Later that night, someone threw cobblestones through all his windows.
The bare office was as unwelcoming as the conversation.
‘So let me see if I’ve got this correct: you’re the widow of a Dutch sea-captain …’
‘That’s right,’ said Lucy, dabbing at her eye with a lace kerchief, all the while sizing up her military interrogator. ‘A poor widow cast adrift …’
‘Though you speak no Dutch …’
‘There was no time to learn. We were given such a short time together.’ She repressed a very convincing sob.
The red-coat smiled wearily and laid down his quill.
‘So, Madame, am I to presume it was a match of just loving looks and silent communion?’
‘You may presume what you wish, sirrah,’ flared Lucy. ‘Do not mock the best thing that ever happened to me!’
‘How then did he propose to you?’
‘By the loving eloquence of his visage. Cupid has no need of language.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Urn … Hendrik … um, van der …’
‘Pray do not exert yourself, Madame,’ said the soldier. ‘The name of your spouse temporarily escapes you. Tis a common phenomenon – though usually found in longer married couples …’
‘Thank you for being so under …’
‘Enough!’ He slammed his massive fist on the table and made Lucy jump. ‘If I wish for comedy – which I don’t – I’ll attend a theatre. Which I can’t, because the Lord Protector has closed ’em. Why are you in England? It’s coming up to dinnertime and I want the truth out of you.’
Lucy shied at the word: in her experience truth was, at best, inconvenient and more often painful. She poked gingerly at her memories in search of this ‘truth’ business. Then inspiration occurred.
‘What is truth?’ she asked, quoting the words of Pontius Pilate. Her father had shown her a Bible once, and she’d just recalled that the Cromwellians were keen on that sort of thing.
The Colonel was both amused and bemused by his prisoner’s citing of scripture: an experience akin to coming home and finding his hound reflecting on Holy Writ.
‘Look into my eyes,’ he said softly. ‘What do you see?’
Movement onto the physical plane was very welcome, even though Lucy could detect nothing amorous in the order. She complied. The soldier was broad and flaxen-haired, a west-countryman by his burring accent, with a face made up of curves that should have been friendly but was not. His eyes were light blue and very still.
‘I see war,’ she answered, speaking by instinct. He nodded agreement.
‘And harsh deeds through necessity,’ he expanded. ‘And charity worn down by experience. In your instance, you may also see an unhappy future: prison and separation and weeping. My sole business latterly is in death sentences and life-long incarcerations. Such is the condition of England. That being so, your future is yours to shape – for a moment or two longer …’
‘I will tell you what I know’ she said swiftly.
‘That’s good. I’d rather my upcoming beef and beer isn’t soured by recent severity. So, we find you, a notorious exile, lodging with a curious menagerie, above a barber’s shop in the Strand. What’s it all about then?’
Lucy didn’t like to hear her family and current lover, Colonel Thomas Howard, compared to a zoo of exotica. The slur emboldened her to further deception.
‘Well, maybe Charles Stuart did sire a child off me – but it died. I’ve not seen the King these two years back, oh no. The children with me were by other men – I’m not sure who: it was dark. We’re here to collect my legacy from my dear departed mother’s will. There’s a thousand pounds, no, more than that, waiting for me. When we have it, we’ll be away from here and trouble you no more, oh yes …’
The soldier flattened his lips in mockery of a smile and, taking from the desk a page of vellum from which dangled a legal seal, held it up before her. Lucy quizzed it innocently: sometimes there were advantages to illiteracy.
‘Call me inattentive if you like,’ he said, gazing sadly out the window across the rooftops of the capital, thinking of all the plotters sheltered beneath, ‘but I’ve read this a dozen times. My distinct impression was your mother loved you so much you’re not mentioned in her will. Perhaps you can show me the particular clause …’
‘Um …’
‘And, before you think of it, your Dad’s will is likewise.’
‘I’m not surprised; the black-hearted old …’
‘And, when you have secrets to hide, it doesn’t do to fall out with your servants. Your maid, Anne Hill, informs us of a more … interesting begetter for your boy than you admit.’
‘That witch wouldn’t know the truth if it got in bed and swived her. If she had children I wouldn’t want one of the kittens. She borrowed my marble utensils of love and …’
The soldier held up his plate of a hand to stem the tide of invective.
‘Attend me, Madame,’ he said, lumbering up and beckoning her to join him at the window. ‘Do you know what that is?’
Lucy followed the pointing finger.
‘The sky?’ she hazarded. He looked reprovingly at her, as though expecting better of such a spirit.
‘The Tower of London,’ Lucy admitted.
‘Well,’ he said, imitating her Welsh tones, ‘there’s handy.’
Actually, the Tower wasn’t as bad as centuries of careful Crown indoctrination had led people to believe. There were greens for the children to play on, pleasing promenades for her and Howard to walk, and interesting sights for them all to see. The accommodation provided was quite civilised. When fear engendered piety Lucy attended divine service at the Tower Church of St Peter ad Vincula. Between these and other distractions, whole hours could pass without contemplating the proximity of Traitor’s Gate, the headman’s block and a state-of-the-art torture chamber.
Lucy had fled Charles and Holland and the kidnap attempts thinking to find shelter under the wing of an even worse demon. Her enemies feared Lord Protector Cromwell more than they did God – although that wasn’t saying much. They cursed him nightly in their prayers, but blanched as they did so. He was an object of dread. In 1644, the day before the crucial battle of Marston Moor, Prince Rupert had just one question for the first roundhead prisoner taken. It wasn’t about numbers or plans but simply: ‘Is Cromwell there?’ And, if that was true so early on, it was correct to a higher power now that ‘Old Noll’ ruled the four nations. His authority was so absolute, his daring so infinite, that he had even squared up to the legal establishment and punched them on the nose (and in their pockets!) Not even Good Queen Bess dreamed of getting the law out of their claws. Such superhuman confidence didn’t just command respect, it hoicked you up by your collar and dared you to withhold it.
Lucy preferred instinct to reason, but reasoned, insofar as lack of practice allowed, that they would not be pursued into the maw of such an ogre. She forgot that the ogre might have an appetite of his own.
There were further interviews with the Lieutenant of the Tower, a gentlemanly old soul concealing a mind like a knife. That Officer had seen just about everything in his time and was accordingly not too upset about oncoming death – or threatening others with it – in a gentlemanly way, of course. He had the full story out of them inside an hour of their meeting, without recourse to hot irons, the eye-spoon or Scottish-boot – or even harsh words. Lucy endured it reasonably well but Colonel Howard was reduced to jelly – and lasting impotence – by the experience. Whilst they were in the Tower their relationship did not prosper.
Then, for a while, Lucy and her party were left pretty much at peace as higher minds decided what to do with the information extracted. Young James and his younger half-sister played football with the children of the gaolers. A kindly executioner showed them the axe used to deal with his late Majesty, Charles I, and James gravely hefted the blade that had killed the grandfather he never knew. In the pleasant weather of that summer th
e days drifted easily away.
Finally, one bright morning – but far earlier than was her custom or preference – Lucy and young James were roused up by soldiers they’d not encountered before. These were hard-faced, taciturn men, marked with old wounds, and both grim and efficient in a manner unlike the usual guardians of the Tower. When Lucy protested the bed was tipped over, spilling her on to the cold floor. Then, to add insult to injury, they took no more notice of her glorious naked form than the task in hand required. James, bold beyond his years and fearing the worse, snatched up a clasp-knife and sought to protect himself (but not, it seemed, his mother …). A gauntleted hand casually squeezed the boy’s upper arm until the blade was dropped. Lucy was thrown a fur coat to protect her modesty and, when she ventured her ‘screaming, hysterical scene’ stratagem, a boot helped her on her way. From cosy sleep to venturing forth, the bedroom was cleared of life in mere seconds.
They issued out, blinking, into the sun and were closely escorted across the green. Lucy’s howls were silenced by one soldier raising a finger to his lips and smiling a smile that was no smile. The Lieutenant of the Tower joined them en route but he had no good morning for them today. His easy courtesy appeared switched off.
In the base of one minor bastion, there was a little door that Lucy had paid no heed to till now. Now it stood ajar and was guarded by two of the monster-soldiers. Lucy and James and the Lieutenant were ushered in and the door slammed behind them. Before them, at a desk and in all his glory, sat the Regicide.
Actually, there was not much of the glorious about him. Cromwell was dressed in simple black, the sort of thing you’d see on the back of a grocer. He sat easy in the plain wooden chair, old, worn boots sprawled before him, toying with the Great Seal of England. His face was etched with care, his eyes somewhat weary – perhaps with the hour, perhaps more generally. One callused hand gestured them to be seated.
Stricken silent by awe they hurriedly obeyed. Then the church-like reverence was spoilt by the Lieutenant of the Tower’s ‘aargh’ of pain. He leapt into the air as he had not done for many decades, clutching his backside. A tin tack protruded from the fleshy parts thereof.
Cromwell was possessed with laughter and thumped the table in glee.
‘Never fails!’ he gasped. ‘Never fails. They never look at the seat, only at me!’
The Lieutenant extracted the article from his behind and constructed a half-convincing smile.
‘Your Highness is most … jocular,’ he said, having chosen the term carefully from an extensive menu of possibilities.
‘Say what you like about my regime,’ Cromwell said, still chuckling and addressing Lucy and her son in the most amiable manner imaginable, ‘but we do have a laugh!’
‘Do you?’ said Lucy in her surprise. She’d always heard otherwise.
‘Certainly we do,’ answered the Lord Protector. ‘Admiral Blake got me with a squishy-tomato-on-the-seat at the last but one High Council meeting. I thought I’d die laughing!’
‘Heaven forfend,’ said the Lieutenant – quite genuinely. He was all too aware that the retention of his own head on his shoulders was connected with Cromwell’s longevity.
Mention of the metaphysical rendered the Lord Protector serious again. He did not jest about such matters.
‘I’ll go when the Lord summons me,’ he said stoutly. ‘According to His own sweet will. Meanwhile, Madame, what are we to do with you?’
‘Let us go?’ suggested Lucy, not sounding too hopeful.
Cromwell gave her a friendly ‘oh come on’ look.
‘I think not, alas. If you were just Charles’s current … in deference to the boy’s presence, close friend, I’d not stand in your way. That’s a thing between the Lord and your conscience. No, it’s because you’ve brought the heir to the throne with you that …’
Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but the words coughed and expired on her lips. She didn’t feel like insulting this homely fiend with her unconvincing alibis.
Cromwell read her inmost thoughts.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘let’s skip the stuff about dead Dutch sea-captains and alternative paternities. We know whose he is; he even looks like Charles. No, we shall have to keep …’
In remarking James’s resemblance to his father, Cromwell had glanced at the boy. His words stumbled on a while longer but his mind was clearly elsewhere. The Lord Protector fell silent and looked again, conducting a full scrutiny. The room became very still.
James stood up to the baleful gaze most manfully but Lucy was host to a new army of fears. The Lieutenant of the Tower looked at her in puzzlement, hopeful of some explanation of what was going on, but she would not provide it. Lucy was on her mettle as never before and inscrutable as a stone. Desperate thoughts scampered through her mind. Should she show some leg and flash her cleavage? Was there any hope in confession? She pondered furiously but each avenue of escape ended only in despair. Did he know?
He did. Before he was Lord Protector, before all the wars and titles, Cromwell was called ‘Lord of the Fens’ – because he came from there and made his reputation with the poor commoners therein. He had heard things in that strange place – and seen things. He was aware of what flitted about on the edges of life – and sometimes even closer in.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said to Lucy, at long, very long last. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
The Lieutenant was lost and let it be known. Cromwell waved him quiet. He was thinking something through; something, it seemed, of supreme import. All the easy-going warmth and kindliness was fled away. His stare held no charity for Madame Walter.
‘So it shall be,’ he finally decreed, speaking the words like a sentence in court. ‘It is the Lord’s will and the world must suffer it patiently. I will do no harm to infants – of whatever type …’
Lucy sobbed in relief – to the Lieutenant’s further baffled consternation.
‘… But you’ll not set foot in England again – not in my time. Expel them both,’ he ordered the Lieutenant, ‘today. Let Charles have his viper. Set them down on the shores of Flanders. Then burn the ship they travel in.’
Lucy’s party were left on the beach, abandoned like some contagion, but Miss Walter picked up her skirts and marched inland and to the years beyond like a conquering amazon. She deluded herself that she had won. She should have thought deeper.
Enraged by his only heir being offered to the mercies of Cromwell, Charles and his partisans redoubled their efforts. Sir Arthur Slingsby would try no more but there were the attempts of Edward Progers in ‘57, and that of a Manx mercenary soon after. Each came closer to success and the Dutch were tired of protecting one stubborn mother, however fair and noisy. Lucy was worn down and offered a truce: Charles could have and raise the boy so long as she had free access. They would share a house together and it would be like the old days. The King pretended to be interested. That was in January ‘58. By April they had James to themselves. He would not see his mother again.
On the fourth day of that month, Thomas Ross, a Scot and minor poet, sat and wrote to Charles’s Private Secretary concerning a certain commission. ‘Pray tell his Majesty,’ he said, ‘his little son is out of the hands he was in and bestowed in another place, both out of his mother’s knowledge or anyone else’s …’ He was rewarded with the promise that Charles would almost certainly read his latest book of verse.
Lucy never recovered. She also never gave up, travelling the continent in poverty, from rebuff to rebuff, in search of her son. Mercy came in the form of death, whilst she was hot on the trail in Paris in ’59. The cause was never ascertained, for no one much enquired; not Charles, not James, not anyone. At the age of twenty-eight Lucy had served her purpose to everyone’s satisfaction – except her own.
THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1663
A pot-pourri of cold-eyed conversation.
‘The theatre’s coming back, one hears.’ ‘Killigrew’s “King’s Players” has got a licence. He’s to have the Drury Lane pla
ce.’ ‘The Theatre Royal. Only I heard D’Avenant’s “Duke’s Players” secured it.’ ‘He claims to be Shakespeare’s natural son you know. His parents had the Crown Inn at Oxford where the Bard often stayed.’ ‘And the Bard had his mother, one supposes.’ ‘There’ll be actresses, I hear.’ ‘An innovation by royal warrant, no less. Can’t imagine what prompted his Majesty there …’
‘Did you hear about Buckingham?’ ‘Yes … quite skewered the poor Earl of Shrewsbury, apparently.’ ‘Well, he’s sunk his pork-sword in the man’s wife long enough.’ ‘Hence the duel.’ ‘The Countess cheered on the contest, there disguised as a page.’ The minx!’ ‘And was bedded straight after by the victor to celebrate, all soaked in her husband’s gore. You have to laugh …’ ‘It’s the devil to get out of silk, blood. That’s why I tend to red apparel. Scarlet deeds and women: best cover ’em in matching hues.’
‘I see that Sir Charles Sedley got done.’ ‘Bound over in the sum of £500, friend of Charles or no.’ ‘Shitting off the Cock Tavern balcony into Covent Garden, that’s one thing …’ ‘We’ve all been a bit tipsy from time to time …’ ‘Oxford Kate’ll be pleased – she could lose her licence.’ ‘It was the blasphemous sermon to the crowd that followed …’ ‘Whilst naked.’ ‘One should know when to stop. That’ll clip his wings.’ ‘And keep his breeches on.’ ‘Don’t bet the farm on it.’
‘I’d recommend you try it, Madame.’ ‘ “Tea” you say, Mister Pepys?’ ‘Just so. It is as reviving as it is, alas, expensive. The duty levied is quintuple the initial cost. A small quantity first came ten years back, captured off a Netherlands ship.’ ‘And what was the other thing?’ ‘My proposal to pleasure your portals at the earliest oppor …’ ‘You rapscallion!’ ‘Any port in a storm, Madame!’ ‘No, I meant before that.’ ‘Ah, the “fountain pen”, a real boon to those with regular writing obligations.’ ‘You are likewise a fountain of innovations, Master Samuel. I hope you can maintain that level of satisfaction …’
The Royal Changeling Page 5