by L. C. Tyler
‘That is not how the Knot will see it,’ says Probert. ‘You have promised them that you will kill Cromwell. Now you have betrayed them to us in a most regrettable fashion. I salute your courage, Grey. I would not have taken such a risk myself.’
‘Morituri te salutant,’ I say. I hope Probert at least will appreciate my irony.
He nods approvingly. ‘Of course, it is not death that is to be feared so much as the torture that will precede it. A pistol ball in the head may come as a blessed relief.’
So, I have the deep and abiding respect of both the Sealed Knot and of Cromwell’s secret service. I must hope that I have not bought it at a cost that is greater than I can afford.
‘I think Mr Grey is keen to get started,’ says Thurloe. ‘We must get him to Hampton Court, the moment his cousin has secured that post for him.’
‘I have no cousin,’ I repeat.
‘Then find one, Mr Grey,’ says Probert.
I arrive back at my lodgings looking, I fear, as white as when I left Westminster, though not as white as the snow that is now falling. My landlady is waiting for me. She is strangely obsequious.
‘You should have told me your cousin was coming,’ she simpers. ‘She is waiting for you in your chamber. I think you should go up at once.’
Aminta
‘Are you not pleased to see me, Cousin John?’ asks Aminta.
She is sitting in my best chair at her ease, her ample, lilac velvet skirts spread before her, her fair hair cascading down over her starched linen collar. I see that she has commanded my landlady’s daughter to bring her wine, and Will to go out and buy her oranges. I do not know what they have cost, but I have no doubt that my landlady is already calculating what she can charge me. The snow on this occasion seems to have been no impediment.
‘You are not my cousin,’ I say.
‘But almost,’ she says. ‘My mother was your father’s whore for some years, before he found somebody younger and more agreeable. That must make us related in some way.’
‘I do not think so.’
‘That is very awkward then, because I doubt that your landlady would be at all happy that I was sharing these two rooms with you, possibly for some weeks, if we were not very closely related. Claiming to be your cousin was the least I could do to spare your blushes and your reputation. I am shocked you are not more grateful.’
‘For some weeks?’ I ask. I notice a large travelling box in the corner of the room. It is not mine.
‘Or as long as I need to be in London.’
‘When did you return to England?’
‘I arrived in Dover yesterday. I am exhausted from my long journey. And frankly, cousin, I have nowhere else to go, even if the roads were not impassable, as I fear they soon will be. You could scarcely turn me out, however distantly related I was. I wondered whether to say you were my brother. I rather wish I had. Since Marius died I have missed having a brother. And you and Marius are alike in many ways. My being your cousin is probably acceptable, but nobody at all could object to your younger and much better-looking sister living with you.’
Aminta is becoming progressively near to me in blood. This must be checked.
‘Much though I liked and still mourn Marius, I do not think I resemble him in person. I am pleased that you decided to be no more than my cousin. Other than to appease my landlady, we are no kin of any sort. At least you didn’t claim I was your husband.’
‘That would have been difficult,’ she says. ‘Because I am already married.’
‘You are married?’ I ask. My heart sinks but I am sure my face reveals nothing. Absolutely nothing.
‘Yes. Don’t look so amazed, John. You knew that I was contemplating it. And you knew that Roger was in Bruges, just as I and my father were obliged to be.’
Yes, I knew she was contemplating it. But that was no reason to do it.
‘Married to Roger Pole?’ I say. ‘To that …’ I am about to say ‘to that buffoon’, then I realise I am describing Aminta’s husband, to whom she may be a little attached. In any case ‘buffoon’ does not do him justice in so many ways. He is Ripley with none of Ripley’s charm. He is an arrogant, overdressed cut-throat with a taste for treachery and subterfuge. And now, as a fugitive Cavalier, he must even lack funds to indulge himself in velvet and silk doublets. ‘To that … incorrigible Royalist,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says Aminta. ‘To that … incorrigible Royalist.’
Aminta Clifford is not my cousin and it is no business of mine whom she marries – even if she chooses someone as unsuitable as Roger Pole. I could describe Aminta as a childhood friend. I could describe her as a life-long tormentor and corrector. I could describe her as the sort of person who would arrive after a long absence and assume that they could share your accommodation with no offer of payment. She is all of those things. But if she is suggesting that I regret not proposing to her myself during the many long years that we have been acquainted … well, she is mistaken. I do not deny that many find her pretty, that her nose is small and her hair blonde. I do not deny that she has appropriated my best chair with a certain grace and elegance. But I have never wished to be appropriated in the same way. And nothing has changed. Nothing. Except, of course, that she is no longer Aminta Clifford.
‘In any case, my father and I were also forced to flee as Royalists,’ Aminta continues, ‘so you would do well not to criticise Roger on that count alone.’
‘Then I must address you in future as Mistress Pole,’ I say as cheerfully as I can.
‘Viscountess Pole,’ she says. ‘At least, I will be once Roger’s title and lands are restored.’
‘The King is not coming back,’ I say.
‘As you have so wisely told me, so many times. No, Roger and I are very much of your opinion. The good Viscount is no longer the incorrigible Royalist that you describe. Indeed, we now look to Cromwell to restore both his property and his ancient title. Many former Royalists are returning. Roger has petitioned Cromwell before. I have come to renew his request that Parliament should reverse the attainder on Roger’s father, allow me to pay whatever fines may be demanded of us and regain what is ours.’
‘And it is safe for you to return to England?’ I say.
‘A lying report reached the authorities of our Royalist sympathies, hence our flight to the Spanish Netherlands, but I do not believe that my own arrest is still sought. Indeed, I am told that it is not. It is safer that I return than my father or Roger. Unless you know differently?’
She looks at me as if she knows more about me than I would wish. But she is unaware of any connection I have with Mr Thurloe.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I do not know differently.’
‘And if I do not take this risk now, then the chance may pass. But these things are not to be done without friends at court. Do you know anyone who might help me, my dear cousin?’
I pause longer than I should have done.
‘Who do you know?’ she demands.
‘Nobody,’ I say.
‘I can tell when you are lying, John.’
‘What do you mean?’ I swallow hard.
‘You know somebody with a position at court.’
I laugh, though it doesn’t sound quite as a laugh should – not quite as my laugh normally sounds. ‘Why should I choose to lie about that?’ I ask.
‘I have no idea,’ she says. ‘Like so many things you do, it makes no more sense to me than it does to you. But you are lying.’
I change the subject. ‘Did you introduce yourself to my landlady as a viscountess?’
‘Yes.’
I can see why I have gone up a little in her estimation and why Will must buy oranges in the snow: I have a cousin married to a viscount, albeit to the most conceited one alive, now happily exiled and, apparently, with no immediate prospect of a return.
‘You are still in Bruges?’ I ask, before she can return to the subject of my friends in Westminster. ‘Or do you live in Brussels, now Charles Stuart has moved his court
there?’
‘Paris,’ she says. ‘We have left the Spanish Netherlands. It seemed wise to distance ourselves from the Stuart court if I am to portray us as loyal citizens of the State. France is now the ally of the Protectorate, just as Spain is our mortal enemy.’
‘When you say “our mortal enemy” you mean …’
‘Mine and Cromwell’s. I am as loyal to the Republic as you are, cousin.’
‘And do you enjoy living in Paris?’
‘It is livelier than Essex.’
‘I hear that the food there is good?’
‘If you have money to pay for it.’
‘Have you seen the new King – the young Louis?’
‘From a distance.’
‘What is the palace like?’
‘Big.’
I had hoped for more, because I have never been to France, but Aminta is undoubtedly tired after her journey. I’m sure she will tell me more in due course. I enquire after the health of Aminta’s father, Sir Felix Clifford, who has, she says, transferred with them to Paris, though he has no hopes of petitioning. His estates are sold and lost for ever.
‘Gout,’ Aminta replies, as if her father and swollen joints in some way deserved each other. ‘But even without it, he could not have risked coming here.’
I ask after her mother, ex-mistress of my father and now a lady-in-waiting, it seems, of the Queen of Bohemia, another English exile in Brussels lacking the lands or the ready cash to go with her title. I do not ask further after Roger Pole, being simply relieved he is in Paris and not here in London. Since my father is now living with a Flemish slut, there is little point in asking whether Aminta or her mother have news of him. And he is, of course, dead. I must remember that. I wonder briefly whether he succeeded in landing at Dover and, if so, whether he is, even now, trying to make contact with his fellow Royalists in London.
I complete my account of family news by telling Aminta that my own mother has married Colonel Payne and is now living in a state of some smugness in the manor house; Aminta’s family once lived there too, both hers and mine having been lords of the manor at different times. Which still does not make us cousins. The manor was also Roger Pole’s home for a while, when he was secretary to my stepfather.
‘If your father and husband have had to remain in Paris, who will offer you protection here?’ I ask.
‘Why, you, of course. To whom else would I turn but my cousin? My cousin and my late brother’s dearest friend.’ She places a hand on my shoulder. She knows that there is very little that I would not do for her. Still, one point must be cleared up.
‘You are not my cousin,’ I say for the third time.
‘I would not say that too loudly. Otherwise your landlady might think you were living with a married woman who was in no way related to you – something the men in your family have an unfortunate habit of doing. She might gossip and that might attract the attention of the authorities. The Spanish are somewhat lax in their suppression of vice in the Low Countries, but I think that the magistrates in London are made of sterner stuff. Wouldn’t you agree, Cousin John?’
I sigh. ‘How much protection exactly will you require?’
‘Quite a lot. I’ll let you know.’
‘But …’
Tomorrow I am to start work at the Lord Protector’s court, a place that I have claimed I do not have access to. How can I do that with both the Sealed Knot and Aminta watching my every move? I am the most watched man in London. And I am indebted to Aminta in a way that she cannot realise – cannot realise because if she did, she would have already mentioned it and in no uncertain terms.
‘I think you owe me that much,’ she says.
Our respective eyes meet. Aminta’s do not blink. I have no choice. I have never had any choice.
‘I shall of course give you every assistance,’ I say.
I have departed from my lodgings in the most cowardly manner, slipping away at dawn before Aminta had risen and asking my landlady to look after any needs that she might have during the day, with due concern for the necessity for economy. No wine. No more oranges. I wear the only suit I have and hope that it will prove appropriate to the work that will be allocated to me.
To avoid any possibility of being followed, I set out eastwards and then hide in a cul de sac in case any viscountesses are in pursuit of me. None passes the end of the alley and I am able to double-back westwards and continue on my way. The snow is melting again and the streets are muddy, though not as completely impassable as Aminta predicted. It may be that she can be sent on her way sooner than she thinks.
I report to Whitehall Palace and am informed that I am to be a clerk in the Lord Protector’s service. I am to answer to Mr John Milton, Latin Secretary and author of the Defensio pro Populo Anglicano – his Defence of the People of England. I shall perhaps meet him in due course. My pay is to be £30 a year plus whatever bribes I am able to solicit. I am sent to various other clerks in various other departments who write up my commission and arrange for it to be signed; they charge me for the privilege. Even though I am allowed to draw my first month’s salary, I am quickly out of pocket.
But these to-ings and fro-ings have a purpose. If the Sealed Knot ever make enquiries, they will discover that I am properly employed by the State, assisting the blind and commendably Republican Mr Milton with his labours, whatever they are, as Latin Secretary.
I walk home having made little progress as to the identity of Cromwell’s assassin, but well pleased with my day’s work.
I find myself running up the stairs two at a time, my heart beating quickly. It is not that I am anxious to see Aminta again, I tell myself, but merely that I am eager to get home and sit in front of a warm fire. I find her in my only comfortable chair again, but this time she is not drinking wine.
‘What is in that cup?’ I ask.
‘Tea,’ she says.
I take it and sniff it cautiously. Tea is, reputedly, more expensive than wine.
‘You must have heard of tea,’ she says.
‘There is a merchant in Exchange Alley who sells it,’ I say. ‘I have never seen it before. It is newly arrived here in London. I am told that it costs ten Pounds a pound.’
‘My father likes it,’ she says.
‘Is it much drunk in Paris?’
‘Why in Paris?’
‘I assume that is where you discovered it.’
‘Oh, yes. In Paris. To be sure. The French drink it all the time. It is cheaper there, of course. I brought this with me as dried, shredded leaves.’
‘Is that how it is sold?’
‘Yes, like a dried herb. You infuse it in boiling water.’
I sniff the concoction again and take a very small sip. The liquid is very hot and slightly bitter. It is not unpleasant, but I would praise it no more highly than that. I pass the cup back to her.
‘The French may enjoy it, but I question that many in England will wish to drink it,’ I say.
‘I doubt you could afford to, my dear cousin,’ she says. ‘You are, after all, still training to be a lawyer. How did your studies progress today?’
The last sentence appears innocent enough on the surface, but I can tell that dark currents lurk beneath.
‘A lecture on tort, then study in the library,’ I say cautiously.
It is hard to see how such a dull, brief and evasive answer could hold any peril. And yet it does.
‘A lecture on tort?’
‘A civil wrong that unfairly causes somebody to suffer harm or loss, resulting in a legal liability …’
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘My emphasis, my dear cousin, was on the word lecture, rather than on the word tort.’
‘I don’t see why. Lectures are common enough at Lincoln’s Inn.’
‘But they are not very common at Cromwell’s court in Westminster.’
‘You followed me!’ I exclaim.
‘Your face, John, is not well suited to
indignation. I do understand the effect you are trying to achieve, but I must warn you that you simply look alarmed and constipated, as if surprised on the privy by a person bearing your tailor’s account. Of course I did not follow you. I told you that I needed to gain access to Cromwell. And you may readily guess that I do not have funds to allow me to remain long in London. Where else would you suppose I would go today other than to court? And who should I see amongst the crowd of faces in Westminster Hall than your own?’
‘Or somebody who looked like me,’ I say. But I am merely playing for time. Even if I were to continue with my denials, Aminta would return to court tomorrow and every day thereafter until she discovered why I was there and what I had been doing. I would rather she did something else.
‘So are you saying it wasn’t you?’ she asks. ‘How strange because, when I enquired who that good-looking but rather bookish young man was, I was informed that he was called John Grey and that he had just been appointed to a clerkship in the office of the Latin Secretary. Or are you saying that he not only looked like you but also had the same name? So, what were you doing in Westminster, cousin?’
Now, I could point out to her that I am neither more nor less bookish than many others I saw at court. I could also point out that it is none of Aminta’s business where I go and whether I choose to take up employment under Mr Milton or any other poet. I could point out that I am not her cousin.
‘I was going about my lawful business,’ I say.
‘About which it was necessary to lie to me? I do still have some friends in London. I can ask questions in all sorts of places. It is only a matter of time until I find out. The question is, how many other people I have to tell in the process and how much you would wish them to know.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I was there to kill Cromwell,’ I say.
It is a brief victory – one of those very rare moments when Aminta is actually speechless. Of course, she is not speechless for long. That would be a great deal to expect.
‘Kill Cromwell?’ she says, not unreasonably. ‘I don’t understand.’