The King's Return

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FOR AN HOUR the Dutchman had been standing silent and unmoving in the doorway of a derelict house halfway down the lane. He was hooded and wore black leather gloves, a black coat and soft leather boots. Neither the waiting nor the chill of the night bothered him – he was used to such things – and he would stay there until midnight if he had to. Nor was he concerned at using this lane again. It had served well enough the first time, it was dark and quiet and he had taken up his position early to make sure that there was no one about and to accustom his eyes to the dark.

He had collected his instructions from the usual place behind a loose brick on the side of an inn in Bishopsgate that he checked at a different time every day. This was his second task since arriving from Holland at the end of March. He hoped there would be more.

The bells of a church somewhere in the city signalled ten o’clock. The mark was due. The Dutchman removed a long-bladed knife from inside his coat and carefully tested the edge with his thumb. Not that there was any need – he had whetted the blade himself and knew that it would cut almost anything short of steel – it was just a habit acquired over ten years of perfecting his craft. Ten years in which he had never failed to carry out a commission successfully.

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