rabid
and ill-informed rants on politics and religion – that kept London’s printers busy. The blazing sun baked all, and the resulting
stench was enough to make his eyes smart.
The Savoy was located about a third of the way along, protected from the outside world by a fortified gate-house. It was guarded
by soldiers, English ones in buff jerkins with stripy sleeves, and Dutch ones in sleek uniforms of black. Anyone wanting to
enter the hospitalcomplex was obliged to explain himself twice, once to each nationality.
Chaloner was disinclined to tell anyone his business, so, as Worcester House, where Clarendon lived, was next door, he entered
that, then climbed over the wall that divided them. The Dutch had pickets prowling the grounds, but they represented no challenge
to a man of his experience, and it was not many moments before he reached the hospital’s main door.
The man in charge of the delegation’s security was a burly, humourless officer named Captain van Ruyven, whom Chaloner had
met before, some twelve years earlier, when he had been on his first assignment in the United Provinces. They had fallen in
love with the same woman, and Chaloner had been somewhat surprised to learn that Ruyven had still not forgiven him for winning
Aletta. When Hanse had dragged Chaloner to the Savoy the previous week, Ruyven had glowered and sulked through the entire
encounter.
‘How did you get in?’ Ruyven demanded coldly.
Chaloner realised he should have braved the guards, because it would not do to admit that he was skilled at breaking into
houses. No one in the Dutch delegation had the slightest inkling that he had spent years spying on them. As far as they were
concerned, he had been a minor diplomat in the service of the British ambassador.
‘I have come to see Jacoba,’ Chaloner replied in Dutch – Ruyven’s English was poor – deftly avoiding the question.
‘The sister-in-law you have neglected for so long?’ asked Ruyven nastily. ‘When Aletta died, you disappeared within a week
of burying her, and seldom bothered to visit afterwards.’
It had not been Chaloner’s idea to leave Amsterdam so abruptly, but his Spymaster had decided that a grieving man was too
great a liability, and had ordered him to France instead. Five years later, Chaloner had been posted back to the United Provinces,
but to The Hague, where Aletta’s family rarely ventured. He had always felt guilty about abandoning Jacoba at such a time.
‘Jacoba will not want to see you,’ Ruyven went on. ‘She told me only last night that you remind her too painfully of Aletta.’
Chaloner felt the same way about Jacoba, especially after his recent visit to Amsterdam. He saw Ruyven was expecting some
sort of response, but did not know what to say, and the Dutchman turned to other matters when the resulting pause had extended
long enough to be uncomfortable for both of them.
‘Envoy Downing came this morning. Apparently, some documents have been stolen from Worcester House, and he told us the general
belief is that Hanse is responsible – that he took the papers and has disappeared with them. Do you know anything about this
horrible tale?’
‘Only that it is circulating.’
At that moment, the door opened and someone else stepped out, taking deep breaths and rolling his shoulders, as if he had
spent too long at work. It was Peter van der Kun, an elderly, mild-mannered gentleman with a friendly face and a scholar’s
stoop. He was van Goch’s secretary, and Chaloner was glad the cause of peace had a gentle, careful man like Kun fighting its
corner.
‘Thomas Chaloner,’ he smiled. ‘The man who shares his name with the regicide who fled to our country anddied there two years ago. You translated some documents for us the other day.’
‘It was unnecessary, though,’ replied Chaloner, declining to address the issue of his relationship to one of the men who had
signed the old king’s death
and ill-informed rants on politics and religion – that kept London’s printers busy. The blazing sun baked all, and the resulting
stench was enough to make his eyes smart.
The Savoy was located about a third of the way along, protected from the outside world by a fortified gate-house. It was guarded
by soldiers, English ones in buff jerkins with stripy sleeves, and Dutch ones in sleek uniforms of black. Anyone wanting to
enter the hospitalcomplex was obliged to explain himself twice, once to each nationality.
Chaloner was disinclined to tell anyone his business, so, as Worcester House, where Clarendon lived, was next door, he entered
that, then climbed over the wall that divided them. The Dutch had pickets prowling the grounds, but they represented no challenge
to a man of his experience, and it was not many moments before he reached the hospital’s main door.
The man in charge of the delegation’s security was a burly, humourless officer named Captain van Ruyven, whom Chaloner had
met before, some twelve years earlier, when he had been on his first assignment in the United Provinces. They had fallen in
love with the same woman, and Chaloner had been somewhat surprised to learn that Ruyven had still not forgiven him for winning
Aletta. When Hanse had dragged Chaloner to the Savoy the previous week, Ruyven had glowered and sulked through the entire
encounter.
‘How did you get in?’ Ruyven demanded coldly.
Chaloner realised he should have braved the guards, because it would not do to admit that he was skilled at breaking into
houses. No one in the Dutch delegation had the slightest inkling that he had spent years spying on them. As far as they were
concerned, he had been a minor diplomat in the service of the British ambassador.
‘I have come to see Jacoba,’ Chaloner replied in Dutch – Ruyven’s English was poor – deftly avoiding the question.
‘The sister-in-law you have neglected for so long?’ asked Ruyven nastily. ‘When Aletta died, you disappeared within a week
of burying her, and seldom bothered to visit afterwards.’
It had not been Chaloner’s idea to leave Amsterdam so abruptly, but his Spymaster had decided that a grieving man was too
great a liability, and had ordered him to France instead. Five years later, Chaloner had been posted back to the United Provinces,
but to The Hague, where Aletta’s family rarely ventured. He had always felt guilty about abandoning Jacoba at such a time.
‘Jacoba will not want to see you,’ Ruyven went on. ‘She told me only last night that you remind her too painfully of Aletta.’
Chaloner felt the same way about Jacoba, especially after his recent visit to Amsterdam. He saw Ruyven was expecting some
sort of response, but did not know what to say, and the Dutchman turned to other matters when the resulting pause had extended
long enough to be uncomfortable for both of them.
‘Envoy Downing came this morning. Apparently, some documents have been stolen from Worcester House, and he told us the general
belief is that Hanse is responsible – that he took the papers and has disappeared with them. Do you know anything about this
horrible tale?’
‘Only that it is circulating.’
At that moment, the door opened and someone else stepped out, taking deep breaths and rolling his shoulders, as if he had
spent too long at work. It was Peter van der Kun, an elderly, mild-mannered gentleman with a friendly face and a scholar’s
stoop. He was van Goch’s secretary, and Chaloner was glad the cause of peace had a gentle, careful man like Kun fighting its
corner.
‘Thomas Chaloner,’ he smiled. ‘The man who shares his name with the regicide who fled to our country anddied there two years ago. You translated some documents for us the other day.’
‘It was unnecessary, though,’ replied Chaloner, declining to address the issue of his relationship to one of the men who had
signed the old king’s death
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