by Michael Ward
There was silence. Tom felt completely spent. Elizabeth looked at the tulip plant on the table.
‘But if you sold your contract, where did you get this plant?’
‘The morning I left Amsterdam, Hems visited me. He and Gijs had lost money in the price collapse but were not as exposed as I. They were deeply troubled by my loss and gave me a gift—a single Semper Augustus bulb from Hems’ personal collection. It was a fine gesture as the plant was still sought-after and would have raised a tidy sum when the market improved. Back in London, I gave the bulb to my mother and tried to forget about it. Despite the bad memories it held, she could not contain her curiosity and planted it while I was in India. It produced two buds and seed. She propagated the buds and this plant is from one of them. She gave me the seed but I know that will not produce any dual-coloured plants. They only come from buds, for some reason. Even so, until today, I could not be sure the crimson and white strain would run true to this plant. Seeing it here, I don’t know what to feel.’
‘And neither do I,’ Elizabeth said. ‘That you should give this plant to me, when you could have sold it to pay off part of your debt? Whatever bargain we struck to share our secrets, Thomas, you have repaid it tenfold. My trifling gambling is meaningless when placed next to your financial ruin, and you did not need to lay yourself bare before me this way.’
‘You are the first person, other than my mother, father and Uncle Jonas, to know of this. Not even my brother and sister have been told.’
‘But why me?’, she asked.
‘It was the look on your face when you were forced to surrender your necklace to Jermyn’s men. Anger, but fear also. Seeing you, I was transported to that warehouse in Amsterdam, to my reaction when I saw Hems talking to Uncle Jonas, and what followed. I did not want you to go through what I have, and so it seemed a perfect use for the plant, to distract you from your gambling habit.’
The wind was gathering outside. A branch rattled against the outer wall.
‘There was also another reason. My mother always taught me to value the beauty of nature. I remember us spending endless summer days on our hands and knees, studying plants in her garden, she explaining each flower in loving detail. I learned to appreciate the simple perfection of each bloom. I do not know what hurt her more when I returned from Amsterdam, the way I had treated her brother Jonas or that I had debased the beauty of these magnificent plants by using them as gambling tokens. She stood in her garden, fists screwed tight, shouting “Have you learned nothing about true value in life? Have you learned nothing from me about what matters?” So that’s what I have tried to do… reach back into my childhood to rediscover what really matters and, with the help of this flower, share that wisdom with someone in a way that might also help them.’
Elizabeth sat quite still, her eyes wet with tears.
‘But what made you think I would understand? That your stratagem would work on me?’
‘I am not sure. It was instinct, I think. I needed to place this knowledge—this knowledge of me—in the hands of someone I believed I could trust who would appreciate it.’
‘But we barely know each other,’ she whispered.
‘I know. It is strange, is it not?’
Chapter 11
11th May 1640
Edmund Dalloway’s house, London Bridge
‘What the devil is all that noise?’ Edmund Dalloway exclaimed, rising from his chair.
Tom looked at his friend quizzically. It was a strange question, sitting in Edmund’s home on London Bridge with its constant rumble of rushing water and the sound of people crossing to and fro beneath. Then he heard it, a rhythmic chanting and drum beat.
Edmund walked to his wide window and peered to his left and right.
‘This room affords me the best view of the river in all London,’ he sighed, ‘but I cannot see a thing on the bridge.’ The banging and chanting was getting louder, coming from the north end. ‘Come, Tom, let us stretch our legs and investigate.’
Tom grimaced. He had visited Edmund for a few hours respite and was settled in a comfortable chair with a glass of excellent Rhenish. He yawned and stretched. The last month had been exhausting with too many hours spent in Parliament and the Royal Exchange. Little progress had been made resolving the differences between King and Commons. The King had been frustrated by Parliament’s refusal to give him funds for his war against the Scots. In turn members of the Commons insisted there could be no money supply until their grievances had been addressed. Increasingly, Archbishop Laud’s church reforms became the focus of their discontent. Tom had arrived at the Royal Exchange three days ago to see "Bishop’s Devils” scrawled on the outer walls. He could feel the tension rising on the streets. It had been almost a relief when the King’s patience finally snapped a week ago and he dissolved the Parliament, less than a month after it had been called into session.
Edmund had gone, wine glass in hand, his footsteps ringing along the corridor towards the stairs. With a groan, Tom heaved himself out of the chair, descended the staircase and walked towards Edmund’s open front door. On the street, the air was thick with menace and threat. A tide of angry, young toughs approached from the left, many of them drunk, cursing and chanting ‘Bishop’s traitors, Bishop’s devils’. The Apprentice Boys were on the march. He spotted Edmund bending over a man lying on the ground. The sound of a banging drum was receding to the south bank to his right. The drumming stopped, followed by a distant shout in unison and loud cheering.
Tom ran towards Edmund. A clutch of Apprentices were standing nearby pissing against the bridge wall. They jeered and pointed at him.
‘Look at him run, like the Archbishop, William the fox. But we’ll flush Will out of his lair and hunt him down.’
One of them aimed a drunken kick at Tom. He reached Edmund’s side. His friend was propping up a grey-haired man bleeding heavily from his nose, offering him his wine.
‘Young swine,’ Edmund shouted among the clamour. ‘They’ve attacked this innocent gentleman.’
The victim looked confused. ‘I do not understand. I am of the Protestant faith and for Parliament. I told them so.’ He took a gulp from Edmund’s glass and nodded his thanks. ‘I beseeched them to desist from this ungodly behaviour, but I saw the devil in the eyes of one, who struck me most cruelly with his head.’
‘So the King’s enemies are fighting among themselves,’ Edmund murmured.
As the man swallowed another mouthful of Rhenish, Tom was hit in the back and pitched forward on top of Edmund.
‘Clear the way for the Apprentice Boys,’ a young man sneered.
A fiddle broke into a marching tune and the swarm of Apprentices cheered and whistled.
‘Sir, we must move you before you come to more harm,’ Tom shouted.
Tom and Edmund lifted the man from the main walkway to a space between two market stalls where he managed to stand, dabbing at his bloody nose with a handkerchief. He clutched Edmund’s sleeve.
‘I am told they are joining others massing on St George’s Fields at Southwark. They mean to march on Lambeth Palace and burn it down, with Archbishop Laud in it!’, the man shouted in alarm. ‘They say the King’s mind has been poisoned by Papist advisors like Laud and that’s why his Majesty closed Parliament before their just grievances could be heard.’
‘By God, this is sedition,’ Edmund cried. ‘London has finally gone mad. We must defend Lambeth Palace and save the Archbishop!’
Tom confirmed the stranger could make his own way before moving Edmund away.
‘Hear that chant, "Bishop’s Devils”, Edmund? Remember the message scrawled on the Royal Exchange last week? It was known there could be unrest once the King dissolved Parliament. Lambeth Palace is the last place they will find Archbishop Laud. He has more sense. I heard so many grievances aired in the Commons which had festered for eleven years without a Parliament. Now it has been dissolved after three weeks with little achieved, provoking a rage which must be released. When these Ap
prentices find the Archbishop is not at home, they will bang their drums, shout, shake their fists and then go home as the drink wears off and their headaches start.’
Edmund frowned and shook his head.
‘Each day and week we suffer treasonable talk on the street, attacks on our churches, seditious street-preachers, scandalous pamphlets on every corner and finally this… mutinous gangs of Apprentice Boys! How dare they challenge the divine right of his Majesty to rule and govern his country as he sees fit? We must teach them a lesson they will not forget.’
Edmund ran across the bridge into his house. He reappeared with his sword buckled to his waist and Tom blocked his path, gripping his arm tightly.
‘Edmund, are you mad? If you step out with your sword on display, and in your current mood, I wager you will not reach the end of the bridge. If you challenge the mob, they will tear you to pieces. If you must carry your sword, for heaven’s sake wrap it in your cloak.’
His friend was shaking with anger but eventually his body relaxed and Tom loosened his grip. Edmund’s eyes still blazed with fury.
‘Edmund, if you are determined to travel to Lambeth, it seems I must accompany you to keep you out of trouble. But promise you will not attempt to take on the Apprentices on your own. I would hate to disown all knowledge of you in your hour of need.’
Tom grinned and punched his friend on the arm.
Edmund remained stony-faced and pushed into the crowd with his sword hidden. Tom struggled to keep pace. They positioned themselves between two large moving groups of Apprentices and soon reached the south end of the bridge.
‘Edmund, we should try for a wherry to Lambeth. It will be quicker.’
They edged their way through the crowd and slipped down a side street to the river, stepping round an Apprentice on his hands and knees vomiting. Two youths walked up the lane towards them.
One of them shouted, ‘Looking for a boatman? You’ll be lucky. The bastards aren’t taking fares.’
Edmund faltered but Tom continued walking past the two men.
‘Keep going, Edmund. We’ll have better fortune if you loosen your purse.’
They reached a landing and hailed a wherry. The nearest watermen ignored them but another was persuaded they were not drunk and would pay well to be taken upriver. The early evening sun, low on the river, reflected in the eddies and currents on the water’s surface as they were rowed towards the Archbishop’s residence. Peering into the strong light, they could see its outline.
‘Tom, we are too late!’ Edmund cried, pointing at smoke billowing into the sky.
Tom had not expected this. Surely the Apprentices have not sacked Lambeth Palace? If so, the King will have them run down in the streets. Maybe Edmund was right and London had gone mad. The light was fading as they scrambled off the boat and up the landing steps. They could hear the crowd on the other side of the palace, roaring and beating the ground like an angry, taunted beast. They worked their way upriver along the side of the palace fronting on to the Thames. Tom had no idea what they could achieve when they reached the mob.
‘Tom. We must get to the palace entrance.’
They moved forward to the edge of the building’s west side and carefully peered around the corner. It was both better and worse than Tom expected. The palace had not been taken. The smoke was from two large bonfires lit by the Apprentices in the palace gardens. They had ripped up fencing and wooden sheds for fuel. There was no sign of Apprentices in the palace building. But the crowd was growing each minute as a stream of men arrived from London Bridge. He had seen the Apprentices massing before, looking for trouble, but this was something very different. Not simply brooding and angry, this was organised revolt.
Everyone was looking towards the palace entrance, so Tom waved Edmund forward. They stood at the back of a growing throng as the Apprentices assembled.
‘Where are the soldiers? God’s wounds, where are the soldiers?’ Edmund seethed.
Tom considered the situation. The crowd was a potential threat to the palace but, with luck, their anger would blow itself out like a spring storm. However, if a platoon of soldiers waded into them? Tom shuddered at the prospect.
Another fire broke out by the garden wall of the palace. More cheers and chanting. Apprentices marched around the fire, shouting at the top of their voices. It was clear who they wanted: William Laud, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Tom was reminded of a story told to him by an English trader from the New World, who had witnessed American Indians dancing around a campfire. Who were the savages now? The warm May day had given way to a crisp, cold evening as the crowd quietened and a single voice emerged above the crackling of the fires. Tom strained his ears but could not hear the words.
‘Come, Edmund, let us get closer. But keep that bloody sword hidden.’
The two friends worked their way towards the palace gates. Slowly they edged forward into the middle of a hushed crowd of protestors listening intently to the speaker. He was standing on a low stone wall in front of the largest fire with his back to Tom and Edmund. He turned his face right and left as he addressed the crowd, his outstretched arms and shaking fists caught in profile by the red flames behind. Tom looked past the man into a sea of faces, lit by the bonfire’s glow. One looked familiar.
‘Nicholas Culpeper? Is that Nicholas Culpeper?’ Tom whispered to himself.
Tom recalled his meeting with the apothecary and his account of the Coleman Street radicals. Were they behind this? Had they organised the Apprentices? Tom looked again but Culpeper's face was now obscured by smoke. Tom felt panic rising. If the Coleman Street radicals are here, Peter could be also. His brother’s reputation, and the family’s, would be in tatters if Edmund spotted him.
The man addressing the crowd turned towards the palace. He paused and pointed at the building. Tom could feel the heat from the spitting, crackling bonfire on his face. The man waved for silence.
‘Archbishop Laud… Your Grace… can you hear us… can you here us, Your Grace?’
Each mention of ‘Your Grace’ prompted a chorus of jeers and whistles. Tom continued to search the crowd for Peter. The speaker signalled for silence again.
‘If you can hear us, Your Grace, we have but one question.’
Tom was now sure Peter was not in the group by the nearest fire. He switched his attention to the next blaze. He could only see the faces illuminated by the flames but they were all that mattered. It was imperative Edmund did not spot his brother.
‘One question,’ the man paused again for effect, holding a finger in the air.
The orator was good. He’s done this before. Peter, if you are here, keep yourself hidden.
‘We want to know…’
Tom checked everyone he could see and started to feel a sense of relief.
‘…no, we demand to know...’
Tom started as he spotted another familiar face. But not who he expected.
‘We demand to know…’
It was Bartholomew Hopkins. Why on earth was Barty here?
‘…who was responsible… for closing our Parliament.’
The man screamed the last four words at the top of his voice. The crowd erupted in cheers and Barty turned to his right to speak into the ear of someone.
The man next to Barty took off his hat to bend closer. Tom’s mouth opened but no words came out. He was staring at the rugged features of Robert Petty.
Chapter 12
14th May 1640
Clerkenwell
The carriage rocked gently as it manoeuvred its passage through the busy streets.
Tom gently held Elizabeth’s arm and touched her neck with his other hand. The coach pitched forward and his body slid towards her.
‘You may hold my wrist a little tighter, Thomas Tallant. I will not break.’
He did as he was told and felt the warmth of her skin. Elizabeth was facing him, across the carriage. She looked deeply into his eyes.
‘What do you feel, Tom?’
He did
not answer. Tom was finding it hard to stop his fingertips wandering.
‘I… I am not sure.’
In truth, he had never been more certain.
‘Keep pressing gently, on my wrist, where your fingers are. Keep pressing.’
And there it was, under his fingers. A gentle pulsing.
‘I have it, yes, definitely.’
‘Good. Now, with your right hand, press there… no, not there, further over, against the side of my neck.’
The coach lurched to the right and Tom was thrown to one side. He steadied his position and gently picked up Elizabeth’s wrist again. He touched her neck with his other hand, concentrated hard and, again, could feel a gentle pulsing.
‘I have it again, the same as your wrist but also now in your neck.
‘You see. William Harvey is right. Du Mutu Cordis.’
‘Du Mutu...?’
‘Du Mutu Cordis… Harvey’s work on the heart and how it works. The pulse you feel is my blood being pumped around my body.’ She gave Tom a knowing smile. ‘You will have to take my word for it Thomas Tallant, but if you were to place your hand on my heart, you would feel the beating that drives the pulse. I acquired Harvey’s book last year but needed Nicholas’s help with the Latin to understand it fully. For hundreds of years physicians have continued to believe that blood forms in the liver and the heart and travels to the organs where it is consumed. If so, where are the organs after my wrist? At the ends of my fingers? Harvey has a new explanation. He says blood is pumped around the body by the heart, and he is right.’