacrifice too. And soon. They would be in Dover within the hour. There was no room for weakness in his mind, nor mercy. This is God’s holy work, he told himself. He shivered a little, not just from the cold wind coming off the dark sea, not just from the grubby death he must accomplish this night; but from the knowledge of the sheer magnitude of the task on which he was now embarked.

  The Sun King had briefed him, practically alone, in the vast, exquisite ornamental gardens of Versailles. Louis XIV and Narrey had spoken for nearly an hour, sitting on an iron bench almost like two old friends. And when the King had put the commission papers into his hands, their fingers had briefly touched. This was a sacred task, the King had said. Narrey wholeheartedly agreed with him. And with the sacred task and the blessing of royal touch had come a warning. The plan must succeed, Louis le Grand had said, looking into his eyes. Furthermore, it must remain a deadly secret, buried for ever. Narrey swore on his soul that he would ensure that it could never be revealed. The Bourbon monarch had repeated this simple message several times in several different ways. An embarrassing failure, the Sun King had stressed, the exposure of this grand design to the public eye would be catastrophic.

  Louis le Grand did not have to say that it would mean the end of Narrey’s career, and also quite possibly his life, if this enterprise were to be discovered, but that was very clearly implied. Narrey knew that his many rivals in the deadly milieu of French intelligence were circling like crows on a battlefield, envious of Narrey’s position in the King’s favour; he also knew that, after the embarrassing debacle of the Holcroft Blood affair – another God-cursed spy – he could not afford another error.

  From behind him, the Frenchman heard the sound of the brass bell on the quarterdeck ring out mournfu
lly, telling the naval hour. It would be two of the clock on land. He’d absented himself from the cabin long enough. Jean Petit had had ample time to reveal the last of what he knew. It was time to silence him. He must put away his compassion and summon the strength to do what must be done. He shoved himself off the gunwale, sighed heavily and made his way back to the master cabin.

  *

  Narrey pushed up his hat brim and looked over at the prisoner, who was still lashed to his wooden sea-chair in the corner of the small cabin. Jean Petit’s face was so swollen that it was difficult to see if his eyes were open or not, but Narrey thought he saw a gleam of life. His mouth was gagged with a thick wad of lambs’ wool tied in place with a strip of rag. His bare chest was covered with a hatching of deep lacerations, scorch marks, and areas of oozing lymph where wide patches of skin had been removed. Both nipples had been excised, leaving twin gore-crusted pits. The man’s hands, dangling from forearms strapped to the chair rests, were huge balls, the gross sausage-like digits purply red, the skin stretched almost shiny where the bones inside had been expertly shattered.

  Guillaume, a brawny, balding man, was carefully cleaning his instruments with an oiled rag. The tools were laid out on a cloth-covered table by the bulkhead.

  ‘Is there anything more?’ said Narrey, riding another wave of nausea as he observed the clerk, and his lieutenant looked up from his work and shook his head.

  ‘No, Monsieur le Comte, and I am perfectly sure this wretch knows nothing of the true nature of our mission. I have garnered a few more minor details of their craft. Codes, in lemon juice, written between the lines of love letters and left behind broken masonry in several churches. He and Jupon also used identical copies of Molière’s play Tartuffe for their cyphers. Chalk mark signals, too. White: all clear. Red: danger. Nothing very new or interesting – I’ll write it all up in my report. But, Monsieur, I do suggest it is high time that we settled our accounts in full with this Jupon creature.’

  Narrey nodded. ‘I will attend to it directly when I return to France.’ But he was not thinking about Jupon, he was thinking of Lord Danby, the clerk’s paymaster. And, on the edge of his mind, Holcroft Blood. Had that elusive English spy also been one of Lord Danby’s hired men like this doomed little wretch before him?

  ‘How much does our friend weigh, do you think?’ he said.

  Guillaume looked up. It was not a question he had anticipated.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know, monsieur. Two hundred livres, perhaps.’

  Narrey looked closely at the prisoner; it was difficult to tell with him sitting down but he suspected that the bruised and bloodied fellow was a little lighter.

  ‘Ask him.’

  Guillaume selected a pair of heavy pliers from the table in front of him, turned to the prisoner and rapped the iron instrument once sharply on Petit’s grossly swollen right hand. The prisoner jerked and gave a muffled scream behind his gag.

  ‘No more noise now, Jean,’ he said, roughly pulling away the lamb’s wool gag. ‘Just tell the Monsieur how much you weigh, as near as you can estimate.’

  Jean Petit was whimpering, weeping, writhing in his bonds, eyes jerking from side to side in their fleshy slits.

  ‘Tell him,’ said the torturer. He raised the iron pliers once more.

  ‘I don’t know, monsieur, truly I do not know. A hundred and eighty livres, perhaps a little less. I beg you, highness, mercy, have mercy on me, I shall never betray you again. I cannot say what made me do it. I was weak. It was wrong, so wrong, but I swear by all the saints that I will serve you well from now on . . .’

  Narrey closed his ears, hardened his heart. He walked over to the side table where a jug of wine was laid out with several fine crystal glasses. He reached inside his cloak and brought out a leather wallet. Opening it, he selected a small paper packet from inside. With his back to the prisoner, he emptied a quantity of grey powder into a delicate, long-stemmed glass then filled the vessel with deep red wine. At only one hundred and eighty livres, he judged, three quarters of the dose would be more appropriate. He stirred the wine with his gloved finger, wiped it dry on his cloak and brought the glass up to his nose. He could smell nothing. The crone he had visited in the Paris suburb, in the faubourg Saint-Germain, had sworn by her ‘inheritance powder’: it was undetectable in food or wine, she said, and very swift acting. It also had the advantage of giving death the appearance of nothing more sinister than an attack of apoplexy. The victim, she said, died with a minimal amount of paroxysm.

  He walked over to Jean Petit and held the glass to his puffed out lips. ‘You will be of service to me if you drink this wine,’ he said gently.

  Petit twisted his head away from the proffered wine. ‘Monsieur, I beg you, let me atone for my sins, I swear I shall be the perfect servant . . .’

  ‘Drink it, Jean,’ said Narrey, smiling down at his clerk, and pressing the glass to his bruised mouth. ‘It will swiftly end your sufferings. Think of it as a mercy.’

  Jean Petit looked up at his master’s face. There was no forgiveness in his black soul, there never had been. Indeed this mercy – if it was such – was unexpected.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I can still be of service to you, I could go to Lord Danby and tell him whatever you wanted . . .’

  ‘I could never trust you again,’ said Narrey. ‘Never. Drink it, Jean,’ he pushed the glass forward again, ‘and you shall indeed be of some small use to me. It will be very quick, I swear it. And I will have a Mass said for your soul. The alternative, which I’m certain neither of us would prefer, is to make your death a long, slow one.’

  Jean Petit opened his lips and drank the poisoned wine, gulping fast as if he were thirsty, swallowing hard, red trickles spilling down over his chin in his haste.

  Narrey looked at the empty glass. There was no residue. Perhaps the old witch had spoken the truth. He pulled out a heavy round watch from his waistcoat pocket, flicking open the gold cover to note the time. It was seven minutes past two.

  He dropped the poisoned glass and crushed it under his boot. Then he returned to the table and poured himself a large portion of the red in a fresh goblet. He sipped wine, wanting to gulp, wanting the alcohol to wash away his guilt – but knowing it would not. He must bear it, for the cause, for the mission, as he bore the weight of so many other terrible crimes. It was his lot. This was his personal sacrifice. Just as Jean Petit’s sacrifice was to suffer torture and death. He could feel the exhaustion pressing down on his shoulders, an almost physical weight about his neck. In London, in a few hours, he could sleep a little. If his conscience would allow him to rest.

  ‘Monsieur le Comte,’ said an urgent voice behind him. He turned to look at Guillaume and saw that his lieutenant was pointing at Jean Petit.

  ‘Mary, Mother of God, that is indeed surpassingly quick,’ said Narrey.

  Jean Petit was squirming in his chair, jerking against his ropes. His face had a grey pallor behind the bruises, he was coughing weakly, spitting out a bloody soup of phlegm and wine over his chest. Guillaume hurriedly crossed himself.

  Petit was moaning now, a low clogged sound, his face screwed up in pain; his neck was rolling on his shoulders, he hiccupped madly, spat out another gobbet of spew, and then his bowels emptied in a horrible fluttering sound. A noxious stench quickly filled the cabin. The clerk gave one last violent heave against his bonds, then sagged. His body loose as an abandoned child’s doll, his spirit gone.

  ‘Less than two minutes,’ said Narrey, looking at the timepiece in his hand. ‘It’s almost unbelievable. That faubourg Saint-Germain crone truly is a sorceress.’

  Part One

  Chapter One

  5 July 1685: Somerset

  A cone of orange flame, speckled with black fragments of burning wad, erupted from the cannon’s muzzle. The gun’s report crashed over the tranquil landscape of the Somerset Levels and startled a flock of roosting starlings from a hawthorn beside the road from Taunton to Bridgwater. The sound seem
ed different when the Falcon was fired without its three-pound ball, or so thought the tall English officer who stood beside the smoking gun. It was a higher, more childish tone, far less ferocious.

  Lieutenant Holcroft Blood, a big, broad-shouldered fellow of about thirty years in the blue coat with yellow turn-backs of the Ordnance, squinted against the dying sun, following an imaginary flight path of the absent ball. In his right hand he gripped a linstock, a long wooden pole that held a burning length of match cord at the end, which he had used to fire the cannon. The iron round shot would have struck the base of a clump of alder bushes, he reckoned, about three hundred yards away in the middle of a sheep-cropped field, striking the ground there and bouncing on at about the height of an enemy’s chest, maybe a little lower. He might be wrong, of course, but he doubted it. He was gifted in this small way, being able to accurately predict the fall of shot – real and imaginary – within a margin of error of only a handful of yards.

  However, there had been no shot in the Falcon and no enemy in sight. The rebel forces – some six thousand men under James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, the late King Charles’s eldest illegitimate son – were snug inside the newly dug earthworks of the market town of Bridgwater three miles away across the marshy fields of Sedgemoor. Tomorrow, perhaps, the heavy guns of the Royal Train of Artillery would be hauled by their horse teams to within half a mile of the earthwork fortifications of Bridgwater and fired in earnest, pounding the rebels into submission. But that was tomorrow. On this warm evening in early July, Holcroft Blood turned to the small, wiry, sharp-faced redcoat hovering beside him and, handing him the linstock with the burning match cord, said: ‘Sergeant Miller, you may set the watch for the Train.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Miller briskly, and bustled away trailing a thread of smoke from the match and barking commands to the soldiers leaning against cannon barrels, sitting on boxes of equipment or barrels of powder, or just lounging idly on the grass.

  Holcroft put a hand on the Falcon’s bronze barrel. It was pleasantly warm. He noticed a smudge of dust on the gleaming metal, twitched out a snowy kerchief from his coat sleeve, and wiped it away – giving the barrel a few extra swipes of the lace-edged linen cloth for the peace and satisfaction of his own tidy mind.