can only thank you, Wrestler,’ she said. ‘Though it’s not enough – not by a mile.’ She looked up at Crabb, as a thought struck her. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming too …’ Then she recalled his words, on her first day in the prison. ‘But if you serve the same masters as me—’
‘Not now, sweet Sister.’
Crabb bent close to her, gripping her arm. He was smiling, but his eyes flew to the boatman who, head down under his hat, was heaving at the oars. ‘We’ll talk when we get home,’ the young man went on. ‘You’re weary, and our father’s waiting.’
Weak though she was, Betsy understood; and suddenly a weight came down upon her – one she had thought she was free of. ‘As you wish, Brother,’ she answered. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to lean against his solid bulk, as unyielding as a tree-trunk. Then, as so often in recent days, she chided herself silently for her carelessness.
She wasn’t Betsy Brand, not yet: she was an agent of the Crown, if only a temporary one. Secrecy was her watchword and, as in the prison, she could not let her guard slip.
Trust no one
… now Venn’s words filled her with foreboding.
But later, when they reached Tower Wharf and climbed up to the quay, she began to feel better. In fact, by the time she was accompanying Peter Crabb through the London streets, withchimney smoke swirling and people already astir, her spirits had risen considerably. Leaving the riverside, they walked by Tower Street to Mark Lane, then turned into Crutched Friars. From there they passed through the warren of alleys that gave on to Fenchurch Street, before rounding the corner into Leadenhall. There at last, outside a very ordinary looking house, Crabb halted and turned to her.
‘We’re here,’ he said. And only then, standing in the early morning light, did he observe Betsy properly for the first time. ‘There’s blood at your mouth,’ he added.
‘It’s no matter.’ She glanced at the house, which was shuttered . ‘Where have you brought me?’
Instead of answering, Crabb rapped on the door. He rapped twice, waited, repeated the pattern, then knocked four times. ‘It’s just a house we use,’ he said at last. ‘They’ll have clothes for you, and water for washing. After you’ve supped and rested you’ll be ready to talk.’
‘Talk to who?’ Betsy asked absently – then gave a start as the door opened. A young maidservant in a plain apron and cap stood there, bobbing nervously.
‘Welcome, sir and madam,’ she said. ‘Your rooms are ready.’ With a polite smile she drew back, allowing them to enter. Betsy found herself in a flagged hallway with a staircase. Dog-tired, and only too aware of how she looked as well as smelled, she faced Crabb.
‘Did you speak of clothes, and water for washing?’
‘I did.’ All at once, the young man smiled: not the warning smile he had used on the boat, but a real smile. He even allowed himself a sigh of relief: that of a man who has faced a daunting task, and seen it through. Turning to the servant, he opened his mouth – then gave a start.
Fortunately he possessed quick reactions; or so Betsy would think later. For the present all she did was stagger and fall, while her surroundings swam dizzily about her. But before she could hit the floor she was caught, by the same pair of strongarms that had brought her from the King’s Bench prison to safety.
And after that she was dimly aware of being carried, before blackness settled over her, and a blissful oblivion.
Chapter Five
B ETSY SLEPT HEAVILY , finally waking with a jolt. She looked about … then remembering that she was no longer in the prison cell, sank back upon the pillow and gave herself up to overwhelming relief. But a moment later she tensed: something was odd. She felt her body, and found she was wearing only a linen shift. Uneasily, she sat up.
She was in a small room with drawn curtains, through which a streak of daylight showed. The only