warrant. His flamboyant uncle was not someone to boast about in Restoration London. ‘Your English
is perfect.’
‘You are too kind.’ Kun’s expression turned eager. ‘Do you bring a message from your Earl? He was going to address the Privy
Council today, urging them to look favourably on the convention to be held here next Sunday evening.’
‘I doubt he will succeed,’ said Ruyven bitterly. ‘Our two countries do not trust each other enough to agree on anything, and
these peace talks are a waste of time.’
‘You are wrong: we
will
have a truce,’ countered Kun stoutly. Then he grimaced. ‘But you are right about the mutual distrust. As soon as I disprove
one set of lies about us, another appears. Maligning us is some villain’s way of hindering progress.’
‘The English do not have the wit for such tactics,’ said Ruyven, shooting Chaloner a challenging glare. ‘Their idea of damaging
the talks is far less subtle. Such as refusing to bow to Heer van Goch at banquets, and calling the rest of us names.’
Kun’s pained expression said he was sorry for Ruyven’s hostility. ‘What is your master’s message?’ he asked keenly. ‘Is it
good news?’
‘Actually, I have come to visit Jacoba,’ replied Chaloner.
‘Oh,’ said Kun, disappointed. ‘Well, perhaps your company will take her mind off—’
‘No,’ interrupted Ruyven. ‘
I
control who enters the Savoy, and I do not trust this man. He called himselfTom Heyden in Amsterdam, but now we learn his real name is something else entirely.’
Most intelligencers used aliases when working overseas, and the practice did sometimes backfire. But Chaloner was ready with
an explanation, just as he had been when Hanse had been startled to learn from an inconveniently garrulous Clarendon that
his brother-in-law did not hail from a Bristol mercantile family, but was the youngest son of a country squire in Buckinghamshire.
‘I had debts in Holland. I had no choice but to use a different name there.’
‘So you say,’ snarled Ruyven. ‘But spies—’
‘Chaloner is not a spy,’ said Kun firmly, while Chaloner thought it ironic that Ruyven should think so now, when he was
not
gathering intelligence, but had never raised an eyebrow when he had been doing little else. ‘Let him pass. Jacoba will be
pleased to see him.’
In resentful silence, Ruyven conducted Chaloner to the quarters that had been allocated to Hanse and his wife for the duration
of their stay in London. They comprised a pair of comfortably furnished rooms near the chapel, both pleasantly cool after
the burning sunlight outside. Their size and location underlined the high esteem in which Hanse had been held by his ambassador
– space was in short supply at the Savoy, and most envoys only had one.
Jacoba was sitting at a harpsichord when Chaloner arrived, although her playing was lacklustre, and he could tell her heart
was not in it. She was a small, dark haired woman with a neat figure and a regal bearing. For a moment, with the sun in his
eyes, Chaloner mistook herfor Aletta, and his stomach lurched. But Aletta had been twenty-two when she had died, and Jacoba was approaching forty: he
forced himself to acknowledge that they were nothing alike.
‘Tom!’ she exclaimed, abandoning the instrument and coming to take his hand. ‘Is there any word of Willem?’
Chaloner nodded, and then spoke quickly, unwilling to prolong the agony for her. ‘He is dead, Jacoba. I am so sorry.’
‘Why did you not tell me this immediately?’ cried Ruyven, shocked. ‘And why break the news in so brutal a fashion? What is
wrong with you? It is—’
Jacoba’s wail of grief cut through his tirade, and was loud enough to bring Kun and several others running to see what was
happening. A maid rushed to comfort her, while Ruyven glowered at Chaloner, fists clenched. The knife Chaloner always carried
in his sleeve slipped into his hand.
‘Easy, Ruyven,’
is perfect.’
‘You are too kind.’ Kun’s expression turned eager. ‘Do you bring a message from your Earl? He was going to address the Privy
Council today, urging them to look favourably on the convention to be held here next Sunday evening.’
‘I doubt he will succeed,’ said Ruyven bitterly. ‘Our two countries do not trust each other enough to agree on anything, and
these peace talks are a waste of time.’
‘You are wrong: we
will
have a truce,’ countered Kun stoutly. Then he grimaced. ‘But you are right about the mutual distrust. As soon as I disprove
one set of lies about us, another appears. Maligning us is some villain’s way of hindering progress.’
‘The English do not have the wit for such tactics,’ said Ruyven, shooting Chaloner a challenging glare. ‘Their idea of damaging
the talks is far less subtle. Such as refusing to bow to Heer van Goch at banquets, and calling the rest of us names.’
Kun’s pained expression said he was sorry for Ruyven’s hostility. ‘What is your master’s message?’ he asked keenly. ‘Is it
good news?’
‘Actually, I have come to visit Jacoba,’ replied Chaloner.
‘Oh,’ said Kun, disappointed. ‘Well, perhaps your company will take her mind off—’
‘No,’ interrupted Ruyven. ‘
I
control who enters the Savoy, and I do not trust this man. He called himselfTom Heyden in Amsterdam, but now we learn his real name is something else entirely.’
Most intelligencers used aliases when working overseas, and the practice did sometimes backfire. But Chaloner was ready with
an explanation, just as he had been when Hanse had been startled to learn from an inconveniently garrulous Clarendon that
his brother-in-law did not hail from a Bristol mercantile family, but was the youngest son of a country squire in Buckinghamshire.
‘I had debts in Holland. I had no choice but to use a different name there.’
‘So you say,’ snarled Ruyven. ‘But spies—’
‘Chaloner is not a spy,’ said Kun firmly, while Chaloner thought it ironic that Ruyven should think so now, when he was
not
gathering intelligence, but had never raised an eyebrow when he had been doing little else. ‘Let him pass. Jacoba will be
pleased to see him.’
In resentful silence, Ruyven conducted Chaloner to the quarters that had been allocated to Hanse and his wife for the duration
of their stay in London. They comprised a pair of comfortably furnished rooms near the chapel, both pleasantly cool after
the burning sunlight outside. Their size and location underlined the high esteem in which Hanse had been held by his ambassador
– space was in short supply at the Savoy, and most envoys only had one.
Jacoba was sitting at a harpsichord when Chaloner arrived, although her playing was lacklustre, and he could tell her heart
was not in it. She was a small, dark haired woman with a neat figure and a regal bearing. For a moment, with the sun in his
eyes, Chaloner mistook herfor Aletta, and his stomach lurched. But Aletta had been twenty-two when she had died, and Jacoba was approaching forty: he
forced himself to acknowledge that they were nothing alike.
‘Tom!’ she exclaimed, abandoning the instrument and coming to take his hand. ‘Is there any word of Willem?’
Chaloner nodded, and then spoke quickly, unwilling to prolong the agony for her. ‘He is dead, Jacoba. I am so sorry.’
‘Why did you not tell me this immediately?’ cried Ruyven, shocked. ‘And why break the news in so brutal a fashion? What is
wrong with you? It is—’
Jacoba’s wail of grief cut through his tirade, and was loud enough to bring Kun and several others running to see what was
happening. A maid rushed to comfort her, while Ruyven glowered at Chaloner, fists clenched. The knife Chaloner always carried
in his sleeve slipped into his hand.
‘Easy, Ruyven,’
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