There was an air of excitement amongst the gentlemen, but Christopher was not interested in their pleasure, only in the feeling of dread that filled his heart. ‘I must go there at once!’ he said in a louder voice than he had meant.
Charles glanced at him as if he had almost forgotten he was there. ‘Passage cannot be got overnight,’ he said. ‘However, you are welcome to remain at court until you have a resolution by letter from your son or find passage on a ship.’ He turned to the others. ‘I am sorry, gentlemen. I am out of time. I suspect I am already late for a meeting and will be taken to task by my ministers. Our business will have to wait.’
Christopher stayed by the cartographer until the map was copied and returned to him. But after that, he decided he must stay on in London until a ship was found. Back at his lodgings, he wrote to William and Jane, asking for word to be sent should a letter arrive from Abel, hoping they would be able to make out the words well enough to understand his message. He also asked for more funds. His determination to find his son wasn’t dimmed, but he was deeply shaken at the destination. Although his plans to rescue Abel had been vague, he had assumed it would entail a ride, a ransom or escape, and the risk of violence. Now, he had to contemplate a long sea journey to a place entirely foreign to him, with a language he did not speak and a culture he did not understand. In truth, his wanderings on the continent after the war as a penniless outcast had cured him of wanting any more foreign travel. Thanks to that time, he had, as well as his native tongue and passable Latin, enough Dutch and French to get by. Arabic, however, was another matter. He had never even heard the language spoken. If it was as much of a mystery as its writing it would be impossible to understand. And yet, apparently there was at least one at court who could decipher it. He would have to seek this person out and beg instruction.
This was as far as he had got with his thoughts that evening. As he sat disconsolately by his window after supper, a small commotion in the street made him look out. He could not see who was knocking so loudly beneath him, but after a few seconds his landlord came up to him.
‘Your presence is needed,’ he said.
‘We are directed to take you to Whitehall,’ said one of the two men at the door.
Christopher looked in vain for any badge that would proclaim them the King’s men. The two were dressed too well to be common thieves, but only a fool would follow strangers in this seething city.
‘I have just come from there!’
‘Even so, you are to come with us now.’
Their appearance was bewildering and alarming. Christopher had seen enough soldiers in his life to recognise these two, even though they were dressed almost as gentlemen. ‘Am I arrested? If so, can I enquire why? And by who?’
If he was not arrested, it seemed neither was he quite free. His sword and pistol remained upstairs, and they were both armed. He had no choice but to go with them. They had brought a horse for him, and for a few moments he was afraid they would bind him. They did not, although he had the impression that they would not hesitate to do so if he became difficult.
For a little while, their route made him fear he was being taken to the Tower, but the men had spoken the truth. They took him not exactly to the palace but to a building close by. In a plain room he was asked politely enough to wait. There was a bottle and glasses on the table, but Christopher did not trust the wine enough to drink it.
At last, two different men arrived. They immediately poured wine for themselves and him. He began to feel slightly reassured, but without introducing themselves or any other courtesy they began questioning him. Over and over again they asked him about the circumstances of his receiving the map. Christopher could tell them little, but he did his best to satisfy them.
‘Does your son often carry sealed packets about the country,’ asked one, ‘when any honest man would use the King’s mail?’
Christopher tried to curb his anger and frustration. ‘My son is a young boy and has been taken from me. I do not know how he came by the map, except I am sure he wanted to tell me where he was being taken. He could not have known I would be in the cellar, so he must surely have secretly taken it from one of his captors, intending to leave it for me to find. In the event, I was there and he gave it straight into my hand.’
‘Did he say anything?’
Christopher tried to think. ‘He said, “Here, take this” or similar words. In truth we said little. I was in a fever to uncover the gate, so I could unlock it and rescue him. It was a matter of minutes only …’
One of the men pushed his glass of wine to him, and Christopher took a deep draught to steady himself. ‘I’m sorry. I find the memory distressing.’
‘Could it be,’ said the other, ‘that your son was secretly acting as a message boy for someone? I mean, without your knowledge?’
Christopher stared at him. ‘He was hardly out of my sight until he was taken. And we live in a small village, not a great city with all its opportunities for subterfuge. Who would he take a message to … or from?’
The men looked at each other but did not reply.
‘My son is not a spy!’
‘Do you think your son knew what was in the package?’
Christopher scratched his head. ‘Why would he give it to me if he did not?’
‘Well, sir.’ The two men drained their glasses and got to their feet. They seemed very pleased at what had transpired, although Christopher was no more informed than he had been at the start. ‘Thank you for your time.’
They went to the door, but the one who reached it first paused and looked back at Christopher. ‘I hope your son returns, sir. But if I might give you a little advice?’
‘Yes?’
‘It would be to return home and continue to live quietly. That appears to have done you well in the past.’
Christopher could not help his bitter response. ‘It has done well enough to lose me my son.’
For a moment the two men were silent. Then the other said, ‘If you go to that place you would be advised to leave the map behind.’
They both bowed and left, closing the door behind them. Christopher was left with the remains of the bottle of wine and myriad unanswered questions. At length, being alone for some while, he tried the door and found, somewhat to his surprise, that it was unlocked. There was no sign of the men, nor of the two who had brought him there. He considered going to the palace as it was so near, but he did not have the stomach for it. He could hardly ask the King about what had happened, even if he had been on familiar enough terms with him. In spite of the King’s kindness in speaking with him and offering him a gift of shoes, Christopher was certainly not of his sovereign’s inner circle. He also knew he was too innocent of court matters to know if those men had been for the King or for some other interest. It would probably be better not to ask anyone about it. In the end, after some indecision, Christopher made his way slowly to his lodgings. He arrived back much muddied about the legs, regretting his lack of horse.
He went to court the following morning somewhat nervous, but it was as if his questioning had never happened. He discovered that Sir John Narborough would soon take his fleet to the English port of Tangier, with the intention of confronting the Barbary pirates. Sir John did not have time for the likes of Christopher, but he was not impolite to him and did not definitively deny him a passage on one of his ships. It was the best Christopher could hope for.
While he waited, he pondered. His questioners’ warning to go home and stay there was no help to him. He feared becoming entangled in any form of spying, and he recognised that innocence in such circumstances could be dangerous, but what else could he do? He could not abandon his son if there was any chance of saving him, no matter what was involved. So, yes. He would leave London as soon as possible. But he would not go home. Not unless word came from them that Abel had returned.
The very next day he had another visitor. His jangled nerves were somewhat gentled by it being the King’s shoemaker and his assis
tant, come to take his measurements. A little while afterwards, a pair of stout, practical shoes arrived, made of excellent leather. He felt pathetically grateful at the King’s thoughtfulness. He soon also received a suit of clothes, not of the latest fashion but only lightly worn. Along with them came another pair of shoes, worn but very fancy, matching the clothes and obviously meant for court wear. He had owned similar clothes as a young man, but never so fine. Christopher was touched that the King should send him his discarded clothes but couldn’t help wondering that if his questioning by the two men had gone badly he might have received nothing at all, or worse.
He tried on his new wardrobe that evening. The clothes would not need altering if he regained his usual weight, and both pairs of shoes fitted very well. Glancing at himself in the glass, Christopher felt new-made. His past few years seemed to fall away, like the discarded husk of an insect, almost as if his son had never existed. It was a vertiginous feeling and left him uneasy.
He went to court almost every day and would have liked to personally thank the King, but his sovereign was always surrounded by garrulous company and although he nodded at Christopher a couple of times in a not unfriendly manner, it was always a very slight acknowledgement and at a distance. Not being a person to ingratiate himself, Christopher expressed his thanks in a letter, which he gave to the King’s secretary.
After a few more days, he received a laboriously written note from Jane at home: No news, sir.
While he waited, Christopher studied the language of the Arabs and learnt as much as he could about the great empire of the Ottomans. It seemed Barbary pirates were being increasingly dissuaded from raiding English soil by decisive action from the navy.
‘And there is a plan to expand trade with Constantinople,’ one of the gentlemen at court told him. ‘I hear His Majesty is writing to our ambassador to the Ottoman court, instructing him to seek an audience with the Sultan. Our King hopes a desire to improve trade will encourage the Sultan also to resolve the matter of the many Christian slaves he has toiling in his empire. Some of the letters received from prisoners are truly distressing.’
Christopher’s heart tumbled in his chest with conflicting emotions. ‘Will the instructions go by sea?’
The gentleman smiled. ‘Of course. One of the newer ships is being equipped this very moment and I feel sure the fleet will be ready to sail soon. Several business interests will be represented on board, so if you desire also to sail you should apply.’
Christopher leapt to his feet.
‘Rest easy! They won’t be ready for another two or three weeks.’
That did not seem soon to Christopher, but he could not rest easy. He was in agony to depart. He found himself pacing at night and unwrapping and poring over the map twenty times a day. There were some things he could do. He must write again to inform his servants what was happening. He must buy provisions for his journey and gather as much money as he could in the hopes of finding and ransoming his son. With little sadness he sold the flamboyant hat that had arrived with the suit of clothes from the King and bought a more practical one. The sale added a few more welcome coins to his store.
All was finally ready, but then the winds were not favourable. For three extra days Christopher waited, each day going out into the countryside where he walked at a furious pace, very much as the King liked to walk in his garden. Then, on the fourth morning, it was so still that hardly a leaf trembled. This would not do and Christopher was racked with impatience. But as he was about to set out pacing again, a message came for him to go to the ship.
When he arrived, there was much bustle at the dock. To Christopher’s great surprise, the King was there with some of his gentlemen and he approached Christopher with a smile.
‘You find me at one of my favourite pastimes,’ he said in greeting. ‘Inspecting my ships gives me much pleasure and I am pleased to say the building of my newest vessel is coming on at a great pace.’
‘I wanted to thank you again for the fine shoes and clothing you sent me, sir,’ said Christopher.
The King waved away his thanks. ‘I was glad to do it. Now, I was told your ship was ready to depart and am glad to find you here. I think the wind is set to change and the estuary will be busy.’ He reached out his hand behind him and a gentleman put something into it. It was a document, which he offered to Christopher. ‘I promised you a letter of introduction to my ambassador John Finch, commanding him to give you every assistance in finding and delivering to you your son.’
Christopher bowed. ‘I am very grateful.’
‘There may be little he can do, but we will hope and pray for good news. Keep it and yourself safe on the voyage, Christopher.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Christopher. ‘I will keep it close, along with the map.’
‘Yes, that map.’ The King looked away from Christopher and observed the dark water of the river. ‘My cartographers were startled at how much detail there was of the palace. Much of it is forbidden. Even the ambassador is only welcome in some of the outer courts.’ The King looked sober. ‘Christopher, show the map to no one except John Finch. I doubt the Sultan, should he hear of it, would want any man to have such information. Show it only to Sir John.’ His expression cleared. ‘Now I must greet your captain. Come with me and I will introduce you.’
Christopher followed the King as he made his way onto the deck. ‘This is our good ship Henry’s second voyage, Christopher. I commend her to you. She is an excellent vessel. And, between you and me, I always consider that a second voyage is the very best. All problems have been found and put right, while the ship is new enough for her timbers to be sound. Is that not so, Captain?’
The captain bowed.
When a sudden breeze caught a pennant and set it flapping, the King looked pleased.
‘There, Christopher! Here comes the wind. And the tide will be right within the hour. I almost wish I was sailing with you. But I will pray for your son to be restored to you safe and well. Bring him with you to see me on your return. I would like to hear your traveller’s tales, and to meet your son.’
Christopher found his eyes filling with tears. It was quite beyond him to make a courtly reply. The King, however, was adept.
‘I have many faults, as my ministers are often pleased to tell me,’ he said, gracefully ignoring Christopher’s embarrassment. ‘But forgetting my friends is, I hope, not one of them, even though I must ration my time with them. I wish I could do more.’ He handed Christopher a small purse. ‘If you wish, you may call this a payment, for sight of the map. We are extremely pleased to have been given the opportunity to copy it.’
The Henry was beginning to tug at the lines that held her and the breeze was strengthening. The King rejoined his gentlemen on the dock, where he waved a brief farewell before mounting his horse and turning its head away. Christopher watched him go. How simple it seemed to make things happen when in a position of influence. Seemingly on a whim, the King had conjured up clothes, a ship and money, all without the slightest effort. Or perhaps that was just how it looked to someone who had, over the past decade, found it difficult enough to keep from utter ruin. Feeling a little furtive, he opened the purse and regarded the coins within. Not a king’s ransom, certainly, but enough perhaps to buy the freedom of an unimportant boy.
Christopher heard the sudden slap of sailors’ feet drumming on the deck as they hurried to make ready. With every moment the wind was strengthening and, with the tide’s pull, the Henry was eager to be gone.
Christopher was in the way. He was in a quandary as where best to stand, but a gentleman dressed in a warm cloak took his arm. ‘This way, sir. We will be quite out of the way here and you will still be able to watch as we leave England.’
‘Thank you,’ said Christopher, taking in the well-fed appearance of his fellow passenger. ‘Sir Christopher Morgan at your service.’
‘Ethan Ford at yours. I go to the Orient with goods to sell, and perhaps to buy.’
‘Goods? What
sort of goods?’
Mr Ford laughed. ‘What to buy is yet to be decided. But my father dealt in spices and I mean to expand the business if I can. As for selling, I have samples of fine woollen cloth from our Cotswold sheep. What is your reason for travelling, if I may ask?’
‘To find my son, who I believe is held prisoner in Constantinople.’
‘I am most sorry to hear it.’ The strengthening wind caught Ethan’s plumed hat. He snatched at it and gave Christopher a rueful smile. ‘I would not wish to lose my best beaver hat!’
Both men watched as the Henry slipped quietly from her mooring and slid out into the channel. The ship drifted faster and the helmsman had to beware the many other craft taking advantage of wind and tide.
It wasn’t long before the river met the sea. At the mouth of the estuary, Christopher gazed at the expanse of marshland bordering the water. It was full of water birds. As he watched, a flock of geese came in to land at the water’s edge, disturbing a group of ducks, which grumbled noisily. Overhead, countless gulls floated on the wind, crying like frightened children. The breeze was strong now, blowing them away from England, and Christopher was glad of his old cloak. The ship shuddered as it hit the waves, the captain called for more sail and the Henry found a new rhythm. Like the ship, Christopher turned his face away from England and towards the open sea.
17
Christopher had brought his journal with him and wrote in it every day. He also attempted to make his own copy of the map, but the paper was not large enough and he had none of the cartographer’s skill. He noted down the ship’s position and the day’s weather, but he wrote mostly about Abel and the love he felt for him. It was as if by writing his son’s life he was ensuring he stayed alive. He had nothing else to remind him of his son’s existence. He had not thought to bring any memento with him. If only he had Abel’s first shoe or his early attempts at writing. Those things lay as treasures in his room at home and he wished he had them now. They would reassure him. Being on this ship, wearing unaccustomed clothes, approaching unknown places and unmet people had disorientated him. The wooden walls of his tiny cabin creaked and groaned as if sharing his agony, while the floor was a trickster. One moment it would tilt alarmingly, causing him to stagger and hit his head. The next it would settle into a smooth rhythm, as if all was well in the world. Nothing was certain, and he craved certainty. The old inn, with its solid walls and stone floors – he had not known how much he had come to love it. He missed it, with a similar ache to the remains of grief for his long-dead wife.
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 13