by Michael Ward
RAGS OF TIME
Michael Ward
© Michael Ward 2019
Michael Ward has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2019 by Burnaby Press.
This edition published in 2020 by Sharpe Books.
Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
For Heather
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Rags of Time would not exist in its current form without the help of a number of people.
I thank my family for their continued forbearance and encouragement throughout the book’s lengthy gestation. The achievement of its publication is theirs, as much as mine.
Although several characters in Rags of Time, such as Henry Jermyn and Nicholas Culpeper, are not fictional, the parts they play within this story are. The main protagonists, Tom Tallant, Elizabeth Seymour and Edmund Dalloway, were all born in my imagination, like their adventures. Any similarity to reality is coincidental and entirely unintended.
Mike Ward
Chorley
June 2019
PROLOGUE
21st October 1639
Kensington, London
As he strode across the lower meadow of his country home, Sir Joseph Venell considered his sin, and smiled.
He felt a surge of shameful joy as the late autumn sun bathed the village of Kensington, burnishing the leaves that rained from the tall beech trees surrounding the field. A warm breeze stirred the branches, releasing a further golden shower.
He should not exult in making money, he knew it. Except it would be so much money! And it would fall at his feet like these leaves, each year without fail. A God-fearing man, Sir Joseph rebuked himself, but heard his voice laugh out loud as he calculated his future wealth.
He worked his way down the slope. The grass was lush for the time of year and his stockman had kept the sheep in the upper field. They would be moved to the meadow next week to gorge themselves on the fresh pasture.
Sir Joseph hummed a Gabrieli motet, breaking the tempo to match his bouncing steps as he let the slope take him down the hill. It had been his father’s favourite piece of music. What would Papa think if he could see his son now, about to secure his place among London’s leading merchants, and through the King’s favour no less. Excitement coursed through Sir Joseph. Had life ever been better? The sun was shining, the air was clear and he was off to see his beloved bees. They had remained active during the extended summer but now it was time to make a final inspection of the hives before the cold weather arrived.
The sun cast lengthening shadows, picking out tiny black moths which flew from the grass, disturbed by his steps. This indeed was a heaven on earth, Sir Joseph mused. Even the infernal pigeons had stopped their incessant call: koor, koor, koorrrrr… koor, koor, koorrrrr… koor, koor! Gone! Strange—but most welcome.
The first blow to Sir Joseph’s head threw him forward violently. He staggered but remained upright. It came from behind and he had no time to recover before he was hit again, this time from the side.
In shock, he wheeled around to confront his attacker. Behind him, the pasture stretched up to the gate he had entered minutes ago. He could see the path he had made through the grass. There was no one in sight.
He turned quickly back the way he had been heading, breathing hard. Ahead lay his route to the hives. He looked right, up the slope to the tree line. No one there either. As he turned to the left to check the bottom of the field, he was pitched forward by another jarring blow to the back of his head, this time accompanied by a piercing pain in his scalp.
Sir Joseph fell to his knees, hands out in front. The grass was cool between his fingers as he stared at the ground, his ears full of his ragged breathing and the beating of his heart. O Sweet Jesu. He is quick, this villain. I cannot see him! I must get help, somehow.
‘I have no money on my person,’ he shouted into the ground, hearing the rising panic in his voice. ‘But I am not an unwealthy man. Let me live and I will be generous.’
As he spoke, a rivulet of blood dripped from his head onto his hand. The smell of the warm blood mingled with the scent of crushed grass beneath his knees.
Sir Joseph’s panic changed to rising anger. Who was this bastard toerag to attack him on his own land?
‘Yes, I will be generous… with the rope,’ he muttered to himself, as he staggered to his feet. He carefully quartered the field, north, south, east and west. It was empty.
His anger was quickly doused by the chill of fear. Where was his attacker? He did not understand what was happening but he must get out of this damned meadow immediately. The quickest way was downhill. He ran towards the hives, and the shelter of the surrounding woods.
Four steps later, Sir Joseph was sprawling on the ground once more, hit by another sickening blow to his right temple. He stumbled to his feet and started running again, now gripped by mortal fear. In a moment, he had realised his fate. This was not a robbery. It was a lesson in humility. He had dared to believe he had created a heaven on earth and now was being taught by the Almighty that such arrogance required swift correction. He had been handed to the demons for punishment.
Pain seared his brain as he was hit again. Sir Joseph shouted to the skies, waving his arms in the air, as his steps became more uncertain. He stumbled up the slope, no longer sure of his direction.
‘Oh God, forgive me. I am a mortal sinner.’ Another crash as his words went unheeded. ‘I dared to be filled with selfish pride. Oh Jesu, forgive me.’
Blood was running freely down his face, filling his eyes and mouth. Blinded, he staggered on, turning this way and that across the meadow, screaming.
‘Forgive my greed. I will give my money to the poor. I will do anything if you will only spare ….’
Sir Joseph’s pleas were silenced by another lacerating blow. Again he was pitched forward, but this time lay still on the ground. His eyes stared across the empty field as stalks of grass blew against his face. The sun was now lower in the sky and the air had turned cooler. Blood slowly spread across the ground under Sir Joseph’s head. The buzz of gathering flies filled the air.
The breeze shifted direction and caught the tallest trees at the top of the pasture. More leaves fell and danced through the amber light before landing gently on Sir Joseph’s prostrate body.
The sheep called to each other in the top meadow. Evening was approaching.
And from the trees a familiar sound returned: Koor, koor, koorrrrr… koor, koor, koorrrrr—koor, koor.
Chapter 1
The next day
A warehouse on the north bank of the Thames, east of London Bridge
From the top floor of his family’s warehouse, Thomas Tallant looked across the Thames. Peering through the open loading bay, he surveyed a forest of masts, so many that he could no longer see the south side of the river.
Leaning forward, a warm breeze touched his face. Morning sunlight swept the river, bathing the houses lined a
long London Bridge to his right in its pale glow. It would be another fine day for late October. Dear God, it was wonderful to be home.
Tom cautiously looked down at the quay. His dizziness on dry land after months at sea was finally receding. It was three days since he’d docked in London, his ship laden with pepper and mace. Quite long enough to be stumbling like a drunk.
Tom stepped back from the loading bay and straightened his back. Dark brown hair tumbled onto his broad shoulders framing a handsome sun-tanned face and ready smile. He was clean-shaven, with no attempt to hide the evidence of childhood smallpox on his face. He had been lucky. The blemishes were slight and he had been pleased to discover that women found his rugged complexion attractive.
Angry voices rose above the rumble of cartwheels on the stone quay below. Looking along the wharf, Tom saw an official from the nearby Customs House arguing with two men who were both pointing at the dock and shouting. Directly ahead, ships were at anchor row after row. The Pool of London was full.
He turned and faced the tall, distinguished man who had been viewing the river over Tom’s shoulder. ‘It is even worse today, Father,’ Tom sighed.
‘Aye, Tom. A fleet of merchantmen has been waiting in the estuary to come upriver. The wind’s finally changed so the wharf will be packed tight this morning, everyone fighting for a berth.’
Sir Ralph Tallant moved from the loading door and eased his six-foot frame into a chair. Tom studied his father and saw he’d aged in the two years Tom had been away. Flecks of grey hair, a thicker waistline and the skin around his face a little looser. But those sapphire eyes still flashed like the sea in a summer storm.
‘You will find much has changed while you’ve been in India, Tom. Trade has grown apace and the port is full to bursting. Word is out there’s money in London, so half the population of England has moved in. The city has grown, but not quickly enough. There’s nowhere for people to live and conditions for many are unspeakable.’
Tom picked up a ledger. ‘That’s hardly our problem, is it, Father? Trade is good, so the Tallant family benefits. People have to take their chances if they come to London.’
Sir Ralph sighed. ‘It’s not that simple. After a few weeks back, maybe you’ll see that all is not well in this city, and that’s not good news for the Tallants or anyone else.’ Sir Ralph shifted in his seat and grimaced. ‘Lord, the weather is about to change. My bones know it.’
Tom ignored his father. ‘We need to sell this pepper. The warehouse is almost full.’
Sir Ralph looked around the family pepper store at the sacks piled neatly from floor to ceiling. ‘The price isn’t right. A large shipment was placed on the market at the Exchange earlier this week. It’s pushed the value down again. We have to be patient.’
‘But why are we still importing pepper if we can’t sell it? We should stick to mace and cinnamon.’
‘Tom. It’s harder these days to get a good price for pepper because of over-supply but it still sells in volumes that far exceed any other spice. We make less per sack, but we sell a lot more sacks… if we are patient.’
‘But the real money is to be made in the new spices like cinnamon. If we…’
‘When will you understand there isn’t always a quick profit to be had? You can’t simply act on impulse, Tom. We need safe bets as well as more risky options.’
Sir Ralph stood and held his son’s gaze.
Tom felt his face colour. ‘I wondered how long it would be before I heard that speech again. Home again after two years away, but nothing has changed, has it?’
‘Tom. Have a care. You cannot expect all that happened before you left to be simply forgotten. Show willing to learn from it, instead of shouting at me at the first opportunity.’
There was a call from below. Visitors had arrived.
‘I must be going anyway,’ Sir Ralph added testily. ‘I have an appointment at the Customs House. No, don’t show me out. See to your guests.’
With practised ease, Sir Ralph ducked his head under the doorway to the main stairway and was gone.
Tom slammed the palm of his hand onto the ledger. Three days back and he was arguing again with his father. He sighed. That much, he knew, was normal; but there was something about Sir Ralph’s expression. He looked more worried than angry.
Another shout from below. Tom clattered down the wooden steps to the ground floor, crossed the back office and entered the parlour.
‘Edmund! I wondered when you would soil your elegant shoes on the waterfront and visit my humble abode.’
Edmund Dalloway spun away from his conversation with a dark-haired man and walked quickly towards Thomas.
‘My dear Thomas. It’s so good to see you safely home,’ he said, grasping Tom’s shoulders and embracing him warmly. Edmund held Tom at arm’s length and surveyed him closely.
‘My goodness, your face is weather beaten, and are those muscles under your doublet? Turn over your hands. Look! Calloused! Tom, what have you been up to—sailing the seven seas single-handed?’
‘We can’t all be gentleman merchants, Edmund,’ Tom laughed. ‘Some of us take our turn hauling in a rope.’
It was a standing joke between them. Both from merchant families, they had grown up and been schooled together. The Dalloways were one of the founding Merchant Adventurer dynasties, making their fortune from the lucrative wool trade. Tom’s father had instead diversified into spices early in his career after meeting and marrying Beatrix Simons in Amsterdam and learning about the East Indies trade from her brother Jonas. Tom now oversaw and lived in the Tallant spice warehouse when not at sea, a hectic life that bemused Edmund—‘Far too much like hard work, dear boy, when the wool market is so established. And all that travel!’—but Edmund was Tom’s oldest friend and he had missed his easy smile and companionship during his time away.
Edmund’s pale golden hair was fashionably long and now matched by a blonde beard and moustache in the style of the King. It made him look older but his hazel eyes still held the promise of mischief. It was good to see him again.
Edmund pulled away from Tom and turned towards the tall stranger.
‘Tom, please allow me to introduce Mr Robert Petty. Mr Petty works as an investigating agent for the Merchant Adventurers.’
Tom extended his hand and Petty shook it firmly, inclining his head towards him. ‘I am your servant, sir. Mr Dalloway has told me much about you.’
‘Tom, I am sorry to trouble you when we have not spoken for so long but Mr Petty is on urgent business and I have suggested you might be able to help him. You and I will dine together later this week and you can tell me all about India. But at this moment Mr Petty needs your advice on a matter of the highest importance’—Edmund paused and lowered his voice—‘and delicacy to the Adventurers. Is there somewhere private we can talk?’
Tom ushered Edmund and Petty to three chairs around the parlour hearth, where a fire had been lit. Thick grey smoke, streaked with yellow, billowed from the sea coal stacked in the grate and disappeared up the chimney while the base of the fire crackled and glowed.
‘We can speak in private here,’ said Tom. ‘Neither my manservant nor my housekeeper are latch-listeners and, to be honest, gentlemen, if you want my undivided attention, you must allow me a little heat.’ He turned his palms towards the smoking fire. ‘I am accustomed to a warmer climate.’
They sat down. Tom offered refreshment but both men declined. Robert Petty twisted in his seat and put a hand in his pocket. He spoke quietly.
‘Mr Tallant, can you identify these?’
Petty removed a piece of folded cloth and opened it, revealing two feathers which he offered to Tom, who carefully picked them up. Petty regarded Tom intently. His eyes were the deepest brown Tom had ever seen in an Englishman.
Tom held the feathers to the weak light from the parlour window. One was over four inches long. It was grey with regular paler markings down its length. The other was similar, but a little shorter.
‘If I
am not mistaken they are wing feathers from an adult peregrine falcon,’ he told Petty, handing them back. ‘But anyone who knows about hawking could have told you that. Why ask me?’
Petty folded the feathers carefully back into the cloth, which he returned to his pocket. ‘Mr Tallant. Do you know a merchant called Sir Joseph Venell?’
Still the unwavering eyes, the colour of hard, ancient oak. Tom began to feel a little uncomfortable.
‘Most people in the city know of Sir Joseph. He and Sir Hugh Swofford own one of the largest wool merchants in London. I’ve met him occasionally at the Royal Exchange.’
‘Did you know Sir Joseph was killed yesterday?’
Tom wasn’t sure what surprised him most. The news of Sir Joseph’s death or the simultaneous realisation that Robert Petty was searching his face for any reaction. The sea coal was now well alight and he could feel its heat. With a start, Tom realised he was flushing under Petty’s gaze.
An image of Sir Joseph came to him. He and Swofford were unusual partners. Together they were highly successful but they could not have been less alike. Swofford loved his food and drink and enjoyed the trappings of a leading city merchant. In contrast, Venell was an ascetic. Lean in stature, he was more reserved than Swofford and played no part in London’s merchant society. He lived alone outside the city in Kensington where, if Tom remembered correctly, he devoted most of his time to a large collection of productive bees. However, Venell and Swofford did share one passion. They loved making money. Lots of it. And they were very good at it.
Tom knew conditions had toughened in the wool and cloth market with increased competition from the continent but it was the smaller merchants who were suffering. Families like the Venells, Swoffords and the Dalloways had managed to maintain their market share and showed little sign of being squeezed. Indeed, they were prospering if Edmund’s new home on London Bridge was anything to judge by. Tom’s father had pointed it out to him this morning. It must have cost his friend a small fortune.