‘In the name of the Commonwealth,’ shouts a voice.
She jumps from the bed. The cold beyond the blanket is a shock, and she pulls her thick shawl around her shoulders. Sidrach is awake. She knows this, despite the darkness. She is attuned to him, to the vibrations of him.
She lights a taper from the embers of the fire. Her hands are shaking.
‘In the name of the Commonwealth.’ The voice barrels through the house.
She lights the lamp. Sidrach is out of bed, and he is near her. As she turns towards him, she sees his face. He is not shocked, she notes. He is expecting this, whatever it is. And yet good news does not travel violently, in darkness.
‘Stay here,’ he says, and grabs the lamp from her. He takes it out of the room, and the blackness closes in. She cannot help herself – she follows the light. She curls herself around the door frame, watching as he walks down the stairs and into the hallway. The door is a sludge of shadow.
He opens it, fumbling with the locks. A bluster of snowy wind comes in as the door swings out. Outside there are torches; she can see the leap of the flames and the light catching on the armour of the soldiers standing there.
She cannot hear the conversation. The soldiers march into the hall, and Sidrach backs away on to the bottom stairs. But he pulls himself tall, and she hears the calculated pitch of his preacher voice.
‘You call this God’s work? This? You are imps, I tell you. Imps of the man who would be king. He has foxed you, led you in the darkness away from the shepherd’s fold.’
She cannot see him speaking – only the wave of his hand. But she can see their faces. The young, scraggle-bearded, round-cheeked faces of these soldiers, which blanch and falter as they stare at Sidrach in all his full righteousness. It takes their captain, stepping in behind them, to bring them back to themselves.
‘Sidrach Simmonds?’ he says, shouldering one of his young men out of the way and tutting with irritation.
Sidrach nods. ‘And what of it?’
‘You are under arrest. Accused of dissent and dissimulation.’
Patience gasps; she can’t help herself. Shock. And – God help her – relief. They are taking him away. Away! She need not feel the scratch of his body on top of her, the dry rasp of him inside her, the slam of his fist. Oh Lord! Oh Cromwell!
At the sound of her gasping, Sidrach turns and stares at her from the foot of the stairs. She shrinks, despite the soldiers gathered around him. She clings on to the door frame, absurdly, as if she might be whirled into his orbit if she lets go. His face is lit from below by his lamp. There is something exultant in him, some great and smug joy that she struggles to understand. It is only as his arms are bound behind him that she understands. How much greater to be Sidrach Simmonds the martyr than Sidrach Simmonds the irrelevance.
A violent knocking on his door brings Will into a sweating, unsatisfactory wakefulness. His mouth is rasping dry. His head thrums, and through squinting eyes he can see that the light is vengefully bright on this winter morning.
He pulls himself upright and fumbles his way to the door.
Patience stands there, a little bedraggled, a little mousy. Her cloak is drawn tight against the chill. A small boy stands in the folds of it.
‘They’ve arrested him. Arrested him.’ The rise of her voice is panic-edged. The boy clutches the material of her cloak in chilblained hands.
He ushers them inside, calling for the maid, Mary, who arrives, flour-smeared and cross. ‘A posset,’ he barks, raising a hand to calm the coming protest.
Drawing Patience and the boy to the hearth, he sits them down and wraps them in blankets. The fire is laid, but not lit, and he busies himself with that while Patience weeps softly behind him.
‘It is the shock,’ she says. ‘They are searching the house. They bade me leave.’
‘And this is?’ He nods towards the boy.
‘Tom. Our boy of work.’
‘Does he not belong at home?’
Patience looks sharply at him. ‘He belongs with me.’ The boy sitting at her feet shuffles a little closer to her, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. She reaches down and pulls it back around him. The fire is yet to catch in any significant way. They can see their breath streaming in puffed clouds.
Blackberry clatters into the room. ‘Auntie Imp!’ he shouts and jumps on to her lap, curling himself into her.
She wraps her arms around his thin little body. She moves his hair aside and kisses the irresistible nape of his neck.
‘Well then,’ says Will at last, when the room is a little warmer and Blackberry has bounced away to the kitchen with Tom in his wake. ‘Tell me.’
‘They came for him this morning. He was taken to the Tower.’
‘Why?
‘Agitating against Cromwell. Feake was taken too. They called Cromwell a liar. A perjurer. Worse.’
Will raises his hands, warding the words away.
‘Do not worry, Patience,’ he says. ‘I will talk to Cromwell himself. If I can get close enough to him. He has a power of men about him now. Even if I fail, I think it is just a warning. The sound and fury of the preachers cannot go unchecked.’
‘You think he will be out soon?’ Her skin is flushed and damp. Hair slicks to her forehead in sticky whorls. She shivers, visibly and violently.
‘Are you quite well, Patience? Patience?’
She leans back into the chair, feeling the coolness of the leather against her burning cheek. Will’s voice sounds at a distance. Far away. His hair is caught from behind by the fire, burning in a gold halo. Perhaps he is not Will at all, but an angel, leaning over her, calling her name across a great valley. Funny-looking angel, she thinks, and laughs. Laughs and laughs, the peals of it filling her ears and her head and her empty belly, and the sight of his stricken face makes it funnier, even funnier, so funny that she is crying and crying even as he picks her up. Picks her up, her brother, so she can rest her head against the thick scratch of his jacket and smell the day-old wine breath on him. She closes her burning eyes.
Hattie comes down the stairs into the kitchen. There is a dark fury in her face.
‘She is in my nightgown, all tucked up, the little dear. You have sent for the doctor?’
Will nods. Tom has run off into the cold street, the fear making him tremble.
‘They charge double on a Sunday, the scoundrels.’
He nods again, and clenches a trembling hand behind his back, closing it in on itself. He pours a measure of wine. A long sip, and there it is – the burn of it on his throat, the nausea as it hits his tender stomach, and the promise of trembles eased. His shoulders loosen down, his head feels lighter already.
‘It is early, Will. For unmixed wine.’
‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Hattie. I know your skill.’
She watches him drink. There’s something contained and angry about her. For all her kindness, for all her fondness for him and Blackberry, he finds he is a little intimidated by her.
‘He beats her.’
‘What?’ Will struggles to understand. Who beats whom?
‘Your sister,’ she says, with an impatient shake of her head. ‘And she such a little thing. Such a sprite.’
‘Sidrach?’
Will sits on the edge of the table. He grips his cup tighter and takes another sip.
‘Did she tell you?’
‘Not she. She is raging with fever. Burning.’
Hattie reaches for a cloth and fills a bowl with water from the pitcher. Dipping a finger in, she nods.
‘Good and cold.’
She turns to face Will, her eyes blazing. ‘She is covered in his anger, Will. Bruises. Welts. Looks to me as if he has taken a belt to her.’
‘I did not know.’
‘No. He can control his passion far enough to avoid her face. The scoundrel. The miserable, shrivel-cocked devil.’
‘Oh,’ he says, with a helpless sigh. ‘Lord help us.’
Hattie snorts. ‘You just keep
on asking for help from that quarter, Will, and he’ll just keep on ignoring you.’
Will reaches for the decanter. She puts out her hand and grabs hold of its neck. They are close, uncomfortably so. He can see the grey hairs springing from her bun; the speck of blood by her ear that escaped her morning wash. He lets go, and turns towards the fire.
‘Listen to me now, Will Johnson. You have two people dear to you in this house. Blackberry and that little whipped girl in the bed upstairs, shivering her misery out. They need you.’
He will not look at her. He searches the flames for something, anything. The pot on the tripod is bubbling with some meaty concoction. Its smell fills the kitchen, making his mouth water. He thinks of his dinner, of Cromwell, of Blackberry. Scattering thoughts in the hope that one will germinate, blocking out Hattie’s voice.
‘In my experience, Will, too much boozing makes bad men violent and good men weak. Weak, Will. Do you hear me? There’s people as need you to be strong. And here’s you reaching for the wine a score of times before noon. I will go now. I am done here. I will come later. Think on what I said, Will. Think on it.’
She bustles away, through the back door. A rush of cold air sucks the warmth from the kitchen. Will shivers. He thinks of his work; deliberately and determinedly. He thinks of all the things that must be done to renovate the Lord Protector’s new residence at Whitehall Palace. It must be furnished with economical grandeur. There must be velvets and silks and gilt. There must be reds and purples and golds. Servants must be hired and fed. So much to do. So many lists to make.
All is quiet upstairs.
He reaches for the decanter.
Will sits, as usual, next to Nedham. It is the coronation of the not-king, and Will is hung-over to his bones. He is dry-tongued, dry-eyed. He thinks he might croak if asked to speak; he is a withered frog. He listens to the scribble of Nedham’s nib in the hush that fills the hall. About them, the scarlet-cloaked aldermen hover. The red coats and buff jackets of soldiers line the walls.
At the front of them all is Cromwell. He is dressed in sober black, with a black coat and black hat. A thin gold band glitters above its rim.
He inclines his head to the Lord Mayor. In an awed, shuffle-free silence they all watch as the Lord Mayor hands Cromwell the Great Seal, which carries the mark of power, the stamp of authority. He holds it tentatively, or so Will fancies.
The mayor presents Cromwell with the Sword of State and the Cap of Maintenance; those archaic symbols of England’s kings. The cap is vivid scarlet against Cromwell’s black coat. A sword, a cap, a seal. What gentleman does not possess a sword, a cap and a seal? But not this sword. Not this seal. Not this cap.
How strange, Will thinks, that an object can represent so much beyond its physical presence. A tumble of history and myth and promises. Projected hopes. Fears.
Cromwell nods, and graciously returns the sword and cap. He clutches the seal, still. He processes outside behind the Lord Mayor, who walks ahead of him carrying the Sword of State. As they pass Will, he sees the glitter and shine of the exposed blade. A sword that is too symbolic to draw blood. Is it still a sword? He shakes his head; looks instead at Cromwell. He appears solemn. But who would not? What is behind that serious, tired face? Perhaps, if all the world were not watching, he would dance behind the sword, bouncing with triumph.
As the Lord Protector and the Lord Mayor leave the hall, there is a perplexed silence. Nedham and Will look at each other mutely; then, as the hubbub begins, they smile ruefully. Inarticulate in the face of history.
They turn to leave, and Nedham throws an arm around Will’s shoulder.
‘How did he feel, do you think?’
Will shrugs. ‘Who knows. He did not know, Nedham, that Lambert was planning to overthrow the Barebones for him.’
Nedham stops, and turns to look at Will with large eyes.
‘Where was Cromwell in ’48, when the army purged the Parliament of men who might balk at killing the king?’
‘I do not know.’
‘He was travelling to London. He says. Now this is a man who, when there are Scots to kill, can cover more miles in a day than Alexander. Yet it took him days – days, Will – to go a few miles. He arrived too late; the die was cast.’
‘What is your point, Nedham?’
‘Will, I like the man. I do. I do not doubt that he believes himself sincere. But he is very adept at not knowing things, when knowing them might be awkward for him. He is a master of advantageous ignorance. A useful skill in a politician.’
Outside, the shots ring out, saluting the new Lord Protector. Will flinches at the sudden sound. He leaves Nedham and hurries back to the Banqueting House to meet Cromwell. There are documents to sign before the feast.
As he weaves his way between the crowds, he thinks of that phrase of Nedham’s, ‘advantageous ignorance’. It will, he suspects, find no place in the official paeans Nedham writes for the new regime. He thinks of Patience, at home with an ebbing fever.
Was he truly ignorant about Simmonds? Did he choose not to see what was before his eyes? If he cannot ferret out the truth of his own soul, what hope has he of weighing anyone else’s sincerity?
At Whitehall, he manages to collar the great man himself, sidling in through the crowds of backslappers and well-wishers.
‘Documents to sign, sir. My lord. I mean, Your . . .’
Will stumbles over the new titles. Cromwell smiles at him.
‘Never mind, Will.’ He puts out his hand, and Will thrusts the papers at him. His cheeks are flushed. It is hot and close in here, to add to his embarrassment.
Cromwell leans on the desk, still standing, signing the first document with his usual economy.
Will steps up to him, whispers in his ear. ‘The signature,’ he says.
Cromwell looks up, and down again. Oliver Cromwell – the name is scrawled on the bottom of the paper. He holds it up to the crowd of men around him. Lambert is there, and Vane. Thurloe, of course, and a score of civil servants and soldiers and MPs.
‘Gentlemen. I cannot get it right, it seems. Oliver Cromwell will not suffice now, I think.’
They laugh, amused by him. Satisfied by his humility. Pleased at further proof of their own cleverness in persuading the reluctant gentleman to elevate himself.
It is all, thinks Will, a little theatrical. Or perhaps not. Sincerity is hard to measure in this place; like trying to weigh a cloud.
Cromwell turns to the next document and signs it with a flourish. Will blots it and gathers it up. He holds the new signature up to the light.
In spiralling, confident loops: ‘His Highness, the Lord Protector’.
LONDON
January 1654
A JUMBLE OF TALONS. SAM SCREAMS, WARDS THEM OFF. HIS hands are a wreck of blood, which drips in vivid purple on a grassy floor. The beast. The beast returns, flames flicking from its nostrils like a lizard’s tongue. Flick, flick. He will burn. Oh he will burn.
She must stop it. Stop it.
‘Shh. Stop what, love?’
She can’t speak. She turns her face away; feels the burn in her throat where the words scour her. She will choke, suffocate. Someone help her. Help him. Oh Sam. Don’t let the beast roast you. Why don’t you call for Jesus? Call for Him. He will forgive you. He is the God of light, of love.
So why has He sent the beasts to claw at Sam, to shred at his skin? To paw and paw at that merry face with spiky claws that draw the blood in ragged lines?
‘Shh. Patience. Patience.’
Why is Hattie here? Why isn’t she helping Sam? Hattie’s big, capable hands and her wickedly sharp butcher’s cleaver. Cleave the beast’s head from its shoulders. Bring it down. Down.
Oh God. Oh God. Where are you? Why have you forsaken me? Why have you left me? Did I not try to be good? Did I not try to do your will? Why do you let him hurt me? He hurts me. Hurts me.
‘He is not here. Darling child, can you hear me? He is not here. You are safe. Safe.’
&n
bsp; Cool hands on her forehead. A cold rag. Lord, oh Lord, that feels like heaven. The coldness sliding on her skin; the scratch of the fabric. Safe. I am safe. Lord love me. Lord love me. I am safe.
‘Sleep now. Sleep.’
A face. Inches from her own. Wide eyes, white skin, brown freckles.
‘Don’t die, missus. Don’t die. Please don’t leave me.’
Am I dying? I am burning. Is that the same? Where will I go? At least I will escape him. Is it wicked to not want to cling on to this life, this gift from our Father?
What if this burning is a foretaste? Oh Lord. Am I not to know your face? A woman who was elect would not wish herself dead. Would not wish her husband dead. I am wicked. Hell. Oh Jesus. Save me from the fire.
‘Please, missus. Please.’
Tom, shh. I can’t bear your pain too. I do not have the strength. See? I cannot even talk to you. Shh, Tom, shh.
The world is a muffled grey. She can see Will’s lips moving; watch Blackberry’s face melting into a soundless wail. She cannot hear them.
Will?
Can you hear me?
She is a bird trapped inside her own skin. She tap-taps on the inside of her skull, but he cannot hear her.
He reaches out and strokes her cheek. She can feel it. She can feel the warmth of his palm on her. She tries to speak. Something is grunting, groaning. Something is making a strange keening sound. She would look for it, but she cannot move.
‘Close your eyes, Patience. Close your eyes.’
Her mother. Why is she here? Why is her mother here? Her mother belongs in the country, lavender swirling about her and bees humming.
She closes her eyes. It feels better. She might sleep, she thinks.
‘He beats her,’ Will says, reaching for the decanter again.
‘Beats? Strong words. Patience has always been . . .’ His mother pauses. ‘Wilful.’
‘Can we be clear, Mother. You are saying that Patience has earned his fists?’
She waves impatiently at him. ‘That is not what I said. But do not be a child, Will. Many a wife is corrected by her husband. What of it? She must learn not to anger him. She joined herself to him in the sight of God.’
The Tyrant’s Shadow Page 16