The Beckoning Dream

Amos’s welcome was warmer than Tom’s. He threw his arms around him and embraced him lustily. His wife, a pretty woman, plump and rosy, greeted Catherine much more sedately.

Embraces over, Amos held Tom at arm’s length, saying, “Old friend, you are larger than ever, and the world has treated you well enough, I see. And this is your wife? I thought you vowed that you’d never marry, Tom. Not after the beautiful Clarinda deceived you so!”

“Aye, Amos, but ’tis not only a woman’s prerogative to change one’s mind. This is my wife, Catherine, and yes, I thrive—a little. But not like you,” and he gave Amos a poke in his fair round belly. “You carried not that when we were comrades in arms together, nor were you so finely housed and clothed!”

“Oh, but that was long ago. I am quite reformed these days. I am a respectable merchant now—and it is all Isabelle’s doing.” He threw his arms around his blushing wife and gave her a loving kiss.

So, the beautiful Clarinda—whoever she might be—deceived him, did she? thought Catherine. She must have been a brave lass to manage that! But she ignored this interesting news for the time being, concentrating instead on talking of polite nothings in French to Isabelle.

Polite nothings, indeed, seemed to be the order of the day. Amos bade Isabelle see that food and wine were served to their unexpected guests, and then began a loud discussion of long-gone battles and skirmishes with Tom, as well as memories of comrades long dead.

Tom had volunteered to her earlier that the greatest virtue a successful agent needed was patience. It was, perhaps, just as well that Catherine had learned it in a hard school, for at first Tom talked of everything but anything connected with their mission. It was very pleasant, though, to sit and laze in this well-appointed room, drinking wine and eating what in Scotland were called bannocks, well buttered.

Was Tom lazing as he laughed and talked and drank the good red wine? Or was he picking up hints and notions from his idle gossip with his friend? Catherine could not be sure. Names were flying between him and Amos. Tom had told her earlier, before they had left the inn, that Amos had no true convictions and had always signed up with the side that paid him the most. “Republican or Royalist, Turk or Christian—all were the same to him.”

“And you?” she had asked him. “Were you like Amos?”

“Oh,” he had told her, giving her the white smile that transformed his face, “you shall tell me your opinion of that when this venture is successfully over.”

He was as slippery as an eel—which in this kind of an enterprise was almost certainly an advantage. Seeing him now, one booted leg extended, wine glass in hand, one might have thought that the only care he had in the world was to gossip with an old friend, chance met.

“And William Grahame,” Tom said at last. “What of him? I had heard that he had set up his household in Antwerp these days.”

Was it her imagination or did something in Amos Shooter’s bland, amiable face change? Did it harden a little so that something of the severe mercenary soldier that he had once been peeped through his genial merchant’s mask? If so, the expression was so fleeting that it was gone almost before Catherine had seen it. He was laughing again.

“William Grahame, Tom? I had not thought that you knew him. Not your sort of fellow.”

“True. I know him not. But I was told that he might be a useful man to make a friend of.”

“No doubt, no doubt. He lodges but a mile away from here. He wanders, I am told, from town to town. About his business. Whatever that might be.”

Did Amos Shooter truly not know aught of Grahame but his possible resting place? Both Tom and Catherine were asking themselves the same question, and getting the same answer. He did, but for whatever reason he was not admitting that he did.

Tom took a deep draught of wine—and changed the subject. The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. Mistress Shooter showed Catherine around the courtyard, and then took her through a little gate into a garden where herbs and vegetables grew, and, in summer, fruit on a sheltered wall.

Before they returned indoors, she said in her fractured English that she had learned from Amos, “Your husband should not trust this man Grahame overmuch. I tell you for your own good.”

“Why?” asked Catherine, trying to look innocent, and succeeding. After all, she did not need to be a great actress for it to appear that she knew nothing—for that was true.

Isabelle Shooter shook her head at her. “I cannot tell you. I should not have said what I did. But you seem to be a good girl, even if your husband is perhaps not quite the jolly man he pretends to be.”

Like Amos, then, thought Catherine cynically. But I would never have called Tom jolly. But, of course, he had been a jolly man this afternoon.

She said no more—for to know when to be silent is as great a gift, if not greater, than the ability to talk well, her Dutch mother had once said—which had the result that, when they returned to the big living room, Isabelle was holding her affectionately by the hand. She said to Tom as they left, “You have a pretty little wife, sir. Take care of her, I beg you.”

“Now what brought that on?” Tom asked her once they were on their way back to the inn, Geordie walking behind them. He had spent a happy few hours in the servants’ quarters, and was rather the worse for drinking a great quantity of the local light and gassy beer, although he was still able to walk.

“What?” Catherine asked, although she knew perfectly well what he meant.

“Amos’s pretty wife holding you so lovingly by the hand?”

“She thought that I was an innocent, and needed protection. She told me that you were not to trust William Grahame overmuch.”

“Did she, indeed? Believe me, I have no intention of trusting him at all—or Amos, either. And…?”

“There is no and…She said nothing more. Other than that you seemed a jolly man, but she did not think that you were. That you were pretending to be.”

Tom stopped walking, with the result that the overset Geordie, his head drooping, walked into him and earned himself a few curses from Tom, before he answered her.

“Did she so? A wise lady, then. Which begs the question, that being so, if she were wise, why did she wed Amos?”

Catherine shrugged her shoulders. “Why does one marry anyone? For a hundred reasons—or none at all. And did the jolly Amos tell you where William Grahame might be found?”

“That he did. But he did not warn me, as his wife warned you. I fear that he may think me as devious as he is and that therefore I do not need warning. That bluff manner of his is not the true man.”

“So I thought. But you and I are not the true man or the true woman either. So we are all quits—except, perhaps, for Isabelle.”

Tom gave a great shout of laughter, which had the heads of the few passers-by turning to look at them, and Geordie absent-mindedly walking into him again.

“I can see I must watch my words, wife. You would make Will Wagstaffe a good secretary—the kind who embroiders his master’s words. There are many such around Whitehall. Why not in the playhouse?” He turned to throw a second set of oaths at Geordie for treading on his heels.

“Why not, indeed? And do not curse poor Geordie, for I swear that you probably drank more than he did.”

“Ah, but I hold it so much better. Remind me to teach you the trick of it.”

“I thank you, husband, but no. No man would wish a toping wife.”

“Well said, and now we are home again. We must begin our campaign by deciding on what to say and do when we at last meet the elusive Master Grahame. Battles are won by those whose planning is good, and lost by those who do not plan at all. Remember that.”

“As a useful hint to employ in the kitchen? My soldiers must be carrots and cabbages, all arranged properly in rows.”

Bantering thus, they reached their rooms, where Tom called for more drink, and some food to stay them for the morrow.

Well, thought Catherine later that night as he staggered to the bed that he had made no attempt to share with her, sharing the unfortunate Geordie’s instead, one thing was sure. Whatever Tom Trenchard might, or might not be, life with him was certainly never dull.

Nor did it so prove the next day. This time Catherine was told to dress more modestly, in an old grey gown, with a large shawl. On the way to the address that Amos had given them as that of William Grahame’s, Tom brought her a white linen matron’s cap, elegant with its small wings, and its lace frill that framed her face prettily even if it hid the dark glory of her hair.

Tom was soberly dressed too, in a brown leather jacket, coarse canvas breeches, his frayed cream shirt, and, of course, his beautiful boots. They were always constant! As was his black, steeple-crowned hat with its battered feather.

Geordie, their ghost, followed them. Since arriving in the Low Countries, he was wearing something that passed as a livery: a shabby blue jacket and breeches, grey woollen stockings and heavy, pewter-buckled shoes. He carried a large staff with a silver knob on the top. His sallow face was glummer than ever. One wondered why he served Tom at all since he seemed to take so little pleasure in the doing.

Tom had talked seriously to Catherine before they left. “Hal Arlington told me that Grahame has a weakness for pretty women. Now you are a pretty woman, but a married one, so if you are to attract him—and distract him—you must do so modestly. Killing looks from swiftly downcast eyes. A glance of admiration should he say something witty. Later, when you know him better, then you may go further.”

Catherine threw him a furious look. For the last few days she had been spending her time worrying over Tom seducing her, and all the time she had been brought along to try to seduce Grahame!

“And, pray, how far is that ‘further’ to be? Are you here to play pimp to my strumpet? For if so, I tell you plainly that you may be in love with your role, but I am certainly not about to play the part which you and your two masters have assigned to me.”

“No need for that,” Tom told her swiftly. “You are to tease him only. Draw him on. Nothing more.”

Distaste showed on Catherine’s face and rang in her voice. “And that is almost worse than going the whole way! To lure a poor devil on with hopes that you are never going to satisfy is more indecent than being an honest whore.”

“Your choice,” grinned Tom. “If you prefer being the honest whore…”

“Oh—” Catherine stamped her foot “—if I were not between a rock and a hard place so that Rob’s life depends on my complicity, I should take ship for England straightaway.”

“Well said, wife. I like a woman who knows the way of the world—so few do.”

“Oh…” Catherine let out a long breath. He was impossible, but there was no point in telling him so. So she didn’t.

After that, when he bought her the cap, she was minded not to thank him, but the expression on his hard face was so winning when he gave it to her, that she did so—even if a little ungraciously.

Grahame’s house turned out to be a small one-storied wooden building on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by vegetable gardens with a dirt road running through them. A boy was poling along a small flat boat loaded with cabbages on the small canal that ran parallel with the road.

“Not lodgings, I think,” Tom said thoughtfully as they left the road and walked up the path to the house through a neglected garden. “Something rented.” He looked around him. “It’s deathly quiet.”

He shivered. “Too quiet. I would have thought a man of Grahame’s persuasion would prefer to be lost in a crowded city than isolated here. Safer so.”

It was the first time, but not the last, that Catherine was to hear him say something which had an immediate bearing on what was about to happen—and of which he could not have known.

For, as they reached the door but before they could knock on it they heard, coming from inside, the noise of a violent commotion, and male voices shouting.

“What the devil!” exclaimed Tom—and pushed at the door, which was not locked and opened immediately. He strode in, Geordie behind him, pushing Catherine on one side, and telling her not to follow them but to wait outside.

An order that she immediately disobeyed.

Chapter Four

Catherine found herself in a large room in which two, no three, men were struggling together. Tom was standing to one side, doubtless trying to decide which of them was the one he had come to meet—and must try to rescue.

It suddenly became plain that one of the men was losing an unequal fight with the two others and therefore was almost certainly William Grahame. Tom seized Geordie’s staff and brought its metal tip hard down on the head of the man who now had Grahame by the throat.

He fell to the ground, unconscious. Tom then tossed his staff back to Geordie, and drew from inside his coat a long dagger. On seeing Tom coming at him with the dagger, Geordie behind him, the fellow of the unconscious man loosened his hold on Grahame and threw him bodily at Tom with such force that Tom lost his balance and collapsed across a settle, Grahame on top of him.

Having done so, the would-be assassin ran through the open door at the far end of the room, Geordie in pursuit, for Tom was busy disengaging himself from Grahame who was gasping his thanks at him.

“For,” he said feelingly, “had you, whoever you are, not arrived in such a timely fashion, I was dead meat. I give you my thanks.”

“My pleasure,” said Tom. “And you, sir, must be William Grahame, whom I have come to speak with. Who is this—” and he prodded the man on the floor who was now stirring and groaning “—that with his fellow he sought so desperately to kill you?”

“Why, as to that, I know not,” replied Grahame, who was visibly distressed by what had just passed. There were bruises on his face and throat and he had some difficulty in speaking. “Only that the two of them broke in through the door there and set about me.” He pointed at the one through which his assailant and Geordie had disappeared.

For some reason Catherine—who had been standing back staring at the action, which was far more exciting and dangerous than that in any play in which she had acted—did not believe him. She wondered whether Tom also thought that Grahame might not be telling the truth.

Tom had sheathed his dagger again inside his coat, was hauling the groaning man to his feet and throwing him down on the settle, since he appeared to have difficulty in standing.

“Come, mijnheer,” Tom began in broken Dutch, for he was of the opinion that these might be assassins sent by the Grand Pensionary, John de Witt, to dispose of a double agent whom he might now consider dangerous, “who sent you here to kill Master Grahame—and why?”

The man shook his head and seemed not to understand what Tom was saying. Grahame began to interrogate him, but Tom stopped him, saying, “Do not distress yourself, sir. My wife speaks good Dutch. Mine is poor and he may not understand what I was asking him. Wife?”

Catherine stepped forward, just as Geordie reappeared, looking glummer than ever.

“My apologies, Master, but I lost him. There is a small wood beyond the gardens where the path forks and I must have taken the wrong track…”

“No matter.” Tom was brief. “Our friend here will soon tell us all. Begin, wife.”

Catherine questioned their captive in Dutch and then in French, being proficient in both. He understood not them, nor English either—or so his shaking head and uncomprehending face appeared to say.

Tom lost patience. He surveyed the man silently for some minutes. He was anonymous in both face and dress, being like a score such as one might see in the street. At last he leaned forward to pull the man upright.

“Wife,” he said, not turning his head towards Catherine, “do you go into the garden and not return until I call for you. I would fain question this piece of scum more severely and I would not have you present. Go!” he ordered her fiercely as she hesitated.

Nothing for it but to leave with Geordie, for Tom bade him to go with her and, “to look after the mistress with a little more care than you chased yon assassin!”

Catherine never quite knew what followed next for her back was towards Tom, Grahame and the would-be assassin when, just as she reached the door, she heard a shot behind her.

Shocked, she swung round to see Tom facing the assassin who was sinking to the floor, blood gushing from his mouth. Behind him stood Grahame, his face grim, a pistol in his hand.

“Now, why the devil did you do that?” enquired Tom of Grahame.

“To save you, of course,” returned Grahame hardily. “See, he had drawn a dagger on you, it is on the floor near his hand. I had a pistol in my belt that I was not able to use against my assailants, their attack being so sudden, and I used it to save you, as you had saved me.”

Tom’s expression was deadly, thought Catherine, shivering a little, and he did not seem at all grateful to Master Grahame for saving his life.

“No,” he said, his voice so cold and severe that Catherine scarcely knew it, “I was in no danger from this poor fool, despite his dagger. And now that you have slain him so incontinently, we can know no more of who paid him to slay you.”

Grahame’s expression was a sad one, but his voice was patient. “Forgive me. I had no time to think. I saw you being attacked, and acted accordingly.”

Tom stood silent before giving a short laugh. “No, you must forgive me. You thought I was in danger and you acted promptly. For that I must thank you. You were not to know that I have been for many years a mercenary soldier who would not easily have fallen victim to such an amateur creature as this. After all, he and his accomplice were making heavy weather of killing a solitary man, unable to use his weaponry.”

Well, Catherine thought, a trifle indignant on Grahame’s behalf, at last Tom had thanked Grahame, even if his thanks were belated.

Grahame inclined his head. “We are quits, I think,” he said, smiling. “And now you must tell me who you are, and why you have sought me out here. And, most of all, who told you where to find me. I had thought this place unknown to all my enemies, and most of my friends.

“Then, in a few short minutes, there arrive both enemies and friends, for I take you, your wife and your servant to be my friends. Indeed, if you arrived as strangers, your actions have made you my friends.”

He smiled at them, before announcing, “Wine,” and going over to a buffet—the Low Countries word for a sideboard—where stood a decanter and several goblets of fine glass, a little at odds with the rough style of the house and the furnishings of the rooms in it. “We must drink a toast to our survival.” He had needed to step over the assassin’s corpse to get there. Catherine felt quite faint at the casual way in which all three men were treating his death.

She was not surprised when Tom shook his head, saying, “Wine later. First we must decide what to do with him,” and he pointed at the body. “If I am wrong in supposing that you do not wish to inform the authorities of what has passed this day, forgive me. If I am right, however, the evidence needs to be disposed of.”

Grahame continued to pour wine as though discussing murderous attacks and the hiding of dead bodies was an ordinary, everyday matter.

“There are enough canals about here, to hide a dozen such as he. Depend upon it, no one will seek to know what happened here today. The odds are on it that his companion will not return to confess his failure. These were but poor hirelings sent to dispose of me. It was their bad luck that you arrived.”

And ours that we did, thought Catherine to whom a glass of wine seemed a most desirable thing. I have had a real baptism of fire today. If I had ever imagined that this enterprise was not a risky one, this episode has proved exactly how risky it is! I feel quite faint, but will not confess it.

She looked away from the dead man, and saw Tom gazing at her enquiringly. She gave him a small wry smile to try to tell him that, whilst she was shocked, she was not about to disgrace herself—or him—by doing anything so stupid as faint.

Pleased—and relieved—by her stoicism, Tom handed her his glass. “Drink up,” he bade her. “It will make you feel better.”

She made no demur, but drank down the good Rhenish wine, and listened to Tom and Grahame discussing what to do with the corpse.

“Your man may help me to carry this poor fool to the shed in the garden. He may lie until darkness falls when the canal shall be his resting place—for the time being, that is,” said Grahame, his manner almost cheerful.

Geordie pulled a long face, but did as he was told. Tom said nothing, but he was thinking a great deal. No stranger to violence himself, he found that Grahame’s equanimity in the face of violent death—and a violent death which he had needlessly inflicted—was telling him something of the man quite other from what Gower and Arlington had believed of him in London.

This was no puling scholar who simply paid for the information which he painstakingly—almost safely—gathered and used to sell to either the Dutch or the English government, according to whichever would pay him the most at the time. He had killed before, and would doubtless kill again.

No, Grahame was a very dangerous man and not to be trusted. And who, exactly, was trying to kill him? And why? These questions ran through Tom’s head, as he took the empty wine glass from Catherine and refilled it for himself. Other thoughts were troubling him.

Were Gower and Arlington playing a double game with him and Catherine? Had they employed the assassins who had tried to kill Grahame—and so nearly succeeded? And had he and Catherine been sent as a blind so that they might disclaim responsibility if Grahame were found murdered? Their argument being that they would scarcely waste time sending emissaries to deal with a man they intended to kill.

Or was the Grand Pensionary responsible? Was it not possible that he, like Gower and Arlington, might have tired of Grahame’s devious games, and decided to do away with him?

Worse still, were he and Catherine being manoeuvred by Gower and Arlington into a situation where they might be accused of killing Grahame? The possibilities were endless; instead of cursing poor Catherine’s presence, as he had been doing, might he not be better employed asking himself why he had been so foolish as to agree to this dubious venture at all!

“So, sir,” Grahame said, handing Tom his glass of Rhenish and seating him in a large chair opposite to him, Geordie having been left in the garden to keep watch at the back of the house. “Pray tell me who you are, and why I am honoured by your presence,” and he lifted his glass to Tom, almost fawning on him.

Oh, the greasy swine! Tom had difficulty in not laughing out loud at such a seductive attempt to charm. There was something odd about Grahame, but exactly what the oddness consisted of Tom did not yet know.

“My name is Thomas, Tom, Trenchard. I am a member of that family, noted as a supporter of the late Lord Protector. Colonel Ned Trenchard, now a soldier for the Hapsburgs and the Empire, is a distant cousin. I met him once in Nurnberg, when I was still a mere lad.”

Now that, at least was true, for Tom mixed truth with lies to achieve a greater truth—as all such conspirators do, and if pushed could describe Ned Trenchard accurately, aye, and others who were opposed to King Charles as well.

“Indeed, indeed, Master Tom Trenchard. And what does this cousin of Ned Trenchard come to me for? On whose behalf? Not on his cousin’s, I dare swear.”

“No, indeed. On the contrary, for although my inclination lies towards the late Cromwell’s cause, I do not wish to see my country brought low by a foreign power, even to bring down King Charles. That were to leave us helpless before any European state which might wish to conquer us. And knowing my mind on this, I am sent by my masters in London to offer you what they believe you most dearly wish…”