by Michael Ward
‘What next? Another meander down the river?’
Tom had had enough of getting away from it all. He shook his head and slumped back in his seat. Grinning broadly, Jonah headed back to the Tallant warehouse. Once again the boat hit its quiet rhythm: Old Jonah’s steady breathing, his head bobbing back and forwards—in-pull-out, in-pull-out—the water gurgling past the prow.
Tom’s mind was anything but steady. He had come to the river to clear his head and make sense of his tangled life. Instead he now faced another unanswered question. Who was this bearded man? He had never seen him before, he was sure of it.
Chapter 9
13th April 1640
Bolton Hall
Tom could feel the pressure of a steel point against his throat.
‘Do not move, Thomas Tallant, or there will be blood shed.’
There was a sharp tug and a snap.
His mother stood back, needle and broken thread in hand, and scrutinised Tom.
‘That’s better. We can’t have you meeting the King improperly dressed. I really despair at the quality of tailoring these days. I order you a new shirt and it arrives with a loose button. It’s too bad.’
His father approached, smiling.
‘Never mind your mother’s fussing, Tom,’ he said quietly as Lady Beatrix took her sewing box out of the room. ‘She’s needed something to take her mind off Swofford’s death. The King could not have recalled Parliament at a better time. It will also provide an opportunity to try my new carriage.’
He winked conspiratorially. Tom was relieved to see his father more like his old self. As a rule, Sir Ralph was not conspicuous in his wealth. However, he had one weakness: his love of horse-drawn vehicles. He had been among the first in London to own a sprung carriage and his new coach had been designed in Paris. This would be its first outing but, before they could leave, Lady Beatrix returned to the room and demanded a final inspection.
Tom bowed to his mother and turned full circle. She beamed her approval, took her son by the shoulders and reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek.
‘What has become of my little Thomas,’ she sighed. ‘A Member of Parliament, no less.’ She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. ‘I am so proud of you, Tom. You have no idea.’
Lady Beatrix moved back, her eyes full.
‘Away with you both. I don’t know, Ralph, look at you, eager to go and play with your new toy.’
She brushed a speck of imaginary dirt from his shoulder and shooed them both towards the door. Ellen was visiting friends in the city, so Lady Beatrix stood alone in the doorway as her husband and son walked towards the carriage. Tom looked back to see his mother bend down and pluck a weed from the ground. She stood and shaded her eyes from the early morning sun. The air was still and it promised to be unseasonably warm. Tom waved and climbed into the gleaming carriage, which dipped alarmingly on its springs as he hauled himself in and sat next to his father.
‘What do you think of her, Tom? Isn’t she a beauty?’ Sir Ralph chuckled as he tapped his cane on the carriage roof and the coach moved forward. ‘Did you notice the extended suspension arms and the balance of the wheels, smaller at the front and large at the back? The central positioning of the carriage and the greater distance to both front and back wheels makes for a smoother journey, as you will discover.’
Tom smiled at his father’s eagerness and saw the young boy within. He experienced a surge of affection for his parents. In his turbulent world, he held these feelings close.
Soon they were clattering towards Clerkenwell village and joined St John Street, passing the playhouse on their right with its flag of a snorting red bull hanging limply in the heat. The street was busy with travellers entering London from the north. They rode past the court houses in Hicks Hall and headed towards Smithfield. As the carriage swayed, Tom reflected on his election as the Member for Dunwich the previous week. He had travelled to Suffolk with his father to find most of the buildings in the ancient coastal town under water. Sir Ralph held the seat in the previous Parliament eleven years earlier and often joked it was surely right that a merchant represented a town half in the sea and half out. Centuries earlier, Dunwich had been a major port in Suffolk and capital of the ancient kingdom of the East Angles. But floods and coastal erosion had since swallowed buildings and silted the river. Sir Ralph had remarked that the village had shrunk even further since his last visit.
So it was a depleted group of worthies who had met Sir Ralph and Tom outside the remaining tavern in Dunwich to cheer their new Member of Parliament and confirm his election. Less than an hour later, Tom and his father were on the road back to London. Tom was taken aback by the perfunctory nature of his accession. Sir Ralph had grunted, pointing out that his son had at least visited his constituency, more than some Members of the new parliament would ever do.
Outside the carriage, the noise and smell of livestock grew as they approached the vast animal pens of Smithfield. Sir Ralph gazed out of the window as the coach moved past London’s meat market towards Holborn.
‘I wonder how the King will handle this new Parliament?’ he mused.
‘What do you mean, Father?’
Sir Ralph turned. ‘Tom, there are two things that matter in this great city of ours—religion and money. The King needs the second but does not seem to understand the first. He requires money for an army to fight the Scots. Why does the King have to fight the Scots? Because they take exception to his attempts to reform their church.
Whose support will he need to raise this money? Why, Parliament, of course. But they will also take exception to the King’s reforms of the English church. Remember the altar rails, Tom? That’s simply a part of it. Unrest is growing.’
Sir Ralph paused as the carriage lurched to the right into Fleet Street.
‘London is in ferment but the King does not see it. The English may lock horns over which Protestant faith they prefer, but they agree on one thing: their hatred of Papists. They believe the King’s church reforms smack of popery, meanwhile he permits the Queen to practice her Catholic faith openly! Half of London thinks the King is in the pocket of the Catholic Queen and her mother Maria de Medici, who apparently has moved in with the King and Queen, and with no intention of leaving. It seems the King is no longer master in his own household. The King, I ask you!’
The carriage slowed as they reached Temple Bar.
‘His Majesty’s latest master stroke is to give that bully Thomas Wentworth the job of sorting out the Scots in return for the title he craves. Diplomacy is not one of Wentworth’s strong suits so he—our new Earl of Strafford—has decided to bolster the army with troops from Ireland… Catholic Ireland Tom… to fight Scottish Protestants? It’s a nonsense, and it cannot happen. Which means His Royal Highness is back where he started—needing Parliament’s support to raise funds to equip this completely unnecessary force.’
Tom was taken aback by his father’s outburst.
‘Father, be careful what you say. The coachman might hear,’ Tom hissed in Sir Ralph’s ear. ‘You cannot speak of the King so. It is treasonable.’
Sir Ralph paused and lowered his voice as they gathered speed along the Strand.
‘All our household think the same, Tom. But you are right, it is not something to be said in public. But let’s see if your fellow Members of Parliament will feel so constrained.’
Crowds were forming on the approach to Westminster forcing the coach to slow down.
‘I wanted you to ride in style to the opening of your first Parliament, Tom,’ Sir Ralph sighed. ‘Unfortunately, it seems everyone had the same idea.’
They came to a complete halt. Coaches and carts blocked their way and, ahead, the old spire of the Eleanor Cross stood above a sea of confusion. The carriage lurched as the coachman climbed down to investigate.
‘Have you heard any more from Petty, father?’
Tom had been wanting to ask throughout the journey, once they were away from his mother.
‘No. As you know, he came to the house the morning after Sir Hugh’s death. He examined the body extremely thoroughly, even looked like he was smelling it at one point. Anyway, he also checked the stairs for any loose treads, peered at the Schongauer, asked me a few questions and left. It’s a cat and mouse game, Tom. He clearly suspects you. But he knows he will need firmer evidence if he is to take me on. In a way, I have done you a favour by becoming entangled in your mess,’ his father said with a tired smile. ‘Neither Petty nor Franklin can now prove a Tallant conspiracy against Venell and Swofford without accusing me also… and that, with no disrespect to you, Tom, is a completely different proposition for them. The Tallants may not be part of the merchant aristocracy but I have my friends and influence. However, we must watch them closely. Petty in particular is both determined and clever. Remember how he unearthed your Valkenswaard connection. The real question is who, if anyone, is responsible for these deaths? Who or what attacked Venell? Swofford’s death was an accident, as I saw. But it is such a coincidence, Tom. You had never mentioned Venell’s last words about flying demons—and why should you? It was so fanciful. But if I had known, I would not have shown Swofford the Schongauer. Whose hand is at work here, to bring these two events together under my roof?’
Tom considered his encounter with the bearded man on the river. He had not told his father who had enough to worry about, and anyway, what more could Tom say? He hadn’t seen the man before or since.
The coachman returned with bad news. A coal cart had broken its axle at the Charing Cross blocking the route to Westminster Abbey. Sir Ralph swore quietly. He was to be denied his moment, riding to the Abbey entrance in his new carriage.
‘I fear this is journey’s end for me, Tom. You will have to walk the rest of the way, unless you can get a chair, but I’ll wager they have all been taken.’
Tom leaned over and embraced his father.
Sir Ralph spoke softly. ‘We will see this through, Thomas, have no fear. You will not be denied the promise of a shining future if I have anything to do with it. What the future holds for the country is a different matter. Keep your ear to the ground in Parliament.’
Tom left his father sitting in his coach, penned in front and back. He set off on foot and with each step the press of people became greater. The sun was higher in the sky and Tom could feel its heat penetrate the protection of his hat. He reached the broken cart and, mindful of his new suit, pushed and pummelled his way to one side and finally beyond it. The crush eased as the road widened but the numbers on King Street were increasing by the minute as men, women and children joined the throng from side roads and alleys along its length.
King Charles would process from Whitehall along this route and crowds were now lining the street with soldiers stationed at regular points. Tom saw faces in the windows of every house he passed. All vantage points would be for hire today. He noticed men wearing heavy cloaks despite the warmth, walking the street, talking quietly to passers-by. Occasionally a pamphlet appeared from inside a cloak to be exchanged quickly for a coin. Tom guessed the pamphlets were not the permitted foreign news corantos, more likely a polemic about the people’s expectations of this new Parliament. Thousands were gathering to witness the first sitting of the Lords and the Commons in eleven years and the pamphleteers would not miss such an opportunity to spread their message.
At this rate he would not reach Westminster Abbey in time for the service. He checked his new doublet for signs of damage from cut-purses. All remained intact. A small gap appeared and Tom broke into a trot, his anxiety rising. He must not be late. He was sweating, his new shirt tight around his neck anchored by his mother’s sturdy needlework. If he could maintain this pace, he might make it to the Abbey before the crowds became impassable.
‘Stop there, Thomas Tallant. Stop immediately or I will summon a constable’.
Tom turned towards the harsh voice to see the sneering face of magistrate Nathaniel Franklin, running to catch up. Tom slowed down.
‘Mr Franklin. Under any other circumstances I would be happy to stop and talk but I am late and perilously close to missing my seat in Westminster Abbey for the opening of the new Parliament.’
Tom resumed his brisk walk. With shorter, hurried steps, Franklin struggled to keep pace.
‘Yes, I heard your father had given you his old seat. That is why I am here. I must speak to you on a most urgent and pressing matter. I knew you would be attending the service and have waited for you. Mind you, I expected a more dignified arrival, Tallant, not shoving your way through the crowds. I should have known better.’
Tom considered explaining about the broken cart but decided not to bother. He did not have the time.
‘I am sorry, Mr Franklin, but nothing at present can be more urgent and pressing than my imminent appointment at Westminster Abbey.’
‘Oh is that so, Tallant? Nothing more important, you say? Not even the devil’s work?’
Tom stopped amid the rush of people. He could hear the royal procession approaching and some of the waiting soldiers looked over at Franklin’s mention of the devil. If he did not untangle himself from the magistrate within the next minute, all hope of attending the service would be lost. Not an auspicious start to his parliamentary career. Franklin sensed Tom’s dilemma and pressed home his advantage, raising his voice.
‘The devil got your tongue has he, Mr Tallant?’ he shouted. ‘You are not usually short of something to say.’
Tom saw a couple of Apprentices talking to a soldier and pointing in his direction. Franklin pulled Tom towards him and hissed in his face.
‘Ah, that’s got your attention, hasn’t it, Tallant? The crowd is in a febrile mood. Mentioning devilry with the King so near has attracted some interest. Now what would they do if I was to…’ Franklin pulled Tom even closer, the spittle on this stubbly chin brushing Tom’s new doublet ‘... let’s see, if I was to shout “Papist!”’
He spat out the word in a hoarse whisper, his bloodshot eyes bulging with the effort of keeping Tom close.
‘I could not venture to guess how they would react, Mr Tallant, but I do not think there would be much left of you when it was all over.’
They stood, silent, face to face. A cheer from behind signalled the procession’s imminent arrival. Tom finally nodded and Franklin slowly let go of his lapel. Tom was disgusted by the magistrate’s willingness to incite mob fury against him. He had now surrendered all hope of getting to the Abbey. Let this maniac say his piece and be rid of him. He could then walk to the House of Commons in St Stephen’s Chapel to join the other Members when the service in the Abbey concluded.
‘That’s better, Mr Tallant. I suggest we move away from the caterwauling pie-sellers and find somewhere quieter to have our conversation.’
They turned right at the next side street, still working against the tide of people heading for Westminster. Franklin led Tom into the first alley on the left which led to a small walled yard. Its floor was covered with rotting food scraps and human excrement. The decaying carcass of a cat was attracting swarms of flies. Tom tried to find a clean place to stand in his new shoes. The sun blazed over the tops of the surrounding houses.
‘Say what you need, Franklin, so I can get out of this midden. You may be at home here, stirring the shit, but I am not.’
Franklin jerked his head up and snarled. ‘How dare you speak to me in such a manner. I am a city magistrate. You insult the office I represent. You can be sure I will report your foul, disrespectful words to the Aldermanic Court.’
Tom instantly regretted his outburst as it prolonged his time in the yard. The noxious smell, made worse by the intense heat from the sun, was overwhelming and he put a handkerchief to his mouth to staunch the worst effects. Nearby, the cheering reached a crescendo. The King’s carriage must be passing.
Franklin raised his voice. ‘Despite the efforts of the Tallant family to hide the fact, it is now common knowledge in the City that Sir Hugh Swofford feared he was being attacked
when he plunged to his death down your father’s staircase. Attacked not by man… but a group of demons! It has also been widely known for some time that his business partner Sir Joseph Venell suffered the same fate when he met his untimely death in a meadow near his Kensington home.’
Tom could not retain his silence. ‘Franklin. You are a magistrate. A rational man. You cannot believe Venell and Swofford were killed by flying demons, surely? This is completely absurd.’
‘You miss the point, Tallant. The talk in the taverns, even heard in the Exchange, is that the deaths are a sign. The Almighty has forsaken these merchants because of their greed. God has abandoned them to the devil to do his worst and Lucifer’s merry games have resulted in their unpleasant but deserved deaths. As you can imagine, in the current climate of unrest, both the Merchant Adventurers and Aldermen are extremely nervous that such thinking could cause a religious backlash against the merchant community and the City as a whole, particularly from those of a Puritan persuasion who hold seats in the new Parliament.’
Sitting in Jonah Dibdin’s wherry, Tom had dismissed the notion of witchcraft and sorcery as cause of the deaths. It was a ridiculous idea. But now he could hear the echoes of his father’s earlier warnings. What Tom thought was of no account. Even the truth was of no account. What really mattered was what people believed.
A black rat scuttled into the yard, stopped in surprise on its hind legs at the sight of the two men, sniffed the air and ran out. Franklin ignored it. Indeed, to Tom, the magistrate was oblivious to the wild cheering, burning sun and fearsome stench, or anything else that would distract him from his frenzied accusations.
‘So you see, Tallant, we take your family’s dabbling in devilry seriously. Why would your father show Sir Hugh a picture of demons attacking Saint Anthony if not to send him a message? Indeed, why have such a depraved image in his house?’
Tom was struggling to respond to Franklin’s assault. It was pointless to explain that Martin Schongauer was a respected artist whose engraving depicted a Biblical scene.