As Thomas turned to follow Evelyn, he noticed that the man who had asked Hartlib about noxious gases was slipping out of a side door leading from the elaboratory to the western gate of Sayes Court.
‘That gentleman is not joining us?’ asked Thomas, as Evelyn ushered him towards the other door.
‘What? Oh, no. Mr Mulberry has other business to see to this evening.’
Mulberry. Thomas was certain he didn’t know anyone by the name, but he was not so certain that he had never seen that man, with his ruddy face and hawk nose, before.
Mary Evelyn and Clémence were waiting for them in the withdrawing room. Evelyn’s wife was very young, and pretty at best, her fair curls framing the compliant, slightly plump face from which anxious eyes looked out. The contrast with Clémence could hardly have been greater. The Frenchwoman was almost a head taller, and might have been taken for a Puritan, or a well-dressed housekeeper. Her light brown hair was pulled back and pinned under a simple grey coif, which matched the grey silk of her dress. She’s trying to make herself look plain, Thomas thought. And perhaps she did look plain, to those who did not know her. To Thomas, though, the severity of her dress only served to highlight the strength of her features, the intelligent forehead, the firm nose, the wide mouth with its knowing smile. And the eyes, a piercing, sparkling grey. But most of all Thomas’s eyes were drawn to the only ornaments Clémence wore – small drop-pearl earrings mounted in silver, with gold fittings. Thomas wondered if he was the only man in the room who knew that those earrings had once belonged to the Queen of Bohemia, and that they had been gifted to Clémence by Rupert of the Rhine.
Whilst servants passed round glasses of good burgundy and dishes of the finest sweetmeats Thomas had had in months, he felt himself begin to relax.
‘Do I detect your Breton touch in these very fine galettes, Mademoiselle Barguil?’ said Hollar, helping himself to a third. ‘I think I have heard you hail from Fougères?’
‘Fougères was my childhood home, but I spent much of my youth at the French court. It was there that I had the good fortune to meet Mistress Evelyn, though she was not Mistress Evelyn then, of course.’ No, Mary Evelyn had then been the not-so-simple Mary Browne, daughter to Sir Richard Browne, Charles Stuart’s ambassador to the French court. Evelyn’s father-in-law was still the exiled King’s resident in Paris, and John Thurloe had been very pleased indeed that Thomas Faithly had managed to worm his way into the society of Sayes Court. ‘And then,’ Clémence continued, ‘it was also my misfortune to encounter many rogues, such as Sir Thomas here. But I am delighted to see he is turning his mind to more sober pursuits than he did then.’
Thomas could have sworn he saw a glint in her eye, but he decided it would hardly be worth him taking a chance on Evelyn’s sense of humour by rising to the bait.
‘A young man’s folly, Clémence.’ He forced a smile towards Evelyn. ‘I hope I may be allowed to make reparation.’
Evelyn said something in Greek.
‘I am sorry,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘but my brother was the scholar. You’ll have to enlighten me.’
Evelyn translated. ‘Repentance is the beginning of wisdom.’
Thomas said nothing and conversation returned to discussion of Hartlib’s stove, and its properties in dispelling noxious odours. This, as Thomas had feared it might, set Evelyn off on his hobby-horse of the poor quality of London air, the evils of sea coal, and what might be done to improve the quality of life in the city. Move it to Yorkshire, Thomas thought, but did not say. Evelyn’s solution, expounded at great length, seemed to involve the creation of gardens and the planting of many trees. Thomas found himself surprised, for once, to be in agreement with his host.
As the wine and the sweetmeats and the warmth of the room took their effect, Hollar began to speak of music, and of the pity that organs had been removed from nearly all the churches, and placed in taverns instead.
‘But a private man may still have fine music in his home, Wenceslaus, of that we can be grateful. And there is many a profitable study to be made, of course, of the mathematical properties of music.’
Thomas could not help himself. ‘Ah, but is it not better just to enjoy a good old English song for the sheer pleasure of it?’
When Evelyn turned his long gaze on him, Thomas thought it might have been better to have held his tongue. It would serve him ill to fall out with this man without first learning something to Thurloe’s advantage. Turning his attention to the others, Evelyn said, ‘I have here a manuscript which I think might be of some interest to you gentlemen.’ He lifted out a folio and carried it to a nearby side table, where he opened it with some care. Hartlib and the others gathered round, and Thomas bestirred himself to do likewise. ‘One of Carissimi’s motets, transcribed in his own hand, of course. I picked it up whilst in Rome, in ’45.’ He glanced over Hartlib’s shoulder to where Thomas Faithly stood. ‘Is Carissimi known at all, in Yorkshire, Sir Thomas?’
Thomas held his gaze. ‘I daresay he is. But,’ he added, not quite draining his glass and setting it down perilously near to the manuscript on the side table, ‘you have me at an advantage: I was otherwise occupied when you were busy in Rome buying manuscripts. In ’45. I’ll bid you goodnight, gentlemen.’
Thomas turned away and made quickly for the door, pausing briefly only to make a short bow to Mary Evelyn and Clémence as the footman sprang forward to show him from the withdrawing room. He was down the drive and part way towards the gates of Sayes Court by the time Clémence, her skirts billowing in the chill November wind, was close enough to call out to him.
‘Thomas. Wait!’
Thomas stopped on hearing her voice, and waited. When she reached him he turned to face her. ‘I am sorry, Clémence. I could tolerate no more.’
‘It is possible that he did not realise what he was saying.’
‘Didn’t realise?’ Thomas was incredulous. ‘What, that when he was in Rome admiring ruined temples and buying pretty manuscripts I was knee-deep in blood and gore alongside the Prince at Naseby? I watched with Rupert as his Bluecoats martyred themselves in the King’s cause, Clémence, and Evelyn can speak to me of manuscripts?’ He was almost overwhelmed with disgust. But perhaps it was beyond her, a Frenchwoman, to understand what it had been to see Englishmen slaughter each other. He held out a hand, as if helpless. ‘I don’t know how you stand it.’
‘For Mary’s sake,’ she said. ‘She is my friend.’
‘Then I don’t know how she stands it.’
Clémence shook her head as if at an uncomprehending child. ‘Because he is her husband, and so she must. And because she loves him, even you must see that.’
Thomas was dismissive. ‘Because she has never known any different.’ He took a moment to calm himself. ‘But you, Clémence, you do not take a husband.’
‘Nor shall I.’
‘What, even if Rupert should ask?’
Clémence laughed, and it was the saddest laugh Thomas had ever heard. ‘You know I would follow the Prince to the ends of this earth, but you also know he does not love me. And so do I.’
Thomas’s voice softened. ‘Then the Prince is a fool.’ He took her hand. ‘You could always marry me.’
A glistening he thought he had seen in her eyes intensified and Thomas feared he had made matters worse, but when she looked up at him he could see she was laughing in delight.
‘Oh, my dear, kind, Thomas. If I were to marry any other man, it would be you. And what a rogue and a loving, and an unfaithful ne’er-do-well of a husband you would make me! And who knows? Perhaps we would be happy misfits, you and I.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I will never forget that you asked me.’
He squeezed her hand back, and she grew serious. ‘But we must never compromise, we two, not really. We will say what we must say, and do what we must do, but we will never compromise.’
He was glad of the darkness, because he th
ought she must surely otherwise have seen his shame, that he had abandoned the cause she never would. ‘I will not ask you to come back to Sayes Court,’ she went on, ‘but please don’t abandon me. I’m here not just as Mary’s friend, but to advise John on the planting of his gardens. I have some commissions to carry out for him. Will you be my escort?’
Thomas lifted her hand and brushed it softly with his lips. ‘While there is breath in my body, Clémence.’
Again she laughed. ‘Or until you come upon a prettier face.’
Six
A Message from Kent’s Coffee House
Seeker was making his way through New Palace Yard to his appointed meeting with Thomas Faithly. It was very early, scarcely light, and only perfunctory greetings were murmured as people began to set up their stalls or go to their offices. Seeker liked this time of the morning, despite the cold and murk – people just got on with things and rarely bothered him. But today, it was different; today the sounds of an argument were rising from a doorway beneath an admiralty lodging, and it was no common argument. A young woman was shouting loudly, in French, at a young man who appeared to be trying to take hold of her.
Sighing in irritation, Seeker checked his steps and strode instead towards the arguing couple. The young woman was facing him, and must have seen him, but did not appear to care who might hear her diatribe. The man had his back to Seeker, and was not aware of his approach, until a pair of large hands took him by the shoulder and forced him round.
‘You!’ said Seeker.
‘Captain!’ The look on Samuel Pepys’s face was something between embarrassment and relief.
‘Are you bothering this young . . .’ Seeker had been about to say woman, but in truth, the young woman was hardly more than a girl. He turned to the girl, whose face was a study of indignation, whether at being importuned by Pepys or interrupted by Seeker was unclear. ‘Is this man bothering you?’
The girl stared at him and began to reply in French before switching to faultless English, with strong overtones of the city. ‘Indeed, you might well say he is bothering me and has been this last year altogether. That I should have to tolerate such a man! Such treatment! If I had but listened to my mother!’
‘Oh, please, my dear,’ interjected Pepys, ‘do not go back again to your mother. I shall find us better lodgings, I will be a better husband, I—’
But Pepys got to say no more. ‘Husband?’ said Seeker in disbelief. ‘This girl is your wife?’
Pepys looked slightly abashed. ‘Ah, yes, Captain. I have that happiness, since last December, in fact. I have not made it altogether known – young clerks are not encouraged to encumber themselves with a wife until such time as they are—’
But this time it was the young woman who interrupted him. ‘Encumber? Encumber?’ And so ensued another tirade of French, little of which Seeker could comprehend, other than that the young woman was indeed returning to her sagacious mother.
Once she had left, there was an astonished silence, an almost tangible empty space where she had been, the desolation that succeeds a storm. Seeker looked down at the somewhat dejected Treasury clerk. ‘Is it always like that?’
Pepys nodded. ‘Most of the time.’
‘Well,’ said Seeker, finding himself suddenly awkward, ‘she is very young.’
Pepys’s face lightened. ‘Not so very young, Captain. She has turned sixteen now, you know, and oh, she is so very pretty. I am half-mad for her.’
Seeker gave a short laugh. ‘I don’t think she’s half-mad for you, lad. Not just now, at any rate. You won’t have had any breakfast yet, I suppose?’
‘Ahem, no. I had hoped marriage might bring me some home comforts, and set me on an honest path, if you know what I mean, but alas . . . the comforts of marriage are not quite as I had anticipated.’
‘No,’ said Seeker, ‘I daresay they’re not.’ He inclined his head across the yard. ‘Come on then, I’ll stand you your draught and a dish of eggs at the Turk’s Head, and you can make yourself useful. I’ve been wanting to talk to you anyway.’
Pepys’s face, which had brightened considerably at the thought of breakfast, fell again. He sighed. ‘Lead the way, Captain. Lead the way.’
There were few people in the coffee house. Samuel seemed to know them all, and they all knew Seeker. It was with no great difficulty that they got a seat near the fire, for which Samuel was volubly grateful, bending over the hearth and rubbing his hands. ‘She has much to learn of housekeeping too, I’m afraid,’ he said, as if there had been no break in their conversation, ‘and I am oftentimes obliged to get my own fire.’
‘Astonishing,’ said Seeker.
‘I know. But will she be told?’
Seeker waited until their order had been taken and the food and drink brought. As Pepys fell upon his eggs like a man half-starved, he leaned closer. ‘A couple of months back, I heard you mention a man by the name of Fish, with lodgings on King Street.’ The intelligence letter from Stoupe in Paris that Thurloe had chosen not to act upon, with regard to a conspirator of that name, was still playing on his mind.
Pepys thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘Disagreeable fellow. Nothing much to say for himself.’
‘How did you come to know him?’
Pepys paused in his chewing. ‘I didn’t. Not really. I just found myself a few times at the same pie stall around the corner from Bell Yard. I attempted pleasantries once or twice, just to pass the time as we waited, but he was gruff and hardly gave a word back to me. I soon desisted.’
‘How did you know his name?’
‘Pie woman called it out,’ said Pepys through a mouthful of bread.
‘And have you seen him of late?’
Pepys shook his head. ‘Not in a good few weeks. I think he must be gone from his lodgings there.’
‘Where exactly were those lodgings?’
Pepys made a face. ‘Somewhere off King Street, I think. I’m sorry, Captain, perhaps the pie woman will know.’
Seeker heaved a sigh. ‘Aye, perhaps. And did you ever see him talking with anyone?’
‘I took little notice of him, Captain. He was an ill-mannered fellow and I paid him no more heed.’
‘Hmm.’ Seeker stood up. ‘Well, that’ll do for now. You’d best not be here too long, no doubt Mr Downing will be looking for you.’
Pepys became forlorn, but even as Seeker was walking out the door of the Turk’s Head, he saw that the young Treasury clerk was already in animated conversation with two newly arrived customers who had greeted him by name.
Seeker soon found the pie stall by the end of Bell Yard. The woman there did indeed remember Mr Fish, and she was also able to direct him to where he had lodged, in a room above a tailor’s shop on King Street. As he thanked her, a fresh mutton pasty in his hand, Seeker thought he would check whether the woman was already in their pay, and if not, to suggest that she was put on it.
At Fish’s lodgings above the tailor’s, the neighbours conferred until they were satisfied with their answers to Seeker’s questions. Yes, the man had lived there. He had been there a good few months, three or four, but had not been seen in weeks. Yes, it would have been around the time of the opening of the last Parliament. No, they did not know where he had come here from. One of them, an old soldier himself, was certain the man had been a soldier too. Fish had had few visitors, only one other fellow from time to time, also with the look of a soldier, and an old man, but the old man had only appeared latterly, and none could recall having spoken to him. Fish had not been friendly. No one was sorry he had gone.
Seeker took a description from them, and it tallied pretty fairly with what he already knew from Pepys – of middling height, close-shorn brown hair running much to grey, and of stocky build. His nose was bulbous in parts. His visage was neither pleasant nor ugly, but his demeanour did not invite familiarity. All in all, Fish was unremarkable in
appearance, and his description would fit almost every third man Seeker passed in the street. There was nothing more to be done on the matter of Mr Fish, and as Thurloe had pointed out, the rumoured attack on the Protector at the opening of Parliament had never taken place. Seeker left King Street and went towards Hyde Park, where he had instructed Thomas Faithly to wait for him.
It was well after their agreed meeting time, but Faithly was still there, under the appointed oak tree. He was standing with his back to Seeker, a hand casually on one hip, evidently watching something. More alert than Pepys had ever been, he spun round at the first sound of Seeker’s approach. ‘I had been about to leave,’ he said once Seeker was within earshot.
‘You’d better not have been,’ said Seeker. ‘If I can’t get to our meeting place at the appointed time, and have sent no messenger to tell you otherwise, you wait.’
Faithly rubbed heavily gauntleted hands together. ‘It is perishing cold out here at this hour of the day.’
Seeker looked around him. ‘It’s not that bad. You must have known colder days than this in the field.’
‘Of course,’ said Faithly. ‘But we are not in the field now, and I can hardly drill on my own.’
Seeker shrugged. ‘Why not? I do, often enough.’
Thomas gave him a weary look. ‘That I can believe. But if I had a horse—’
Seeker cut him short. ‘Perhaps if you’d bring us something useful, we’d give you a horse. But if you’re to carry on playing the hard-up, sequestrated Royalist—’
‘Which is what I am.’
‘Which is indeed what you are,’ agreed Seeker, ‘you must look and live like one.’
‘Whilst the Lord Protector lives like a king, although even his dearest friend, if such he has, would hardly claim he looks like one.’
Seeker drew closer to Thomas Faithly, and spoke to him very quietly. ‘If you repent of your change of loyalties, you have only to say.’
The Bear Pit Page 6