by Stella Riley
‘Shy as a maiden aunt,’ agreed his foster-brother with a grin. ‘But if you can’t find your loop-hole, you’re going to have to grow out of it. Fast.’
*
After an absence of twelve tiring and tiresome days, Colonel Brandon arrived back in Reading late that evening to find the streets still busy with boisterous groups of off-duty troopers. He smiled wryly to himself. Soldiers were soldiers the world over. And though the New Model might consider itself an Army of Saints, this didn’t make the alehouses and brothels any less busy – a fact for which, under present circumstances, he and his fellow officers ought to be duly grateful.
Gabriel turned his horse into the stableyard of the tavern which served him as a billet and was confronted with the sight of his servant and companion, Walter Larkin, sitting astride a mounting-block, systematically whittling at a piece of wood.
Mr Larkin, a small wiry person of some fifty summers and possessed of a face closely resembling a walnut, rose slowly.
‘You’re back then,’ he said laconically.
‘As you see. Have you been here all the time?’ Gabriel dropped from the saddle and set about unlatching his bags.
‘Don’t flatter yourself. Maybe I’ve just been enjoying the rest.’ There was a watchful gleam in the narrowed eyes. ‘How was the funeral?’
‘Much the same as any other.’
‘And the will?’
‘Unique.’ Gabriel swung round and deposited the bags in Mr Larkin’s arms. ‘Do you mind if we leave the gory details until I’ve got inside? My throat’s full of dust and I’m devilish hungry’
‘Aye. You would be. It’s just a shame your supper’s going to have to wait a bit.’
‘Why? Has something happened.’
‘In a manner of speaking. You’d best go into the taproom and see for yourself. I was going to leave well alone. But seeing as you’re here …’ A cryptic smile touched the seamed face. ‘In the meantime, I’ll go and order you some food. If you cut the sympathy and just pull rank, it shouldn’t get too cold.’ Upon which he disappeared in through the back door.
Swallowing his irritation, the Colonel strode round to the taproom. Small, ill-lit and reeking of beer and onions, it was deserted save for his Major sitting alone in a corner and drinking his way, silently and with dedication, through a bottle of brandy.
Patience fled before a gust of pure exasperation and Gabriel said bitingly, ‘I hope you’re not on duty - because if you are, I’ll take great pleasure in personally putting your head under the pump.’
Eden Maxwell set down his glass and leaned back in his chair. Despite the amount he had drunk, the hazel eyes were still clear and his voice quite unslurred as he said coolly, ‘You ought to know by now that I don’t let these little lapses affect my work. Neither – despite my best endeavours – do they ever result in blissful crapulence. And Ned Moulton is duty-officer for tonight.’
Gabriel crossed the room and tossed his gloves down on the greasy table. It was perfectly true that Major Maxwell’s mercifully rare departures from temperance were always carefully timed and that he had, in any case, an uncanny ability to drink without apparently getting drunk. But if, after three years, he still couldn’t face up to his personal life without diving headfirst into a bottle, his Army career would inevitably end on the dung-heap. And since he was rather good at his job, that would be a pity.
Gabriel hooked a stool forward with one foot and sat down, fixing Eden with a quelling stare.
‘This has got to stop, you know. What is it this time? Another letter from home?’
‘What else?’ The tone was faintly jeering but the face, with its scarred left cheek, remained empty of expression. ‘A long-winded, maternal eulogy from my youngest sister, cataloguing the lives of both my son and my so-called daughter over the last year. Every quaint remark, every small attainment, every spot and sneeze. Tabitha’s given me a list of the lot. And in the hope that all this will have softened me up, she ends with a heart-wrenching appeal for me to realise that even if Viola isn’t my child, it’s by no fault of her own and that I should therefore put the past behind me and go home before my son forgets who I am.’
Gabriel sighed and, without any real hope of being attended to, said, ‘Well, she’s right, isn’t she?’
‘Right?’ Eden gave a harsh laugh and slopped more brandy into his glass. ‘Of course she’s bloody right! The trouble is that I can’t do it. I forced myself to visit Thorne Ash last year while we were waiting for Oxford to fall – mainly in order to tell the family of Tom Tripp’s death – and I didn’t last twenty-four hours. Viola is already the image of her mother and she’s only three. Every time I looked at her, all I could see was Celia. Celia dancing in the garden with my sister, Amy; Celia smiling at me on our wedding-day; Celia in bed with Hugo Verney at the exact hour my father’s body was being brought home on a bier. Perhaps you could live with that – but I can’t. And the sooner Tabitha and my mother accept it, the better.’
‘And your son – Jude, is it? Is he supposed to accept it as well?’
The brandy went down in one swallow and the glass hit the table with unnecessary violence.
‘You think it’s easy? It isn’t. But how many choices do you think I have?’
‘The same one I’ve been advocating for some time now. Pull yourself together. After all, quite apart from the matter of your son, you must be needed at home from time to time for other reasons.’
‘Not especially. Oh – it’s true that Kate’s settled in Genoa with her money-lending husband and that Toby has followed them there to complete his education as a goldsmith. But there’s always Amy and brother-in-law Geoffrey in London. And meanwhile, my mother has Tabitha to help her – and Ralph Cochrane.’
‘And if Ralph doesn’t stay? There’s no reason why he should, after all. He merely went – as your friend – to help out for a time because you didn’t feel up to going yourself. What if he decides he wants to resume his career as a soldier?’
‘He won’t. Soldiering was never Ralph’s first choice and Basing House sickened him. He’d much rather be a farmer and, at Thorne Ash, he can be,’ said Eden. ‘Also, in due course and unless I’m much mistaken, he’ll probably marry Tabitha. No. I’m not needed at home.’
‘Then why do your mother and sister persist in asking you to go back?’
‘Who knows? Family feeling? Sheer obstinacy?’
As always happened at these times, Eden found himself suddenly regretting his outburst. Gabriel Brandon knew all about his chaotic affairs, of course … the only one outside the family and Ralph Cochrane who did. But, on the whole, it was still something that Eden preferred not to talk about. It cut too near the bone.
His customary reserve settling back over him like a mantle, Eden said lightly, ‘And speaking of family feeling … you went to attend a funeral, didn’t you? Was it someone close?’
‘That depends on your point of view,’ replied Gabriel. He might know what Eden’s problems were but he had no intention of discussing his own. He rose from the table saying, ‘With any luck, Wat should have managed to find me some food. But before I go, you’d better tell me if anything important has happened during my absence.’
‘Nothing cataclysmic. Fairfax has sent for Sir John Berkeley to mediate between us and the King; the Agitators have been demanding an immediate march on London but have been successfully stalled by Cromwell; and there was a meeting of the Council today to discuss the proposals Ireton and Lambert have been drawing up. Nothing that you won’t find out about tomorrow from better-informed persons than myself – and nothing that need keep you from your supper.’
‘Thank God for that.’
The Colonel turned to go and then stopped as Eden wryly, ‘Ah … and Gabriel?’
‘Yes?’
‘My thanks.’
Gabriel’s brows rose.
‘Don’t mention it. If it means you won’t drink any more, it was my pleasure. Does it?’
‘Yes,’ said Ed
en. ‘I believe it does.’ And then, his mouth twisting in a bitter smile, ‘Until the next time, anyway.’
~ ~ ~
FOUR
Walter Larkin, who had begun life in the stews of Bridewell and spent the majority of his early years evading the law, was singularly unimpressed by the news that Colonel Brandon had become a man of property and still less enamoured with the possibility of his approaching nuptials.
‘Bugger me,’ he said dourly. ‘That’s a turn-up. But it won’t do. Not at all, it won’t. It’d stifle you in a month – and me with you. No. You’d better get out of it.’
People sometimes remarked on Colonel Brandon’s relationship with Wat. Mere acquaintances tended to wonder which was the master and which the man and close friends simply asked how on earth Gabriel put up with such a disrespectful old devil. To the first, Gabriel returned no answer whatsoever. To the second, he generally replied that fifteen years companionship was bound to breed a certain licence. To no one at all did he see the need to explain that, since the age of nineteen, Wat had followed him all over Europe, through good fortune and bad, mending his boots, tending his wounds, nurturing his career; and that, more than the man he had just seen buried in Yorkshire or even the foster-brother he’d left behind in Shoreditch, Wat Larkin was the closest thing he had to a family … and the only person in the world to whom he would confidently entrust his life.
Not that the two men always agreed. Far from it. But, right now, Wat’s reading of the situation accorded completely with his own so Gabriel said merely, ‘I’m aware of that – but it’s easier said than done. I’m saddled with Brandon Lacey no matter what I do; and, as for the other matter, my best hope lies in the girl’s brother.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ sniffed Mr Larkin. ‘But I suppose we’d better try and find him, for all that. And it’s no good relying on some flash wench either. She’s bound to mess it up. And I haven’t spent the best years of my life turning you into something like a soldier to have you end up sitting on your arse like some piddling lord. No. There’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to go to France myself. If Clifford’s there, I’ll find him.’
Gabriel eyed his henchman thoughtfully. Amongst his other dubious talents, Wat had the nose of a bloodhound and the instincts of a ferret … and, since he could also lie like a trooper, he would presumably have no difficulty mingling with the exiled Royalists.
‘It’s worth a try,’ he said, at length. ‘In fact I was rather hoping you’d offer. But, in all fairness, I ought to warn you that even if you find him it may be a wasted journey. The girl says his principles won’t let him take the Oath.’
‘With his family home at stake? He can’t be that big a clod.’ Wat spat hard and accurately through the open window. ‘But if the worst comes to the worst, we’ll just have to leave the country. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing anyway. Quality professionals are always in short supply. And at least you get paid.’
‘True. And you have no idea how much I wish I could do it,’ came the wry reply. ‘However. I’ll get a travelling pass for you and I’d also better find out what Ireton and Lambert have put in this latest set of proposals concerning proscribed persons.’ A faint, sardonic gleam touched his eyes. ‘You never know. There may be something that will tempt Sir Harry Clifford home on the next boat.’
*
Major-General John Lambert listened to Colonel Brandon’s request that, as a member of the Army Council, he be permitted to read the Heads of the Proposals and then said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t oblige you. Henry Ireton has one copy and the other is with the committee that was appointed to lick it into shape. But I can give you the main points, if you like – or you could ask Henry.’
Reflecting on Commissary-General Ireton’s passion for protracted debate, Gabriel said, ‘I think I’ll settle for hearing it from you. I’ve a meeting with my Captains in a couple of hours.’
Lambert’s heavy-lidded gaze acquired a touch of amusement and he waved the Colonel to a chair.
‘Then I’ll be brief. What we have done may be divided into four main sections. On the religious side, bishops would remain but be deprived of their judicial powers; neither the Book of Common Prayer nor the Covenant would be enforced; and there would be toleration to all but Papists. With regard to Parliament, we’ve proposed limiting the power of the Lords and both Houses are required to set a date for their own dissolution – after which there would be biennial parliaments, each lasting for no less than four and no more than eight months. We’ve also suggested electoral reform to give increased constitutional power to the more highly-populated areas. In short, representation would be in proportion to taxation.’ He paused. ‘You don’t like the idea?’
‘On the contrary. I was just wondering how it’s all going to go down at Westminster.’
‘With a good grace, we hope,’ said Lambert. ‘Next, a Council of State would be set up – and this would control the Militia for the next ten years. After that, the King is permitted to make his own appointments – subject to Parliamentary approval. And, working along the same lines, we’ve proposed that domestic government be carried on much as it’s always been but that, for the next decade, officials will be chosen by Parliament – after which His Majesty may select them from a list of names supplied by the House.’
‘Strong stuff,’ commented Gabriel. ‘I don’t imagine the King will exactly be panting to agree to it.’
‘No,’ agreed Lambert coolly. ‘He isn’t. Yet.’
The grey gaze sharpened.
‘He’s already seen the Proposals? Before they went to the Council?’
‘Yes. And certain alterations were made as a result.’
‘Such as what, for example?’
‘Such as the reinstatement of the royal veto.’
‘Ah. You don’t think,’ suggested Gabriel, ‘that this may perhaps cause the men to feel a trifle betrayed? That they may wonder just how far their officers are prepared to go in placating the King?’
The Major-General sighed.
‘Yes. I do think it. But if it provides a settlement, they’ll soon forgive us. And where’s the alternative? We’ve got to come up with something that the King will consent to – because, without that, we have nothing and the chaos will continue.’
Since this was palpably true, Gabriel saw the wisdom of letting the matter drop in favour of pursuing his original errand. He said lightly, ‘So what other inducements have you found to tempt His Majesty?’
‘Further leniency towards his supporters. No Royalist would hold office during the next five years or be eligible to sit in either House before the end of the second Parliament. But only five men would be named subject to Parliamentary justice. And any who will join with us in preventing a new war are permitted to compound for five per cent of their estates.’
It was as much as any Cavalier could reasonably expect and Gabriel experienced mild stirrings of optimism. Sir Harry Clifford’s name could not be on the list of five. He wasn’t important enough. And so there was no reason why he shouldn’t come home … only a battery of excellent reasons why he should.
Smiling genuinely for the first time in several days, Gabriel congratulated both the Major-General and the absent Commissary-General on the soundness of their proposals and expressed his heartfelt hope that the King would give them his blessing. Then, leaving Lambert to speculate on Colonel Brandon’s sudden change of mood, he walked back to his quarters, whistling.
*
Three days later, Wat left for Dover with an overseas pass in one pocket and a letter from Colonel Brandon to Sir Harry Clifford in the other. Gabriel saw him off and then turned his attention to the task of preventing four hundred men with time on their hands from becoming either slipshod or restless.
Within twenty-four hours this was made somewhat easier when the Lord General decided to move the Army a little further from London while Parliament considered the four final demands placed before it by the Army Council. Since Sir Thomas Fairfax had recently
been given command of all Parliamentary forces and the deserters had been officially disbanded, this was a reasonable move. It also, Gabriel observed to Major Maxwell as they prepared to transfer the regiment from Reading to Bristol, gave the men a few more mundane matters to occupy their minds.
This was true when he said it. Unfortunately, almost before the Army had settled into its new quarters or finished installing the King amidst the splendours of Woburn, several things happened in rapid succession.
It began with gangs of Presbyterian apprentices, reformadoes and watermen converging on the Skinners’ Hall to sign an Engagement in favour of maintaining the Covenant. This upset the Army, to whom liberty of conscience was almost as important as arrears of pay, and also earned condemnation from the Independent-spirited members in Westminster. But all might have been well had not the Parliament – with the disastrous lack of timing that was fast becoming its trade-mark – decided to placate the Army at the expense of the City by taking control of the Militia back into its own hands.
The results, though dramatic, were not without an element of farce. In the wake of a respectable, petition-bearing party of Aldermen, the Skinners’ Hall engagers swarmed into both Houses of Parliament and, taking the nation’s representatives hostage, refused to let them out until they repealed the Militia Ordinance.
Since there were only nine peers in attendance that day, the Lords capitulated almost immediately. The Commons, on the other hand, held out until it became plain that continued resistance would only result in them missing tomorrow’s breakfast as well as tonight’s supper. With sullen abruptness, they did what had been asked and promptly adjourned; then both Speakers, all nine peers and fifty-eight MPs removed themselves from the City and sent an urgent appeal for help to the Lord General. London, they said, was in uproar; the Eleven were returning and the City was organising its own defence. The Army, they said, would have to Do Something.