A Crowning Mercy

by Bernard Cornwell

  The lie alerted Campion. She kept her smile, looked at the visitors, and saw, half lit by the hall lanterns, the lean, sallow face from her past. The Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey stared back, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a rat trapped in a barley sack. His mouth opened to speak, but Sir George anticipated him. He gestured the girls toward the private parlor. “I’ll join you, ladies, in a moment.”

  Campion leaned against the linenfold panelling in the parlor. She had gone pale, and her hand clutched the seal on its chain. “He recognized me! He recognized me!”

  “Who?”

  “That priest out there.”

  Sir George dismissed her fears. “My dear! It’s impossible! Your hair, your clothes, everything about you is different. Everything! He asked me. I told him you were my niece from Leicestershire and he merely said you reminded him of someone he once knew. Calm yourself!”

  Campion would not be calmed. “He recognized me!”

  “He did not. And what if he did? It doesn’t matter. Now, I challenge you to a turn at cribbage before you read to Margaret.”

  And it seemed Sir George was right. There were no rumors from Werlatton that Matthew Slythe’s missing daughter had been seen in Lazen and, as the days passed, Campion forgot her conviction that Faithful Unto Death had spotted her, and even laughed at it.

  And, indeed, there was much laughter at Lazen, something there had never been at Werlatton, and it seemed to reach its peak at Christmas when Sir George, lured from his books, supervised the dragging of the yule log to the great hall. The heartbeat of Lazen, that had slowed for winter, quickened in anticipation of the feast that would be held on Christmas Eve. Christmas Day was reserved for the church, though the celebrations were resumed the next day and would last through to Twelfth Night. Christmas was an occasion of grand style at Lazen Castle.

  Guests came on Christmas Eve. The Earl and Countess of Fleet, their differences with the Lazenders forgotten for the festival, arrived with Sir Simon and Lady Perrott, Lazen Castle’s closest neighbors to the north. A dozen more of the local gentry were present with their families, and the villagers, tenants and servants were invited so that the great hall would be full. It was a night for everyone to enjoy, a night of feasting, laughter, old jokes, drink, and a night that always ended with Sir George singing in the servants’ hall.

  Campion was excited at the prospect. She wished Toby could have been at the castle, but even without him she was determined to enjoy this Christmas Eve. She chose the blue dress, her favorite, and Lady Margaret came into her room late in the afternoon as Enid, Lady Margaret’s own maid, dressed Campion’s hair. Lady Margaret looked critically at the dress, then smiled.

  “You’re looking very lovely, Campion.”

  “Thank you, Lady Margaret.”

  “Don’t thank me, child. Thank your parents.” Lady Margaret watched as Campion’s hair was drawn back and the candlelight showed the line of her jaw. It was remarkable, she thought, that such clods as Matthew and Martha Slythe should produce this beauty, for Campion was truly exquisite. Lady Margaret had seen the heads turn. She frowned, unable to let a compliment pass without an attendant criticism. “Your bust is still too small.”

  “You won’t let me do anything to remedy that.” Campion smiled at Lady Margaret in the mirror.

  “It’s your own predicament, child. You shouldn’t have married that dreadful man. Don’t be shocked tonight.”

  “Shocked?”

  “George always gets drunk at Christmas. It’s a family tradition. He then goes to the servants’ hall and sings extremely dubious songs. I can’t think where he learned them, they’re certainly not in any of his books.”

  Enid, her lips holding pins, muttered something about Sir George’s father having handed the songs down to his sons.

  “I can believe that, Enid.” Lady Margaret sniffed. “Men always get drunk at Christmas. I’ve no doubt that Joseph was extremely tiresome when our Lord was born.” On that imperious note she left the room, summoned by loud shouts that announced the arrival of more guests.

  Enid put lamp-black cream on Campion’s eyelids, a faint touch of rouge on her cheeks, then stood back. “You do look nice, Miss Campion.”

  “It’s your work, Enid.” Campion looked at herself in the mirror, a fine piece of silvered glass from Venice, and she was astonished at what she saw. She smiled when she thought what Ebenezer, Scammell or Goodwife might say if they could see her now, her hair hanging in golden rings from her head decorated with silver and ribbons, her shoulders mostly bare above the silken neckline. She wore something new this day, too, a pair of sapphire earrings that Sir George had insisted on her having. Lady Margaret had pierced her ears, freezing them first with ice and then stabbing with a sharpened leather-worker’s awl. “Don’t make a fuss, child. A little pain for a lifetime of pleasure. Keep still.”

  Campion now hung the seal about her neck, letting it fall on her dress. She frowned at the mirror. “Are my breasts too small, Enid?”

  “You don’t want to listen to what she says, miss. It’s what Mister Toby thinks what matters.”

  “I wish he was here. I thought he was coming.” There was a touch of sadness in her voice. She had not seen Toby since September.

  “You’ll enjoy it just the same, miss. Everyone does. Now you go downstairs, miss, and don’t you drink too much of that wassail bowl. Half a ladle of that and a horse would fall down.”

  Music echoed in the passageways of the New House as Campion walked toward the Old. The musicians were in the gallery, their playing still unaffected by the drink that would eventually silence them. Campion walked through the Old House toward the brilliantly lit great hall and stopped at the head of the stairs to look at the splendor.

  The hall was lit by scores of candles; in sconces, on tables, and in the two ancient iron-ring chandeliers that had been hoisted to the yellow ceiling. Two great fires burned, warming the throng that laughed, chattered, and maneuvered friends and neighbors beneath the enormous sprig of mistletoe hanging between the chandeliers. The tables were already set with pewter and earthenware, the gleam of silver at the top table where the gentry would sit.

  She looked for Sir George or Lady Margaret, needing allies to help her deal with all these strangers, and she saw them with their special guests at the largest of the two hearths. She started down the wide, polished staircase, then stopped.

  Toby had come home.

  He stood by the fire, still in travelling clothes with his long boots muddied to the knees, and he paused himself as he put a tankard of mulled wine to his lips. He stared, unbelieving, at the woman who came down the stairs, a woman who seemed to gleam and sparkle in the flame-light, a woman of deep beauty who stared at him, whose face was suddenly suffused with joy, and he knew he was smiling uncontrollably when his mother tapped his shoulder. “Don’t stare, Toby, it’s rude.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  He went on looking at Campion. Lady Margaret, who had engineered this surprise, looked too. A small smile showed on her face. “I’ve done rather well with her, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, mother.” Toby felt a catch in his throat, a shiver of the blood in his body. She was magnificent, her beauty almost frightening.

  Sir George looked from Campion to his son, back to Campion, then to his wife. He gave a small, secret shrug and he saw the flicker of amusement on Lady Margaret’s face. She knew, they both knew, that there was nothing now to be done. These months in Oxford had not cured Toby, any more than they had cured Campion. Sir George knew he would have to surrender. Only the fires of hell would keep those two apart.

  Fourteen

  London was not a happy city that Christmas. The King’s possession of Newcastle meant that coal was desperately short, and though Parliament’s allies, the Scots, sent what coal they could, its price was way beyond the means of most citizens. Even when the trees in the royal parks about London had been chopped and cut for firewood and the logs distributed in the cit
y’s streets, most of London’s quarter of a million inhabitants were still bitterly cold. There was never enough coal and timber to go round, and so the people muffled themselves in what clothes they could, wrapped their faces against the east wind, and watched as the Thames slowly froze above London Bridge. It would be a long, cruel winter.

  Christmas should have been a bright spark in that cheerless, bleak winter, but Parliament, in its immemorial wisdom, abolished Christmas.

  The Scots were to blame. Parliament’s new allies, fervent men from Edinburgh and the drafty houses of the north, declared Christmas to be a heathen abomination, a pagan feast artificially grafted on to Christianity, and the Scots, good Presbyterians all, declared that in a world made perfect by saintly rule there could be no Christmas. The House of Commons, eager to appease their new allies whose armies, though they had achieved nothing yet, might well usher in the glorious Day of the Lord, knuckled their foreheads to the Scottish divines and, in a vote of Parliament, declared Christmas to be no more. To be joyful at Christmas was now not only a sin but also a crime. Truly the Day of the Lord was at hand.

  London, a city sympathetic to Parliament, filled with Puritans of all descriptions, seemed ungrateful for this decision. Parliament declared that on Christmas Day businesses were to be open as usual, shops selling what little there was to be sold, watermen plying for hire where the encroaching ice allowed. Parliament ordered in vain. Christmas could not be abolished so easily, not even with the passionate pleading of the Scottish ministers who had brought the light of truth from their cold homeland. London insisted on its Christmas, pagan or not, but the celebration was half-hearted, the gaiety subdued. The Presbyterians stolidly ignored the lawbreaking and consoled themselves that godliness would come in time.

  Sir Grenville Cony, in public, espoused the Presbyterian faith. Most members of the House of Commons now did, but Sir Grenville would not allow political Presbyterianism to affect his celebration of Christmas. On Christmas Day itself, once he had made an obligatory appearance at Westminster, and scowled at the evidence of shuttered shops and open ale-houses, Sir Grenville went back to his house on the Strand where a huge fire roared in the great marble fireplace beneath the unshuttered picture of the naked Narcissus. Sir Grenville had secured a swan, that was even now being roasted, but he began his Christmas feast with goose and pork. He gorged himself throughout the afternoon, washing the delicacies down with his favorite claret, and not once did his stomach protest. Even when he was forced to loosen the top of his breeches, fumbling with the laces that joined them to his coat, his stomach was free of pain. He could feel great bubbles of air moving upward, erupting in his throat, but that was usual and there was no pain. He rubbed his hands with glee as the roasted swan, filled with a forcemeat stuffing, was brought to his fireside table. “My dear Ebenezer, let me carve for you. Pour yourself wine! Please! More!”

  Life was good for Sir Grenville again. He had weathered the storms of autumn, and now he could see the end of the struggle. The Covenant would be his. He lifted slices of swan breast on to Ebenezer’s plate. “There are turnips on your left, dear boy, and giblet gravy. Do cut the new loaf. A wing? You’re sure?”

  They ate for a moment in companionable silence. Ebenezer, nineteen now, would have been as unrecognizable to his sister as she would have been to him. He had aged for a start, his darkly shadowed face seeming to possess a bitter wisdom far beyond his few years. His hair was longer too, swept back in a great wave to fall at the nape of his neck. It gave him a predatory look, a look enhanced by eyes that seemed to glitter with an inner fire.

  He was crippled still and would always be so, yet now he had found the power that was within him, a power that gave him mastery over the whole-bodied. He was dressed, not in black, but in ecclesiastical purple, and he would have liked the thought that his clothes were the color of religious vestments. He, like his sister, was happy, though where his sister had found happiness in love and generosity, Ebenezer had found it in darker, bloodier pathways. He had harnessed his religion to pain and he had discovered, thanks to Sir Grenville Cony’s influence, a vocation.

  In the name of God, and in the service and employ of Parliament’s Committee of Safety, Ebenezer tortured the truth from those suspected of disloyalty. The screams of women torn on the rack, the moans of those who fainted as the iron boot was screwed tight on their feet, crushing all the bones, those sounds were joy to Ebenezer. He used the blade, the fire, the pulley, the hooks, the needles, the pincers of his profession, and in the infliction of pain he had discovered a freedom. He was above the law, man’s law or God’s law, and he knew himself to be a special person, unfettered by the moral constraints he would impose on others. He was different, he had always been different, but now Ebenezer knew himself to be superior. Yet he still acknowledged one master: Sir Grenville Cony.

  Sir Grenville sucked on a bone, then tossed it into the fire. “Barnegat was right,” he chuckled. Barnegat was Sir Grenville’s astrologer and he had forecast good news at Christmas. Sir Grenville ladled more gravy on to his plate. “You were right about that priest. I’m glad we helped him. What’s he like?”

  Ebenezer had finished his meal. He leaned back, his dark eyes giving no hint of his thoughts. “Ambitious. He feels cheated.”

  Sir Grenville grunted. “You’re describing half of Parliament. Can he be trusted?”

  “Yes.”

  There had been a strange pair of visitors to Sir Grenville’s house that Christmas morning. The Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey and Goodwife Baggerlie had stood, cold and tired, in the alley porchway. Sir Grenville had been at Westminster, but Ebenezer had received them, listened to their tale, and then sent them to lodgings in St. Giles. Ebenezer had then greeted Sir Grenville with the glad tidings of great joy.

  Sir Grenville had savored the news all afternoon. It had wiped out his pain, it had given him comfort. He still savored it. “Why did the woman come?”

  Ebenezer shrugged, sipped his wine. “She hates Dorcas. Hervey wanted her to show him where you lived.”

  “Does she want twenty pounds as well?”

  “No.” Ebenezer put his wine glass carefully on the table. He was precise in all his movements. “I suspect Goodwife knows there’s small future with Samuel Scammell.”

  Sir Grenville laughed. “Sensible Goodwife. Mind you, she’d have saved us all a deal of trouble if she’d been able to tell us who that bastard was who took the girl. Still, it’s no matter now.” He smiled.

  Sir Grenville knew he had been fortunate. Just four months before, he had known real fear. Lopez was in Amsterdam, the girl vanished, but his fears had been groundless. The Jew, it seemed, was in Amsterdam merely to be closer to the war in England. Doubtless, Sir Grenville reflected, Mordecai Lopez had money with both sides, though Sir Grenville had only heard of money lent to the King. Lopez had done nothing that suggested he knew of Matthew Slythe’s death, and the girl, evidently, had not attempted to reach Lopez. Sir Grenville would call his watchdogs back from Holland the next day.

  He pushed his plate away, belched quietly and smiled at Ebenezer. “Shall we move to the window?”

  They sat staring at the Thames. It was almost dark. A single boat, a lantern at its prow, was rowed upstream. It was hard work for the oarsman because the current was compressed by the ice on both banks. Soon, Cony knew, there would be no boats on the river till the ice loosened its grip. He would have to put more guards into the garden, for the frozen Thames would give easy access to his property.

  There were grapes on the low table between them and almonds from Jordan wrapped in sweet French marzipan. Sir Grenville’s office had been transformed into a room fit for this feast, and the day’s news had made the feast perfect. Sir Grenville bit an almond in half and smiled. “We have been lucky, Ebenezer, we have indeed been lucky.”

  “We have.” The unsmiling, thin face nodded gravely.

  The girl was at Lazen Castle. The priest, Ebenezer said, had been utterly certain, certain
enough to brave the winter roads to London. Sir Grenville chuckled, his bulging, frog-like eyes surrounded by happy crinkles. “And she was wearing the seal!”

  “She was wearing a golden cylinder on a chain of gold,” Ebenezer corrected his master pedantically.

  Sir Grenville’s spirits were rising higher. He seemed to giggle in his pleasure, a strange sound, and then he poured more wine for himself. Ebenezer’s glass rarely needed filling. Sir Grenville drank.

  “Lazen Castle. Lazen Castle. We have been luckier than you know, Ebenezer.”

  Ebenezer said nothing, just watched the small, grossly fat man. The flap of Sir Grenville’s breeches lay on his thighs, the cloth greasy from fat dripped from the roast meats. Sir Grenville looked at Ebenezer. “They’re going to fortify Lazen, so my man in Oxford tells me.”

  Ebenezer frowned. “Shouldn’t we take her before they do?”

  “No, Ebenezer, no!” Sir Grenville seemed filled with delight. “It would be difficult at the best of times to snatch her from that house, but I think a word from Sir Grenville Cony would send troops against it. We shall besiege it, we shall take it, and we shall take her. And much more besides.” He laughed, pouring more wine. “Do you know the castle?”

  “No.”

  “It’s very fine, very fine.” Sir Grenville nodded happily. “Half of it goes back to Elizabeth, and there’s a splendid modern wing designed by Lyminge. I’m told the plasterwork in the long gallery is quite exquisite. There’s a good acreage of forest, over a thousand in plow and twice that in sheep.” He laughed silently, his shoulders heaving. When he spoke his voice was curiously gleeful, like that of a small, naughty boy. “I think the County Committee for Sequestration would look happily on awarding the property to me, don’t you think?”

  Ebenezer gave one of his rare smiles. He knew that Sir Grenville, using his position on the Parliamentary Committee that oversaw the fate of captured enemy property, was amassing land for himself throughout southern England. “Who owns it now?”