A Masterpiece of Corruption

by L. C. Tyler

  Mr Black of Thaxted

  I am sitting in a dark corner of an inn. Through an open window I can see the ghostly moon-lit clouds riding across a starry sky and hear the slap of the sea against the harbour wall. From somewhere in the distance comes the insistent rush and hiss of water hitting a pebble beach. In my right-hand pocket is a passport bearing a good forgery of the Lord Protector’s signature and seal, and begging that Jeremy Black, wool merchant of Thaxted, should be allowed free and unhindered passage to the Low Countries.

  Ripley and I have taken four days to reach Dover, and all that time I have been lost in too many layers of duplicity for me to count. I have a false and lying passport provided by the Sealed Knot, when I might have had an honest one provided by Cromwell himself. I hide from Thurloe’s agents even though they wish me well. I aid Ripley in his concealment, even though I anxiously await his arrest. I have pretended to start at every shadow, even though I suspected that we faced no danger until we reached Dover. After all, why should Thurloe waste his assets hunting us through Kent when he knows he can take Ripley at the port? But I have played my part well, I think.

  We hid in the stables of an inn at Rochester when soldiers came to search for fleeing felons. Then we had to spend two nights in a barn just outside Canterbury because of troopers patrolling the road. But neither group was, I think, searching for us. Or, then again, perhaps they were. There may be layers of duplicity that I have not yet fathomed. It could be that the local magistrates are looking for all absconding Royalists, unaware of any plan of Thurloe’s. If so, I may yet be arrested and perhaps hanged before Mr Thurloe can explain the stratagem.

  The door of the inn opens and three men enter. Two, in red jackets and with their hands hovering pointedly about their swords, take up guard at the door. The third, an officer of some sort, scrutinises those assembled in front of him. He removes a rolled-up sheet of paper from his doublet and consults it. This far from London, the simple ability to read commands respect in its own right – though being accompanied by two armed men commands a reasonable amount of respect too.

  ‘Is there a John Clifford here?’ he demands, the open paper still in his hand. He holds up his other hand as if to shield his eyes from the glare of the candlelight and scans the room.

  I assume this is part of Thurloe’s plan to establish my credentials as a runaway, but surely only Ripley will be aware of my presence and he will soon be under arrest? I wonder again whether Thurloe has shared his plan with enough people. I am careful not to look at Ripley, who is sitting on the far side of the inn.

  The company, both those who might be called John Clifford and those who might not, are suddenly silent. It is obvious to all that the question bodes no good for somebody. A sailor, seated at a table with a small group of friends, answers on my behalf. A pint or so of bad rum has emboldened him. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I do,’ says the officer. He speaks softly, in a voice that we have to strain to hear. He knows we will listen even if he whispers. It could be dangerous for us not to. ‘Does anyone know the whereabouts of John Clifford?’

  ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’ asks the sailor. He is too drunk to know how strangely loud his voice sounds after the silence.

  ‘Thank you for asking,’ says the officer. ‘I am much obliged to you for raising that point. Mr Clifford is wanted for murder. Now, would anyone here like to admit to being John Clifford?’ For some reason he looks in my direction and raises an eyebrow.

  I look the man in the face. I hope he will not ask me to speak because my mouth is suddenly completely dry.

  ‘You, young fellow,’ he says to me, ‘what is your name?’

  Without taking my eye off him for a second, I pick up my tankard and take a swig. Is this man privy to Thurloe’s thoughts or no? Whether I am lying to save my skin or merely to play a part, I intend to employ insolence at a level that will suggest innocence, but hopefully without inciting incarceration in its own right.

  ‘What’s it to you what my name is?’ I say.

  ‘I am paid to be curious about the affairs of other men,’ he says. ‘Are you travelling to France?’

  ‘Ostend,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll see your papers then,’ he says. ‘Maybe your name will be written there, if you don’t have a mind to tell me straight, like an honest man.’

  ‘I never claimed to be an honest man,’ I say. I take a folded paper from my pocket and hand it to him, hopeful that a forgery of Cromwell’s signature will be good enough.

  ‘Jeremy Black?’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Of Thaxted?’

  ‘Of the finest town in the county of Essex.’

  ‘If you say so. What are you travelling to Ostend for?’

  ‘I’m a wool merchant. I have business there.’

  ‘What manner of business?’

  ‘We make fine wool for tapestry work. They make tapestries in Brussels.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ he says. ‘What’s in the bag?’

  I open the pack that is on the ground beside me and take out skeins of wool that I have been supplied with. They are dyed crimson and ochre and emerald green and cobalt blue and a dark blue that is almost black and a soft creamy white and (my favourite) a rich and shimmering gold. Though the Sealed Knot lacks powder and shot, it has provided me with these goods at short notice.

  I expect the officer to stretch out his hand and rub the yarn with his fingers, marvelling at the quality, but he merely waves it away and yawns. He does not arrest me.

  ‘Does anyone else know the whereabouts of John Clifford?’ he enquires.

  Nobody does. He bids us good night.

  On his own side of the room, Sir Michael de Ripley, baronet, who is not for some reason being sought for the murder of anyone, briefly glances in my direction and winks. Then he buries his face in his tankard again.

  If that was Thurloe’s idea of stopping Ripley, I am not impressed. Slowly and carefully I put my samples back in my pack and pull the leather straps tight. I fold my passport and place it in my pocket.

  The door of the inn opens suddenly and a large man is silhouetted in the frame, his back to the starry sky. But this too is not the leader of a troop of dragoons with a warrant for my companion. He has been sent to tell us that our boat is about to depart. The tide and the wind are with us. We sail at midnight.

  I turn to see if Ripley has also heard this, but he is no longer there. He has vanished without trace.

  Mr Shufflebottom of Nowhere in Particular

  Never having been to sea before, I had imagined our boat skimming across the surface of the water, a bird in flight. But, in what the captain is pleased to call a fair wind, we rise and fall and surge ahead and are checked, then surge forth again. The cold, dark waters of the Channel foam beneath us. Twice I have leaned over the side of the boat to vomit into them, the first time copiously and with some surprise, the second with weary resignation. All this without the pleasure of being drunk first. Now I stand here on the bleached wooden deck, watching it continue to rise and fall and rise and fall and rise and fall, while the stars slowly fade away.

  Though my stomach tells me all is far from well, I feel a strange elation. Thurloe’s plan, whatever it was, has succeeded. I should never have doubted him. I have left Ripley behind in Dover and can now travel on alone to Brussels and deliver Willys’s letter to Hyde. In two or three days’ time I shall travel back by the same route. Thurloe will be grateful, if not eternally then at least long enough to let me go back to Essex or Cambridge until it is safe to live in London again. I have never visited Brussels before, nor any other city on that side of the English Channel. There will be no Ripley there to betray me. This is to be a pleasant adventure.

  The sails above me rustle, then crack like a gunshot, and the deck lurches again. The ship is going about. We are sailing into the dawn. The vast red day creeps westwards to engulf us.

  The captain is a small king, or perhaps I should say tyrant, within
his miniature state. Here on board nobody may say him nay. His word is law, and it may be death to disobey, though I think he will hang none from the yardarm who have the money and the inclination for a return journey. He nods in my direction as he strolls on his deck. I enquire, with all due respect, what is the name of the town that we can see off our starboard bow.

  ‘Dunkirk,’ he observes, with a patronising smile.

  ‘Which is now in English hands,’ I say.

  ‘Indeed, Dunkirk is ours. God be praised. Not only did we defeat the Spanish, but our French allies handed the town over to us as agreed – both miraculous events. Cromwell’s writ now runs there as well as at Dover. Which is inconvenient for some.’

  ‘It matters not to me,’ I say.

  ‘Of course not, Mr Black,’ he says. ‘You are an honest dealer in wool. Why should you have anything to fear from the officers of the State? I can assure you, however, that we have no intention of docking there.’

  He touches his hat and I touch mine. It would seem that there is some belief on board that I am a fleeing Royalist, so all is as it should be. The little comedy enacted at the inn may have been of some value after all, though I am still not entirely sure who the audience was.

  I see relatively little of my fellow passengers, many of whom have chosen to remain below. One man, however, has joined me here beneath the masts and the vast bulging sails. I notice that he has a small pointed beard and a scar on his cheek. He wears a sword. He has been watching me for some time, as if he thinks I may be of some interest to him. He strolls across the deck – not a great distance.

  ‘Aubrey Smithson,’ he says, offering his hand.

  His voice is familiar but I cannot place it.

  ‘Jeremy Black,’ I say.

  He gives me a crooked grin in return as if he knows I am John Clifford or indeed John Grey or Mr Cardinal or Mr Plautus. I think he may know all of these gentlemen.

  ‘I’m travelling to Brussels,’ I say. ‘I deal in wool. And you?’

  ‘I’ll be with you as far as Brussels,’ he says.

  ‘Have you travelled there before?’

  ‘Brussels? As often as I have to.’

  ‘And you deal in …?’

  ‘Whatever seems best.’

  I wait to see if he will tell me what seems best. He does not. Is he a member of the Sealed Knot – a back-up for Ripley? Or is he an officer of the State, searching for absconding felons? Or is he simply a merchant, as I purport to be?

  ‘Do you know His Majesty’s court?’ I ask. I wish to see how he will respond to my reference to the Pretender – which may help me to place him and the side that he is on. But I am also more than a little curious to gain further information about the place – how I shall gain admittance and how I need to conduct myself. Probert was vague on the subject and Ripley suspicious of questions that he could see no reason for my asking. After all, he would be accompanying me to court.

  ‘The English court in Brussels? Well enough,’ he replies. He spits over the side of the boat. Perhaps this is in contempt for the titular King of the Scots or perhaps he just wants to spit. His allegiance remains unclear.

  ‘If I needed to gain admission to that place – to speak to the King – what would I have to do?’

  ‘You were given no instructions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am surprised that nobody in Thaxted thought fit to brief you, if that’s what you need to do. It is, of course, not difficult to gain entry. People come and go freely. But it is Hyde you will need to see first. He controls access to the King and much else.’

  Smithson stares out to sea again. He is clearly not a great talker. But he shows no inclination to go elsewhere. We stand at the rail, shoulder to shoulder. For a while we both watch the waves. They are grey and larger than I would like them to be.

  ‘You are travelling alone?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. And you?’

  ‘I seem to be,’ I say.

  ‘I thought I saw you arrive at the inn with another gentleman.’

  ‘Did you?’

  Smithson smiles. ‘I do not see him on board anyway.’.

  ‘Perhaps he missed the boat,’ I say.

  Smithson smiles again. ‘It is easily done. A moment’s lack of attention … We shall speak again, Mr Black. We have a long journey together and it may be that I can be of service to you.’

  I watch him stroll to the other end of the boat – still not a great distance. He now stands with his back to me, looking out at the same sea. He adjusts his sword belt slightly. I am no longer being watched by him, but then, there is nowhere that I can go.

  We arrive off Ostend as their clocks are striking ten in the still-distant town. The bells ring the hour across the oily swell that separates us from the mole. The captain orders that the sails should be lowered and informs us that the wind is blowing offshore and that we cannot get into the harbour, not for all his skill and experience (which is great) but that he will signal for the shore-boat to take us to the beach. His manner is both ingratiating and contemptuous. He knows that I cannot tell whether a ship can be sailed into harbour, and I suspect that transferring us to a small boat will be of financial advantage both to him and to the owner of the small boat. I do not think that, in these seas, it will be of benefit to me or to the other passengers, unless it is our desire to get cold and wet and have our baggage spoiled. I think that this aspect of the situation pleases him too, because his pleasures are small and quite low.

  We agree to this blatant imposition and climb with some difficulty down a rope ladder and into a bobbing boat below. The boat’s owner greets us with a smile that is pure greed, hauling one of us after another into his craft with a tar-caked hand. The first boat will apparently not take all of us. Presumably splitting us into two groups will make it easier to charge the passengers of one boat more than the other, depending on the good captain’s assessment of our purses and our stupidity. We set off, riding the swell with an ill grace. Though we had all assumed that we could not be seasick again, some of us are. But we are assured by the boatman that there is no other way and no better shore-boat in Ostend.

  We are surprised, therefore, as we disembark and struggle up the slippery stone steps, to see our ship raising its anchor and proceeding towards the quay. It slowly rounds the mole, now towed by two of the ship’s rowing boats, and is eventually tied up in the very place that the captain assured us it could not go. The few remaining passengers disembark via the gangplank. They are too far away for me to see if they are smiling, but I suspect they may be. I watch carefully in case one is dressed in red velvet and lace cuffs, but I am relieved to see that they all wear dress of sombre hue and have nothing of the Cavalier about their person. Ripley has not evaded Thurloe’s men and slipped aboard.

  There is a delay before the coaches set out for Brussels. I can see no reason why they should not depart at once, but we are told it is simply impossible. It is quite probably forbidden by some ordinance or other from the Spanish authorities. We therefore retire to the nearest inn, where the food is expensive, the wine sour and the landlord is, it seems, a good friend of the owner of the carriages. As soon as we have paid our bills, we find that the carriages are anxious to depart. They are crowded.

  ‘I thought there were three,’ I say.

  The coachman shrugs. ‘An English milord. He took the first coach.’

  ‘I was told none were ready.’

  He shrugs again. The milord will have paid well, no doubt, and the rest of us are paying no less for a sixth of a carriage than we would for a quarter. So nobody is worse off than they might have been. Or nobody who matters.

  There is some pushing and shoving as we board the coaches. There should be just enough seats, but some are better than others, it would seem, and one coach appears a little more comfortable than the other. I find myself in one of the less favoured seats in the middle of the less popular carriage. Mr Smithson, I notice, has elbowed his way into my coach and into one of the corner seat
s. We are to travel together. He winks at me in some sort of complicity that I do not yet understand.

  It’s hotter here than in London. A summer sun beats down. Pale dust is whipped up by the giant wheels as we bowl along. Some of the dust drifts in through the windows. Those who elbowed their way to window seats are beginning to regret it. A gentleman, travelling with his wife, suggests that we close the blinds. We do so. We stifle in the heat. His wife proposes that we open the blinds. We do so. We are blinded by the dust.

  Conversation is becoming difficult. I am thrown first against my right-hand neighbour, then against my left-hand neighbour, then almost into the lap of the lady opposite, who is holding a lace handkerchief to nose and mouth and does not notice me until my knee strikes hers with some force. I am reprimanded by her husband, but I think that the lady has scarce noticed. She will vomit again very soon, but hopefully over somebody else. Mr Smithson appears to be dozing in his seat, but I think I see him watching me through almost closed eyelids, in which case he will have seen me pitched on top of my right-hand neighbour. I extricate myself with some difficulty and many apologies. A change of direction throws me back into my seat. The husband of the lady is now banging on the roof of the coach to get it to stop; the lady needs to descend. But the coach does not stop.

  Then the road gets bad.

  Eventually we stop at a small town halfway between Ostend and Brussels. At first we are too numb even to notice. Only slowly does the absence of further dust or new injuries alert us to the fact that we are no longer in motion. We need fresh horses, and that will take time, so we are allowed to disembark and buy more bad wine, rye bread and rubbery cheese from another good friend of the coachman. The lady declines everything except a few sips of water.

  I get out and experimentally stretch each of my limbs in turn, wondering how long this respite can be extended. Though I wish us in Brussels, I do not by any means wish us back in the coach. I decide that the coach will (surely?) not leave without me and that I can perhaps slip away and enjoy this relative peace for a little longer. With only a quick backward glance at the coachman, who appears to be receiving a small gift from the innkeeper, I walk quickly and purposefully down one of the side streets.