by Michael Ward
Petty turned away and looked around the field. ‘So you say they hunt in pairs?’
‘Yes, but listen, Petty. As well as being impossible, falcons would have no reason to attack a man in a field. Why should they? Isn’t it more likely that Sir Joseph’s attacker followed his path carefully down the field, as we did, attacked him from behind, and once the deed was done, left the field the same way he came? As for the falcon feathers, I think if you searched this meadow you would find another dozen. This is good hunting country for peregrines. They’ll make bird kills here every day.’
Tom stopped and realised he was breathing hard. He heard his last word echo across the field.
Petty smiled. ‘You are right, Mr Tallant. A foolish theory of mine, even though I didn’t even have to share it with you. You saw it right away.’
Inside, Tom felt a growing anger. Petty had deliberately let him talk at will. Irritated that his time was being wasted on this wild theory, Tom had shown his annoyance, his voice strident and forceful. Hell and damnation. He had sounded like he wanted to persuade Petty to dismiss the falcon theory. What impression would that give?
His father’s admonishment returned to vex him and he boiled with frustration. When would he learn not to jump in with both feet? He had come to Kensington as a favour to Edmund, to offer expert advice. What did it matter to him if Petty was on the wrong track completely? Yet the agent had turned the situation inside out and Tom realised that he now cared—no, more than that—he was concerned, about what the agent thought of him.
What game was Robert Petty playing?
Chapter 3
Early November 1639
The Tallant warehouse
Tom examined the lane from his warehouse up to Thames Street and frowned. Days of rain had turned the track into a bog and the streets would be like this throughout London. After weeks on land, his body was soft and his breeches tight. The Tallant family were dining together for the first time in two years and he had planned a vigorous walk to his parents’ home, Bolton Hall, north of Clerkenwell. But not now. He would have to ride.
Andrew Lamkin led Meg from her stall by the warehouse. The horse saw her master and whinnied softly, shaking her pale mane. Tom studied his approaching groom closely.
‘Let me look, Andrew.’
He turned the boy’s face upwards and inspected his swollen nose and purple bruising under both eyes.
‘Those bastard Apprentice Boys. They need taking down a peg or two.’
It was Isaac Ufford, Tom’s warehouse manager, coming around the side of the building. He ruffled Andrew’s hair.
‘Tell Master Thomas what they said to you.’
The boy looked down and squeezed Meg’s reins in his hands. Isaac gave Andrew a nudge and haltingly the boy spoke, still staring at the floor.
‘They were hanging around the Black Dog, looking for trouble. Next thing, a group started following me, shouting “King or Parliament? King or Parliament?” They caught me at Dob Alley. Pinned me to a wall and kept asking “King or Parliament?”’ Andrew turned his battered face to Tom. ‘So I gave them the answer I’ve heard you say, Master Thomas, and one of them gave me this,’ he said, gently feeling his broken nose.
‘You said “I am loyal to both”, and he hit you?’
‘Yes. With his head. Jesus it hurt. He said everyone had to choose a side. Even better to support the King than sit in the middle like a Hackney whore, trying to please everyone.’
Isaac and Tom looked at each other.
‘Andrew, the Apprentice Boys constantly look for trouble,’ Tom said. ‘Today it’s King or Parliament, next week it will be the price of ale. Any excuse to fight. I think it’s time you learned how to look after yourself. You need some instruction. Isaac will arrange it. Now give me Meg and think no more about it.’
Andrew handed over the reins and dipped his head in thanks, before returning to the stable.
Isaac took Tom to one side. He was a tall, stooping man with a curious gait, his right shoulder lower than his left and bent forward, the result of an accident on the wharf ten years ago. The shoulder had been trapped by falling cargo and crushed under the weight. The constant pain Isaac carried with him since that day was etched into the folds of grey skin on his long, lugubrious face.
‘Master, do you really think this attack was the usual Apprentice Boy bullying?’
‘Of course. Why should it not be?’ Tom replied, distractedly.
He was late starting his journey and the Apprentices had a reputation across the city for boisterous, bad behaviour, especially after a session in the ale house.
‘Trouble on the streets got a sight worse while you were in India. It’s not only the Apprentice lads. People are angry. They don’t like the changes the Archbishop is bringing to the churches. Some say it’s a Papist plot to bring back the Catholic faith. People speak shamefully about King Charles in public. I blame Queen Henrietta and that interfering mother of hers. Do you know they both go to Catholic mass in the Queen’s private chapel? What poison is she dripping into His Majesty’s ear?’
Isaac Ufford was a loyal and reliable manager but a terrible gossip. He heard all the rumours and believed too many. Tom leaned closer and lowered his voice.
‘Isaac, from time to time all kings are unpopular. The difference between, say, old Henry Tudor and King Charles is that no one dared whisper a word against Henry, in case he chopped off their head. I think we have moved on from that, would you not agree?’
Isaac nodded but looked unconvinced. Tom decided to say no more on the subject. The King clearly had an unshakeable belief in his divine right to rule. His Royal Highness would not be worrying about tittle-tattle on the streets or the views of drunken Apprentice Boys, and neither should Isaac.
Tom took his leave and led Meg carefully through the deep mud to a passageway through the houses on to the south side of Thames Street. Wide enough for a two-horse cart, the short tunnel took cargo from the Tallant warehouse to the streets of London. It was cold and damp and, as he entered, the choking stink of piss made him cough. Meg’s hooves clattered on the cobblestones, echoing along the arched ceiling. Gradually, movement and light appeared ahead and then, in a moment, they cleared the ginnel and entered the heart of old London town.
The noise was overwhelming. Traders lined the length of Thames Street selling their wares as far as Tom could see, shouting to be heard above the hammering of coopers in the nearby barrel works. Opposite, a cutler sharpened knives on a whetstone, pausing to spit on each blade before continuing the rasp of Norwegian ragstone on steel. The harsh sound competed with a tentative violin refrain repeated continuously from a window above, as young hands struggled to master a difficult passage. And, rising above it all, the continuous creaking of dozens of shop signs lining the street, swinging in the breeze.
Tom inhaled the street aroma: roast meat and rotting fish, warm brewer’s malt, and the pungent reek of urine from the tannery. The sulphurous tang of soot caught the back of his throat. London had exhausted its supplies of wood fuel while he was away and now relied on sea coal shipped from Newcastle, its dense fumes slowly choking the life out of the city.
He heard a familiar voice above the racket and looked to his right.
‘Tom… Tom, it’s me, Peter!’
Tom looked more closely and saw his brother emerge on horseback from behind two other riders. Peter’s horse edged slowly through a herd of geese hissing and snapping at the mare’s feet. Tom turned Meg towards his brother, leant across his saddle and embraced Peter warmly.
‘Forgive me brother… the noise, everywhere… I did not hear you clearly.’
The driver of a cart was screaming oaths at a ragged boy and girl who had jumped off to herd the geese without success. The man lunged backwards and punched the boy on the head. The boy reeled and slipped on the muddy cobbles. He staggered to his feet and tried again to gather the geese.
Peter’s eyes hardened. ‘That boy will learn nothing from such brutality.’
‘Except how to keep his distance,’ Tom countered. ‘I suspect he has felt his father’s fist before and was foolish to get so close. Peter, what are you doing here?’
‘I had business in the city and decided to drop by to see if we could ride together to Bolton Hall.’
Peter had not long returned from the Americas and Tom was pleased to share time with his elder brother. They had been too much apart in recent years.
They moved westwards through the crowds along Thames Street. A bull bellowed in a side alley and Peter’s horse shied violently to the left. He brought it under control and looked with appreciation at Meg, who had not stirred.
‘Your horse is steady, Tom, just what you need in London.’
‘Aye, Meg is well used to the comings and goings and she knows every hole in the road. There is only one thing that will spook her.’
‘What is that?’
‘Pigs. For some reason she does not like pigs at all. Gets skittish if they come anywhere near—and there’s far too many pigs on the streets of London for my liking.’
Peter laughed and they continued to work their way west, turning right into Fish Street Hill. Here the road was wider and a little less crowded, and Tom was able to ride alongside his brother.
‘I have still not become accustomed to how much the city has grown while I was in India, Peter. But can you believe that some people blame me and other merchants for this overcrowding? Never mind that trade is booming, bringing a fortune into the city. Of course that also brings a flood of people, determined to get their share. Good luck to them.’
Peter frowned. ‘I know. They think nothing could be worse than starving in the country until they get here and discover there is nowhere to live in the city, no clean water, overflowing human excrement and pestilence everywhere. The only reason we are not swamped by this invading army is because it’s easier to die in London than anywhere in England. It keeps the numbers in check, just.’
Tom shrugged and patted Meg’s neck. ‘If people want to better themselves and take their chances, who are we to stop them?’
‘I must remember this when times are hard in America and I long for London,’ Peter continued. ‘Winter is the worst. Cold you cannot imagine and barely enough food to keep us alive. But we have a roof over our head, fresh water in the river and land as far as you can see.
‘You see a future over there?’ Tom asked.
‘The future, an opportunity for God’s children to make a new world, with freedom to worship the Lord and do his bidding without interference.’
Tom’s mind turned to America as they rode into Great Eastcheap. He sensed the New World's vast potential for business, but their Indies trade took up all his time and was so profitable. Demand for spice was strong and steady, which was welcome news. As was the disappearance of Mr Robert Petty. Tom had heard no more from the agent since their visit to Kensington. Edmund had been out of town at his family’s estates, so Tom had no idea if Petty’s investigation was complete and, frankly, he didn’t care.
There was a shout and the sound of breaking glass. People were running to the entrance of St Clement’s Lane. Tom stopped at the edge of a gathering crowd as three brawny figures emerged from St Clement church carrying a long piece of wood. The crowd erupted into cheers as the men waved the wood in the air before throwing it to the ground. Tom looked to Peter and saw his jaw clenched tight, his face flushed. Minutes later the men emerged again from the church with a second length of timber, to more cheering and whistling. Peter was shouting something but Tom could not make it out. Soon the excitement was over and the crowd dispersed as quickly as it had formed.
What on earth was that about, Tom thought, and turned to his brother to find him twenty yards along the road, heading for Clerkenwell. Quite right. His mother was preparing her famous game pie. On no account could they be late for that. The road ahead had cleared and Tom set Meg to a brisk trot to catch up.
An hour later Thomas Tallant was sitting with his parents at their dining table, together with Peter and his younger sister Ellen. When had they last been together? Well over two years ago. Now the family was reunited, Tom hoped it would be for some time.
He thought of the two who should be with them—brother Matthias, drowned in an accident at the age of two and sister Mary, lost to the pox at eight months. He said a silent prayer for both.
Tom’s mother looked up from her plate and frowned. ‘Ralph, Peter… please, no arguments today. Our time together is too precious.’
Peter wasn’t listening. ‘Father, surely you agree. Archbishop Laud is not a true Protestant. He is an Arminian.’
Peter was leaning towards his father, his face red and both fists on the table, clenched tight.
‘What’s an Arminian, Peter?’ It was Ellen who had spoken, looking carefully at her brother, concern etched on her face.
Peter ignored her question. ‘The Archbishop is determined to change the church, and for the worse. He is building rails around the communion table like a fence, to keep the people away and allow only the priests near the altar, even though the people are the church!’
Peter hit the table with a fist, sending his plate and food into the air. Lady Beatrix looked up sharply. Peter lowered his gaze and voice.
‘The people will not have it. They are reclaiming their churches and ripping out these altar rails. We saw it happening this morning, didn’t we Tom?’
All eyes turned to Tom whose face was buried in his plate. He had only been half listening. He lifted his eyes and looked around the table, bemused.
‘Did we not observe the people of St Clement Eastcheap this morning, reclaiming their church?’ Peter repeated, in exasperation.
Recognition dawned on Tom’s face.
‘You mean the crowd cheering as those men threw pieces of wood out of the front door? Looked like a rowdy mob to me, especially when we heard glass breaking.’
Sir Ralph spoke quietly.
‘That will be the stained glass windows they took exception to. Did they bring any statues out?’
Tom shook his head, his mouth full of the last of his mother’s game pie.
‘The verger will have locked them away if he had any sense,’ Sir Ralph continued. ‘Otherwise the Puritans would have smashed those as well.’
He glanced at his son Peter who now looked around the table at the faces of his family who watched him with concern. Sir Ralph knew Peter loved them all but, increasingly, he felt his son saw his destiny lay elsewhere, on a different path. It started when the Tallants were introduced to the teachings of John Calvin by Dutch relatives. Peter was struck forcefully by Calvin’s doctrine that only a select number were predestined to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. By his twenty-fourth birthday, two years ago, Peter Tallant’s interest had hardened into the unshakeable belief that he was one of the chosen. His eventual place in Heaven was assured. His mission now was to form communities of others to live as God commanded.
‘Why does the King allow the Archbishop of Canterbury to take us back to Popish ways,’ Peter said. ‘As Tom saw today, the people are not happy. However, if the King is behind Archbishop Laud, I fear such street protests will be futile. No, we must remove ourselves from Laud’s influence and establish our own kingdom on earth in the Americas, away from royal interference.’
‘Do you plan to return there soon?’ Tom asked.
Peter nodded vigorously.
‘We are seeking investors for a fresh expedition in the new year. We have identified parcels of land suitable for development. Among God’s children there are many who wish to join our venture.’
Sir Ralph shrugged. ‘It’s risky, Peter. Highly speculative and fraught with problems.’
Beatrix gave Ralph a hard look, trying to catch his eye. She glanced at young Ellen who was listening to her father with a look of anguish. Beatrix knew her daughter had been worried about Peter on his first trip to America.
Ralph did not notice his wife’s look. ‘Remember what happened
at Jamestown. The colonists built it on a swamp, came close to starvation and then were routed by the natives.’
‘It’s come a long way since the first settlements, Father,’ Peter explained patiently.
His previous anger had evaporated, replaced by the gleam in his eye that all who had grown up with him recognised instantly and loved. People always warmed to Peter Tallant’s driving enthusiasm.
‘Ships arrive from different countries every month, bringing new settlers. And no one has any idea how much land there is. It stretches as far as the eye can see, north, south and west. And the natural resources are endless. Timber, fish, land to grow food. Who knows what minerals are waiting to be mined.’
Sir Ralph grunted. ‘So the merchant spirit is not yet extinguished in my Puritan son. Good! You’ll need every last drop if your colony is to make enough money through trade to survive the crop failures and other calamities you’ll face in the early years.’
The meal over, Lady Beatrix announced she would like everyone to see her new indulgence—a glass house for her plants. Beatrix Tallant had created a garden renowned throughout London for its grace, elegance and innovation. The many hours Tom spent there fostered in him a love of plants and nature. His one regret about living in the warehouse was that he could not have his own garden. His collection of potted plants had survived Isaac’s care while he was in India but, with winter approaching, he had noticed many had been moved to his mother’s new glass house and he was eager to see them.