‘What about the other business?’ Knight swallowed hard. ‘The murder. Are you sure you had nothing to do with it?’
‘Of course,’ replied Gardner, although it was not the most convincing denial Chaloner had ever heard. ‘Why?’
‘Because it preys on my mind,’ explained Knight miserably. ‘The taking of a human life is rather different to the pilfering of a few pounds.’
Gardner gestured impatiently that Knight was to pick up his bag, while Chaloner frowned. Were they innocent of dishonesty but guilty of murder then? He sighed softly. Why did the Earl insist on sending him on missions armed with only half a story? Apprehending killers was hardly the same as snagging petty thieves, and he would have asked for assistance had he known. But the pair were preparing to leave, and it was rather too late to be questioning his orders now. He drew his sword and stepped through the door.
‘You are under arrest,’ he announced. ‘By the Lord Chancellor’s warrant.’
Knight issued a shrill shriek of terror, but Gardner was made of sterner stuff. He hauled a gun from his belt and took aim.
Chaloner had never liked firearms. They were unpredictable, took an age to prime and were noisy, something that was anathema to spies, who lived in the shadows. Moreover, he had been wary of gunpowder ever since he had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby, damaging a leg that had never fully recovered. His mistrust was borne out when Gardner’s weapon flashed in the pan, producing nothing more deadly than a puff of smoke.
Furious, Gardner hurled it at him with one hand, while hauling a second dag from his belt with the other. Knowing that both were unlikely to misfire, Chaloner grabbed Knight to use as a shield, confident that Gardner would not shoot when his friend might be injured. He was mistaken.
Gardner fired at Chaloner’s head, the crack of it deafening in the small room. Knight screamed again, and Chaloner was sure he felt the hot singe of the ball as it streaked past his ear. Swearing under his breath, Gardner drew his sword, forcing Chaloner to do likewise.
Firearms were not often discharged on Dowgate Hill, and the sound had attracted attention. Footsteps and muffled shouts indicated that residents in the neighbouring houses were astir, while a group of passing apprentices had paused in the street outside. Chaloner could see them through the window, edging forward in an uncertain semicircle, curiosity vying with the knowledge that it was dangerous to loiter in a place where shots had been discharged.
‘You cannot escape,’ he told Gardner firmly, still gripping Knight around the neck. ‘And fighting will only make your situation worse. No one will believe your innocence if you—’
With a roar of rage, Gardner leapt at him, and Chaloner only just managed to parry the murderous swipe. It was wild, but delivered with considerable strength, making him stagger, and giving Knight the opportunity to wriggle out of his grasp. Gardner struck a second time, at which point Chaloner decided he had better launch an offensive of his own before he was skewered. He surged forward, blade flashing, although his frozen limbs rendered his movements disgracefully clumsy. Even so, he soon had his quarry retreating.
But he had reckoned without Knight, who seized a pot from a table and lobbed it. It caught him on the side of the head, dazing him just long enough to allow Gardner to dart past. He managed to grab the hem of the clerk’s coat, but his fingers were too cold to grip it properly, and the material snapped free. And then Gardner was gone, bellowing for Knight to follow.
Chaloner blocked the smaller clerk’s way. Terrified, Knight lashed out with his fists, but he was no warrior, whereas Chaloner had been trained to fight by Cromwell’s New Model Army. It was an unequal contest, and did not last long.
‘Enough,’ said Chaloner irritably, pushing his captive against the wall. ‘You will hurt yourself if you continue to wrestle with me.’
Knight stared at him, eyes wide with a combination of fear and resignation. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Let me go. I have done nothing wrong.’
It was not for Chaloner to judge. He took Knight’s arm, and pulled him along the hallway towards the door. Outside, the apprentices had swelled in number, and they watched in silence as he steered his prisoner through them. Their mood was sullen, their sympathies firmly with the man who was being taken into custody, and Chaloner sensed it would take very little for them to stage a rescue attempt. So did Knight, who began to shout.
‘Help! I am innocent of any wrongdoing. Please do not let him have me.’
Several lads stepped forward, but Chaloner still held his sword, and they fell back when they saw he was prepared to use it. Knight in one hand and weapon in the other, he marched past them, aiming for Thames Street, where hackney carriages were available for hire.
‘No!’ wept Knight, still trying to pull away. ‘You do not understand! You sign my death warrant if you drag me off to gaol.’
‘Shall we go to White Hall instead, then?’ asked Chaloner acidly. Knight’s terror was making him feel guilty, which he resented. It was hardly his fault the man had involved himself in something unsavoury. ‘So you can tell the Lord Chancellor that there has been a mistake?’
‘Oh, thank God!’ breathed Knight in relief. ‘Yes, take me to Clarendon. I have a tale that will make his hair curl. I shall tell him everything.’
Although the suggestion had not been made seriously, on reflection Chaloner saw no reason why he should not oblige. He knew for a fact that the Earl would be at work, despite the early hour, as he was currently suffering from gout, which made sleeping difficult. He might even appreciate a diversion from his discomfort. Moreover, Chaloner would do a great deal to avoid setting foot in a gaol, even if it was only to deliver a prisoner to one.
Dawn had finally broken, although heavy clouds meant the morning might never be fully light, and the wind carried the occasional flurry of snow. The tiny white pellets danced across the frozen mud that formed the streets, and Chaloner wondered whether they would settle.
‘I am innocent,’ Knight said miserably, as he was bundled into a coach. ‘I swear it on my soul. But there is a deadly conspiracy unfolding at the Post Office, and its perpetrators are eager to silence me. That is why they have contrived to have me arrested.’
‘They have committed murder already?’ Chaloner climbed into the hackney after him. There was ice on the seat, a result of the window shutters being removed so that the inside of the coach was exposed to the elements. He could only suppose that the driver did not see why his passengers should be protected when he was obliged to huddle on a box at the front. He considered decanting to another carriage, but did not have the energy for the argument it would inevitably provoke.
Knight nodded. ‘I do not know who the victim was, but someone told me the culprit had a lot of fluffy yellow hair and a farmer’s face, and … well, you saw what Gardner looks like. That horrid Clement Oxenbridge is at the heart of it, of course. He is evil, sly and dangerous, and if you are ordered to arrest him, I advise you not to go alone. He would kill you for certain.’
‘Would he now?’ murmured Chaloner, although he knew he had not comported himself particularly impressively that day, so Knight might be forgiven for thinking his martial skills were lacking. ‘Who is Clement Oxenbridge?’
‘A wealthy man, although no one is sure of the exact nature of his business. Or where he lives, for that matter. And he would not appreciate anyone trying to find out either.’
‘I see. And what manner of “deadly conspiracy” has he devised?’
‘If I tell you, you will have no reason to take me to White Hall, so I shall wait until we meet Clarendon, if you do not mind.’
A sudden crack had Chaloner reaching for his sword, but it was only a ball of frozen mud lobbed by the group of tanners who had gathered outside St Paul’s Cathedral to pelt passing traffic. He might have dismissed their antics as youthful high spirits, but the lads were surly and scowling, and it was clear there was nothing light-hearted about their mood.
‘Have you notice
d how unsettled London is at the moment?’ asked Knight, peering out of the window at them. ‘It feels like it did during the wars – turbulent and volatile.’
‘London is always unsettled,’ said Chaloner, thinking that in all his travels, he had never encountered a city that was more prone to violent undercurrents. If there was not one plot in the making, there was another.
‘This is different,’ insisted Knight. ‘Look.’
He pointed, and Chaloner saw the tanners approached by a large group of butchers. As rivalry between the two trades had always been fierce, Chaloner expected a scuffle at the very least, but the leaders only exchanged a few words, before steering their followers off in different directions.
‘You see?’ said Knight. ‘If they are not quarrelling with each other, it means they aim to fight someone else. Rebellion is in the air, you mark my words. Mr Bankes is worried, because he keeps pressing me for information about it.’
‘Who is Mr Bankes?’
‘A man interested in London and her troubles. He frightens me, if you want the truth. I have never met him, but the letters he writes demanding information are terribly aggressive. However, he is right to be concerned – I smell another civil war in the offing.’
Before Chaloner could ask whether that was the nature of the intelligence Knight planned to pass to the Earl, the hackney rolled to a standstill. He leaned out of the window, and saw that a coach had broken an axle on the Fleet Bridge and was blocking traffic. There was nothing he could do to expedite matters, so he sat back to wait for the snarl to clear. Moments later, the door to his hackney was wrenched open. He drew his sword without conscious thought.
‘There is no need for that.’ The speaker was a Yeoman Warden from the Tower of London, identifiable by his distinctive uniform. ‘However, I am afraid we must commandeer your vehicle. We have an important prisoner to convey to White Hall, and our own carriage is broken.’
Chaloner was about to tell him to find another, when a second yeoman arrived with the prisoner in tow. The captive had the pale, wan look of a man kept locked up, although a certain chubbiness suggested he was not deprived of victuals. He had a thin black moustache, protuberant eyes and a mane of grey-brown hair. Chaloner recognised him immediately.
John Wildman, always known simply as ‘the Major’, had been an officer in Cromwell’s army, although his talent had been for making fiery speeches rather than fighting. Chaloner had heard one of his homilies before the Battle of Naseby, and recalled how it had set the soldiers alight with revolutionary zeal. After the wars, the Major had decided that Cromwell was worse than the King, and had plotted to assassinate him. The scheme had failed, but Royalists had loved him for it anyway, so Chaloner was astonished to learn that he was still incarcerated. Intrigued, he decided to find out why.
‘I am bound for White Hall with a prisoner, too,’ he said, sheathing his sword. ‘And London feels uneasy today. It will be safer for us to travel there together.’
‘Fair enough,’ said the first yeoman, climbing in and indicating that his charge should follow. ‘The city’s current agitation makes me reluctant to leave the safety of the Tower, to be frank. But the Major has been summoned, and we can hardly let him out on his own.’
‘I would not escape,’ said the Major tiredly. His voice was weak and slightly hoarse, a far cry from the strident bray he had effected at Naseby. Chaloner studied him. The Major had been a lively and colourful figure during the wars; now he was grey, drab and defeated, a mere shadow of the man he had been. Chaloner could only surmise that the Tower had broken him, as it had so many others.
He gave no indication that he recognised Chaloner, but that was not surprising – Chaloner had been fifteen years old at Naseby, and although he had claimed the Major’s indignant attention by challenging some of the points in his tirade, he had changed considerably from the fresh-faced, slender boy of twenty years before.
‘I have been arrested, too,’ Knight told the Major unhappily, as the carriage began to trundle forward slowly. ‘I have done nothing wrong, of course.’
‘Neither have I,’ averred the Major. ‘I was taken eighteen months ago, accused of conspiring against the King, although I have never been formally charged. I have begged for a trial, to prove my innocence, but I have always been refused. My imprisonment is illegal – it is against the writ of habeas corpus to keep a man locked up indefinitely.’
‘I hope that does not happen to me,’ gulped Knight. ‘But I have seen you before. Were you friends with the Postmaster – not O’Neill, but his predecessor, Henry Bishop?’
‘Bishop is my friend still,’ said the Major with a sad smile. Then it faded. ‘But do not mention that snake O’Neill! Being Postmaster is lucrative, and he wanted the job for himself, so he told a lot of lies to get poor Bishop ousted. And because I am Bishop’s friend, he included me in his fabrications. It was largely his testimony that saw me locked in the Tower.’
‘Bishop was excellent at running the postal services,’ said Knight. ‘But Controller O’Neill – did you know he prefers that title because he thinks it sounds grander than Postmaster? – is nowhere near as efficient.’
He lapsed into silence at that point, and stared out of the window, leaving Chaloner to wonder whether Knight had been arrested just for preferring his previous master to the current incumbent.
‘The Major has led a very interesting life,’ said the first yeoman conversationally, after a short pause during which the carriage crawled forward at a snail’s pace. His indulgent grin suggested he was rather fond of this particular inmate. ‘There are tales that say he was the hooded axe-man who beheaded the first King Charles—’
‘Those are untrue!’ cried the Major, distressed. Chaloner believed him: by all accounts, the kill had been a clean one, the work of a professional executioner. ‘I cannot imagine why I should be accused of so vile a deed.’
‘Then he decided that Cromwell was no better, so he plotted to blow him up,’ the yeoman went on approvingly. ‘Along with half that vile usurper’s Council of State.’
‘Now that is true,’ the Major conceded. ‘Cromwell was a dictator, and I wish I had succeeded. However, those dark times are behind us, and these days, I am a man of peace. All I want is to go home to Norfolk, and live in quiet seclusion.’
Chaloner longed for peace, too, and if he never drew his sword again, it would be too soon. He fully understood why the Major should feel likewise.
‘Why are you going to White Hall?’ he asked politely. ‘To beg for a trial?’
Unhappiness filled the Major’s face. ‘If only it were that easy! No, I am summoned because important people believe I have valuable information to impart. They are not interested in my plight, only in the fact that certain faithful friends are in the habit of corresponding with me.’
‘But you improve your chances of freedom with every visit you make,’ said the yeoman encouragingly. ‘And as long as you take us with you, these government officials have even given you leave to enjoy a tavern or a coffee house on the way home.’
‘Only so I can gather intelligence for them,’ said the Major bitterly. ‘Do you know my family motto? It is nil admirari – surprised at nothing. However, I shall be surprised if they keep their word and let me go. But this is a gloomy subject, and we should discuss something more uplifting. Does anyone like music? I have a particular affection for the viol.’
So did Chaloner, and the rest of the journey passed very agreeably.
White Hall was where the King, his family, his ministers and his favourite courtiers lived and worked. It dated back several centuries, and had been extended and rebuilt as and when funds had been available, so it boasted an eclectic mixture of styles. It was vast, with approaching two thousand rooms, although parts of it had grown shabby under successive rulers who had either no money or no inclination to invest in repairs and refurbishment.
When they arrived, the palace guards invited the Major to warm himself by their fire before his appointment,
indicating that he had visited often enough to make friends. Chaloner left them exchanging tales of London’s growing restlessness, and escorted Knight across the Great Court to the offices that had been allocated to the Lord Chancellor. They overlooked the Privy Gardens, which were pretty that day, dusted as they were with a light coat of rime. He ascended the marble staircase to the upper floor, Knight shuffling dejectedly at his side.
It was too early for most of the Earl’s staff to be at work, and the only retainer in evidence was Will Freer, a stocky, soldierly fellow with a ready grin. Marshal Gery had hired him, which meant Chaloner felt compelled to regard him with a degree of caution, although Freer was likeable and friendly enough.
‘Where you are going?’ he hissed in alarm, as Chaloner and his prisoner passed. ‘You cannot take vagrants to see the Earl, man! He will have a seizure and you will lose your job.’
‘I am not a vagrant,’ objected Knight, offended. ‘I am a postal clerk. I wore this rough cloak today because … because the weather is cold.’
He had worn it to conceal his identity as a person of means when he had escaped from London, but Chaloner let the lie pass. ‘He has something to tell Clarendon.’
Freer regarded him worriedly. ‘I would not go in there if I were you. The Earl is in a bad mood, and Gery is with him.’
The Earl was always in a bad mood as far as Chaloner was concerned, and he did not care whether Gery was there or not. He nodded his thanks for the warning, and tapped on the door anyway. When he heard the call to enter, he opened it and strode inside, indicating with a gesture that Knight should hang back until told to come forward.
The Earl of Clarendon was short, fat and fussy, and his portliness was accentuated rather than flattered by his close-fitting silk suit and the frothing lace under his several chins. He sported a fashionable T-beard – a sliver of hair over the upper lip with a small tuft on the chin – and an enormous and very costly wig. His gouty feet were propped on a stool in front of him, warmed by a fire that was high enough to risk setting the entire palace alight.
Death in St James's Park: 8 (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 2