by Angus Donald
‘Brandy!’ he called again. ‘For the love of God, Suzy, something to wet my weasand before I fall down dead of thirst.’
‘Nothing for you, colonel. Nothing for you without the chink to pay for it. You still owe me for last week’s carouse, and Red Peggy says she went out into the gardens with you on a kiss and a promise and had not so much as a farthing to show for her kindness.’
Suzy, the tavern-keeper’s wife, looked as sour as month-old milk, a square yellow slab of a face, small eyes like raisins in raw dough, grubby breasts almost spilling out of her stained, half-unlaced bodice, strands of grey greasy hair straggling down from under her once-white linen coif.
‘Suzy, my dove, I swear you get more comely with every passing day. Matthew is surely the luckiest man in Christendom. You surely wouldn’t begrudge an old friend a nip or two or the good French stuff to keep out the rain, come now, my dear.’
‘No brass, no bingo – those is Matt’s strict orders: he mentioned you specifically. And he’d beat me black if I disobeyed his word.’
‘Who says I have no money?’ Blood dipped a hand into the pocket of his coat and a round silver shilling winked delightfully between his fingers.
She stared at him, half-disbelieving. Blood’s hand had disappeared back into his pocket. ‘So, my darling, a measure of your best brandy – and tip me a nice gage of fogus, if you please.’
When the pewter mug had been set before him on the counter and a white clay pipe stuffed with Virginia tobacco had been delivered, lit and a cloud of fragrant tobacco smoke had added its note to the general fug, Blood walked over to the two sober gentlemen by the fire and, pulling out a stool with his foot, he set himself down between them.
‘Blood,’ muttered the man to his left.
‘Good day to you, Littleton,’ said Blood cheerily, ‘and good day to you, Osborne. I trust you are both in bounding good health – no black plague, no purple scurvy, no Cupid’s measles, I trust?’
Both men ignored his rude pleasantry.
‘Do we have to meet in this . . . this awful place?’ said Sir Thomas Osborne, looking around the Bull’s Head with a shudder. He was a tall, brisk man, broad-shouldered with black moustaches.
‘We couldn’t very well meet him at the palace, could we?’ said Sir Thomas Littleton, a younger, blonder figure but rounder and dowdier too, with large eyes and a faint resemblance to an owl. ‘With peepers in every gallery and ears at every door. We’d be the talk of all London, indeed all England before nightfall. And I would not care to receive him in my own house – would you, sir?’
‘So charming,’ said Blood. ‘You make me feel so valued, so beloved, so warm inside.’ He drained his mug, turned to the counter and called loudly for another tot of brandy.
‘I do not wish to be unduly discourteous, colonel,’ Osborne said. ‘But, as you well know, there is a fat price on your head after that business at Dublin Castle – and the Duke of Ormonde has let it be known that he will pay it whether you are brought to him dead or alive. He cares not which. Lord Ossory is determined to win his father’s favour by capturing you – he is afire with zeal, or so I’m told. You are – how shall I put it? – an undesirable connection, very much persona non grata in London society.’
When Suzy had brought over the brandy jug and refilled his pewter, Blood said: ‘If I had succeeded in Dublin, if I had captured the castle and held it, if I had not been betrayed, if that foul-mouthed knave Ormonde had been knocked from the summit of the dung heap and swept into the gutter with the rest of the turds, you would be showing me a deal more respect.’
Littleton shrugged. ‘If.’
Blood blew a plume of blue smoke directly into Littleton’s face. While the fat man coughed and spluttered and mopped his huge eyes with a scarlet-spotted kerchief, Blood said, ‘Tell me, sirs, was there any particular reason why you asked me to meet you in this fine establishment today or was it just to remind me of my past humiliations and my present social shortcomings?’
Osborne said, ‘We have another commission for you, sir. And, perhaps by no coincidence, it concerns your old Irish adversary.’
‘Ormonde?’ Blood lifted an eyebrow.
‘The same.’
‘I don’t suppose you want me to cut his fat throat, do you?’
Neither of the two gentlemen said anything. Osborne stared into his nearly empty ale pot. Littleton considered the wisdom of the crackling fire.
‘Jesu – I was jesting. Are you in earnest?’ Blood looked back and forth between the two. ‘You came to ask me to kill a man?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ growled Osborne.
Blood turned around to survey the room. The long-limbed servant and the slut had disappeared. The watchmen were deep in their own dark business. The clergyman was snoring loudly with his mouth wide open, drool glistening upon his black coat. Matthew Pretty, the tavern-keeper, who despite his name was as ill-favoured as his wife, was out of earshot, wiping the counter with a rag and shooting distrustful glares in Blood’s direction.
Littleton said, ‘Our master feels that Ormonde’s, uh, removal from the court would best serve His Majesty’s true interests . . .’
‘You don’t have to tell me why Buckingham wants it done. The reason is as plain – and quite as ugly – as the nose on your face.’
‘You do not say his name. You do not say it in this place . . .’
Littleton’s plump round face had grown red.
‘What? Buckingham? George Villiers, His Grace the Second Duke of Buckingham?’ Blood’s voice was now loud. ‘That is the name I should not dare to say? Why not? You know it. I know it. The world knows it. I know too why he wants to rid himself of Ormonde; he wants to rid himself of the only man who stands between him and the full gale of the King’s favour.’
‘You’re no better than a child, Blood. It will not do. This is a deadly serious matter and while His Grace might indulge you out of respect for your long association, I’ll have you know that I . . .’
Blood leaned into Littleton’s fat, round face. He said quietly, ‘You come here and insult me, tell me I am undesirable, not someone you would care to entertain in your own house, yet in the same breath beg me to commit black murder for your master. Is that it?’
‘This has been a mistake,’ said Osborne, rising to his feet. Littleton too was struggling to lever his soft body out of the deep leather chair. Blood reached out a long arm, gripped his fat-padded shoulder and shoved the younger man back into his seat.
‘There are some small conditions that I have to which His Grace must readily agree before we can proceed,’ said Blood calmly. ‘And I will need a goodly sum of money, too. In gold, as usual, if you please.’
‘So you will do it?’ Littleton looked at him with renewed hope. ‘You really will? My brother James at the Pay Office can certainly provide you with whatever sums you need – within reason—’
‘Wait, Littleton! Wait! What conditions, Blood? Tell us what the conditions are.’ Osborne stared down at Blood, stroking his black whiskers, frowning, wary, almost frightened by Blood’s volte face.
‘Sit yourself down, Sir Thomas, whistle up some more of that very fine French bingo, another gage of Virginian too, if you please, and I’ll lay out for you what I want in return for doing this dark and dangerous deed.’
Tuesday 6 December, 1670
Holcroft waited outside the arch of the gatehouse that marked the entrance to the Palace of White Hall. He stared up at the massive structure: with its four soaring octagonal towers, narrow arched windows and thick walls in a chequered pattern of flint and stone, it looked like a knight’s castle from the olden days. And this was just the gatehouse to the palace. But then everything seemed huge here in this royal enclave on the outskirts of Westminster, at least to Holcroft’s eyes. The road behind him that led back to London was at least five times as wide as the muddy lane in Shoreditch where he lived. The building to his left, he had been told, was the King’s banqueting house, and it was
as big as a palace all on its own and that was only one building in this enormous royal complex. Here, the King, his wife, his servants, his soldiers, his ministers and mistresses all lived together, higgledy-piggledy, in sprawling splendour.
Holcroft was clutching a bundled rag, his fardel, which contained all his worldly possessions: a clean shirt that his mother had washed and ironed for him the night before, two copper farthings rubbed almost smooth by age and usage, a piece of hard bread rubbed with onion and, of course, his pack of beloved French playing cards.
Part of him had been secretly glad to leave that squalid dwelling in Cock Lane and his mother’s endless weeping. Change was bad, of course; he liked things to be regular, orderly, predictable; routine was ever his friend. But the Shoreditch house was distressingly chaotic. People came and went at all hours, meals were scanty and infrequent and Tom had sometimes brought his friends back from the alehouse at midnight and drank rum and laughed and sang. His younger brother and sister tracked mud up the stairs; the poor, sickly baby would never cease in its crying unless he walked him.
No, change was bad, it made him feel dizzy and sick, but he was feeling something else besides as he stood waiting to be met – a quickening of his heart, a clamminess of his palms – that was not wholly unpleasant. A new life awaited him, Mother had said. And it was all Father’s doing.
*
Blood had turned up at Cock Lane a week ago, the night of Tom’s brief visit, arriving in a whirlwind of enthusiasm, jests and more than a whiff of brandy. He had kissed his weeping wife, presented her with a sunny bouquet of daisies and a pair of bright-silver shillings and had told her the wonderful news: Holcroft was to serve as a page to a rich man, a duke no less, and was to go away and live in a palace – the Palace of White Hall, indeed, with the King himself. Holcroft’s master was to be one of His Majesty’s chief ministers, a magnificent nobleman, one of England’s greatest gentlemen.
The next morning, Blood had taken Holcroft’s chin in his hand as they stood together by the parlour table and had forced him to look into his eyes; something that made the boy feel most uncomfortable. ‘You’d better serve His Grace well, boy, or you’ll feel my belt on your bare arse.’
‘I will, Father.’
‘I mean it, son. This is a great opportunity for you. Serve him well.’
Holcroft said nothing. He twitched his jaw out of his father’s hand and stared at the table. His mother was moving heavily about upstairs, already three-parts drunk on the little money Blood had brought, and he could hear the baby whining fitfully up there too. His younger brother and sister were out playing in the street. He was alone with his father.
‘Son, I’m not always going to be here to look after you and your poor mother,’ said Blood, pulling out a chair and sitting down at the table. ‘I know I have not been the perfect husband – or father, for that matter. But you know that I care for you all, don’t you? It’s just that I’ve got to do something for somebody, and it might well be . . . Well, it might be dangerous for me. And, anyway, I’ll not live for ever. One day, when I’m in my grave, you and Tom will have to care for your mother and the children. I won’t be able to do even the little I do now. So I want you to listen to me, really listen, about this plum I have secured for you. Are you listening, son?’
Holcroft remained silent, staring at the table.
‘Well, I’m going to say my piece anyway. And if you’re wise you will pay heed. The duke, your new master, is a powerful man – an extremely powerful man, Holcroft, maybe the most powerful in the land after the King. You will serve him, live with him, learn from him, stand by his side day and night, maybe for years. You will discover a great deal about power – how to get it, how to wield it. For example: what do you think it is, son, that makes him so strong? What do you think the duke’s true strength is?’
‘Money. All that chink makes him powerful.’
‘Half right, son, but only half right. His Grace has all the money in the world, sure, but what makes him powerful is knowledge, information. The duke knows everything there is to know. He has eyes and ears everywhere – and I mean everywhere – and he pays them well to keep him informed. Knowledge is power. Remember that when you get to the palace. This is the true currency of the corridors of White Hall: gossip, rumours and, best of all, real, solid intelligence. The right kind of information can make a man rich, the wrong kind can leave him bleeding in the gutter. If you know something that another man doesn’t then you’ve got one up on him. You have power over him. Do you understand me, boy?’
Holcroft said nothing but he pulled out a chair and sat down carefully on the far side of the table from his father, eyes lowered, his broad, clumsy hands resting before him on the pale-scrubbed ash.
Blood reached out his own right paw and covered Holcroft’s left hand. ‘This position will be good for you, son. I promise. Serve His Grace well, don’t cross him, be faithful and obedient and you will rise in his service. Maybe one day you too will be a great man. There will be opportunities for advancement. You’ll know ’em when they present themselves. Seek them. Seize them. Use them to get ahead. Make me proud of you, son. Keep the faith, my boy, and we’ll all come up smiling yet.’
Blood got up from his chair and walked round to Holcroft. He embraced the sitting boy clumsily but hard, his arm reaching over to squeeze Holcroft’s shoulders. He kissed the boy roughly on the cheek, a rasp of bristles, a final blast of last night’s brandy fumes. Then Blood slapped Holcroft’s back, picked up his hat and walked out the door into the street.
That had been a week ago. And now here Holcroft was, waiting for admittance to the Palace of White Hall. The home of the King. The late-autumn sun beat down on his bare head. His empty stomach gurgled. His eye caught the movement of the sentries at the gate. After a quarter of an hour of statue-like immobility, they were stamping, saluting, presenting their muskets: an officer was approaching.
As a general rule, Holcroft did not look at people directly but he had hardly been able to stop himself from gazing in wonder at these two men standing guard on either side of the main arch of the gatehouse. They were the most beautiful things he had ever seen, resplendent in scarlet woollen coats with a multitude of silver buttons, big turned-back light-blue cuffs and wide skirts that hung almost to the knee. The blue of the cuffs was pleasingly echoed, to Holcroft’s tidy mind, by their blue breeches and blue worsted stockings. Their shoes, however, were black and very, very shiny but they were tied with blue laces. And a broad blue sash was wrapped raffishly around their waists, nipping the big red coats in to make them look exaggeratedly slim. Their muskets were polished and oiled until they gleamed, their broad chests crossed by a bandolier from one side and a baldric on the other, from which hung a curved sword. They looked both ferocious and very fine. Holcroft was half-terrified of them, half-entranced.
The two sentries were not oblivious to the tall, hatless, raggedy young man gazing at them from a dozen yards away. The man on the left scowled. He seemed ready to say something to Holcroft, to tell him to be on his way, when someone said: ‘Got a message. God’s teeth! You’re the new page?’
Holcroft turned quickly to find himself staring at a stranger of about the same age as himself but cast from an infinitely superior mould. He was dressed in a tightly fitted silk coat the blinding colour of pure gold with rich-scarlet breeches and waistcoat, white stockings and black shoes. Holcroft could scarcely imagine the King himself looking more splendid. The golden boy made even the soldiers guarding the gatehouse look a little drab.
‘You are Mister Blood? Damn it, man, you might have made an effort in your dress. This is the King’s residence, you know. You look like a street beggar. Most of the new chicks come in their very best clothes.’
‘These are my best clothes,’ said Holcroft in a small voice. He had spent most of the night before mending the tears in his shirt and sewing a patch on the elbow of his brown fustian coat where it had worn through. His breeches had been scrubbed until they
were pale grey, indeed almost back to their original white. His brown woollen stockings had been lumpily darned by his mother and he had polished his shoes with goose fat until they shone.
‘Best clothes . . . Oh ha-ha-ha-ha-hah. Best clothes.’ The golden boy was convulsed with mirth. Holcroft caught a glimpse of the nearest soldier’s face. There were definitely signs of a smirk there.
Holcroft felt ashamed and a little angry, but mostly confused. ‘Why does that make you laugh so much? My best clothes?’
‘Oh stop it. Stop it! I will split my waistcoat, beggar-boy.’
Holcroft looked at the fellow, who was now laughing harder than ever. ‘My mother told me I should try to conduct myself well . . .’ he began.
‘Oh, oh, oh . . . your beggarly mother told you to behave yourself, did she? Oh, you are going to be my death. Hahaha—’
Holcroft hit him. He bunched his right fist and, giving it his full shoulder, smashed it into the laughing boy’s face, following through, and hurling the boy flat on to his back.
The boy in the golden coat looked up at him in shock. Blood began to well from his crushed nose. He scrambled to his feet and rushed at Holcroft, who sidestepped quickly and gave him a two-knuckle downward chop on the side of the jaw as he passed, knocking him to the dirt once more. The boy got to his feet and dived at Holcroft’s legs – and received one hard, jarring knee to the cheekbone. This boy doesn’t know how to fight at all, thought Holcroft. Why has nobody ever taught him? Yet the golden boy was game, if not gifted; he dived forward again with his arms wide, and Holcroft, trying to sidestep the lunge, found his legs tangled in the boy’s flailing arms and the two of them tumbled into the dust together. The boy crawled forward over Holcroft’s sprawled body, fingers clawing. He blocked one scrabbling hand, sweeping it aside with his left, and popped a short, hard right into the golden boy’s already bloodied nose.