Date: Tue, 23 Dec 2008 15:23:10 +0900 From: "graemefj@iinet.net.au" Subject: The King's Beast 1 This work is a product of the author's imagination. Places, events and people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental. The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you like it! If you have something to say about it that isn't flaming me then email me at: Caleb THE KING'S BEAST by Caleb CHAPTER 1 Jack O'Connor woke up suddenly, fully alert, although he did not move in the bed. He had heard it, the soft wicker of a distant horse. He quietly slid from the warmth of the bed and padded over to the latticed dormer, and, in the faint pre-dawn light, he could see them gathering on the road -- dark shadows with sinister intent. He cursed softly and the body in the bed mumbled and slowly awoke. Jack ignored him and began to dress quickly without speaking to the tousled young man who had shared his bed. He carefully opened the window, and then, swiftly gathering up his saddlebags and boots, began to climb through it. "Jack!" A strident whisper came from the bed, "Where are you going?" The man paused, straddling the windowsill, "They're comin' for me boyo. Gotta go." They heard then the loud clatter of hooves on the cobbles of the inn courtyard. The young man leapt from the bed and,wearing only a worn linen shirt that barely covered his nakedness, ran to the other casement in the room, the casement that overlooked the courtyard. He looked down on the milling riders. "God!" he breathed, "There're hundreds of them." O'Conner climbed out the tiny dormer window, and balanced precariously on the ridge of the shingled roof. The other darted across the room to that window and leaned out to see O'Connor flash him a wide grin. "Not hundreds, m'lad, but enough -- enough." He pulled the young man to him and kissed him soundly on the mouth leaving him gasping. "You're a bloody good fuck, boyo, but yer on yer own now." And he crouched down and ran like a cat along the ridge of the roof and dropped into the darkness out of sight. The young man could hear the men thundering up the steps to his room. He was galvanized into action and fumbled for his clothes. Too late. A loud thumping on the door and a voice cried out harshly, "Open in the name of the king!" The door splintered and burst open and soldiers poured into the room, pistols drawn and ready to fire. He stood frozen, like a stag at bay. All weapons were trained on him as he stood almost naked in their midst. Then two more men entered - the leading man holding aloft a lantern. They were unhurried but inexorable. The man with the lantern was tall, in a black multi-caped coat, and he stood before the young man moving the lantern deliberately so that it illuminated every part of him from the shock of red hair on his head to his bare feet on the timber floor. The young man straightened himself in defiance and looked steadily at the man in black. Then, deliberately, he lifted the front of the shirt that covered his nakedness and, in the tone of voice that whores use to entice customers, he said, "Fancy a fuck then, squire?" The man in black fixed him with chilling eyes and said quietly, "Sergeant!" A heavily built soldier stepped forward. "Sir!" "Anywhere but the face, sergeant." The sergeant grinned evilly and suddenly delivered a sharp, hard blow to the young man's stomach with his clenched fist. He gasped and doubled over, painfully trying to draw a breath. The man in black watched him impassively for a moment, and then said, "Where is the felon John O'Connor, sometimes called Twelve String Jack?" Still gasping and in obvious pain, the young man straightened up and looked into the cold green eyes of the man in black. He ground out, "Well, he's not up my bum." The reaction was instant. Another quiet, implacable "Sergeant." Again he was viciously punched in the stomach. This time he fell to his hands and knees on the floor, gasping and retching. "For God's sake, Nat ..." the protest from the companion of the man in black. There was a pause, the only sound being the painful breathing of the young man on the floor. The man in black said, "'Tis obvious O'Connor is gone. All of you -- not you sergeant - outside and look for him though I fear `tis too late." All the soldiers shuffled out of the room and clattered down the steps. The man in black held up his lantern and looked down on the heaving back of the young man. He said shortly, "Get dressed." And he turned to the sergeant and said, "Stay here with him until he is dressed, then bring him down to the taproom. We'll talk to him there." The light left with the two men. As the young man painfully got to his feet in the semi-dark, he felt the cold muzzle of the sergeant's pistol invade his fundament. He froze. The heavy man whispered vilely in his ear, "He may not be up yer bum now, madge-cull, but I'll wager he ain't long gone." Moving carefully out of range of the probing muzzle, the young man gathered up his clothes and slowly got dressed. In spite of his outward calm, his mind was racing, thinking of ways to escape. He was horribly aware of the sergeant's pistol still trained on him. The sergeant seemed to read his mind and chuckled. "Ain't no escape, pretty boy. The beast's got you in his clutches now." In spite of himself, the young man said, "The beast?" "Aye, laddie, the beast. No one escapes from him. He'll tear you to shreds and feed you to the dogs." And he laughed. When he was finally dressed, the young man turned to face the sergeant, who sneered openly at him. "When the beast's finished with you," the sergeant said grinning obscenely and cupping his groin, "mebbe I'll show you what the army can do." The young man lifted a single eyebrow. "We all can dream. Even a creature like you." And turning his back on the scowling soldier, he went downstairs refusing to hurry in spite of the man's pistol prodding him in the back. The taproom was all but empty when he entered. The landlord and his shrew of a wife were seated on a bench along one of the walls, still in their night clothes. The man in black was seated in the ingle, his back to the rest of the room, with one booted leg resting on the stone hearth. This pose was deceptive, the young man instantly recognized. This man in black -- this beast -- was fully aware of what was going on in the room. His companion was seated at a table in the middle of the room. He was quite ordinary looking, dressed neatly in a grey coat, buttoned to the throat, and spread on the table before him were several papers. His aspect was suggestive of an inquisitor, a judge and, more fearfully, an executioner. The sergeant pushed the prisoner forward until he stood in front of the inquisitor's table. The man looked him over unsmilingly and said, in a quiet pleasant voice, "What is your name?" The young man, having foreseen this question answered unhesitatingly, "Tom More." The beast, without turning around, said calmly, "You would do well to answer the question truthfully." A pause and then the young man said, "Jem Fleet." "You are employed at this inn?" Before Jem, the young man could answer, the landlord's wife sprang to her feet and strode to the table and said hysterically, "Yes sir he was -- as a groom -- but no longer for cruelly has he repaid us. Deceiving us like this. He is shameful, sir, no better than he should be -- throwing out his wicked lures for that rascally highwayman. And it's not the first time sir. He is wicked, wicked." And she took refuge in unlovely gusty weeping, occasionally throwing swift calculating looks to the man at the table. "Not the first time?" The man looked at Jem with raised eyebrows. "No sir, it was not," the landlord's wife chimed in stridently. "That villain returned again and again to take this wicked boy to his room and do, only the devil knows what, in there." The man looked at Jem. "Again and again? You were lovers?" Jem looked at the man steadily, and saw a man ready to condemn. So he answered, "No." The landlord's wife screamed, "A lie, sir, a wicked lie. All the parish knew what went on in that room." The man turned to her. "All the parish, madam? And you did nothing?" The woman gaped a little. "Well, sir, we.. we were afraid . We do not... spy on our guests... but that villain boasted of the pleasure this wicked boy gave him." The man turned to Jem again. "And you still hold you were not lovers?" Jem said deliberately, "We were not lovers, sir. To say we were lovers implies a certain ... attachment. We fucked." The man at the table blanched at this plain speaking and pressed his lips together in disapproval, while the landlord's wife gave a gasp of horror and covered her ears virtuously and tottered back to her husband. With his voice shaking slightly, the man asked, "Did you ... meet with this man often?" Jem answered, "Not often enough for him; too often for me." The man looked at him, irritated and slightly puzzled. "Then why did you do it, boy?" he asked. Jem gave him a long look. "Sometimes, sir, one will trade all one has for ... a little companionship." The man at the table said sternly, "There are many in your situation who would die rather than do what you have done." Jem looked at him. "Are there? Are there really? I have never met any, but you believe that if it gives you comfort. I cannot speak for others, sir, only for myself, and I find I tire very quickly of .. being alone." The man looked at him in puzzled amazement. "Who are you? You speak as though you are educated." A strange expression came over Jem's face. His eyes lit up and his mouth twisted into a knowing smile. "Lor', sir," he said in the broad accents of the street, "I can patter the flash like you nobs." The man was taken aback at the sudden vulgarity of the young man in front of him. Jem continued, in quieter more refined accents. "Let us say, sir, I perform to suit my audience." The other man recovered from his shock and said in a disapproving voice, "A rare talent, indeed. And did Twelve String Jack ... um ... appreciate this talent above your other one?" Jem felt his temper rising but managed to say, colorlessly, "You seem inordinately fascinated by my time with Jack. The zeal with which you pursue the more unpleasant parts of your profession is commendable, although a less charitable person might suspect that your interest masks something... deeper?" The man at the table stiffened at the insult, going almost white. Before he could answer, the man in black said, in a voice like a whiplash, "Enough!" He rose quickly and gracefully and moved forward, his eyes never leaving Jem's face. "You shall apologize to Sir Charles for that remark." Jem stared at him, his eyes snapping with fury. The eyes of the man in black were agate-like, implacable. Jem realized that in this man he had met his match and it would be foolhardy to defy him. After a moment, he dropped his eyes and turned to the man at the table. "I do sincerely apologize," he said quietly. "The remark was uncalled for. You are, of course, only doing your duty." Jem stood with his eyes cast down, but every nerve was poised for the next move. The man in black turned to the innkeeper and his wife and said, in a abrupt voice, "We have no further use of you. You are free to go." He gazed haughtily at them. The innkeeper's wife, the curling papers in her hair bobbing violently, snarled, "That's all very well, but what of my cellars? Those soldier oafs of yours have been making free with my ale, and smashing up my bottles. What are you going to do about it?" The beast held her gaze for a moment and said, "Sergeant!" The sergeant responded instantly. "Sir!" "Do you know what this woman is talking about?" The sergeant shuffled his feet. "Well sir, a couple of the boys..." He was ruthlessly interrupted. "I'm not interested, sergeant. Have them rounded up and flogged -- five lashes each." The sergeant swallowed noisily and said, "I don't know which ones, sir." The man in black said chillingly, "Select two and make an example on them ." The sergeant turned pale. The man looked at him. "Now, sergeant. And wait outside the door when it is done." The sergeant snapped, "Sir!" and left the room like a scalded cat. The woman, her bosom heaving with indignation, cried, "Is that all? They have cost me pounds and pounds!" "Be thankful, madam, you and your husband are not flogged along with them for aiding and abetting a known felon and for allowing unspeakable practices to take place in your establishment!" The woman gaped like a fish. "I .. we.. never..." The beast flared. "Be silent! I have no time for this. Begone." The woman took refuge in indignant weeping, and he husband pushed her to the door, bobbing bows to the man in black, and saying as he went, "Thank you, thank you, my lord." Jem's mind was racing. My lord? The beast? Where had he heard that before? And then it dawned on him. The king's beast!! This man was the Marquess of Chesham -- the king's beast -- the most feared enforcer in England. Why was he pursuing Jack? He carefully kept a neutral face as he watched the Marquess lay a hand on the shoulder of the man at the table. "Thank you, Charles," the Marquess said, "but I shall take over now," and they exchanged places. "Pray be seated, Mr. Fleet," and he watched as Jem, in trepidation, drew up a hard upright chair and sat opposite the Marquess, a little distance from the table. There was a pause and the Marquess asked suddenly, "Are you aware that sodomy is punishable by death under the laws of England?" Jem quaked but kept a serene façade. "Yes," he answered shortly. The Marquess continued, "If not death, then a life sentence in Newgate, or even transportation to Botany Bay?" Jem said nothing, but merely awaited the point of these statements. "We can gather enough evidence and witness statements to ensure a conviction." Still Jem remained silent. The Marquess said, "You say nothing, Mr. Fleet." Jem replied, "I was not aware I was being asked a question," and he added after a pause, "my lord Chesham." If the Marquess was confounded by Jem's knowledge of his identity, then the only way he expressed his surprise was by the subtle lifting of an eyebrow. The Marquess continued, "You do not seem unduly worried by this. Do you think I would not have you arrested?" Jem took a gamble. "I think, my lord, that had you wanted to arrest me on this charge, then I would be already in chains and on my way to London." The other man, Sir Charles, muttered, "God, boy, but you're cold blooded." The Marquess said, "Yes. Thank you, Charles." Unsmilingly he continued, "You are perfectly right, of course. Prosecuting such crimes does not interest me nor form part of my duties. However, be under no illusion. If incarcerating you for buggery would assist me in my duty, then I will have no hesitation in doing so. Do you understand?" Jem said, "Yes, my lord." He had a sudden burning curiosity about what precisely did constitute this man's duty. "However," the man continued in a pleasant manner, a manner Jem was beginning to distrust, "O'Connor does interest me. Do you know where he has gone?" Jem answered baldly, "No." The Marquess continued, his voice eloquent with disbelief, "You were his ... bed companion and yet you do not know his movements?" Again a bald answer from Jem. "No, my lord." The Marquess then asked, without pausing, "How long had you enjoyed this liaison with O'Connor?" Jem shrugged. "A year, perhaps a little longer" "How did you meet?" "I worked as a groom here. Jack took a fancy to me and ... um ... had his way with me." Sir Charles said, "Why didn't you report the rape to the local magistrate?" Jem looked at him with a slight smile, "'Twas not rape, sir. Perhaps at first I was a little unwilling, but Jack was, in his way, exciting and certainly generous." He added as an afterthought. "Although as time went on, he grew less generous and more -- demanding." There was a silence. The Marquess resumed. "Do you know anything of O'Connor's activities?" "I never enquired, my lord. I have long learned that such ... curiosity can be dangerous." The agate green eyes bored into him. "Dangerous?" Jem chose his words carefully. "He is ruthless and can be ... cruel." The Marquess sat back in the chair and looked at him, assessing him. Then he asked, "Did you ever get any hint of where O'Connor had been or whom he knew?" A memory leapt to Jem's mind. He hesitated, and then said, "He once remarked, in the throes of ... passion, that he would reward me - with a gift. From France." The Marquess leaned forward and gazed at Jem intensely. . "What did you deduce from that statement?" Jem shrugged, "That he was going to France." "How?" Sir Charles interrupted, excited as a hound re-discovering the lost scent of a fox. "The usual way, I presume," Jem answered dryly. "Jack had many noteworthy qualities, but walking on water wasn't one of them." Sir Charles gave a loud snarl of disgust, but Jem was astounded to see that a quirk of a smile flickered across the beast's stony face. My God, thought Jem, the man has a sense of humor. After a pause, the Marquess continued. "Do you have family living?" Jem merely shrugged. "Answer the question, please." "If I do, I don't know them." There was another pause -- a much longer one. Then the Marquess said suddenly, "Were you to be released now, what would you do?" The question astounded Jem. Surely the man did not intend to release him. "I ... I suppose I would look for another situation." "And if you do not find one in the town?" Jem sighed, "I would have to move on, before I am moved on by the parish." Watching him carefully, the Marquess asked, "And if you could not obtain legal employment?" Jem looked at him, and then dropped his eyes. He remained silent. "You would live off the streets? You would sell your body?" Jem raised his eyes and looked at him again, challengingly. "Needs must, my lord." The Marquess grunted and sat back considering what Jem had said. He looked at his companion and raised an eyebrow. Sir Charles looked at him in puzzlement. He obviously did not understand the direction of this line of questioning. The Marquess turned back to Jem and asked, "Have you eaten, Mr. Fleet?" Jem was struck dumb by the abrupt change of subject. It was all he could do to shake his head. The Marquess rose and walked to the door. "Sergeant!" the Marquess called. A few moments later, the sergeant scurried in. "Take Mr. Fleet to the kitchen, sergeant, and see he gets enough to eat. Have something yourself while you are there." The sergeant gave a gap-toothed smile. "Yessir. Thank'ee sir." "Watch him carefully, sergeant. If he escapes, you will pay the price, and I promise you, the price shall be heavy." The sergeant gulped and with the butt of his musket, pushed Jem out of the room. Silence reigned in the taproom, broken only by the thoughtful drumming of the Marquess' fingers. He roused himself and said to his companion, "Well, Charles, what do you think?" "About what? "Our Mr. Fleet." Sir Charles sniffed audibly. "The man is an ungodly degenerate who is careering headlong to damnation." The Marquess sighed. "My dear Charles, we have been like brothers since we were children and I love you dearly, but I must confess that, of late, your opinions have become tainted by a certain Evangelical squint that I am beginning to find tedious." Sir Charles went white. He said stiffly, "I am sorry, my lord, that you find my religion unpalatable. Perhaps it might be better if I left your company." The Marquess turned to him. "Oh, don't be a pompous ass. Now tell me without moralizing, what you thought of Jem Fleet." Sir Charles glowered at him and then said unwillingly, "Well, he seems intelligent." The Marquess nodded, "Patently so. And he has wit." Sir Charles gave a slight snort and continued after a little thought, "If a vicious tongue can be considered wit, then I agree, and his manners, if he wants to ingratiate himself, could be pleasing, I think." The Marquess nodded. "Anything more?" Sir Charles squirmed a little. "What more is there?" "You noticed nothing about his looks?" "Well, I suppose one could say he is passably good-looking." The Marquess laughed dryly. "Passably good-looking. You are the master of the understatement! Dammit man, he is beautiful ... beautiful" This last was said in a musing tone of voice and the Marquess seemed lost in thought. Sir Charles shot a glance at his friend and was suddenly uncomfortable. "Nat..." he began nervously. The Marquess said suddenly, "How long have we been pursuing O'Connor, Charles?" Sir Charles blinked at the sudden change of subject. He groped for an answer. "Two years, perhaps three." "And each time we have cornered him, the result had always been the same, and we are left empty handed and frustrated, until the next time - until another of his cronies decides to betray him." Sir Charles shrugged. "We'll get him eventually." "Eventually may be too late. Things are moving fast, Charles, beyond our control that make our capture of O'Connor -- and the man who is behind him -- imperative." "What has happened?" The Marques said carefully, "Castlereagh has received a memorandum from Sir Arthur Wellesley that contains a detailed plan for the defense of Portugal -- a very detailed plan and, I might add, a very, very good plan, and also a very secret plan. Both Whitehall and the cabinet are of one mind -- The plan shall be officially ratified at the first opportunity." Sir Charles said in amazement. "How do you know this?" The Marquess merely looked at him and said, "My dear Charles." Sir Charles said, "Ah." And then added, "Is it likely that the details of this plan will leak out, especially in the light of the fact it is such a closely guarded secret?" A cynical smile twisted the lips of the Marquess. "The ship of state, my dear Charles, is the only ship that leaks from the top. It is only a matter of time, I fear. That is why it is imperative," and he slapped the table to emphasize the word, "that we cut this damnable drain line of information to the continent." Sir Charles said, with a touch of despair, "O'Connor is our only link and O'Connor keeps eluding us. He never returns to a former lair, and we can find no discernible pattern in his movements. We are always days behind him." The Marquess said thoughtfully, "What did that virago say? He returned again and again for the boy...?" Silence. Sir Charles let out his breath in a tremulous sound. "Dear God," he said, "he repeated his movements. A pattern at last. You think there's a chance he'll come after Fleet?" The Marquess nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed, I would hazard a very good chance." Then Sir Charles shook his head. "No. He would not be so stupid. He must know we have Fleet and would be watching this inn. No. Even if his lust burned at white heat, he would never risk capture here." "Oh, I agree," the Marquess said, "so we shall move Fleet." "Where had you in mind?" "London." Sir Charles cried in amazement, "London? That's the worst possible place. O'Connor could stay concealed for years there and we would never find him." The Marquess said slowly, "I fear the game is moving beyond O'Connor, Charles. Capturing him would be satisfying but cannot now be our main objective" Sir Charles nodded, "So Fleet is not to be used as bait. What then?" "Oh, we shall use him as bait," The Marquess said mildly, in an off-handed manner, "but bait that is worthy of a much larger fish." There was a silence. Sir Charles arose and moved over to his seated friend until he towered over him. "My lord, you cannot be serious," he said in pregnant tones. "DeMontfort would never rise to such a bait." "Oh, I think he would. We have collected enough rumor and reports of the dark unspeakable activities of the good Comte to know he would be sorely tempted and you yourself observed, albeit grudgingly, that Fleet is passably good-looking. I think there is a very good chance he will not be able to help himself." Sir Charles sat down slowly, digesting his friend's latest devious ploy. Then he said with growing conviction, "It will never work. How will the Comte DeMontfort even see Fleet? A man of his social standing will never come face to face with a man of Fleet's stamp." "Oh, I shall introduce them," the Marquess said airily. Sir Charles started laughing. "You -- a Marquess -- will introduce Fleet -- a groom and a prostitute -- to the Comte DeMontfort, the most eminent of the French émigrés and member of the French government in exile? Impossible. You are not a pander, my lord, or have you decided to branch out into that noble profession?" This last was said with angry sarcasm. "No, no, no," said the Marquess soothingly, "Fleet shall be introduced as a member of my household." "What!!" "We shall take him from here to Curzon Street." "I think the Marchioness your mother will have something to say about that," Sir Charles said grimly. The Marquess grinned, "I think my mother will be delighted to show him London, especially when she knows he is a connexion of yours." Sir Charles gaped in disbelief. "M-mine! You cannot be serious. The first thing she will ask will be why a connexion of mine is not living under my roof." If anything, the grin on the face of the Marquess grew wider. "Tell me, Charles," he said wickedly, " How does Eugenia feel about Catholics?" Sir Charles was nonplussed. "Have you reason to believe that Fleet is a Catholic?" "Oh, I know he is," the Marquess said smugly. "You cannot possibly know that. You have known him barely an hour." The Marquess was still irritatingly smug. "You hear Charles, but you do not listen." "What is that supposed to mean?" The Marquess sighed and then grew serious. "What was the first question you asked him, Charles?" "um -- What is your name?" "And what did he answer?" "Jem Fleet -- no -- wait -- he answered -- um -- Tom More." The Marquess nodded, and then looked directly at his friend. "Thomas More held the office of Lord Chancellor under Henry the Eighth. He was executed by Bluff King Hal because he would not ratify publicly the king's marriage to Anne Boleyn." "And how does this ...?" "There is a movement among English Catholics today to importune Rome to have Thomas More declared a saint." Sir Charles shrugged, "I don't think I know any Catholics let alone..." He was struck by a thought. "But how would a man like..." The Marquess nodded. "Yes. Interesting, is it not? How would a street rat know of some esoteric religious movement so intimately that he uses the name of the would-be saint? It opens the door to amazing possibilities." "What possibilities?" The Marquess changed tack again. "When you interviewed Fleet, did you suspect he was educated?" Sir Charles nodded. "Well, yes. At first I did. But when he opened his mouth and spewed vulgarities, I realized I was mistaken." "Yes," the Marquess nodded in appreciation, "that was clever. Very clever. He played to the prejudices of our class. At first you thought him educated, but when he spoke in the Flash argot of the streets, you immediately thought that vulgar speech was his mother tongue and that the educated speech had been deliberately acquired for various nefarious purposes. You did not even consider that the educated speech might be his natural mode of speaking and that the Flash talk was acquired." "Good God," Sir Charles breathed in wonder, "Who is he?" "It should not be too hard to find out. I would guess from a Catholic family probably involved in organizing approaches to Rome. We could assume such a family may also be politically active: a strict religious family involved in the Catholic emancipation movement. And there's his name, of course." "Jem?" The Marquess laughed, "No -- though that is probably a family corruption of James or Jerome -- both good Catholic names. No. The name Fleet is, I suspect an abbreviation of the name Fleetwood, and that is a very common name among the landed gentry." "You suspect they disowned him?" The Marquess nodded. "I would say it was most likely he was shown the door after having been discovered in flagrante. I can imagine a strictly religious family doing such a thing." He shot a cynical look at his friend. "Which brings us very neatly back to Eugenia. If you wanted to introduce a Catholic into your house, even as a guest, what would she say?" Sir Charles looked stiff and uncomfortable. "I believe she would probably insist I did not do so." "And if you felt that this person must be sheltered, what would you do?" Sir Charles looked at him wryly, with a resigned air. "I would probably ask you, as my true friend, to take him in." The Marquess bowed slightly, "And being your true friend, I would unhesitatingly oblige." There was silence and then Sir Charles said, "You are playing with fire, Nat. Your reputation could be irreparably damaged. You could be ostracized from all polite society." "I know, I know. I quake at the thought, but the risks are worth it. But think what we could achieve if we had a spy in DeMontfort's household - in his bed. We would have ample warning and be able to swoop when the time is right." "Fleet would have to be told all the details and he must be given free choice in this matter. If DeMontfort is the man we suspect he is.." "He is. I know it here." And he tapped his chest. "We have no proof, Nat. I say if - if the man is what we suspect he is, then Fleet will be in very grave danger. I say again. If his life is to be put in the firing line, then he must have the choice. No coercion. No threats of imprisonment or the hangman's noose. Do you agree?" The Marquess nodded Sir Charles said, "But there is one other thing, Nat..." "What is that?" Sir Charles squirmed uncomfortably. "To have a man use his ... body in this way ... no matter how worthy the reason ...well.. There's something unEnglish about it." The Marquess stared at his friend, then let out a ripple of laughter. "If I thought it would give us the edge, then I would have him paint his face and dress up as a damned Hottentot. To be unEnglish is the least of our problems." The Marquess began pacing the room. "I will have this French bastard. He shall feel the weight of my foot on his neck. I will have him." Sir Charles sighed and stood up and stretched. He turned to the Marquess, and asked in a resigned tone, "What are we going to do?" The Marquess gave a lop-sided grin. "We? What I am going to do is try to enlist the support of Fleet without revealing too much of our hand. What I would like you to do is to assemble the soldiers and have them ready to ride out. We shall take Fleet in my carriage, whether he is willing or no." Sir Charles looked steadily at his friend. "No," he said shortly. The Marquess raised his eyebrows. "Charles?" Sir Charles said firmly, "No. I shall be by your side when you approach Fleet." The Marquess grinned again. "Do you mistrust me?" Sir Charles smiled back at his friend. "Let us say rather, that I should like to assure myself, first hand, that Fleet fully understands the danger he will be in and that his choice in the matter is truly free." The Marquess nodded, then added, thoughtfully, "He will have to be paid." Sir Charles shrugged his agreement and went to the kitchen to fetch the young man. They returned a moment later with Jem brushing crumbs off his coat. The Marquess was standing and indicated Jem to be seated. "Mr. Fleet," the Marquess began, "we have decided to offer you two choices. You are entirely free to choose either one. There will be no compulsion " -- a swift look at Sir Charles -- " to choose any particular one, though frankly we would be delighted if you chose the second." Jem said cautiously, "What choices, my lord?" The Marquess seated himself opposite Jem and leaned forward and began to talk earnestly. "First choice. You will be released from our custody and we withdraw and you will never see us again. All suggestions of prosecution for any crime shall be forgotten and you shall be as free as you were before. We can offer to transport you to another town -- within reason - as I don't think you will be able to find employment in this village, and I believe it would be unwise for you to remain here. However that is for you to decide. We can pay you a small sum -- say five pounds -- as recompense for the distress we have caused you. That is the essence of your first choice." Jem realized he had been holding his breath and let it out slowly. He noticed the Marquess looked to his friend who nodded. Secretly Jem was delighted though he carefully kept his face expressionless. Almost instantly, he made up his mind to take this offer, though a natural caution made him wait to hear the second choice. "And the second choice, my lord?" The Marquess took a deep breath. "We wish to recruit you for a particular difficult mission." Jem was astounded. "M-me, my lord?" The Marquess smiled his lop-sided smile. "You have very special talents that we can use. We wish to insinuate you into the household of a man we suspect of treasonous activities and have you report back to us if, and when, you think any activity in his house would be of interest to us." Jem looked steadily at the Marquess. "And that special talent I have that you think makes me useful is...?" Sir Charles snapped impatiently, "God boy, do we have to spell it out?" The Marquess held up his hand and said, "Charles, please." He looked steadily at Jem; green eyes fixing Jem's blue ones. "I shall spell it out," he said. "If this ... person wishes to take you to his bed, we want you to accept and consolidate your relationship with him." Jem said steadily, "Do you wish me actively to seduce him?" The Marquess answered, "I would wish that he was under the impression that he was leading the dance, and that you were a shy but eager partner following. `Tis more flattering, I think, especially to a creature of his stamp." Jem continued looking at the Marquess steadily, manfully resisting the temptation to grin knowingly. "You do realize, do you not, my lord," he said softly, "that what you're asking of me is precisely that for which you threatened me with hanging but an hour since?" In the background, Sir Charles muttered, "I knew it. He won't do it." Jem replied instantly, "I did not say that, Sir Charles." He turned once more to the Marquess. "You treat me as a whore and so I shall act as a whore. What will you pay me to make it worth my while?" Jem was surprised to see the Marquess flush. "There will be considerable danger." Jem froze. "Danger, my lord?" "The man in question is whispered to have exotic appetites... It is also whispered that he is extremely cruel and vicious. Your life would be worthless I believe, were he to uncover the masquerade." Jem said, "I see." The Marquess was watching him closely. "I shall take you into my house as a distant connexion of Sir Charles Clifford here..." Jem said puzzled, "Your house? Why not his?" Sir Charles muttered again, "Just as I told you." The Marquess gave a tight smile. "Lady Clifford is well known for having old-fashioned Protestant prejudices against Catholics." Jem stared at him, and as he realized the import of these words, a flush slowly suffused his features. The Marquess said, "I shall groom you and train you to the best of my ability. You shall be given all the information we can to help you. Once the introduction has been made, it is up to you to convey to him the signs of the Approachable. I have sufficient faith in your considerable beauty and your vast experience to hazard he will offer you a carte blanche, which you, with much attractive demurring, shall accept. And then we shall see what we shall see." Jem looked at him thoughtfully. He said suddenly, "How much?" The Marquess was ready for this question. "One thousand pounds." There was a strangled noise from Sir Charles. The Marquess added, with a slight smile at the stifled outrage of his friend, "... payable when this person is arrested." "And if he escapes, after all our efforts?" The Marquess noted the "our". "Five hundred pounds, payable when we believe he is no longer a threat." Jem said, "With your permission, my lord, I should like to consider your proposal." Jem rose and moved to the fire, where he sat in the ingle gazing into the flames. Sir Charles moved quickly to his friend and said in an urgent whisper, "For God's sake, Nat. A thous..." The Marquess held up his hand imperiously for silence. There was no movement in the room as Jem considered the proposition. The first choice, which had seemed so very attractive, now seemed cold and dull. If he took that choice, he could not see that he would ever rise from the gutter. The second choice now seemed like a glittering prize. In spite of the danger that had been emphasized, he realized there was no other decision he could make. He stood and approached the two men. "My lord Chesham, Sir Charles," he said, "I choose the second choice. But I don't know what assurance of my good faith I can give you." The Marquess smiled, a wonderfully beautiful smile. "Mr. Fleet," he said, "your word is all the bond I need." And Jem gazed with wonder into the man's face as though seeing him for the first time.