by Stuart Clark
A few steps further, and the unmistakeable sound of raised voices reached his ears.
‘You are nothing but a common thief!’
‘You did nothing but pass off others’ work as your own.’
Halley worked a path through the guests in the hallway towards the drawing-room. Some were staring into their glasses; others were craning to catch a glimpse of the combatants.
He saw Mary, looking fraught, and worked his way to her.
‘Where have you been?’ she whispered.
The voices rose again.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Hooke.
‘Then you are unfit to take part in the discussion as you have not read the work of your predecessors. Ask Sir Christopher if you don’t believe me. He also had the inverse square before you.’
‘There is nothing you can say that will excuse the erroneous diagram you sent me in ‘79. You clearly didn’t understand orbital motion then, did you, Mr Newton?’
‘A careless slip with a pen that you mistook for a spiral.’
‘Tell the truth!’ roared Hooke. ‘I corrected you then and I’ll correct you again now.’
A circle of onlookers had formed around the two men and Halley squeezed between them. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, stepping into the ring.
Newton was leaning towards Hooke, chin jutting and nostrils flaring. Hooke was making vicious stabbing gestures to emphasise his words.
‘Gentlemen!’
Newton glanced at Halley and the wildness in his eyes began to subside. ‘If you must know, Mr Hooke, your harrying letters gave me no peace at a time of great distress. I was recovering from the death of my mother, and even you can appreciate the impact of a death in the family. There, now you know the full of it.’
Hooke turned to stone, pale lips parted.
Halley seized his opportunity and slid a comradely arm around Hooke’s shoulders. ‘Come on, Robert. Let’s get you home.’
Newton watched, his expression uncertain. Bizarrely, it reminded Halley of the look that crossed little Margaret’s face when confronted with something she could not comprehend.
‘Excuse us,’ said Halley. ‘I think Robert may be feeling under the weather.’
Hooke said nothing as Halley led him from the room. Behind them, conversation resumed.
It took most of the next morning to tidy the house. They threw open the windows, admitting the scent of flowers and the loaded smell of pollen. Mrs Fletcher found glasses in all the tiny nooks and crannies where guests invariably choose to hide them. Mary collected up the laundry amid protests from Mrs Fletcher, who insisted that it was her job. William stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, the way he had seen men do in the Islington fields, and helped Halley to rearrange the furniture. And Margaret watched all this activity, intrigued.
‘I do hope Mr Hooke will be all right,’ said Mary.
‘He was more himself again by the time I helped him into the carriage.’ Halley swung an armchair into place.
‘I’m glad you insisted on him being driven.’
‘He told me he often walks at night now.’
‘All the same, I should only have worried more.’
As troubling as the episode with Hooke and Newton had been, Halley’s mind was preoccupied with the conversation with Pepys. In the middle of the night he had resolved to forget the whole thing, but by the morning he had come to accept that Pepys’s proposal was the only solution. As long as James was alive, the Earl of Essex’s ghost would haunt him. He had to show his loyalty somehow, and this could be an opportunity to make some money at the same time. The rent from his father’s properties was adequate, but hardly a fortune, especially after he doled out half to Joane.
‘Mary, I’ve been offered a ship.’
‘Are you going to take it?’
‘I am.’
She stopped folding the lace napkins. ‘But I thought you were happy at home.’
‘I am.’
‘Then why?’ She searched his face. Halley almost started to tell Mary everything – the truth about the day his father had turned up at Islington, his suspicions about the old man’s subsequent demise, James’s new suspicion, and the threat of a Dutch invasion. He wanted to confess it all, to help her understand, but he stopped himself. Only by not telling her could he protect her if things went wrong. These days it seemed knowledge was like a spice from Asia; the very smallest quantity came at the greatest price.
He could see in her eyes that she knew he was concealing something.
‘Don’t treat me like other men treat their wives. I thought we were different.’
‘We are different, except in this one matter. I cannot reveal myself.’
‘Is it another woman, now that I am confined?’
‘No, Mary, no. You know I love only you. One day, I promise, I will tell you what compels me to do this, but it will not be today. You have to trust me.’ He hoped that she would not probe further.
She hugged herself and looked away, blinking.
‘Do you trust me as I trust you?’
It took her a moment to nod. He pulled her into his arms. She did not resist, but she did not hug him back either. He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘Don’t play with me, Edmond,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’
‘I never will, I swear.’
28
London
It took eighteen uncertain months for James’s reign to break. When it did, it was as sudden as a bridge collapsing. It was in the early hours of a frosty night illuminated only by starlight. Hooke was out walking, wandering really, when he observed a carriage pulled by galloping horses speeding out of St James’s Park.
The King is fleeing!
London was already buzzing with the news that William had landed at Torbay and was making steady progress towards London, taking Plymouth, Salisbury and Hungerford in a coordinated surge. Messengers reached London every day carrying stories of further relentless progress. Only at Reading had the King’s Irish soldiers put up any form of resistance. Even then they had been soundly beaten by the Dutch and forced into retreat towards London.
As William’s army approached, Hooke had noticed a precipitous rise in the number of men prowling the streets at night. They would accost passers-by and question them about their motives for being out, then claim that they were watching out for Catholic incursions or attempts by the papists to defend the city. Hooke mistrusted all of them and thought many were just spoiling for a fight, especially after he heard that there had been skirmishes to the north of the city.
Hooke saw the King’s carriage head west and out of London. He was not the only spectator. A rabble, drawn from the side-streets by the sound, gazed after the receding vehicle almost forlornly, unsure what to do now their greatest wish had been realised.
‘Wallsworth, he’s a papist,’ said one voice, raising a chorus of gruff agreement.
Hooke watched as they battered down a nearby door and stormed inside. He turned to leave, bumping into a man in his nightshirt who had stepped out to see what all the fuss was about.
‘Go back inside and barricade your doors,’ Hooke told him, before hastening to Gresham.
As the December air bit into Hooke’s face, he clutched the wooden balustrades on his observing platform and peered out over the darkened roofs. More and more people were surging into the streets now, spreading as fast as the fire had decades before, and Hooke spent the rest of the night listening to the cries of the mob and those subjected to its rough justice. The first twists of flame began shortly after as the Catholic churches were ransacked and their furniture used as kindling.
Dawn’s light brought no warmth but a certain grey calm to the city. Smoke palls drifted, and the streets were filled with people carrying armfuls of panic-bought provisions. As Hooke threaded his way through the crowds, rumours, gossip and the occasional recrimination caught his ears.
Overladen carts lined up at makesh
ift roadblocks, creating impasse on the streets. Hooke suspected that the self-appointed militia who had taken to the streets last night were now manning those barriers. He shuddered at the thought, especially when he saw a line of men and women kneeling against a wall, their wrists bound with bailers’ twine. Men dressed in civilian clothing and carrying bludgeons stood alongside them. Hooke noticed that a few sported wide, white collars that harked back to Puritan garb.
Negotiating Bishopsgate without being challenged, he dipped into the alleyways leading to the coffee-shops and let out an audible sigh of relief when he found Wren in Garraway’s.
‘We’ll soon be in the grip of mob rule,’ said an anxious man.
‘The Lord Mayor is doing what he can to bridge the gap,’ explained Wren. ‘At dawn this morning he moved on the Tower, which is now in our hands.’
‘What of Jeffreys? I heard they picked him up in a tavern in Wapping. They say he was disguised as a sailor.’
‘He’s in the Tower for his own protection.’
‘Protection?’ The man sneered and spat on the floor.
It soon became difficult to follow the threads of conversation. Everyone was speaking at once, stoking each other’s fears.
‘I’ll tell you something for certain,’ said a weary old merchant. ‘If James has gone, he won’t have paid that Irish army of his before taking off, and we all know what an unpaid army does to recoup its losses.’
‘I’ve heard they’re marching on London already,’ piped up another.
Wren gestured for the men to be quiet. ‘Gentlemen, they won’t march into the city. It would be madness.’
‘They won’t march in daylight, that’s certain,’ said the merchant. ‘They’ll wait for night and slit our throats while we sleep.’
As darkness laid its blanket over the city, the streets filled up once more. The militia gathered in ominous silence at the city gates, blocking routes into the city with rubbish and anything they could loot from Catholic houses. Hooke once again stood vigil on the observing platform, scanning the horizon from the Tower to the walls of St Paul’s and on to Westminster. He listened, alert at any moment to hear the first wail of the Irish onslaught.
He was still there at dawn, frigid and shivering. The night had passed and the attack was stillborn, if it had ever been intended. He learned later that groups of Irishmen were wandering the countryside that night, and rather than slitting throats they were begging for help to get home.
James’s last hope had crumbled.
London was William’s for the taking.
The cannons of London Tower boomed, rolling their thunder around the city and sending their smoky white billows across the well-wishers on Tower Hill. It was Coronation Day, and the volley marked the beginning of the festivities.
En route to the city that morning, the Halleys had insisted on hauling Hooke out of Gresham, where they had found the man absorbed by a piece of clockwork.
‘I thought you were off sailing,’ said Hooke, looking bewildered.
Halley laughed. ‘I finished that months ago.’
‘I haven’t seen you at meetings.’
Halley hesitated. There was a pall over the Society these days. Hooke’s decreasing vigour and interest had translated into a drastic reduction in the number of experiments. Though it pained Halley to admit it, he was finding it increasingly difficult to motivate himself to attend, and his spell of surveying had rekindled his passion for the water. He was already planning further voyages.
Mary, sensing he was at a loss, said, ‘I’m so pleased to see you looking more yourself, Mr Hooke. You had us quite worried for a while there. We came to ask you to accompany us to the Coronation.’
‘Is that today?’
They set off and found a space close to the double stone towers of Westminster Abbey.
‘We’ll see everything from here,’ said Mary, bobbing excitedly at Edmond’s left arm. They waited in the chill February air, insulated by the mass of bodies around them. The happy morass of people not only filled the streets, they hung from windows and clung to chimneys, all hoping for a glimpse of royalty.
Mrs Fletcher had stayed in Cripplegate with Margaret and baby Katherine, who had been born soon after Halley had returned from the Thames estuary. He had been so caught up in the joy of a second safe delivery that it had only occurred to him some hours after the birth that he had been hoping for a son.
The first sign of the serpentine procession was the women scattering flowers and herbs on to the river of blue velvet laid for the occasion. Behind them a knight in full armour rode a white stallion. Drummers and trumpeters stoked the patriotic fervour of the onlookers, provoking them to cheers. Halley placed his arm around Mary and squeezed her tightly, lifting her on tiptoe so she could see more clearly. Red-robed officials, black-robed Anglican clerics and choristers in angelic white walked past at a stately pace. A pair of men in heraldic tabards followed, each carrying a royal sceptre – one for William and one for Mary. The Lord Mayor followed, his chain of office glinting in the late winter sunshine and his trailing scarlet robe held up by an attendant.
The golden canopy that sheltered the King and Queen had just bobbed into view at the back of the line when Halley heard Hooke say, ‘By the grace of heaven!’ It was followed by a snort.
Halley followed Hooke’s gaze and caught sight of a tall man with a silver frizz of hair sticking out from beneath the wide brim of a black hat. He was walking with his cleft chin held high.
‘How did he get there?’ asked Hooke.
‘He’s a powerful man now. His stand against Judge Jeffreys has been recognised. Cambridge has put him forward as its Member of Parliament.’
Newton walked by, not five feet from them, but showed not the slightest hint of recognition.
Hooke watched him pass. ‘Powerful for now,’ he said, ‘but everyone’s ignoring his secret: why has he never signed Cambridge’s Oath of Allegiance? What’s he hiding? I’ve no more energy to fight him, but someone will. And when they do, Mr Newton will get his comeuppance.’
29
Hampton Court
The wherry bobbed to a stop under the boot of a royal guard on the quayside. Newton held up his invitation. The guard looked offended at having to lean forward in his stiff armour. He made a lingering appraisal of Newton before dropping his eyes to the printed card. Newton felt the smallest twist of uncertainty in his stomach.
The court of William and Mary: I might as well be stepping ashore in a foreign land.
‘The Dutch philosopher, Christiaan Huygens, adviser to the King, has invited me here,’ he said.
The wherryman leaned on his staff to hold the vessel steady as Newton rose to disembark. The guard removed his foot abruptly and the wherry rocked; to his horror, Newton imagined taking a tumble into the Thames. With a rather inelegant display of arm-flapping, he regained his balance and stepped on to the wooden quay.
A row of soldiers carrying short pikes remained outwardly impassive, but Newton knew they were sneering at him. He shot each one in turn a filthy look as he strode past.
Beyond the guards, set back from the top of the grass embankment, towered the red brick walls of Hampton Court; across its roofline ran a regiment of chimneys. The building was another monument to the profligacy of Cardinal Woolsey and Catholic self-aggrandisement. At least its reclamation by a Protestant monarch was a step in the right direction.
He was assailed by forbidden thoughts. One step at a time, he warned himself. An Anglican England is better than a Catholic one.
He forced himself to concentrate on the patterns in the brickwork as he climbed the steps of the embankment. Ignored by Charles and James, the palace had been left to crumble over the last two decades. Craftsmen and servants milled about its entrance like bees returning to a hive. Carpenters carried wood, cooks carried bowls and boys dashed to and fro with messages and packages, all caught in the whirlwind of the royal court.
Two men were walking towards him. Instead of workmen
’s aprons, they were dressed in the clothes of gentlemen. Newton fancied that the one on the left must be Huygens. Stooped, with a considerable paunch, he wore an expensive wig of dark curls and a rust-coloured jacket. He held the garment closed in a rather self-conscious way. The stiffness in his walk betrayed his six decades, but his eyes were still bright and his full lips wore a ready smile.
‘Mr Newton, finally to stand face to face!’ Huygens spoke with a strange accent, unlike the Dutch Newton had grown accustomed to hearing. He fancied it must be the influence of Huygens’s decades in Paris.
‘A welcome respite from the volumes of correspondence I am now forced to endure. There seems hardly a day goes by without another letter from somebody previously unknown to me.’
‘A tribute to your Principia. Copies are already highly sought and rather difficult to come by.’
‘Perhaps Mr Halley should have printed more. Still, I’m already planning a second edition to address the problems I left unsolved.’
‘A second edition?’ Huygens’s companion queried in a different, softer accent.
Newton shifted his attention.
‘Do excuse me,’ said Huygens. ‘May I introduce Nicolas Fatio de Duillier, who I dare say is a name to watch. He is a gifted mathematician from Geneva.’
Newton caught the young man’s gaze and held it, entranced by such large eyes in an elfin face. ‘Delighted to have you in London.’
‘The pleasure, sir, is mine alone.’ Fatio bowed extravagantly, managing to keep eye contact all the way down and up again.
The exception to Fatio’s beauty was his nose, a large, rather ugly thing that dominated his face. At least, that was the impression his bashful expression gave, but Newton rather liked the fact that the young man was not quite perfect.
‘Do you now make your home in the Low Countries, Monsieur Fatio?’ he asked, the French title sounding awkward from his lips.
‘No sir, I teach mathematics in Spittlefields.’
Newton raised an eyebrow. ‘A resident of London. Then perhaps we will see more of each other.’