then, alas, Master Robert Wood will pay the price for his folly on the headsman’s block on Tower Hill.”
“And if I accept, but fail, what then?” asked Catherine.
“Why then, you all fail. Master Tom Trenchard, Mistress Catherine Wood and Master Robert Wood. Such may—or may not be—God’s will. Only He proposes and disposes.”
“Although Sir Thomas Gower makes a good fist of imitating Him,” drawled Tom Trenchard. “Particularly since it will not be his head on the plate handed to King Herod, whatever happens.”
So there it was. The price of Rob’s freedom was that she undertake a dangerous enterprise—and succeed in it.
“I have agreed with Master Betterton—” Catherine began, but Sir Thomas did not allow her to finish.
“Nay, mistress. I understand that Master Wagstaffe’s masterpiece has its last showing tonight—at which you will, of course, be present to play Belinda.
“Moreover, Master Betterton would not, if asked by those who have the power to do so, refuse to release you for as long as is necessary. Particularly on the understanding that, when you return, you shall be the heroine of Master Wagstaffe’s proposed new play—The Braggart Returns, or, Lackwit Married. I look forward to seeing it.”
This time the look Sir Thomas gave her was that of a fellow conspirator in a plot that had nothing to do with his bully, Trenchard, or with William Grahame in the Netherlands. Unwillingly, Catherine nodded.
“To save Rob, I will agree to your demands.” She had been left with no choice, for Sir Thomas had not one hold over her but two. The greater, of course, was his use of Rob to blackmail her. The lesser was his knowledge of who Will Wagstaffe really was.
And it was also most likely sadly true that the only reason why the authorities—or rather Sir Thomas Gower—had ordered poor Rob to be arrested was to compel her to be their agent and their interpreter.
“That is most wise of you, Mistress Wood. Your loyalty to King Charles II does you great credit.”
To which Catherine made no answer, for she could not say, Be damned to King Charles II, I do but agree to save Rob’s neck. Tom Trenchard saw her mutinous expression and read it correctly.
“What, silent, mistress?” he drawled. “No grand pronouncements of your devotion to your King?”
“Quiet—but for the moment. And I have nothing to say to you. Tell me, Sir Thomas, in what capacity will I accompany Master Trenchard here?”
“Why, as his wife, who fortunately speaks Dutch—and French. You are an actress, mistress. Playing the wife should present you with no difficulties.”
“Playing the husband will offer me none,” interjected Tom meaningfully.
“And that is what I fear,” returned Catherine robustly. “I will not play the whore in order to play the wife. You understand me, sir, I am sure.”
“I concede that you have a ready tongue and have made a witty answer,” drawled Tom. “And I can only reply alas, yes, I understand you! Which may not be witty, but has the merit of being truthful.”
“Come now,” ordered Sir Thomas, “you are to be comrades, as well as loving husband and wife. Moreover, once in the Low Countries you are both to be noisily agreed in supporting the Republicans who wish to replace the King with a Cromwellian successor. Master Trenchard will claim to be a member of that family which followed the late Oliver so faithfully.
“And you, being half-Dutch, will acknowledge the Grand Pensionary, John De Witt, to be your man, not King Charles’s nephew, the powerless Stadtholder.” He paused.
“As a dutiful wife,” remarked Catherine demurely, “I shall be only too happy to echo the opinions of my husband.”
Tom Trenchard’s chuckle was a rich one. “Well said, mistress. I shall remind of you that—frequently.”
Sir Thomas smiled benevolently on the pair of them. “I shall inform you both of the details of your journey. You will travel by packet boat to Ostend and from thence to Antwerp in Flanders where you may hope to find Grahame—if he has not already made for Amsterdam, where I gather he has a reliable informer.
“You will, of course, follow him to Amsterdam, if necessary. You will send your despatches—in code—to my agent here, James Halsall, the King’s Cupbearer. He will pass them on to me.
“You will pose as merchants buying goods who are sympathetic towards those unregenerate Republicans who still hold fast against our gracious King. To bend William Grahame to our will is your main aim—because like all such creatures he plays a double game. Why, last year he sold all the Stadtholder’s agents in England to us, and now word hath it that the Stadtholder hath rewarded him with a pension—doubtless for selling our agents to him.
“Natheless, he is too valuable for us to carp at his dubious morals, and if gold and a pardon for his past sins brings him home to us with all his information—then so be it, whether there be blood on his hands, or no.”
Sir Thomas was, for once, Catherine guessed, dropping his pretence of being a benevolent uncle, and doing so deliberately in order to impress on her the serious nature of her mission. She heard Tom Trenchard clapping his hands and laughing at Sir Thomas’s unwonted cynicism.
She turned to stare at him. He was now slouched down in his chair, his feral eyes alight, one large hand slapping his coarse brown breeches above his spotless boots. The thought of spending much time in the Netherlands alone with him was enough to eat away at her normal self-control.
“It seems that only a trifle is needed to amuse you, Master Trenchard. I hope that you take heed of what I told you. I go to Holland as your supposed wife, not as your true whore. Remember that!”
“So long as you do, mistress, so long as you do.”
The insolent swine was leering at her. He might not, by his dress, be one of King Charles’s courtiers, but he certainly shared their morals. It did not help that Sir Thomas’s smile remained pasted to his face as he informed her that she was to pack her bag immediately, and be ready to leave as soon as Tom Trenchard called on her.
“Which will not be until after your last performance tonight. And then you will do as Tom bids you—so far as this mission is concerned, that is.”
Catherine ignored the possible double entendre in Sir Thomas’s last statement. Instead, looking steadily at him, she made one last statement of her own.
“I may depend upon thee, Sir Thomas, that should I succeed, then my brother’s safety is assured.”
“My word upon it, mistress. And I have never broke it yet.”
“Bent it a little, perhaps,” added Tom Trenchard, disobligingly, viciously dotting Sir Thomas’s i’s for him, as appeared to be his habit.
Catherine, after giving him one scathing look, ignored him. She thought again that he was quite the most ill-favoured man she had ever seen, with his high forehead, strong nose, grim mouth and determined jaw. Only the piercing blue of his eyes redeemed him.
She addressed Sir Thomas.
