The Wrecking Storm

by Ward, Michael

  Tom called out. ‘Stand firm there. I have you covered by my sword.’ The words echoed across the wharf. Nothing. The shape didn’t move and all remained calm. Exasperated, he took another step and prodded the shape with his blade. It was a barrel resting against the ship, the rise and fall of its hull occasionally knocking the side of the keg.

  He could feel himself flush. He hoped Isaac, sleeping in his room near the kitchen, hadn’t heard him challenging a cooper’s barrel. He would never live it down. With a rueful smile, he relaxed his shoulders, sheathed his sword and collapsed to the floor, felled by a single blow to the back of his head.

  * * *

  Ralph Tallant examined his son. ‘That’s a nasty blow. Expertly delivered to knock you out. You’ll have a headache for a day or two.’

  Tom was in his warehouse bed. He sat up and winced as he gingerly explored a large swelling behind his right ear. ‘I suppose I am lucky it isn’t worse.’

  Ralph nodded. ‘Whoever dealt with you then entered the warehouse through the back door and started rummaging around. They made enough noise to wake Dirck, even from his drunken stupor. He found three of them on their way up to the pepper store. By the time Isaac arrived with his halberd, one had a bloody nose and another was limping badly. One look at Isaac and the three of them took flight like jack rabbits.’

  ‘How is Dirck?’

  ‘Sore fists, so he’s probably feeling better for hitting back at his brother’s killers.’

  ‘You think they’re the same people who raided Bolton Hall, a gang of Pym’s Apprentice Boy toughs?’

  ‘Well unless we have suddenly become the pariahs of London’s merchant community, I don’t think there can be any other explanation, do you?’

  He sensed his father was more like his old self. He seemed to welcome the attack on the warehouse for the certainty it gave him about his enemy. That made Tom uneasy.

  Chapter 19

  The House of Lords

  The Archbishop of York pulled up his fine lace sleeves and flexed his fists. He surveyed the baying crowd. What was it he felt? Fear? No. Something closer to contempt.

  Minutes earlier, his carriage had entered the Old Palace Yard. From his raised vantage point, he could observe a sea of closely cropped heads ahead.. The Apprentice Boys were out in force, blocking his path to the House of Lords.

  He half expected this. The bishops’ support for the King in the Lords was proving troublesome to Pym and the Puritan junto. But if the bishops could not take their seats in the Lords, they could not vote. So the Apprentice Boys had been unleashed.

  He frowned at the barefaced arrogance of Pym’s stratagem. ‘Well, it won’t succeed, if I have anything to do with it’ he murmured and urged his driver to move forward towards the House. The archbishop removed his Canterbury cap and pushed himself as far back into his seat as he could. No point in inviting trouble.

  The Apprentice Boys were massing at the far end of the Yard looking towards the House of Lords, and their chant of ‘No Bishops, No Popish Lords’ grew louder as the archbishop edged closer towards them. Just when he thought that, perhaps, he might remain undetected, the cry went up. ‘A bishop! Do we have a bishop?' A group had broken away and was running towards him. Thank God he’d had the sense to leave his official coach, complete with insignia, at home. He banged on the roof. ‘Keep moving forward. Whatever you do, you must not stop’ he shouted to his coachman. Within seconds the carriage was surrounded, swaying on its springs as the crowd jostled and pushed. The archbishop cautiously peered through the window and the first seeds of doubt were planted in his mind. The faces staring at him were contorted with rage. He had expected drunkenness, not fury.

  His horses were still pushing their way through the throng with the Lords now almost within reach, but their progress was slowing. Hands clawed at the doors, trying to open them. The coachman’s urged the horses forward. Why had he been allowed to stay on the carriage? With a chill, the archbishop realised the apprentices weren’t interested in the driver, just his passenger.

  A burly hand came through the right-side window, reaching for the door handle. The archbishop lashed out with his foot, stamping on the fingers of a large man, who disappeared into the melee, crying out in pain. He heard a grunting noise to his left and swiveled in his seat to see a boy half through the window, scrabbling to grab his surplice. He hit him hard in the face with his fist and pitched him back into the crowd. This gave the Apprentice Boys their first sight of his cassock and a roar went up. ‘Tis a bishop! We have one!’ The archbishop felt the cold sweat of fear running down his back. This was not protest. It was a lynch mob.

  By now the coach had been forced to a halt. People at the rear scrabbled like rats to climb on to the roof. He realised that, unless he risked all, this coach could soon become his coffin. He fought a strong impulse to remain within its protection and hide away. He must get out, try to re-assert order and hail rescuers, if possible.

  He took a deep breath and pushed at the door on his left. First the crush was too great but it eased as people saw what he was trying to do. They pulled back, momentarily quietened by his actions. ’Look at me,’ he shouted, standing in the doorway. ‘I am John Williams, once Bishop of Lincoln and a friend to you all.’ The crowd were listening. ‘I spoke out against Archbishop Laud’s attempt to change your church worship. You cheered me then. I was locked in the Tower and church bells in London were pealed on my release. Why do you persecute me now?’

  ‘Because you’ve taken the King’s shilling again,’ a voice cried out, ‘so he’d make you Archbishop of York. That makes you worse than simply a bishop. You’re a traitor too.’ A roar went up. Williams was stunned. He’d started his new position less than a month ago and was relying on the mob not yet knowing he’d joined the King’s side. This was something much more than the usual drunken Apprentice Boy melee. Someone had knowledge.

  The crowd pushed forward, scenting blood. Williams tried to step back into the carriage but the protestors wouldn’t let go of the door. Just as he feared the worst, he noticed Lord Dover pushing though the crush on his horse, followed by more mounted men. ‘Make way! Make way!’ they shouted as they used their powerful mounts to force the apprentices apart.

  ‘Dover! Thank the Lord you have come!’ he shouted. The protestors backed off and the archbishop could see he was no more than 30 yards from the entrance to the Lords. His new escort signaled him to get into his carriage that was now surrounded by horsemen.

  John Williams slumped back in his seat and his coach started inching forward. Dazed, he looked at the vestment he always wore to the Lords. The fine lace was ripped and spattered with the blood of his young assailant. He examined his right hand, which was bruised and shaking. His contempt for the mob had gone, replaced by cold dread.

  Chapter 20

  The Manor House, Clerkenwell

  Tom surveyed the night sky, studded with twinkling points of light, clear, but not cold for December. Perfect conditions for stargazing. Elizabeth sat next to him, humming contentedly as she adjusted her Kepler telescope, plumes of tobacco smoke rising from the clay pipe clenched between her teeth.

  His mind went back to their first encounter in her parents’ garden. The two of them, another starry night, and Ellen scandalised Elizabeth was meeting him unaccompanied. They talked about her love of life, the wonders of nature, and her hunger for discovery. He was captivated, and had remained so ever since.

  They had returned to the same bench, at Elizabeth’s request. She could see he was both troubled and conflicted and had suggested a search for the moons of Venus might be an effective remedy. He reached over and held her hand. She turned away from the telescope’s eyepiece and moved nearer to him on the bench. The familiar smell of rose and lavender filled the night air as she reached over and kissed him gently on the cheek.

  ‘It’s a troubling time,’ she said. ‘I thought we might both benefit from the presence of the firmament, to soothe our minds and gain perspective.’
>
  Two days ago, Jan’s body had been shipped back to Amsterdam for burial. Dirck insisted he should remain in London to protect the Tallant family, but his pain at this final separation from his brother was a harrowing moment, the latest of many. Tom gazed at a single point in the sky. He experienced the familiar sensation of seeing more stars the longer he looked, only to watch them recede again into the black expanse - the closest he ever felt to God, to eternity.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, it helps,’ Tom replied. ‘So. Let us think of other things. How are your navigational enquiries for my father progressing?’

  ‘Slowly, but it is fascinating. It has led me down several rabbit holes of investigation. I am learning a great deal. Your mother has helped me to understand the work of Joan Bleau, a leading Dutch mapmaker who I have discovered. His latest portolan chart is well ahead of the field and could prove useful if we ever get to sea trials. Lady Beatrix has been very generous with her time, translating his Bleau’s papers. I couldn’t have managed without her. Although…’

  He could hear the note of worry in Elizabeth’s voice. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I am not sure but recently she seems less inclined to assist, as if she’s preoccupied. But this is nonsense. Of course she’s distracted by what has happened to poor Jan and Ellen. On occasions, I get too engrossed in my learning. I feel ashamed for even thinking about it, given what your mother has endured of late.’

  Tom gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t worry. I’m glad you have something else to occupy your mind. Presently I can only consider one thing.’

  ‘The attacks?’

  ‘Yes, I am trying to clear my mind and make sense of all that is happening. Robert is a very thorough investigator. He would not suspect a rival merchant if he didn’t have firm suspicions. But talking to my father, it seems the assaults are definitely the work of Pym and his Puritan junto.’

  ‘Can you be sure of that? I too have had some persistent questions that refuse to be answered. Why would the Puritans attack the Tallants three times, twice at Bolton Hall and then the warehouse? Why single out your family? I couldn’t make sense of it, so I sought the advice…of a friend.’

  He noticed Elizabeth’s hesitation. ‘Not Nicholas Culpeper?’

  ‘Yes. But Tom, hear me out.’

  He bristled. Nicholas Culpeper was a topic of conversation they had learned to avoid. ‘You didn’t tell him about the attacks, did you?’

  ‘He knew about them, at least the two at Bolton Hall. Incidents like that, in broad daylight, can’t be hidden. Nicholas had heard nothing about Puritans choosing the Tallants as a target, and he feels such attacks would be out of character for Pym. Nick knows Pym is no angel and that he freely uses street attacks by the Apprentice Boys and others to exert political pressure.’

  ‘Exactly! Look what happened to the Archbishop of York. Attacked in his coach to discourage other bishops from attending the Lords to vote against the junto.’ Tom desperately did not want argue with her. Their time together was too valuable, but she should never have spoken to Culpeper. The fact he knew about the attacks on Bolton Hall made Tom even more convinced that his father was right about Puritan involvement, no matter what Culpeper told Elizabeth.

  ‘Pym has used the mob,’ she continued, ‘but as part of a bigger plan, not to attack a family. Perhaps the first incident was by chance. A gang of Apprentice Boys drink too much in the taverns in Clerkenwell and go looking for trouble with the local gentry. After all, they only seemed intent on smashing things up. But then to return to steal Ellen? Why on earth would Pym do that? There would be no reason for it.’

  Tom paused. He thought for less than a moment and then gave up his father’s secret. He told her about the incident of the plague letter and the almost instant retaliation from Pym.

  ‘Your father did what? Are you sure about that?’

  His anger rose again. ‘Well, if you wish to believe the word of Nicholas Culpeper over my father’s….’ She shook her head. ‘No, no, not at all,’ she murmured. ‘Of course, if that is what Ralph told you.’

  Tom expected Elizabeth to be angry but instead she was silent, pre-occupied. Their evening together was now beyond salvaging. He shivered and decided it was cold after all, and suggested they went back into the house.

  Chapter 21

  The Hop Yard, St. Martin’s Lane, Covent Garden

  Robert Petty frowned as he shouldered a path through the crowd in The Hop Yard tavern, carrying two mugs of beer. ‘So much for somewhere quiet!’ Petty shouted as he arrived at their table. He handed Tom his beer and leaned closer. ‘Actually, it’s the same everywhere! I checked a few other alehouses on my way . All are full. Something’s up.’

  Tucked away in a courtyard off St. Martin’s Lane, The Yard was ideal for private meetings. Not too far from Westminster, Tom frequently used the small tavern to discuss matters with fellow MPs. But today it was full, with lively conversation increasing by the minute. He could feel excitement in the air.

  Petty shrugged. ‘To business. I have finally made some progress with my investigation. I now have the name of a person who I increasingly believe is behind the attacks on your family.’ Petty’s face was unusually animated, his deep brown eyes so often hard and intense, now flashing with excitement. Tom knew he would have spent many hours in pursuit of this potential clue. His heart sank at the prospect of telling his friend he had wasted his time.

  ‘Do you know a merchant called Sir George Tansy?’

  ‘I have heard his name mentioned once or twice at the Royal Exchange. No more than that.’

  ‘Well it seems he knows about the Tallants…’ Petty was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass outside followed by voices chanting: ‘No bishops! No papist lords!’

  'The streets are warming up,’ Tom said.

  ‘It’ll calm down.’ Petty replied. ‘As I was saying, Tansy has been heard on more than one occasion complaining bitterly about your family and its ability to consistently source high quality spices abroad, and at prices which do not allow him and other merchants to compete. He is convinced you have insider information and is determined to discover who is providing it.’

  ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘He has not made that public, but he claims in the last six months he’s received reports of two Tallant ships, one from London and another from Amsterdam, both seen returning from the China Seas, low in the waterline.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ Tom replied. ‘Much of the sea east of the Indies remain uncharted. It would be a severe and unnecessary risk to venture there when, to do so, you would sail past trading posts such as Bantam, where you could get all you needed.’

  ‘I understand what you are saying but he is suspicious, particularly as one of the ships was Dutch.’

  ‘So that’s why he thinks we’re working with the Dutch East India Company? It is as I thought. Guilty by association. I may have a Dutch uncle but that doesn’t mean my family is working hand in glove with that company!’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘In addition, I have received information from my father that convinces me Pym and his Puritan junto really are behind this. If I tell you, you must not repeat…’

  He stopped. There was another sound outside. He strained his ears to listen above the tavern noise and heard chanting, by hundreds of voices. Petty had left the table to see more, when a man ran in. ‘It’s an army. They’re on the march!’

  Tom and Petty pushed past the growing crowd at the tavern entrance. They couldn’t see the protestors but their rhythmic chant of ‘No bishops. No popish lords.’ reverberated throughout the courtyard. The word ‘bishops’ was followed by a handclap before the next words were uttered. That single clap by over two thousand hands in perfect unison cannoned off the walls and sent a shiver down Tom’s spine. For the first time, he sensed the brute strength of the street.

  The two of them worked their way into St Martin’s Lane and turned right, joining the flow of people tow
ards Charing Cross, which seemed to be the source of the noise. The air crackled with anticipation. They were forced to slow down as they approached the open ground around Charing Cross, now packed with people.

  ‘By Jesu,’ Petty murmured. ‘The dam has finally broken.’

  The crowd had grown into thousands, waving halberds and staves in the air, joining in the chanting. Many had makeshift flags and banners, held aloft above the smoke rising from a number of fires. Tom could also see sickles and hay rakes - the Kentish boys were there in force. He couldn’t be heard above the chanting and cheering, so moved around the outside of Charing Cross, to where it led to Westminster.

  The short December day was drawing to a close and hundreds of torches were now lit as they moved forward. Tom shouted in Petty’s ear: ‘I want to see what’s happening outside Parliament.’

  They set off down King Street, and saw stragglers among the Apprentice Boys walking towards them from Westminster. One group approached. ‘King or Parliament. Who are you for? Tell me. Who are you for?’

  Tom doubted if any were over 16. ‘Lads, I warn you,’ Petty said, ‘leave the streets before you get badly hurt. The King’s bullyboys are on the hunt and they’re heavily armed. They won’t think twice about running you down. Go home, while you can.’

  The tallest of the apprentices stepped forward. ‘Let them come. They can’t stop us now. Not the bishops, not the Lords. None of them. Filthy papists.’ Tom had assumed the lad would be drunk, but now doubted it. His eyes were alight with excitement. ‘We must save our country from Rome, and defend the King. Save him from his popish wife and her schemes.’

  ‘What schemes?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s in league with the Frenchies and the Spanish to send a popish army to England and bring back the foul old ways. And she’s going to take off their heads in Parliament. Don’t say she’s not. It’s true!’ and he pulled a rumpled pamphlet from his back pocket and waved it in Tom’s face.