Treason Read online

  “Stop her!” Lovett screamed at him. “She hath gone mad!”

  But Huntingdon was chuckling. “Inspired idea, Beth! Fighting all the way through the audience – they will love it! Defend thyself, Alexander,” he cried, “for the honour of all men!”

  Beth heard cheers from the actors left on stage as, in a blur of flashing blades, she pressed Lovett ever further up the aisle. The pair lurking at the back of the theatre were still too engrossed in their conversation to notice what was happening for now, but that wouldn’t last much longer. She had to press home her advantage quickly. Beth swished and lunged with ever more ferocity, until Lovett dropped his sword in panic and shuffled backwards as fast as he could, his eyes mesmerised by her flashing blade.

  “Ow!” cried Lovett, as Beth prodded him in the chest. “Mercy! I beg of you!”

  The two conspirators finally spun round, noticing the commotion, and Beth saw from the feathers on his hat that one of them was Baldwin. She didn’t recognize the other man, who was holding the script with the red ribbon and looking horrified to see all eyes now upon him.

  “Who is this man?” Beth cried, brandishing her sword at him.

  “Why, ’tis Gilbert Sykes from the Duke of York’s theatre,” replied Huntingdon incredulously. “What’s he doing here?”

  “What indeed?” called Beth as Sykes hastily plonked the script into Baldwin’s hands and ran for it.

  Ignoring him, Beth bounded over two seats towards Baldwin, thrusting her sword through the script’s ribbon and raising it aloft for all to see.

  “A TRAITOR UNMASKED!” she yelled triumphantly as everyone gathered around. “Mister Baldwin was passing the script of Love’s Desire Spurn’d to a Duke of York’s man!”

  Baldwin tried to snatch it but Beth lifted it higher, out of his desperately grasping reach.

  “You, Baldwin?” gasped Huntingdon.

  “Why not?” Baldwin snarled. His usual insincere gaiety had vanished, replaced by a dark, murderous glower. “Milligrew at the Duke of York’s pays me more for one little piece of information than you pay me for a whole month’s sweat and slavery in that costume room.”

  “I didn’t know we were doing Love’s Desire Spurn’d next,” queried Robert from the stage.

  Huntingdon scratched his head. “Come to think of it, neither did I...”

  Beth lowered the script and let it fall back into Baldwin’s hands. “Did I say it was Love’s Desire Spurn’d? Oh dear, my mistake. It appears to be my old copy of All’s Not Lost, the play we performed last month!”

  “You tricked me!” Spluttering with rage, Baldwin threw the script at Beth. “You’ll pay for this, Beth Johnson, I’ll make sure of it!” Then he turned on his heel and stormed off, the feathers on his hat quivering wildly.

  “And don’t come back!” shouted Huntingdon, to cheers from the cast.

  Out of the corner of her eye Beth noticed Lovett quickly pick his sword up and brush himself down when he thought no one was looking.

  “We assuredly did a splendid job together there, Beth!” he declared. “The traitor exposed. His Majesty will be most pleased...”

  There were a few giggles in the background, but Beth kept a straight face. “Quite so, Mister Lovett. You have worn me out with your swordplay. I now feel in need of some rest and refreshment, if Mister Huntingdon will allow it.”

  The theatre manager strode over and patted Beth on the back. “You have earned that and more, Beth. In fact, that’s enough rehearsing for today. See you all later for the performance!”

  “What have I missed?” Matthew called as he appeared from backstage dragging a prop horse behind him.

  “Nothing much,” Beth replied with a grin. She walked over to him and lowered her voice. “Could I have my script back please?”

  Matthew reached into his pocket and produced the blue-ribboned script. “I was meaning to talk to you about that, Mistress Beth,” he said. “See, the thing is, I don’t think we’re doing Love’s Desire Spurn’d next. I’m pretty sure it is—”

  “Sorry, Matthew – my mistake,” Beth interrupted with a smile, taking the script from his hand. “But thank you anyway.” And with that she bounded off, leaving a puzzled-looking Matthew scratching his head.

  * * *

  As she made her way along the darkened passageway to the stage door, Beth’s head buzzed with excitement. Surely after word got back about her doing so well on that task, she would finally be given a spy mission outside of the theatre? Something a little more daring and adventurous. Something in which she could use her sword-fighting skills would be good; she had really enjoyed her skirmish with Lovett. When she had first taken the job as a spy she had been even more nervous than when she made her stage debut, but with every success she had grown in confidence. Even Baldwin’s threat hadn’t frightened her. He was just a costume-maker, after all. What was he going to do, embroider her to death? She grinned to herself and sighed. Perhaps she would be given a job that actually brought her into contact with the King this time. That was why she had agreed to this double life after all – to help protect her King and country. Maybe she could be called to expose a Dutch spy, or...

  As Beth opened the heavy stage door to leave the darkness of the theatre, a shaft of dazzling sunshine made her screw up her eyes, so bright that she was temporarily blinded ... She didn’t stand a chance against the figure charging down the alleyway towards her.

  “NO!” she managed to scream, before the body slammed right into her.

  Chapter Two - The Call of the Bells

  “Let go!” Beth cried as she wrestled against her assailant on the dusty ground, trying desperately to free herself. Her attacker might not have been all that big, but what he lacked in size he certainly made up for in strength and determination, clinging to Beth like a leech.

  Finally managing to wrench one arm free, Beth shielded her dazzled eyes and gasped in surprise. It wasn’t a “he”. It wasn’t even an attacker.

  “Maisie White! What on earth are you doing?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mistress Beth, but I just had to hug you when I saw you were still alive!” the young American girl gasped, gazing at her through a frame of shiny brown ringlets. In all of the confusion, her bonnet had been knocked sideways and was now perched on her head at an angle. Maisie released Beth from her embrace and helped her to her feet.

  “Why would you be surprised to see me alive?” Beth asked, brushing the dust from her skirt. “I’ve only been rehearsing.”

  “I just met Robert Wright leaving the theatre and he said you’d been in a sword fight! With a man!” Maisie looked her up and down, as if expecting to see bloodstains on her clothes.

  “It was only acting, Maisie! Well, mostly...” Beth grinned as she smoothed out her clothing. “And anyway, just because I was fighting a man, don’t think it meant I was going to be the victim! I won hands down as a matter of fact.” Beth began dancing around Maisie, brandishing a made-up sword, poking her friend lightly as though landing jabs. Maisie giggled, and in turn began to wield an imaginary blade of her own.

  “I should have chopped his head off in one go!” Beth said with a dramatic swipe of her unseen blade. She charged up the alley swishing her imaginary sword this way and that. “I beat him back like a maid beating a rug, until he had no choice but to beg for my mercy!” She spun round and skipped back to Maisie, slinging an arm round the younger girl’s thin shoulders, panting. They both laughed. “So you see, you didn’t have anything to worry about at all.”

  “Thank heavens!” Maisie said. “It was hard enough fending for myself in Virginia after my mother died, and I don’t want to go through it all again. You’re all I have here – leastways ’til I find my father.”

  Beth hugged her closer. Maisie was just ten years old, a sparrow-like thing with a cute button nose and wide, eager eyes. She had been born in America after her English mother had been sent there on a convict ship. When her mum died last year, Maisie had stowed away on a ship bound for
London, and Beth had found her begging in Covent Garden market. She took the girl under her wing, sharing her lodgings and finding Maisie a job selling oranges at the theatre, just as she had done as a young girl.

  It was more than just sympathy that had made her do this – Maisie’s story contained echoes of her own life. Beth had been forced to fend for herself at a young age too. Brought up by an elderly lawyer and his wife, who had found her abandoned on the steps of Bow Church, the couple had given her a surname and a warm, safe place to call home. Things had been good, until each of them had died in close succession when Beth was still a young girl. She’d been left once again on her own, slipping through the cracks, and soon found herself exploited and made to work as an unpaid skivvy by disreputable sorts in the local area. Beth gritted her teeth at the memory, not wanting to dwell on it now. But running away to join the theatre had been her only means of escape from those dreadful times.

  And then had come the chance to lead a double life of intrigue and espionage – or so she hoped.

  Maisie had at least known her mother, though she too was now as good as orphaned. The girl clung to the hope that her father was still alive, though she did not know where he could be. She was desperate to find him, and had the names of some relatives who were supposed to live in London, south of the river. Beth had tried to help her to track at least one of them down, but with a common name like White it had so far proved fruitless.

  “Don’t worry, Maisie,” she said now, squeezing her friend even tighter. “We’ll get news of your father one day. We’ll just keep looking. And nothing’s going to happen to me, all right? Now, let’s get home and take some refreshment. I’m ravenous.”

  “Me as well. I’ve got us some ox tongues and venison pasties from the cook shop,” Maisie said with a grin. “I think the man who runs the shop likes me. I play up to him a bit and he gives me some extra for free!”

  But before she could reply, Beth heard a bell ringing out. She recognized it immediately as coming from nearby St Paul’s Cathedral. The question was, how many times would it ring?

  One, two, three...

  “...I know how much you like venison...” Maisie continued, oblivious.

  Four, five, six...

  “...and the ox tongues were fresh in today...”

  Beth held her breath.

  Six times the bells rang ... a pause, then one further solitary mournful chime.

  Seven. Then the bells fell silent. Seven tolls with a pause after the sixth. That was her signal – one that had to be obeyed at all costs. Beth looked urgently up the street in the direction of the cathedral.

  “What’s wrong?” Maisie asked. “You do like a venison pasty – I know you do.”

  Beth saw the enthusiasm dimming in Maisie’s eyes and instantly felt guilty. “I’m really sorry, I’ve just remembered that I won’t have time to eat. There’s something I need to do first. Save some for me, all right? Here, I’ll walk back with you, though. It’s on my way.”

  Beth took Maisie’s arm and they made their way down crowded Drury Lane. Like many of London’s streets, it was too narrow for a pavement at some points and pedestrians had to compete for space with carts, carriages and travellers on horseback. But it was a short walk – the chamber they shared was on the first floor of the Peacock and Pie tavern, at the other end of the lane.

  “Ah! Here’s me babes!” cried Big Moll, the landlady of the tavern, as soon as she clapped eyes on them. Then she sniffed the air. “And what’s that delicious smell you bring? Stopped by the cook shop, did you? Come, I have a table set up if you like...”

  As her name suggested, Big Moll was a large woman. Very large. All brawny arms and wobbly white flesh – much of which, it seemed to Beth, appeared about to spill out like rolls of raw pastry from the low-cut dresses she wore. But despite her imposing appearance and gruff ways, she was caring and good-hearted: the closest thing to a real mother Beth had now. Even if, at first, lodging at the Peacock had just been a means to put a roof over her head, Beth had soon come to regard it as a true home.

  “Hello, Moll,” said Beth. “Would you mind keeping my food warm for me? I’ll be back anon. I just have something I need to attend to.”

  “’Course I will, me dear. I’ll be preparing pies for the King’s big Bonfire Night feast on the morrow. I’ll keep yours right by the hearth.”

  Beth’s skin tingled with excitement as she thought of Bonfire Night. It was nearly sixty years since Guy Fawkes had tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament in his infamous gunpowder plot. She always enjoyed the Fifth of November, when bonfires were lit all over London to celebrate the failure of his scheme, but this year she was looking forward to it more than ever. This year, she and the rest of the King’s Theatre Company had been invited to the King’s own celebrations at the Tower of London. Not only would there be the biggest bonfire in the whole city, but there would be a feast fit for a king – literally. Moll had been asked to provide pies as there were going to be so many people coming that the Tower kitchens needed all the help they could get. But secretly Beth believed the King had asked for Moll personally – it was a well-known fact that her pies were the best in the land. She wondered if he knew about Beth’s own connection to both him and the renowned cook...

  “Thanks, Moll. I won’t be long, I promise,” she said, her stomach growling in agreement.

  “Good. ’Cos it don’t do to go running about when you should be eating,” Moll said with a wink. “Plays havoc with yer digestification.”

  Beth laughed. “I promise to keep my digestification calm ’til I get back.”

  “Can I come with you, Mistress Beth?” asked Maisie.

  “Not this time,” Beth said, avoiding Maisie’s imploring gaze. She hated keeping things from her friend. After all she had been through, Beth guessed Maisie was probably canny enough to make an excellent spy herself, despite her age, but there was no choice. Not only was she sworn to absolute secrecy when it came to her spy work, there were just some things Maisie was better off not knowing about. She was a resourceful girl, but she could often get herself into trouble. “It’s to do with a part I’m going to be playing,” Beth continued. “I need to talk to someone about it.”

  In a way this was true. Being a spy was a role she played. It was just potentially far more serious and dangerous than her usual theatre roles. Beth wrapped her cloak about her and headed outside, pulling the deep hood as far forward as it would go. Her growing popularity on the stage meant that she was being recognized more and more these days. It was nice when people praised her performances, but there were times when she preferred to pass through the streets unnoticed. After all, it was this very ability to assume any role that had led to Sir Alan Strange, her mysterious spymaster, approaching her in the first place. When he’d appeared backstage one night – seemingly out of the shadows – and told her he had been watching her and had an unusual proposition, she’d almost told him where to go!

  She smiled at the memory as she made the short walk from the Peacock and Pie to St Paul’s: down Fleet Street, along Paternoster Row and up a narrow alley that opened out into the churchyard. She passed among the stalls of the booksellers and stationers, which had grown over the years into a little market around the cathedral, and quickly slipped inside.

  It was quiet at present, which was good. One or two people at prayer were dotted about, and a group of fine-looking gentlemen strolled along the cathedral’s lengthy aisle, deep in discussion. Either side of them were rows of immense stone columns; Beth’s eyes couldn’t help but follow them upwards. They seemed to soar into the sky, up to where the last rays of November sunshine poured in rainbow colours through the stained-glass windows. No matter how many times she came here, it was a sight that never failed to make her stare in wonder. Could there be another such building like it in the world? And now it was the place where she received her assignments from Strange. It had been only a year since her recruitment, and she still felt the need to prove herself.
r />   Choosing her moment carefully so as not to be seen, she flitted among the shadows and quickly slipped through a doorway beneath the tall tower that dominated the centre of the cathedral. This door led into a little hallway that had three further doors leading off it. The one in the middle was locked and inaccessible to the general public – but not to Beth. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a large iron key and unlocked it, passing through and locking it again behind her. She felt her mouth go dry as she turned to look up at the wooden staircase that spiralled giddily above her head, then began the long haul upwards. Each time she came here she tried to count the number of steps, but always lost track long before reaching the top. Still, it helped calm her nerves. Even though she’d been doing this for a while now, each meeting with Strange still felt like those first encounters had – intimidating and unpredictable.

  By the time she had reached the platform, which ran round the bell tower like a narrow ledge at the top of a dizzyingly steep cliff, her legs and lungs felt as though they were on fire. A cold draught from the unglazed windows bit at her cheeks and passed right through her cloak, but from her lofty position she always enjoyed watching the sights below. She felt like an eagle patrolling the skies above the city, looking down through the plumes of chimney smoke upon the tiny people as they went about their lives, unaware of her gaze.

  “Hello, Beth.”

  She almost fell backwards off the ledge in shock. A tall, foreboding figure stepped out from the shadow of the huge bells.

  “Mister Strange! I came as soon as I heard the signal—”

  “Did you succeed in your mission?” he said quickly. Spymaster Alan Strange wasn’t one for small talk. He strode round the ledge towards her, his long black cloak billowing behind him in the breeze. As he drew closer, Beth couldn’t help still feeling a little intimidated. The shadows in the bell tower always accentuated his strong forehead and deep-set, penetrating grey eyes. The pockmarks, lines and battle scars of his face reminded her of craggy rocks – the kind that ships got dashed against...