by Iain Pears
And while my legal education proceeded, I also decided that I would take the more direct revenge that my father had not been able to exact, for not only did his soul demand it, I considered it by far the quickest way of solving my family’s material problems: once persuaded of the innocence of the father, I was certain His Majesty would recompense the son. Initially I thought the task would be easy: before he fled, my father’s judgement was that Cromwell’s Secretary of State, John Thurloe, had seeded the calumnies against him to spread dissent in the Royalist ranks, and I never doubted that he was correct. It had all the hallmarks of that dark and sinister man, who ever preferred a knife in the back to an upright, honourable combat. But I was too young to do much and, besides, I assumed that sooner or later Thurloe would be tried, and the truth known. Again, youth is naïve, and faith is blind.
For Thurloe was not brought to trial, did not have to flee the country, had not one penny of his ill-gotten gains taken from him. The comparison between the fruits of treachery and the reward for loyalty was stark indeed. On the day near the end of 1662 that I heard it confirmed there would be no trial, I realised that any revenge would have to come from my own hands. Cromwell’s evil genius might escape the law, I thought, but he would not escape justice. I would show all the world that some people, in this debased and corrupted country, still knew the meaning of honour. With the purity of youth it is possible to think in such noble and simple terms. It is a clarity that experience strips from us, and we are all poorer for the loss.
Chapter Three
* * *
FROM THAT DAY I date the beginnings of the campaign that totally occupied me for the next nine months and which ended in the most complete vindication. I had virtually no assistance; instead I criss-crossed the country, seeking out the evidence I required until I finally understood what had happened and was in a position to act. I was abused and humiliated by those who did not believe me, or else had good reason to deflect me from my task. And yet I continued, buoyed by my duty and by the love of the best father a man could ever have. I witnessed the depths of turpitude in those who seek power and understood that, once the principle of birth is undermined, the disinterest that alone can assure good government is fatally compromised. If anyone can achieve power, then all will try and government becomes a mere battle in which principle is sacrificed for interest. The lowest will impose themselves, for the best will shun the gutter. All I managed was to achieve a small victory in a war which was already lost.
Such thoughts were far beyond me in those days, as I walked the streets, sat in lesson and prayer, and lay awake at night in bed, listening to the snoring and snuffling of the other three students who shared the same room with my tutor. One resolution alone stayed in my mind; that I would, in due course, take John Thurloe by the scruff of the neck and slit his throat. But I felt strongly that more than mere vengeance was needed; perhaps those lessons in the law had seeped into me, or perhaps I had imbibed my father’s high sense of principle without realising it. What would he have done? What would he have wanted? This was my ever-present concern. To strike without proof would be false revenge, for I was sure he would not have wanted his only son to be hanged like a common criminal, bringing further stain on to the family. Thurloe was too powerful still for a direct assault. I would need to circle round him, like a huntsman stalking a wily deer, before I could inflict the fatal, final blow.
To set my thoughts in order, I regularly talked over my problems with Thomas Ken. He was one of my few – perhaps even my only – friend at the time, and I trusted him absolutely. He could be tedious company, but each of us needed the other and supplied a lack. We knew one another through family connection, before he was sent to Winchester and thence to New College for a career in the church. His father had been a lawyer consulted on many occasions by my own father when he set himself to oppose those rapacious interlopers who had swept down from London to drain the Fens before the war. My father wished both to protect his own interests and also the rights of those families who had grazed the land since time immemorial. But it was hard work, for the blood-sucking thieves who wished to steal other men’s land acted under the umbrella of the law. My father knew that the only thing that can oppose a lawyer was another lawyer and so this Henry Ken advised him on many occasions, always honestly and effectively. The diligence of one, and the skill of the other, combined with the unstinting resistance of the farmers and graziers whose livelihoods were threatened, meant that progress in the draining was slow, the expenses bigger, and the profits much smaller than expected.
And so Thomas and I had a natural amity, for it is known that the loyalty and gratitude of Lincolnshire men, once forged, can never be broken. It must be said, however, that we made an odd pair. He was of a severe and clerical disposition, rarely drinking, always praying and constantly looking out for souls to save. He made a religion of forgiveness and, though now a firm Anglican who maintains he was ever so, I know that in those days he inclined to dissent. Naturally, that made him suspect then, where hatred was mistaken for fortitude, and smallness of mind was a sign of loyalty. I confess with some shame now that I took great delight in causing him to become discountenanced, since the more he prayed, the more I laughed, and the more he studied, the more bottles I opened to make him blush. In truth, Thomas would have loved to wine and wench, just as I had to struggle hard to keep out feelings of pious dread which, in the dead of night, would creep upon me. And occasionally, in a sudden burst of anger, or a flash of cruelty in his words, the careful observer could see that his kindness and gentle nature were not natural gifts from God, but were wrenched from a hard-fought battle with a darkness deep in his soul. As I say, it was Grove’s misfortune to torment him so much that, one night, the battle was temporarily lost.
For all that, I always found Thomas patient and understanding, and we were useful to one another in the way that people of opposite character can sometimes be. I would give advice about his theological ditherings – soundly, I may say, as he is now a bishop. And he would listen with enormous patience when I would describe, for the fiftieth time, how I would take John Thurloe and slit his throat.
I could hear him let out his breath as he prepared to argue with me again. ‘I must remind you that forgiveness is one of the gifts of God, and that charity is strength, not weakness,’ he said.
‘Piffle,’ I said. ‘I do not intend to forgive anybody, nor do I feel in the slightest bit charitable. The only reason he is still alive is because I do not have the proof I need to avoid a charge of murder.’ Then I went on to tell him the entire story again.
‘The trouble is’, I concluded, ‘I don’t know what to do. What do you think?’
‘You want my considered opinion?’
‘Of course.’
‘Accept the will of God, get on with your studies and become a lawyer.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I meant, how do I find this proof? If you are a friend, please put aside your nit-picking theology for a while and help.’
‘I know what you meant. You want me to give you bad advice, that can only imperil your soul.’
‘Exactly. That’s just what I want.’
Thomas sighed. ‘And supposing you find your evidence? What then? Will you go ahead and commit murder?’
‘That depends on the evidence. But, ideally, yes. I will kill Thurloe, as he killed my father.’
‘No one killed your father.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘You maintain that your father was betrayed and falsely disgraced. Justice was not done. Would it not be better to right that wrong by making sure it was, this time?’
‘You know as well as I do how much it costs to prosecute someone. How am I meant to pay for it?’
‘I merely mention it as a possibility. Will you give me your word that, if it is possible, then you will do it rather than taking matters into your own hands?’
‘If it is possible, which I doubt, then I will.’
‘Good,’ he
said with relief. ‘In that case we can begin to plan your campaign. Unless, of course, you have one already. Tell me, Jack, I have never asked, since your countenance always discourages such questions. But in what was your father’s treachery supposed to consist?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It sounds foolish, but I have never been able to discover. My guardian, Sir William Compton, has not spoken to me since; my uncle refuses to mention my father’s name; my mother shakes her head in sorrow and will not answer even the most direct questions.’
Thomas’s eyes narrowed at my blunt statement. ‘You have your criminal, but do not yet know with any precision what the crime was? That is an unusual position for a man of law to find himself in, is it not?’
‘Perhaps. But these are unusual times. I assume my father was innocent. Do you deny that I must do so? And that, in religion as in law, I have no choice in this matter? Quite apart from the fact that I knew my father quite incapable of acting in so base a fashion.’
‘I grant it is a necessary starting point.’
‘And you grant also that John Thurloe, as Secretary of State, was responsible for all that pertained to the destruction of anyone who challenged Cromwell’s position?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then Thurloe must be guilty,’ I concluded simply.
‘So why do you need proof, if your legal logic is so fine?’
‘Because we live in distempered times, when the law has become the cat’s-paw of the powerful, who tangle it in rules so that they may escape punishment. That is why. And because my father’s character has been so abused that it is impossible to make people see what is obvious.’
Thomas grunted at this, for he knew nothing of the law and believed it to have something to do with justice. As I had once done myself, until I studied it.
‘If I am to triumph at law,’ I continued, ‘I must establish that my father’s character was such that he could not have betrayed anyone. At present he is cast as the betrayer; I must discover who put this story about and for what purpose. Only then will a law court listen.’
‘And how do you intend to do this? Who could tell you?’
‘Not many people, and most of those will be found at court. Already a problem, as I cannot possibly afford to go there.’
Thomas, dear soul that he was, nodded in sympathy. ‘It would be a pleasure if you would let me assist you.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ I said. ‘Why, you are even poorer than I am. God knows I’m grateful, but I’m afraid my requirements far exceed your resources.’
He shook his head, and scratched his chin in the way he always did before launching into a confidence.
‘My dear friend, please don’t concern yourself. My prospects are good and getting better. The parish of Easton Parva is coming up in the gift of my Lord Maynard in nine months’ time. He has asked the warden and thirteen senior Fellows to recommend a candidate, and the warden has already hinted that he thinks I would be more than suitable, as long as I can make clear my full adherence to doctrine. It will be a struggle, but I will grit my teeth, and then eighty pounds a year will be mine. If, that is, I can fight off Dr Grove.’
‘Who?’ I asked in astonishment.
‘Dr Robert Grove. Do you know him?’
‘Very well. And I still have some tender spots to prove it. He was the curate at Sir William Compton’s when I was sent to that family. He acted as my tutor for many years. Such as I know, he put there. What has he got to do with this?’
‘He is now back in his place as a Fellow of New College, and he wants my living,’ Thomas explained, ‘even though he has no claim to preferment except that he has not received any. Frankly, I am very much better suited. A parish needs a young and sound minister. Grove is an old fool who only gets excited when he thinks about the wrongs done to him in the past.’
I laughed. ‘I would hate to be between Dr Grove and something he wants.’
‘I have no great objection to him,’ Thomas said, as though I needed to be reassured on this point. ‘I would be happy for him to be pastured out to a comfortable living, if there were two of them. But there is one only, so what can I do? I need that living more than he. Jack, can I tell you a secret?’
‘I will not stop you.’
‘I wish to marry.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s it, is it? And how much has the lady?’
‘Seventy-five a year, and a manor in Derbyshire.’
‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘But you need a living to persuade the father. I see the problem.’
‘Not only that,’ he said in some obvious distress. ‘I am obviously not allowed to marry as long as I am a Fellow of the college, and I cannot cease being a Fellow until I have a living. What is worse,’ he concluded ruefully, ‘I like the girl.’
‘How unfortunate. Who is she?’
‘The daughter of my aunt’s cousin. A woollen draper in Bromwich. A soundly based man in all respects. And the girl is obedient, meek, hard-working and plump.’
‘Everything a wife should be. With her teeth as well, I hope.’
‘Most of them, yes. Nor has she had smallpox. We would do well, I feel, and her father has not dissuaded me. But he has made it clear that he would not countenance the alliance if I cannot match her portion. Which means a living and, as I have no other connections, one that comes from New College or through its influence. And Easton Parva is the only one likely to come vacant in the next three years.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘These are serious times. Have you been on campaign?’
‘As much as possible. I have talked to all the Fellows, and find myself well received. In fact, many have given me to understand I have their support. I am confident of the outcome. And the fact that the gold men will advance my funds now indicates my confidence is not ill placed.’
‘And the decision is taken when?’
‘Next March or April.’
‘Then I suggest you start living in the chapel, just in case. Recite the thirty-nine articles in your sleep. Praise the archbishop of Canterbury and the king every time you take a drink of wine. Let not a breath of dissent escape your lips.’
He sighed. ‘It will be hard, my friend. I can only do it for the good of the country and the Church.’
I applauded his sense of duty. Do not think me selfish, but I was very keen for Thomas to win his place or, at least, to be the favoured candidate for as long as possible. If it was noised that he would not get the living, the moneylenders would shut their coffers with a snap and that would spell disaster for me as well as for him.
‘I wish you the very best of good luck, then,’ I said, ‘and I counsel you once more to be cautious. You are prone to saying what you think, and there can be no more dangerous habit in one wanting preferment in the Church.’
Thomas nodded, and reached inside his pocket. ‘Here, my good friend. Take this.’
It was a purse, containing three pounds. How can I put this? I was overcome, as much with gratitude for his generosity as I was by disappointment over his limited means. Ten times that much would have been a start; thirty times could have been spent with ease. And yet, sweet man that he was, he gave me all he had and risked his own future in the gift. You see how much I owed him? Remember this; it is important. I take my debts as seriously as my injuries.
‘I cannot thank you enough. Not only for the money, but because you are the only person who believes in me.’
Thomas courteously shrugged it aside. ‘I wish I could do more. Let us turn to business now. Who might you approach to tell you about what happened to your father?’
‘There is only a handful who might know something. Sir John Russell was one, Edward Villiers another. And there was Lord Mordaunt, who did so well from helping the king back on to his throne that he gained a barony and a lucrative sinecure at Windsor as part of his reward. Then, of course, there is whatever I might one day persuade Sir William Compton to tell me.’
‘Windsor is not far from here,’ Thomas pointed out. �
��Scarcely a day’s journey, and only a couple if you walk. If Lord Mordaunt is to be found there, then it would be the most economical place to start.’
‘What if he will not see me?’
‘You can only ask. I recommend that you do not write in advance. It is discourteous, but avoids the possibility that he might be forewarned of your arrival. Go and see him. Then we can decide what to do next.’
We. As I say, underneath that clerical exterior, there was a man yearning for the sort of excitement that a little bit of bread and wine could never provide.
Chapter Four
* * *
WELL AND GOOD; but before I went, I made the acquaintanceship of the Blundys, mother and daughter, who play such a large role in Cola’s story. In doing so, I set in train events which gained me the most terrible enemy, whom it demanded all my ingenuity and strength to defeat.
I do not know who will read this scribbling of mine; possibly no one except Lower, but I realise that in these pages I will be recording some acts in which I can take little pride. Some I feel no need to apologise for; some cannot be rectified now; some can at least be explained. My dealings with Sarah Blundy were due to my innocence and youthful, trusting nature: by no other means could she have entrapped me, and come close to destroying me entirely. For this I must blame my early upbringing. Before the age of six I was raised for a while by a great-aunt on my mother’s side; a pleasant lady, but very much the country woman, forever brewing and planting and serving physick to the entire area. She had a marvellous book, vellum-bound and grey with ages of fingering, handed down from her own grandmother, of herbal receipts which she would make herself and dispense to all and sundry, highborn or low. She was a powerful believer in magic, and despised those modern preachers (such she called them, for she was born when the great Elizabeth was still thought beautiful) who scorned what she believed to be self-evident. Scrumpled bits of paper and cloud reading and divination by key and Bible were part of my upbringing.