by Simon Parke
‘So what’s all this about, Robert?’ she asked, blinking a little.
‘It’s not easy to say, Mother.’
‘You look all pasty. You sit too much in your study.’
‘You must return now to Chertsey,’ he said.
He had chosen the courtyard for their meeting, not wishing to be trapped inside with such awkward words, and certainly not in the kitchen where who knows what would happen?
‘Not while I have a job to do here,’ she replied firmly, folding her arms, which was not a good sign. Folded arms were the drawbridge raised.
‘They miss you greatly, I am told . . . in Chertsey.’
‘Nonsense. Who told you that?’
No one. ‘It’s what I hear.’
‘I waste away for something to do in Chertsey. What does one do in Chertsey – apart from take a boat somewhere else? Whereas here I can keep an eye on you and ensure the proper running of the kitchen.’
‘Quite. But you don’t, do you?’
‘I don’t what?’
‘You don’t ensure the proper running of the kitchen.’ It had to be said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There have been, well, some difficulties with other members of the staff.’
‘Wasters who didn’t know the meaning of graft. You’re better off without them. It’s work they don’t like!’
‘But hard to replace on an island such as this. We miss them.’
‘I don’t miss them.’
‘You cannot do it all alone, Mother.’
‘I’ll do it all alone if I have to. Wouldn’t be the first time!’
The conversation had not started well. How would he raise the topic of quality? It did need to be raised.
‘The king has always eaten well in his life,’ he said.
‘And so have you.’
‘Indeed, Mother, I am most fortunate.’
‘You certainly never went without.’
‘Yet the king—’
‘Has papist tastes.’
‘This is not about religion, Mother. He simply asks me why we do not use the recipes of Lancelot de Casteau any more.’
‘Because I’ve never heard of him and don’t intend to start hearing now. We have quite enough English recipes to be getting along with.’
‘The king has possession of his book, Ouverture de Cuisine.’ His French felt awkward in his mother’s presence. ‘It includes recipes – rather fine recipes – for whipped cream and choux pastries, which he has previously enjoyed. His majesty misses those.’
‘And you too, no doubt?’
‘This is not about me.’
‘It’s always about you, Robert. You always were a little pig, eager with your snout.’
‘Mother . . .’ Now he was worried who could overhear.
‘And I’ll not cook French frippery. I don’t think we fought a war to cook French frippery. We eat ham and peas in England, soused pig, and plum pudding. You always liked plum pudding before you acquired airs.’
‘And still do like it. I have no airs.’
‘But I won’t cook that nonsense.’
‘And that is why you must leave.’ She looked at him in shock. ‘I want you to leave Carisbrooke,’ he said, glad to get it out, like the relief that follows a good vomit.
‘You dismiss me?’
‘I’m not dismissing you, Mother.’
‘My son gives me the boot! Well, that’s a fine thing, isn’t it? A very strange thank you indeed!’
‘You have given wonderful service—’
‘Not wonderful enough, it seems; not French enough! I will be leaving the island this afternoon.’
‘We’ll need you for this evening.’
‘Then write quickly to Lancelot de Casteau. Perhaps he’s available.’
‘He’s dead, Mother.’
‘And I wish I was, truly I do, accused like this. Goodbye, Robert.’
It hadn’t gone well.
*
‘We must be grateful, Mr Wallace, that we do not live in the Russian lands,’ said Jane, contemplating the Thames at low tide, all mud bank and green weed. She felt confident here. With Brome, she did not feel so; with Brome, she knew fear and constraint, as if she had nothing to raise against him. But here in London’s bustling docklands, she knew neither. If anything it was Mr Wallace who twitched a little and drew nervously on his pipe, though it was his office in which they sat, lined with tide manuals, sea maps and account ledgers. ‘Czar Alexis is not as kind as our dear king,’ she added.
‘No one could be,’ said Wallace.
‘He creates penalties for smoking now, apparently.’ She noted his pipe. ‘First offence is a whipping, a slit nose and transportation to the Siberian wastes.’ Wallace winced. ‘The second offence is execution, which makes a third offence unlikely. Russia is not the place for a pipe.’
Wallace smiled. ‘I am ever grateful for the freedoms of this land, Mrs Whorwood. The gift of the king, of course.’
‘Of course.’
She paused; and they sat.
‘I trust you do not question my great love for his majesty?’ He was not comfortable with this woman. He’d prefer to be dodging a customs official, his more common work – on the few occasions they wouldn’t be bought.
‘Love is an easy word to utter, Mr Wallace.’
‘And a true one, Jane.’ He would try familiarity. ‘You of all people should know that . . . how in the past I have given most generously.’ He knew why she was here.
‘Indeed. But that’s rather the issue: you speak of the past, Mr Wallace, when we live in the present.’ Wallace choked a little. ‘History may be a happy remembrance, but it pays no bills.’
‘My love for the king is an evergreen,’ he said, for he’d once written poetry at sea.
‘But how would his majesty know?’ asked Jane, pointedly.
‘Know what?’
‘That his subject’s love is like an evergreen? What signifiers are there?’
‘He can be assured of it!’ said Mr Wallace confidently.
‘I see. So I am to tell him of this evergreen on the Thames?’
‘I would be honoured if you would do so, Mrs Whorwood, for I will never forsake the king. And now, if that is all—’
He made to rise, but Jane stayed in her chair.
‘Yet you do forsake the king.’
‘A strange saying!’
‘You keep money that he needs.’
‘You ask a great deal.’
‘I ask for two hundred pounds to win over some guards at Carisbrooke, and you give me a story about your parents’ funeral arrangements.’
‘I believe the fifth commandment entreats us to honour our father and mother.’
‘I had not expected a sermon, Mr Wallace, as we are three days short of the Sabbath. But since we speak of these things, I declare that I have never found much sense or mercy in that commandment.’
‘Then you must understand those of us who do, Mrs Whorwood.’
‘I understand one thing.’
‘And what is that?’
‘I understand your recent delight.’
‘Oh?’
‘The good news was passed to me by a keen watcher of the Thames traffic after Greenwich.’
‘I find your intentions just a little opaque, Mrs Whorwood.’
‘Really?’
‘I struggle a little—’
‘A ship and its sails are a most visible thing, Mr Wallace. A fine sight, without question, bursting with a favourable wind; but hard to hide, unless one arrives at night, of course, when cargoes can creep quietly in, waking no one – not even the customs controller. What is the excise duty on tobacco these days?’
‘Not all my ships arrive by day, I grant you, but always f
or the best of reasons.’
He’d known Jane for many years, ever since her stepfather had worked for King James – Master of Stables in those days. Such an energetic girl, a fine horsewoman, of course, and so restless now in the new king’s cause . . . running it, or so he’d heard. For no man could think as quickly as Jane, ride as hard – or care as little for anyone else. Jane thought only of the king.
And she was pretty in her way: a tall girl, not for everyone and married to an oaf of some dimensions – they could all pity her there. But more desperate these days in her manner, there was no doubt of that: thinner of face, less girlish charm, less high spirited, more pressing. God knows, it was not right for the king to languish thus, in such restraint at Carisbrooke. And yes, the tobacco trade had served him well and would continue to do so, if Jane kept silent. He paid enough customs officials already; he could afford to buy a crooked castle guard.
‘I would like to make a love-offering to his majesty,’ he said.
‘And what is love worth these days?’
‘Let two hundred pounds be a small expression of my affection.’
‘That is most generous, kind sir. Shall I collect it tomorrow?’
*
Hammond sat reading another ciphered letter from Derby House, spilling with news of further escape plans. Today’s revelations included the ‘plain fat man’ again, who was significant but hard to identify, as that description took in half of England.
‘The aqua fortis destined for the king was spilt on the road by way of accident,’ said the report.
Hammond had enquired of the king about his interest in acid, but Charles had refused to help his enquiries, even denying it with mockery.
‘If I wanted acid I would have bottled Ireton’s spittle!’
But there was no acid anyway. The pot-holed roads of Dorset had seen to that. One must hope it was not carried on the lap.
‘But yesterday, at about four o’clock,’ said the Derby House memo, ‘a plain fat man set out to carry to the king a hacker, which is a specialized instrument, with the purpose to make the king’s two knives cut as saws; he will have these with him shortly. The time assigned for the king’s escape is late June, though it may be sooner if the opportunity serves.’
So they were guessing about the time.
‘The fat man intends to go first to a gentleman’s house in Lewes, Sussex,’ continued the report. ‘He will then travel to Newport with the hacker and dispatches, and on Saturday morning – or about that time – Dowcett or Firebrace or possibly another will go out and meet him and bring it all to the king.’
Firebrace? It couldn’t be Firebrace; they were friends, in a manner.
‘Therefore, ensure they are searched on returning and all will appear,’ said the letter.
It seemed clear enough, and Hammond was still pondering the news when that afternoon, another letter appeared, with certain amendments, saying the fat man would come only as far as Portsmouth; he wouldn’t make it to Newport, apparently. From there, he would hand over his business to ‘some fisherman or some other such person’.
Hammond leaned back in his chair, stretched out his arms and laughed. He laughed out loud in his dark study, the laugh of deep despair. What in God’s name was he meant to do with that intelligence? Intelligence was the wrong word for such stupefying vagueness. How could he be expected to police Portsmouth when he couldn’t even police his own castle? Who was the plain fat man – and if he’d changed his mind once, might he not change it again? Or lose weight?
The fact was, Hammond received new escape plans every day; another day, another plan, one scheme merging into another. Today a disguise, tomorrow a ladder up the wall, next week, a fire in the castle, using charcoal heaped outside the king’s window! But which communication to believe? He feared the true one, because he wouldn’t credit it when it came.
There was a knock on the door. A guard entered.
‘There is a courier to see you, Colonel.’
‘From whom?’
‘The lieutenant-general.’
What did Cromwell have to say to him? It would not be cheering, that was for sure. It was likely some complaint or cloying request.
‘I am busy,’ he said.
He’d lost all sense of anchorage; too much fantasy passing his desk every day, with no idea what was real. Hallucination and truth so wore each other’s clothes, he began to doubt his sanity.
‘The courier demands an immediate interview,’ said the guard.
Hammond watched his hopes of a quiet retirement pass briefly through the room, like a ghost who turned to gaze on him and laugh unkindly before melting into the wall.
‘Is he plain and fat?’ asked Hammond.
The guard hadn’t considered the visitor. ‘You wouldn’t call him a handsome fellow,’ he said, remembering his sour breath.
‘And his girth?’
‘Hasn’t gone hungry of late, but I wouldn’t name him as fat. Large.’
The guard thought of his uncle, who’d widened horribly in recent years due to constipation. The courier wasn’t as big as his uncle.
‘Show him in,’ said Hammond. Long, tall, short or thin, he didn’t care. He had dismissed his mother, returned her to Chertsey in the foulest of moods – so how could things worsen? This was the liberation of despair . . . and now a man dirty with travel stood before him, grey hair curling. He introduced himself as Job Weals, a physician from Kingston. He had a wispy voice and said he brought important information from Oliver Cromwell himself.
‘Please continue,’ said Hammond. He wouldn’t ask him to sit or settle in.
‘I wonder if I could have some hot water, Colonel Hammond?’
‘Some hot water?’
‘It has been a long journey and I feel a little faint.’
Hammond looked on him again. This was not the manner in which the general’s couriers handled business, not in his experience. Cromwell’s men were driven, urgent with God; they didn’t take tea before the dispatch was delivered.
‘I think we’ll proceed with our business,’ said Hammond.
‘It concerns both your safety, sir – and more importantly, the safety of the king.’
‘I see.’ Hammond’s heart sank a little. Not another escape plan?
‘There are schemes afoot and we will need to act quickly,’ continued the visitor.
‘I shall be the judge of what we need to do, Mr Wells.’
‘Weals.’
‘Mr Weals.’
‘Dr Weals.’
‘Quite so. You are here to pass on the information.’
‘There is a plan to seize the king and to kill you, Mr Hammond.’
‘Kill me?’ Now he was a target as well?
‘Indeed. You will not survive this endeavour.’ Dr Weals shook his head sadly at this revelation, like an undertaker at the grave. ‘And it is to take place early tomorrow morning.’
‘I see.’
‘Hence my haste and our need to act on the matter. A fleet is off the island, with men on board, ready to land.’
Hammond was listening now. ‘Go on.’
‘People will come from the mainland as well, on the pretence of visiting a fair in Newport; this has been established. Beacons will be lit to raise local royalists from their slumbers. There are many such men on this island, Colonel.’
Hammond sat gauging the strength of the two opposing armies. He had eight hundred men at his command. What numbers was this man suggesting opposed him?
‘Do you have numbers?’
‘Numbers?’
‘These royalist insurgents. Do you have information concerning their numbers?’
‘We know only that it could be over two thousand, sir.’
That was a good number. ‘And the lieutenant-general’s orders?’
The courier paused
. ‘You will hand over the king to myself, sir, and I will deliver him to Major Lobb, who commands Portsmouth, as you know.’
‘I hand the king over to you, Dr Weals?’
‘Those are the orders, sir.’
The guard, who’d decided Sour Breath was mad, looked at Hammond with concern.
‘And your authorization for this order?’ asked Hammond.
‘This message was too secret to be written down, sir.’
‘Too secret to be written down or for any authorization to be carried?’
‘Yes, sir. The roads are not safe, the king’s men everywhere. So it was decided to make of it a verbal message, delivered to you alone.’
‘Nothing written,’ said Hammond to himself.
‘But I do have written credentials to Major Lobb, sir, sewn into my waistcoat.’
‘So let us see those.’
‘I’m afraid my orders were that they were for the eyes of Major Lobb alone.’
‘I insist on seeing them myself, Dr Weals, like a physician might examine a patient – if we are to proceed in this matter.’
‘Sir, I urge you to set these events in motion. Remember the landing parties—’
That was enough. ‘Dr Weals, you take me for a fool, which is not the best greeting.’
‘Why, sir, I—’
‘We shall investigate your person.’
The guard stepped forward, removed Weals’ coat, and ripping open the cloth found only documents stolen from the Portsmouth to London staging post; unusual in Cromwell’s couriers.
‘And these?’ asked Hammond, holding up the papers.
‘I know not how they come to be with me. The lieutenant-general definitely said—’
Hammond indicated dismay but couldn’t manage anger. ‘Enough, Dr Weals – or whoever you are.’
The courier turned out to be a Jonathan Sykes from Hounslow, who may have needed a doctor but was no doctor himself. He quietly accepted that the show was at an end and bowed his head, which was jerked back with some brutality by the guard before he was led out.
*
Meanwhile the king was once more in favour of escape via the window.
‘I do favour the window,’ he said through the wall.
He had declared the idea of garish disguise at a royal healing to be too far-fetched, which disappointed Firebrace; but Charles was now keen on the window again. He felt he could do better this time, while acknowledging that the bars remained an obstacle. He had now received a large number of files, however, and gave one of them to the conservator Captain Titus, so he could test it out.