The thin veal cutlet made an excellent meal, but Nathan had no appetite. He only sipped the glass of port wine.
“Eat,” said Evans. He picked up the book, glanced through it, then returned it to the table. “Is this useful for writing poetry?” he asked.
Nathan had been thinking of Edward and Nigel. The work on heraldry had begun his friendship with them.
Friendship, that thing which some wit had compared to a turnip, now seemed like an exotic fruit, reserved for the tables of the privileged few.
A blue roundel was a ‘hurt,’ Nigel’s last name was ‘Hart’… not quite the same, but close enough for Nathan to think of the blue oval as a symbol of his friend.
“Concentrate all your efforts on the poetry,” Evans said.
The best part of a month had passed since Evans had taken him in.
Compared to the landed gentry, who had vast rural holdings as well as mansions in the city complete with butlers and servants to tend to their every need, Evans’s home was small and his servants few in number. To Nathan’s eyes, however, it was the height of luxury.
If this was a house, then the Barretts in Shoreditch lived in a pigsty. Evans’s residence was three or four times larger than his family home in the village. The front entrance led to a reception hall furnished with chairs for visitors and great porcelain vases from the Orient.
Nathan’s room was on the second floor. It contained a canopied four-poster bed, a wash-stand with mirror, a large writing desk, a chest of drawers and a bookshelf. The selection of books was generous and varied. There was Robinson Crusoe, the volume in which Evans had been engrossed at Tyndale’s shop; works by contemporary authors, such as Tom Jones and Clarissa; and classics by the likes of Milton and Shakespeare (Nathan’s own favourite). Evans, it seemed, was quite a reader.
“This is the guest room,” he had said. “You can stay here.” When he had left, closing the door behind him, Nathan heard the key in the lock. He ran to the door and twisted the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.
Under the bed he found a chamber pot. So he was to use this instead of a privy? However luxuriously appointed, the room was just another cell.
The chest of drawers was stocked with clothing and undergarments. Evans had planned this confinement some time in advance. A shiver went up Nathan’s spine.
Evans did have servants, but there did not appear to be a wife or children. Even so, Nathan was not asked to dine with him. When it was time to eat, Evans would bring him his meal personally, then inquire about his progress on the Elegy. The hearty portions of beef or lamb or mutton made him feel he was being fattened up for slaughter.
“My progress would be better at Matthew’s,” Nathan told him, cutting a sliver of veal. “Solitude in an unfamiliar room actually makes it harder to concentrate.”
“Is that really so, I wonder?”
Everything Nathan needed was provided unstintingly. He lacked only one thing: freedom.
“I arranged this to help you focus on your writing, without your time being taken up by other concerns.”
“A change of scenery is also necessary now and then.”
“In that case, shall we set aside some time for walks?”
“I would prefer to go to Matthew’s.”
“You cannot work here?”
“No.”
“But coffee-houses and the like are noisy.”
“To a certain extent, it helps to be around others. Staying in this room all day is suffocating—hardly conducive to poetic invention. Also, I hope you will let me attend church on Sunday. The one in Covent Garden is ungodly.”
“They are all much like that in London.” Evans thought for a while. “How many people do you know here?” he asked.
“Apart from you? Mr. Tyndale… Speaking of whom, what has happened to the poems I left with him?”
“Tyndale is waiting for the Elegy to be completed. The mediaeval poem you discovered is still being examined by a trusted appraiser. As for your own poetry, Tyndale did not seem to care for it greatly. He could not fathom what you were trying to express. It is too new, he said. You must not press him for a final answer, either. The impression a work leaves depends on one’s mood while reading it. These matters must be given time. It were better that you not appear too often there, lest he feel rushed. But take heart: when he reads the Elegy, his opinion of you will soar… . Now, have you any other acquaintances in London?”
“Mr. Harrington.”
“He will be in Newgate for some time yet, I think. Who else?”
Could he call Elaine an “acquaintance”? He had not seen her since his imprisonment. He longed to, but it was not possible.
He still had her copy of Moll Flanders. He had not kept his promise to read it to her aloud. Had she misunderstood his absence? Did she think he had just walked off with it?
He would have preferred to leave out her name, but there was nothing for it.
“I have a book I must return to the daughter of the Roughhead household,” he said. “I should like to meet her to do so.”
“Elaine? Which book? I shall return it for you. Any others?”
“Edward Turner and Nigel Hart. I can meet them at Matthew’s. And I should dearly like to.”
“Those friends you mentioned earlier? Live-in pupils at Robert Barton’s School of Anatomy, I believe you said.”
“That is so.”
“If you really must write at a coffee-house instead of here, choose another establishment.”
“Why?”
“As I warned you earlier, your parchment poem and the Elegy must remain confidential.”
“And as I told you then, I have already spoken of them to my two friends.”
“If you have kept your distance from them, they have surely forgotten.”
“I do not understand why I must keep this secret even from them.”
“But I explained why the other day. There are many dishonest people in London. I do not want your obvious ability to fall into the hands of another just as it matures. I am your patron—someone who will groom you, help your talent to develop. Do you understand?”
“You have no right to restrict my movements.”
“Then your chance of making a name for yourself is at risk. If I were to withdraw my backing, you would be left defenceless. Your ties to Tyndale would also be severed. Without my approval, he would drive you from the door of his shop.”
“In short, you are threatening me.”
“My word, no! Do not misunderstand me. I seek only to assist.” Evans thought for a while again, then offered a proposal. “I shall allow you to visit Matthew’s once, as a test. To discover whether that environment truly does permit you to put pen to paper. And I shall accompany you.”
“I mean to go alone—”
“I would not interfere if you should meet your friends there,” he interrupted. “Only be sure not to speak indiscreetly.”
“You will be spying on us?”
“I merely urge caution.”
“I reject your conditions.”
“Then write in this room.”
“I cannot.”
“Then I cannot vouch for you to Mr. Tyndale.”
They were talking in circles.
“I shall leave here,” said Nathan firmly.
“Very well,” the other replied with a thin smile. “Do so. A suit will be forthcoming from Tyndale and myself regarding your attempt to defraud us.”
“Defraud you…?”
“Tyndale does not realize it yet, of course. The evidence is in my possession.”
The final page of the old poem?
Evans never had returned it to him… .
Nathan had been mistaken about Francis Lovell, remembering him incorrectly as having perished at Bosworth, fighting for Richard III. Evans had noted the incon
sistency, but the poem only said that his “werriours fortune” had fallen. It did not explicitly say that Lovell had died in battle, and Evans had shown no sign of suspecting any forgery… .
“Francis Lovell did not fight in the Battle of Bosworth,” Evans said, still smiling. “His ‘werriours fortune fel’ in 1486, after he raised arms against Henry VII. And yet after the poem it says, ‘Wroten bie Godes servant Thomas Howard the .iii. daye of Novembre in the .m cccc lxxx v. yere of our Lorde God.’ Do you suppose Thomas Howard, servant of God, had eyes that could see into the future?”
“Ah, in that case…” Nathan tried to conceal his alarm. “Someone may have written that part at a somewhat later date. Nevertheless, it remains an old poem of considerable scholarly interest, does it not?”
“A somewhat later date? Three hundred years later, I think, by someone called Nathan Cullen.”
“No. I merely discovered—”
“Very well. I shall bring suit for fraud. The trial will be held in the High Court, but until the verdict is handed down, you will be kept in Newgate—”
“No!” Nathan interrupted with a cry that startled even himself. “Not Newgate!”
“We shall have to wait and see how the jury decide. I think I shall introduce your Elegy as evidence. That will establish that you had the means to forge poetry in an ancient form of English… .”
“I had no intention of maintaining the pretence forever.”
Nathan had planned to reveal that the poem by “Thomas Howard” was his own once Tyndale accepted it as genuine.
Among the things his father had been given by his parish church were many leaves of blank parchment. Having mastered the language and script of an earlier century, Nathan had written several experimental poems in that style before selecting his favourite and copying it onto parchment. When he told the parish priest that he had found the poem in their attic, it had been half in jest. He hoped only to be praised for his talent: how clever to be able to make such a close imitation! But Fr. Pelham had failed to see through the ruse. On the contrary, in his excitement he had recommended that Nathan have the poem appraised by a professional, and sent a letter of introduction to Tyndale on his behalf. Tyndale had even replied with a letter of thanks, although clearly his actual attitude towards the matter had been less enthusiastic.
Nathan had grown ambitious. He decided that he would have Tyndale read the poetry he had written in his own name too. The bookseller would surely be impressed enough to publish it. It was not that Nathan’s self-confidence had been unshakable. He certainly felt that his poems were at least no worse than most of those already out in the world, but he was aware that this might be simple vanity.
Even if the Howard poem were recognized as a forgery, Nathan thought, the matter might still result in acknowledgement of his rare gifts. And if, at the tender age of seventeen, he had been able to write well enough to deceive a discriminating member of the publishing world, word would surely get around. This, he had concluded optimistically, would allow him to make his debut as a poet.
“Tyndale will be furious. Your poetic ability is remarkable, to be sure, but your scheming is as childish as your age might suggest. You considered only a course of events in which all was in your favour, I think. If a scholar engaged by Tyndale had verified the authenticity of the poem, what do you suppose the repercussions would have been if you then revealed the truth? Did your thinking extend that far? The appraiser would have his own reputation to defend. You would be ostracised.”
At times Nathan had become uneasy—uncertain of how to proceed. He had wondered if it might not be better to tell Tyndale the truth at once, but then feared that, if the latter had not yet read the poem, such a confession would only arouse anger. If he had read it, however, he would surely praise Nathan’s flair for producing such a work.
“Not Newgate,” he said again. His hand had found its way to the razor in its sheath.
Evans noticed and took hold of Nathan’s wrist. He was not a large man, but his grip was unexpectedly strong.
The razor fell to the floor, where Evans scooped it up. He opened the folding blade into one straight line.
Nathan cringed.
“Good boy,” Evans said softly. “These implements can be dangerous. You barely even have a beard,” he added, lightly stroking Nathan’s chin before using the tips of his fingers to trace the contours of his lips.
The fireplace at Matthew’s was no longer stoked with peat. Nathan had his manuscript spread out on a table, but he was so conscious of Evans’s presence that not a word came to him.
Evans was one table away, in a seat that gave him a view of Nathan from behind. He had ordered a cup of coffee, and was pretending to be just another customer. Every so often, however, Nathan had the unsettling sensation of the older man’s gaze on his back.
Poetry is not easily composed under surveillance.
The two had finally reached an arrangement before this visit. Evans would not press charges against him. Nor would he inform Tyndale that the poem was counterfeit. There was only one thing wrong with the forgery: a single ‘V.’ Wroten bie Godes servant Thomas Howard the .iii. daye of Novembre in the .m cccc lxxx v. yere of our Lorde God. If that ‘V’ could be obscured with a worm-hole or a stain, the inconsistency with “werriours fortune fel” would be concealed.
“Tyndale has been too distracted by other matters to read the poem properly yet,” Evans had assured him. “I shall wait for my chance and, when it comes, alter the parchment directly. This will protect its authenticity. No one will notice. Even scholars are unlikely to see through it. So put it out of your mind, while you bring the Elegy to completion.”
Nathan had finally begun to understand the true reason for Evans’s interest in his Elegy. Once it was finished, he planned to have it copied in a fifteenth-century hand onto parchment of an appropriate vintage—a job, no doubt, he would impose on Nathan too—and present it to the world as another priceless discovery.
He has not the slightest intention of promoting me as a poet. At most I shall be mentioned as the discoverer of old manuscripts. And he says that Mr. Tyndale has little interest in the poems I signed my name to—the ones in the language of tomorrow… .
But he says he shall arrange for the publication of those poems too. After I place a completed Elegy in his hands.
Bait.
The offer of ten pounds to live on until the Elegy was ready had been withdrawn now that Nathan was living in Evans’s house. He was given food and lodging, and even clothing when necessary. But he had almost no money that he could use freely. The five guineas, three shillings, sixpence, and three farthings that he had obtained from Mrs. Barrett had been confiscated. Whatever he needed he had to ask for, and if Evans accepted the necessity of the request he received the necessary items. Today, Nathan was only carrying enough money for his coffee and a tip. He could not run away with so little to his name. Not that he had anywhere to go in the first place.
“Greetings!”
Nathan heard a new customer volubly addressing the proprietor and his staff as he entered the coffee-house.
“Mr. Harrington!” said Matthew, the owner himself. “You have been released? Splendid!” He spread his arms in welcome, but his expression was tinged with embarrassment.
Being sentenced to public exposure had made Thomas Harrington’s name and face notorious, along with the newspaper of which he was editor, reporter, printer, and chief salesman. Instigation of an anti-government riot was a serious charge, and those who drew too close to such figures would attract attention themselves. But just as public opinion was firmly behind Wilkes, no small number of people supported Harrington and his crusade against the aristocracy. As the proprietor of a coffee-house, Matthew had no wish to attract the disfavour of any particular side, meaning that Harrington’s arrival put him in an awkward position.
Then Harrington noticed Nathan a
nd approached the younger man.
“You would scarcely believe how poorly I was treated,” Harrington said after embracing him lightly. “How has it been with you? Did the lack of work cause you any difficulties?”
He was apparently unaware that Nathan had been imprisoned too. Nor had he seen him in the crowd during his time in the pillory, which came to Nathan as a relief.
“How are you occupying yourself these days?… Wait!” Harrington leaned closer, one eyebrow raised. “We have unpleasant company, I fear,” he whispered. “Behind you—but do not turn to look.”
“Unpleasant company?”
“A stockbroker-cum-usurer. Finds ways to profit from the vilest of schemes. Manipulates the market, too.”
He raised one finger to his lips. Evans had risen from his seat to approach them.
“Good day, Mr. Harrington,” said Evans. They shook hands. “You had quite a time of it.”
Harrington laughed heartily and urged him to sit down. “I had expected you to come to my aid more quickly,” he said. “You are a cold fellow and no mistake.”
“But I did all I could,” said Evans. “Which is why your sentence was so lenient. Under normal circumstances you would have faced transportation.”
“Which would have come as a relief to you, I imagine.”
Nathan felt he was watching two beasts lock horns.
“I don’t suppose you have any interesting ventures to commend? Nothing like the Pacific affair, for example?” asked Harrington with a meaningful smile. Then his expression changed. “Where do the profits lie these days? I hear that the slave trade is not what it once was.”
“Margins have thinned as the source materials grow more expensive.”
“And that trial has yet to reach a conclusion as well. Are slaves the property of their owners, they ask, or men with rights like you and me—ridiculous! Humans are hierarchical by nature. Those at the bottom seek to topple those above, but should they manage to take the place of their oppressors, they only end up oppressing others themselves.”
The Resurrection Fireplace Page 17