Date: Tue, 23 Dec 2008 15:23:10 +0900
From: "graemefj@iinet.net.au" <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<graemefj@iinet.net.au>


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.