A few moments later he pulled the cork from a bottle of wine and lay back on his bed. He grinned and drank to himself. Tomorrow he would take the girl to Oxford and, after that, he would play his own clever game. Not Lopez’s game, not the girl’s, but his own. One seal was enough. He grinned, shut his eyes, and gave himself up to the oblivion of the bottle.

Part IV

The Gathering of the Seals

Twenty-six

Morning. The seagulls were screaming over the fish market at Billingsgate. Carts rumbled in the streets, the noises of a city trading and waking, a city patrolled by Parliament’s army that still searched for Campion.

Marta Renselinck brought her the dress she was to travel in. “Don’t ask me why, Campion, I don’t know. The pig doesn’t tell me.” Devorax had sent up a cheap, coarse black dress. A bonnet matched the dress.

Mordecai Lopez kissed her on both cheeks. “Maybe I come to your wedding, yes?”

She smiled. “Perhaps Toby doesn’t want to marry me any more.”

“You never told me he was a fool!”

She laughed. “You come to our wedding.”

“If I can. I don’t know. Take care, my dear. You have the seal?”

She nodded. It was round her neck, feeling strangely familiar and strangely odd. “I may let Toby keep it.”

“Good.” He took her elbow. “You have the money?”

“Yes.”

“And Marta has packed your clothes on the cart, and we’ve put in food for the journey. You’ll be safe! And Vavasour has a companion for you, not very pleasant, but he will protect you.”

“A companion?”

“He wants it to be a surprise. Come along!”

In the yard where she had first alighted and come to the house was a small, shabby cart. It was surrounded by Devorax’s men, all of them mounted, all of them armed and decorated with Parliamentary sashes. Only Mason was not armed. He was dressed as shabbily as Campion and waited on the driver’s seat of the cart. Devorax saw her and grinned. “Come here, girl! Meet your brother.” He pointed at Mason.

Mason laughed. “Hello, sister.”

Devorax laughed. “And what are you doing, Mason?”

“Burying father, sir!”

The men guffawed. Devorax, surprisingly agile for a man close to fifty, jumped on to the cart and then reached down for Campion. “Give me your hand.”

In the cart was a long box. Devorax lifted the lid, releasing a reeking stench. “Meet your father.”

Campion grimaced. In the box was the corpse of an old man. The body was emaciated in its grubby winding sheet. The corpse’s hair was white and lank, the cheeks fallen about lips that were blue in death. Vavasour Devorax grinned at her. “We call him ‘Old Tom.’ You’re his daughter, and you’ve got papers saying that you’re taking him to High Wycombe for burial. If anyone asks what he died of, say it was the plague.” He looked down at Old Tom. “He cost me ten pounds. The price of everything’s going up in this damned city.” He dropped the lid, then looked at Mason. “You’re on your own till we’re out of London. Understand?”