by L. C. Tyler
Brussels is not, I think, as great or fine a place as London, though the main square is large and possesses some pretty buildings in what I take to be the Flemish style – red-brick, many storeys high, with stepped gables and proud statues of saints and gods and goddesses adorning their facades. But behind this grandeur there are narrow lanes and dark alleys; and the shouting and the grinding of carriage wheels on the cobbles seem to be the same everywhere.
Ripley has taken himself off, I know not where, and directed me to an inn in the back streets, where I have been served horse stew and black bread. I have arranged to meet him at nine tomorrow, when we shall both wait on Sir Edward Hyde. But I have no intention of allowing Hyde and Ripley to compare notes on my character and origins. I shall therefore seek out Sir Edward tonight. By nine tomorrow I shall be gone from this city – but I must pay one visit to somebody else before I leave.
For, while I do not fully understand Thurloe’s reason for sending me here, I do begin to comprehend my own reason for coming. Somewhere in this city is my father, who may or may not be delighted to see me. Before I leave Flanders, I shall most certainly go and seek him out. My mother may have been happy with the idea that he was dead, but I never was.
The Tyrant Charles Stuart, Titular King of the Scots
Hyde is a soft, fat little man, with arms that seem rather too short. He holds them now in front of his plump belly. He must be fifty years old at least, and aware that time is running out for him and for his master. Five more years here and the younger Cavaliers will be baying for him to be replaced by one of their number; ten more years here and he’ll be dead. I think Ripley is right: Hyde is probably wondering whether he was really wise to go into exile when he might just as easily have taken a well-paid post under Cromwell. Of course, the Chancellor of an exiled King is still important – just not quite as important as he thinks he deserves. If you are less important than he is, he lets you know pretty quickly. He’s already silently informed me of my status here. It isn’t high.
He looks me up and down – mainly up, since he is a good two or three inches shorter than I.
‘My name is Black,’ I begin. ‘I bear a message from one at Gray’s Inn …’
Hyde smirks and nods. ‘Thank you, Mr Clifford.’ His voice, now that I finally hear it, is quite high. That final word almost disappeared into a squeak. And there was just a hint of impatience in it. ‘We know who you are,’ he continues. ‘Sir Richard wrote to us some time ago to say that he would be entrusting you with a message that he would not send with anyone else. He said that you might introduce yourself to us as Clifford or Cardinal or some other name – but he gave us a good description of you.’
I wonder if the description was flattering. If it was, Hyde would certainly not tell me so.
‘I am happy to go under whichever name you prefer,’ I say.
‘We’ll use your real one, Mr Clifford, unless you’ve any objection?’
Clifford is perfectly acceptable. It is Grey that might prove awkward.
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘You have not previously been noted as a friend of His Majesty’s. It is not at all clear to us why Sir Richard trusts you in this way.’
‘Many of His Majesty’s friends have had to conceal their true loyalties,’ I say.
Hyde considers the truth of this and then holds out a podgy hand for the message. I take the sealed letter from my pocket. Hyde opens it, wheezing slightly. It is a blank sheet of paper but inside there is a second sheet, also sealed and addressed to His Majesty King Charles, to be opened by him alone.
‘What am I to do with this?’ Hyde asks. ‘Does that upstart Willys not trust me to read the King’s correspondence?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I was simply given the letter to bring over. Sir Richard must intend it for the King’s eyes only.’
‘I can see that, you fool. Who in God’s name does Willys imagine he is?’ Hyde is not happy. He may be about to stamp his little foot.
‘I think I made him head of the Sealed Knot,’ says a tall, dark man, who has silently entered the room without our noticing. ‘On your advice, of course, Sir Edward. As for reading post addressed to me, I concur that that is your job. Since I am here, however, you may as well give me the letter, then this young gentleman will have fulfilled his duties as Sir Richard required.’ He rubs his eyes and yawns.
Hyde has already turned and bowed to the newcomer. I now do the same. So, this is what a tyrant looks like.
The tall man winces slightly as if the late-afternoon sun in this room is much too strong. He does not seem to have slept well of late. His long, black hair is disordered, as though he has just risen from his bed. He is dressed in a grubby white shirt and shabby blue breeches. The breeches are decorated with bunches of ribbon, though not as many bunches as might be expected; there seem to be gaps where ribbons have become unstitched and mislaid. His red heels are worn down. He has not shaved today. With a beard as dark as his, that is a mistake. But perhaps whoever he has been with recently is of a forgiving nature. Three spaniels follow in his wake. They appear very much at home.
‘This person, Your Majesty …’ Hyde begins.
Charles Stuart waves his hand, dismissing whatever it was Hyde was about to say. They have been in exile together for a long time. He has already heard most of the things Hyde says. He takes the letter and breaks the seal. He reads and then frowns. For a moment or two he stares at the paper in silence as if he doesn’t quite understand.
‘If it is in cipher,’ says Hyde, ‘I can easily get it—’
‘It isn’t,’ says Charles Stuart. ‘So you don’t.’ He scans it a third time, then passes the document to Hyde.
Hyde reads it. ‘But of course,’ he says.
‘Do you know the contents of the letter you have carried here, Mr Clifford?’ asks the man with the dark stubble.
‘No, Your Majesty,’ I say.
‘Truly?’
‘Truly, Your Majesty,’ I say, with growing nervousness.
Hyde and Charles Stuart look at each other again.
‘You are too young to have fought in the war,’ says Charles Stuart. ‘Did your father fight for my father or for Parliament?’
‘For Your Majesty’s father, Your Majesty,’ I say.
‘As I should hope. And where is he now?’
‘He is here in the Spanish Netherlands.’
‘A poor exile, like me?’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’
‘But you have been living in England?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let us walk in the shade of the limes, for there are some questions that I wish to ask you. Fairfax! Ireton! Cromwell!’ He calls his three dogs to him. They wag their tails. We set off.
I have not met a monarch before, any more than I have sailed across the Channel. He is in many ways reassuringly like other men. He is polite. He is courteous. As we walk, he asks me questions. He listens attentively to my answers. He asks if England is a happy place and I tell him it is not. He asks whether the common people yearn for his return and I say that they do. He asks whether Cromwell is hated and I say that he is.
‘Thank you,’ says the King. ‘That was kind of you. I am grateful to you for telling me what you think I wish to hear. Now, let us start again and this time you may tell me the truth.’
We start again. I tell him the truth. The people get by under Cromwell just as they got by under his father. Haymaking under a Republic is much like haymaking under a King appointed by God. People love Cromwell’s taxes as much as they loved royal taxes – no more, no less. Different people are rich, but much the same people are poor. The rain still waters the corn. The apples still grow in the orchard. Fields still need to be weeded and birds scared off the young crops. People still get married, have children, get ill, get better, get worse, die. He asks me other questions. I answer as well as I can. I find it best to keep my answers short. In reply, he addresses his remarks sometimes to me and sometimes to his dog
s. He is a fair and reasonable man.
As I complete an answer that is perhaps slightly longer than was required, he nods and yawns. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You show greater honesty than most men here. It is helpful to know that. And now, you say that you really do not know the contents of the letter you have brought here?’
Though, I realise, efforts have been made to put me at my ease, I am immediately aware of the dangers hidden in that question.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not at all.’
It would seem that I am about to rely on my wits again if I wish to live, but Charles Stuart smiles and slaps me on the shoulder. ‘Then I shall tell you what it says, Mr Clifford. Sir Richard Willys claims that he has an army of two thousand horse and five hundred foot that he can put in the field at any time. He is inviting me to go over to England now and lead them. Is it true? Does he have them? The Sealed Knot is in the habit of counting every man they have as ten. I do not doubt their loyalty, merely their ability to add up.’
I think of Ripley’s five thousand horse and five thousand foot. I think of Willys’s question to me: what numbers would I consider believable. The forces he claims to have are not unlike those we agreed.
‘They have a certain plausibility, Your Majesty,’ I say cautiously.
‘Only four hundred men gathered for Penruddock’s rising three years ago. He too thought he would have thousands. Those who weren’t killed by Cromwell’s troops were hanged or transported. If I had gone over then, I’d have joined them on the scaffold … Is Willys sure he has even his two thousand horse?’
‘Why do you ask me?’
‘Because you have an honest face. I am sorry for you, but there it is. You will always go through life with that handicap. My father trusted men if their religion and principles were in accordance with his beliefs. I scarcely need to tell you where that got him. I trust men if I see honesty in their faces. You can see where that has got me – but I think I shall have another throw of the dice or two before the end. And I do trust you. So – and think very carefully before you answer – does Willys have two thousand horse?’
I had imagined myself being asked all manner of questions here in Brussels to prove I was who I said I was, but I had not expected this. I have no idea how many troops Sir Richard really has. Was I chosen as messenger by Sir Richard because he thought I would confirm these figures and that my honest face would convince the King that his claims were true? If so, to what end? How will it help the Royalist cause to deceive their own man? Thurloe knows the contents of this letter. Charles Stuart, if he acts on Willys’s assurances, will be captured as soon as he lands in England. This letter is sending this amiable person in faded blue breeches to his death.
My duty to the Republic is clear. I must tell the King that Willys has the troops. They are armed to the teeth. They are ready and willing to serve. Because that surely is what Thurloe would want me to do.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
The King considers things for a moment. ‘This letter definitely comes from Willys?’
‘Yes …’ I say.
And then suddenly I see it all. This is not Willys’s letter. It is all a trap set by Thurloe.
Probert brought me the letter. Thurloe knew that Willys intended to give me a message to carry over. Willys had told Hyde to expect me. So, Thurloe has forged a letter, nominally from Willys, and entrusted it to my hands and indeed to my honest face. Charles Stuart is thus to be lured across the Channel with the promise of a phantom army and then … then the Royalist cause will be struck a blow from which it could never recover.
Each step has been carefully prepared – my arrest and imprisonment, my ‘escape’ from England. But nobody has thought fit to tell me any of this. And if the plan fails, then, just as Aminta foresaw, Thurloe will be no worse off. But he has miscalculated badly. Nobody is going to believe this improbable offer and I genuinely fear for the safety of its bearer. Though I now understand the plan, I am not sure, on mature reflection, that I am indebted enough to Mr Secretary Thurloe to die for him in such a hopeless cause.
The King is looking at me curiously. There is something about my honest face that interests him.
‘You are absolutely certain that the letter is from Sir Richard Willys?’ he says again.
‘No, Your Majesty,’ I say. ‘I rather think it is a trick.’
‘It is a forgery?’
‘I cannot rule that out.’
‘Thank you, Mr Grey,’ he says. ‘That was my view too. There was something not quite believable about it. A rising of this sort is something to be planned, coordinated over many months, not simply sprung on us in a single letter. And in any case, we had been expecting this – we had been warned we would receive an offer that was not to be trusted. Had you lied to me, you would not have left Brussels alive. But since you have told the truth – since I see that you have been deceived as much as we have – I do not hold this against you. In fact, you may be of use to us. Precisely how you might help us is something we shall let you know shortly, but in the meantime I must discuss this with Sir Edward. Fairfax! Cromwell! Good dogs … And Ireton, would you please not do that to Fairfax? He doesn’t like it.’
I have been given permission to return to my inn and am required to attend upon Hyde in the morning, when I shall be told how I may be useful. I have promised faithfully to be there without fail.
But I shall not be there at all. Though I no longer trust Thurloe, I trust Hyde only a little more. I do not know how I may be of use to the King, but I would rather not find out. I have been of use to both Thurloe and the Sealed Knot and have gained nothing by it. I think it is time to look after my own interests. That is why I am walking rapidly through the streets of Brussels with my leather satchel, having paid a somewhat surprised innkeeper for a night that I have not spent with him. I had taken the precaution of finding out in which part of the city my father lives – or rather in which part he was last known to live, for he clearly has had little contact with his fellow Royalists of late. Perhaps, like others, he is distancing himself from a lost cause in order to return to England, with or without his mistress. He will be surprised to see his only son on a warm summer evening. He may be pleased or he may not. He can, however, scarcely refuse to shelter me until morning.
I have to ask for directions several times in very imperfect French. Eventually, as the last of the daylight is fading, I am directed to a narrow, tumbledown house in a narrow, tumbledown street. My heart is beating hard as I hammer at the door. There are footsteps on bare floorboards and the door is opened by a woman of, as far as I can judge, about thirty or thirty-five. If this is the filthy Flemish whore of whom my mother speaks so affectionately, then she is older than I was led to believe.
‘I am seeking Matthew Grey,’ I say.
She looks at me blankly.
‘Je cherche Matthew Grey,’ I say. ‘Il est mon père.’
She shakes her head.
‘Je suis le fils de Matthew Grey,’ I say. ‘Il est … dedans?’
I wonder if I shall have to try Flemish, which I am ill-equipped to do.
‘Mijn naam is John Grey …’ I begin.
‘My man is dead,’ she says. ‘Mathieu is dead.’
For a long time neither of us says anything. Then I say: ‘When?’
‘Five weeks? Six weeks? He is sick for a long time. No money. I ask Milord Hyde for money. He says he has none. I ask his friends for money. They say they have none. I ask that evil old woman who follows the Queen of Bohemia …’
‘Lady Clifford?’ I ask.
‘Her. Milady Clifford. She sends me away. She will not see me. She too has no money. The Queen of Bohemia has no money, but then she is English. None of you English have any money. Ever. Do you have no money in England? Are you all paupers? I cannot pay for the doctor. I cannot pay for Mathieu to be buried. The city has buried him. He has no grave of his own, but he is buried with others who also could not afford to pay. It is done. That is all there is to it.’
<
br /> For a long time I say nothing, because, as soon as I do say something, then everything she has said will be true. It is done. That is all there is to it. I look beyond her into the shadows. There is nobody there.
‘I am his son,’ I repeat. ‘John Grey.’
She puts her head on one side, considering this proposition.
‘His son? You are not, I think, much like him.’
‘But that is nevertheless who I am.’
‘Lisette,’ she says eventually, pointing to her ample chest. ‘You have money?’
‘A little.’
She pulls a face. ‘A little is better than nothing at all, but you come too late with your gold. Where were you?’
‘In gaol,’ I say. ‘For attending church.’
She nods. This is what she would have expected of England.
‘What did he die of?’ I ask.
‘Am I a doctor? How should I know what he died of? The rich die of things. The poor just die.’
I too may just die unless I can escape the men who will soon be pursuing me. I edge closer to her and away from the street.
‘I need somewhere to stay tonight,’ I say. ‘And, much though I hate to inconvenience you, it has to be here. Then tomorrow I would like to visit where my father is buried.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I must leave Brussels very quickly. There are men here who wish me dead – or rather who will wish me dead once they have discovered the full extent of my deception. Do you know where I can hire a horse to get me to Ostend?’
‘I know where you can hire one. Also where you can steal one. It is up to you. Stealing is cheaper and the horse will be better.’
‘I have money to hire one.’
‘Then you have a choice. Many people do not. How little money do you have?’ Lisette asks.
‘I have enough,’ I say cautiously, for I think she shows undue interest in my purse. ‘I’ll need most of it for the journey back to England but I’ll give you what I can.’
‘You look over your shoulder as if people are chasing you. Why? Have you been going to church again?’