The Wrecking Storm

by Ward, Michael

  ‘Where will it all end?’ she thought, stepping around a large heap of rubbish. Tom told her when the streets became a sea of mud and muck, the scavenger’s carts could not reach the rotting heaps, which only made the problem worse. If it weren’t for foraging kites that descended on anything freshly dumped, nothing would be cleared.

  She avoided a putrid green slime seeping from the stinking pile. It was draining into a shallow gutter at the side of the street, where the slime was backing up against the rotting corpse of a rat. The smell was appalling.

  Elizabeth wished she was still in her carriage but had told her coachman to drop her off at Bishop’s Gate. Attacks on coaches were becoming fashionable in parts of London. Was the city really becoming so lawless? Only yesterday, she’d been told the Apprentice Boys had pulled the Lord Mayor off his horse.

  That was the problem. Living in the countryside well beyond the City walls, she had to rely on second-hand information, which frustrated her scientific mind. She needed to see for herself how volatile the situation was. She knew who to ask and hoped they might also have the answer to another pressing question.

  In her elegant cloak and fine shoes, she was attracting glances as she forged through the crowd on foot and was already regretting her decision to travel alone to Spitalfields. Tom was not available and she couldn’t countenance asking her father. Perhaps her eagerness for research had taken her too far this time.

  Twenty minutes later Elizabeth felt safer but tired and dirty. She had left behind the threatening crowds on the busy streets and was surrounded by smaller dwellings, kitchen gardens and fields. Her shoes were ruined and her legs ached. It was a relief when she saw the outline of St. Mary’s Spital hospital ahead. As she entered its precincts, she took a moment to compose herself and adjust her cloak, but left its hood in place. To the left was a row of doors, the entrances to a collection of single floor dwellings. She walked to the end, knocked on the last and waited. She worried that the house might be empty and her difficult journey wasted, and was about to knock again when the door was opened.

  ‘Elizabeth! How wonderful to see you.’

  At once, she smelt the aroma of tobacco smoke and let out a sigh of relief. ‘Nicholas, now that I have finally arrived, the pleasure is all mine.’

  Nicholas Culpeper stepped forward, removing the large pipe clenched between his teeth, and peered out of the doorway. ‘You’ve come alone? Was that wise?’

  ‘Probably not, but I needed to see you urgently. Now let me in. I’m desperate for a smoke.’

  The entrance to the house led directly into a small living room, furnished sparsely with a rough wooden table and two chairs. The distinctive smell of burning sea coal filled the room as a fire burned fiercely in the corner, its thick grey sulphurous fumes pulled swiftly into the chimney. She settled thankfully on a seat and carefully took a pipe and tobacco pouch from her cloak pocket. She filled the pipe and lit a taper as Nicholas fetched two mugs of small beer.

  Both sat in silence for several minutes savouring the prime Virginian. They had met several years ago and Nicholas was the only person she knew whose passion for smoking matched hers.

  ‘I wondered if you might not be at home, given all that’s happening on the streets at present.’

  Culpeper looked a little embarrassed. ‘The truth is I was still lying a-bed until St. Mary’s chimed ten.’

  ‘You are not unwell, I hope?’

  ‘Nothing a little restraint last night would not have put right.’

  ‘Ah…what was the cause of your celebration?’

  Culpeper paused to savour his news. ‘We were toasting the success of my friend Alfred Brenner, who yesterday paid his compliments to the King, although I doubt his majesty welcomed Alfred’s visitation.’ Elizabeth waited. She knew her friend had a story to tell.

  ‘A group of us was waiting on King Street. We knew Charles would be leaving Whitehall by coach for the House of Lords and aimed to shout some insults as he passed. We expected to be moved on by the Palace guards but none were to be seen. I thought our intelligence was faulty and we were wasting our time but, sure enough, a half hour later there was movement to our left and the King’s coach came into view, mounted guards front and back.

  ‘We were in a side alley and, as the coach neared, we stepped out onto King Street. Every moment I anticipated a hand on my shoulder or a pike in my back, but no, nothing. Once the horsemen at the front had passed, the King followed with only ten feet of fresh air between him and us. In a moment Alfred rushed forward with a shout, jumped on to the side of the coach and, leaning through the door window, threw a handful of pamphlets at the King.’

  She sat with mouth open, smouldering pipe in hand. Her decision to travel on foot had been vindicated. Even royalty were not safe.

  ‘Did he see the King? Did Charles say anything?’

  ‘It happened so quickly. No time for conversation!’ Culpeper laughed. ‘But Alfred saw him well enough, pressed into a dark corner of the carriage, as far from the window as possible. He said the King looked neither startled or angry, just horrified!’ Silence again, as Elizabeth digested everything she had heard. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sound in the distance, a percussive ripple followed by faint shouts.

  ‘So I assume, if you were celebrating with Alfred last night, he must have made his escape?’

  ‘We all did. Alfred stepped off the coach and we disappeared sharpish up the side alley. One of the horse guards bringing up the rear shouted at us, but no one followed. The handbills were freshly printed in Coleman Street that morning. The ink was probably still wet. They will have made interesting reading for the rest of the King’s journey!’ He started laughing and it turned into a wheezing cough. As it subsided, she again heard a crackling sound outside.

  ‘Nicholas, I came today to get a first hand account of how bad the street disturbances are. Much of the information available to me is filtered through my family or the household servants, and I have this growing feeling I am sitting next to a giant keg of gunpowder without the slightest idea whether there is a fuse burning a path towards it. What brought this home to me was a recent shocking occurrence near to our house. You remember Thomas Tallant?’

  ‘Your beau? How could I not, although I don’t know what you see in him…’

  ‘Nicholas. As you are so happily and recently married, I’m sure you have no interest in the nature of my relationship with Tom. Equally, I’m sure you will be interested, and disturbed to know, that a gang attacked his family home Bolton Hall and caused a great deal of damage.’

  ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘One or two of the servants were roughed up quite badly but none of the family were at home. But every room is the house was turned over.’

  ‘Anything stolen?’

  ‘Only a few portable items such as jewels and silver plate. Because the destruction was so wanton, and relatively little taken, the Tallants wonder if the attack might have a political motive?’

  ‘What? The Apprentice Boys going on the march to Clerkenwell, and beyond?’ Nicholas guffawed. ‘Not quite their style, I think. Not enough taverns on the way. No, I have not heard of any Puritan involvement in an attack on Bolton Hall, but I’m sorry for the Tallants' discomfort.’

  They refilled their pipes then Nicholas gave her a rueful look. ‘You know, I am a bit disappointed in you. You hear about a gang of hooligans breaking into a neighbour’s house and you immediately think of the Apprentice Boys!’ Culpeper paused and gazed out of the window. She could see excitement in his eyes as he returned his gaze to her. ‘But if you want to witness the growing opposition to the King, and how serious it is, let me show you something.’

  Nicholas led the way from his house and as they turned a corner into an open field, Elizabeth saw a large number of men in the distance lining up in rows, facing a tall and deep embankment of soil. As they approached, the front line stepped forward, holding muskets.

  ‘Shooting practice for our local trained band,’
Nicholas explained. As he spoke, there was a shouted command and the men raised their weapons as one. Another shout and puffs of smoke rose above the men followed immediately by a ripple of musket fire, the crackling sound she had heard in Nicholas’s home. The line that fired then stepped back, handing their muskets to the next row to reload.

  ‘Over a hundred meet in Spitalfields for drill practice and musket training twice a week. Weavers, watermen, butchers, and bakers - men of London, ready to defend their homes and their rights. As you can see, we haven’t sufficient muskets yet for all, but they will come. It’s finally happening! The people have had enough. The old deference is breaking down. We’re too busy preparing ourselves for battle to go looting country houses. And if we wanted to make a show, we’d choose bigger targets, like the King.’

  She watched as each of the men in the second line reloaded their muskets, guided by others. When all was ready, on a command they stepped forward and fired another volley into the embankment. They were ordered and disciplined, and she was ashamed for her question about Bolton Hall.

  She thought back to Alfred Brenner leaning into the King’s coach. ‘My God’, she whispered ‘he could easily have carried a pistol, instead of a fistful of complaints. It seems the King’s life now depends on the restraint of his subjects.’

  Chapter 12

  House of Commons

  Tom waited impatiently on the steps of St. Stephen’s Chapel for Barty Hopkins. Parliament was reconvening after the harvest recess and he had not seen his friend for well over a month. There had been no further attacks on the Tallants or their property but he was anxious to hear any news about Robert Petty’s investigations.

  The familiar bustling figure appeared, walking busily across Old Palace Yard in his direction. ‘My dear Tom. Forgive my tardiness. The roads to Westminster are more choked than ever. Come, let us secure a seat.’ They entered the familiar surroundings of the chapel, home to Parliament’s House of Commons for almost a hundred years. Other members were crisscrossing the floor, their exchanged greetings echoing in the chamber as the two of them found space on the benches opposite where John Pym sat. The leader of the Puritan group was expected to provide the opening address.

  ‘Robert tells me your family has not suffered any further attacks, thank God.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a relief but, without knowing who was responsible, it’s difficult to relax. Has he discovered anything from his contacts?’

  ‘I fear not but, as you know, Robert has the grip of a bulldog and won’t let go until he has shaken something loose!’ Barty laughed.

  ‘And what of the murder investigation?’

  His friend moved closer and whispered: ‘Again, no news, but I am glad of it. When two Jesuit priests are killed in identical manner and swift succession, we fear some mad soul has extermination in mind. But the murders have stopped as quickly as they begun. We have no idea why, but it’s a great relief.’

  ‘Maybe the killer himself came to grief, over another matter. You never know in the murky underworld these people inhabit.’

  ‘I was rather hoping for divine intervention, but your suggestion is more likely and just as welcome. Just as long as the killing has stopped!’

  The chamber was filling rapidly. All seats were now taken with late arrivals gathering at the back. ‘Did you return to Banbury during the recess?’ Tom asked, eyeing the growing crowd. ‘How is the harvest?’

  ‘Sufficiently plentiful, thank the Lord. Bread prices should remain stable.’

  ‘Not so in Ireland apparently,’ Tom answered. ‘I hear the harvest has all but failed and there will be shortages. Not a good sign with winter approaching. I sense trouble over the water.’

  ‘We have enough of that here,’ Barty responded. ‘I have spoken to other members from country boroughs. There’s growing unease again that the Puritan reforms are going too far. They appeared to be momentarily checked by the adverse reaction to Strafford’s execution, but Pym is whipping the horses again, driving his ambitions forward.’

  Tom knew where his friend’s sympathies lay and gave him a questioning look.

  ‘No, really. It’s true. The people of Banbury were glad to see the back of the King’s Ship Money and the Star Chamber. Those needed to be put right. But it’s emboldened the Puritans who are now challenging the vary fabric of the church, how people worship, the Prayer Book. They have embarked on a moral crusade and it’s causing a lot of unrest.’

  A voice arose above the hubbub. As the Speaker called the House to order, outlining the business of the day, he reflected on what Barty had said. Where would it stop, this conflict spreading from Banbury to Bolton Hall, afflicting all it touched with anger and discord.

  Silence descended on the chapel as John Pym rose to speak. He was renowned for his detailed discourses, so the House was settling in for a lengthy listen. Pym outlined the list of grievances against the King that he wished to explain in more detail, when a member sitting behind tapped him on the shoulder and handed over a written message, whispering in his ear. Pym appeared annoyed by the interruption but broke the seal and unfolded the paper. He looked puzzled for several seconds, then suddenly recoiled, throwing the paper to the floor. As he did, Tom noticed a yellow and brown stained rag drop from inside the package, landing at Pym’s feet stood.

  ‘What infamy is this?’ he shouted. ‘Am I to be poisoned within the House itself? Is the voice of Parliament to be silenced in this foul, corrupted manner. ‘Tis a plague rag!’

  There was a moment of disbelief then panic consumed the chamber. As one, the members pushed back, as far away from Pym as possible. Word spread through the crowd who surged for the exit. The Serjeant at Arms drew his sword and hammered the pommel repeatedly on his bench to retain control, bawling ‘order!’ over and over again at the top of his voice.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’ Tom shouted to Barty.

  ‘Oh my goodness. It certainly appears to be a piece of winding sheet, from a poor unfortunate’s body. But why does Pym think it’s from a plague victim?’

  ‘Presumably there was something in the message. It looks like you were right. People have had enough.’

  Some sense of order began to return to the Commons as the members gathered at the back of the room, many pressing handkerchiefs to their face. The discoloured rag remained on the Commons’ floor, now surrounded by empty benches. John Pym could be seen remonstrating with the man who passed him the message, who was shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head.

  ‘I would not like to be that man,’ Tom continued, ‘the unwitting deliverer of such a deadly message. No one would knowingly handle such a dangerous package. We need to go. Come, let’s stand in line to leave the building. We will have to wait outside while they remove the offending item and sweeten the air.’

  Barty didn’t move. His face, so often a picture of merriment, was grey and stony, his eyes wide with shock. ‘A barrow load of rosemary and lavender will no longer sweeten the air in this chamber, or anywhere in London for that matter. It’s a plague that afflicts us all right, a plague of madness, and I fear for England’s future, I truly do’.

  Chapter 13

  Bolton Hall

  Tom picked up a handful of soil, rubbing it between thumb and fingers.

  His father watched him enquiringly ‘Any good?’

  ‘Hmm. There’s clay, but not too much. Probably drains quite well. Looks fertile. Yes, I’d be happy to grow plants in this.’

  Ralph surveyed the field and Bolton Hall in the middle distance. Rays from the pale late morning sun caught a dusting of light frost on the hedgerow nearby, and the branches sparkled. A group of finches darted in and out of the hedge, fluttering their wings and chattering loudly. ‘Thank you, Tom. You’ve given me plenty to think about.’

  ‘You’re considering buying this for mother?’

  ‘Yes. When I was told this field next to us was available, it seemed too good to miss, with your mother’s birthday approaching. We could extend the garden
and she would have another project to keep her happy. One patch of earth looks like any other to me, so I needed your expertise.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she will be thrilled. Increasingly, merchants are returning from their travels with boxes of seed. It occupies little onboard space and there’s a growing market here in London. She’ll have plenty of new plants to raise.’

  ‘Your mother often states she only married me because I can stock her garden with the wonders of the world,’ his father grunted, but with a smile on his face.

  A desperate scream shattered the calm. A woman’s voice.

  ‘What the devil!’ Ralph exclaimed.

  There was another, followed by an anguished cry of ‘No, no!’

  ‘It’s coming from the house,’ Tom shouted and they both leapt forward, sprinting towards Bolton Hall. They scrambled over the hard, rutted ground heading for a gate in the field’s corner. There were more shouts and then a pistol shot, greeted by the caw-caw cry of the rooks deserting the treetops at Bolton Hall.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he cried and stumbled again on the rough soil. Would he ever reach the gate and the lane beyond to his parent’s house? He could hear his father breathing hard behind him and then a yell of pain from the house - a man’s voice this time, cursing and shouting.

  At last, Tom reached the open gate and started to sprint up the track to Bolton Hall, pumping his legs. He could no longer hear his father as he surged ahead, towards the hedge at the rear of the Tallants' garden. His head was filled with the pounding of his heart and the sound of his increasingly laboured footsteps on the lane. His lungs were burning and his mind swimming as the panic rose in him.