Thursdays, to keep the general populace abreast of foreign and domestic affairs. Unfortunately, the government did not
like its people knowing what it was up to, lest there was another rebellion, so news tended to be selective, biased and well
larded with lies.
He began to read, learning with some bemusement that the Portuguese ambassador had enjoyed having supper with the King, and
that Mr Matthew’s Excellent Pill was very efficacious at slaying fluxes and expelling wind. Overseas intelligence was in even
shorter supply, the most significant being that nothing very exciting was happening in Venice. Finally, there was an advertisement
for a book that claimed it would teach him ‘how to walk with God all day long’.
He tossed the publication away in disgust, but at that point something began happening across the street: people were converging
on the Crown. He recognised several he had seen leaving the previous morning – the jaunty Cavalier with the red ribbons in
his boot hose; the Portuguese; the fellow with the orange beard, eye-patch and voice of a boy; and lastly, the pugilistic
man named Brinkes, who had murdered Captain Pepperell.
The Portuguese and Brinkes glanced around furtively before slipping inside, but the Cavalier and One Eye entered confidently,
indicating they did not care who saw them. They were followed by a couple wearing the kind of hats that were popular in The
Hague, and whose clothes were more sober than those currently favoured by Englishmen.
Chaloner was pleased to see the scouts arrive, too. Harley was in the lead, walking with a confident swagger, while Newell
slouched behind. Reyner was last, his shoulders hunched and a hood shadowing his face. They had emerged from a house several
doors up, leading Chaloner to surmise that one of them – or possibly all three – lived there.
The remainder of the gathering was a curious mix of well-dressed people and ruffians, and once they were all inside, the door
was firmly closed. Chaloner glanced upwards and saw the pale face of the woman he had seen the previous morning. His warning
wave had evidently gone unheeded, because she was watching the arrivals with undisguised interest.
He waited a moment, then left the Gaming House, determined to find out what was going on.
* * *
Like many tenements, the Crown fulfilled a variety of functions. Its lower chamber served as a tavern, while the upper floors
were rented to lodgers – Sergeant Wright had mentioned earlier that Pratt had rooms there, presumably because it was close
to Clarendon House. In addition, the yard was leased to a coach-maker, while the stable had been converted into a pottery.
The tavern comprised a large, airy chamber crammed with tables and benches. It boasted a massive fireplace, although only
embers glowed in it that morning. The ruffians were sitting around it, talking in low voices. Brinkes was with them, but he
stood when Chaloner entered, his manner unfriendly. There was no sign of the well-dressed people.
‘We are closed,’ said the landlord, who had hurried from the back of the house when he had heard the door open. He wore a
clean white apron and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal arms that were red from the cold – he had been washing his tankards.
He was middle-aged, with thick grey hair and eyes like an inquisitive chicken.
‘You are not,’ countered Chaloner, nodding towards the men around the hearth.
‘Private party.’ The landlord shot them a nervous look. ‘Try the Feathers, down the road.’
‘I have a bad leg,’ said Chaloner, truthfully enough. It had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby,
and had not been right since. ‘I cannot walk any farther.’
The man regarded him sympathetically. ‘Gout, is it? I suffer from that myself, and I would not wish it on my worst enemy.
Come to my parlour at the back, then, and sit with me while I rinse my pots. My name is John
like its people knowing what it was up to, lest there was another rebellion, so news tended to be selective, biased and well
larded with lies.
He began to read, learning with some bemusement that the Portuguese ambassador had enjoyed having supper with the King, and
that Mr Matthew’s Excellent Pill was very efficacious at slaying fluxes and expelling wind. Overseas intelligence was in even
shorter supply, the most significant being that nothing very exciting was happening in Venice. Finally, there was an advertisement
for a book that claimed it would teach him ‘how to walk with God all day long’.
He tossed the publication away in disgust, but at that point something began happening across the street: people were converging
on the Crown. He recognised several he had seen leaving the previous morning – the jaunty Cavalier with the red ribbons in
his boot hose; the Portuguese; the fellow with the orange beard, eye-patch and voice of a boy; and lastly, the pugilistic
man named Brinkes, who had murdered Captain Pepperell.
The Portuguese and Brinkes glanced around furtively before slipping inside, but the Cavalier and One Eye entered confidently,
indicating they did not care who saw them. They were followed by a couple wearing the kind of hats that were popular in The
Hague, and whose clothes were more sober than those currently favoured by Englishmen.
Chaloner was pleased to see the scouts arrive, too. Harley was in the lead, walking with a confident swagger, while Newell
slouched behind. Reyner was last, his shoulders hunched and a hood shadowing his face. They had emerged from a house several
doors up, leading Chaloner to surmise that one of them – or possibly all three – lived there.
The remainder of the gathering was a curious mix of well-dressed people and ruffians, and once they were all inside, the door
was firmly closed. Chaloner glanced upwards and saw the pale face of the woman he had seen the previous morning. His warning
wave had evidently gone unheeded, because she was watching the arrivals with undisguised interest.
He waited a moment, then left the Gaming House, determined to find out what was going on.
* * *
Like many tenements, the Crown fulfilled a variety of functions. Its lower chamber served as a tavern, while the upper floors
were rented to lodgers – Sergeant Wright had mentioned earlier that Pratt had rooms there, presumably because it was close
to Clarendon House. In addition, the yard was leased to a coach-maker, while the stable had been converted into a pottery.
The tavern comprised a large, airy chamber crammed with tables and benches. It boasted a massive fireplace, although only
embers glowed in it that morning. The ruffians were sitting around it, talking in low voices. Brinkes was with them, but he
stood when Chaloner entered, his manner unfriendly. There was no sign of the well-dressed people.
‘We are closed,’ said the landlord, who had hurried from the back of the house when he had heard the door open. He wore a
clean white apron and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal arms that were red from the cold – he had been washing his tankards.
He was middle-aged, with thick grey hair and eyes like an inquisitive chicken.
‘You are not,’ countered Chaloner, nodding towards the men around the hearth.
‘Private party.’ The landlord shot them a nervous look. ‘Try the Feathers, down the road.’
‘I have a bad leg,’ said Chaloner, truthfully enough. It had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby,
and had not been right since. ‘I cannot walk any farther.’
The man regarded him sympathetically. ‘Gout, is it? I suffer from that myself, and I would not wish it on my worst enemy.
Come to my parlour at the back, then, and sit with me while I rinse my pots. My name is John
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