Rags of Time

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Rags of Time Page 14

by Michael Ward


  ‘So the same blood I can feel entering your fingers through your wrist will eventually pass through your neck to your head?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘But where does it go then?’

  ‘Back to the heart to be pumped around again!’

  Elizabeth sat back in her seat and Tom reluctantly released his hold.

  ‘Most of the treatments used today are over a thousand years old. Why have we learned nothing new? There is so much to discover, Tom, about our bodies, the world we live in and the stars above. And it is all connected! William Harvey is a physician, but do you know he studied in Padua where it’s said he met Galileo!’

  Elizabeth fell silent and looked out of the carriage window. They were returning from a trip to the theatre. Tom reflected that he’d never known anyone with such a hunger for life and all its mysteries. Elizabeth was as happy immersed in her books as sitting in the audience at the Red Bull Playhouse. Tom smiled as he pictured her crying with laughter tonight, tears of glee running down her face as the jigging clown Andrew Cane mercilessly satirised the country’s leaders. Tom had winced at Cane’s barbed jibes. The Privy Council wouldn’t stand for it, but he was very funny. We could have done with him in Parliament.

  Tom had raised an eyebrow when Elizabeth suggested the Red Bull. Built around the courtyard of a Clerkenwell tavern, it had a reputation for rowdiness, petty thievery and trouble. Although on the fringes of the city, it was one of London’s largest playhouses. On a busy afternoon a thousand or more would crowd into the yard and surrounding galleries.

  She had assured him the audience was better behaved these days and he must not miss one of the final performances by the Prince Charles Players before they moved to the Fortune Theatre in nearby Whitecross Street. And so they had pushed through the crush in the arched entrance on St John Street, past the audience standing in the courtyard, to take their seats in a gallery overlooking the right side of the stage. There were a few other women in the audience, some wearing masks, but Elizabeth was clearly at home and well known. Men doffed their hats, and made way for Miss Elizabeth.

  He had enjoyed the play, knockabout stuff with a simple plot designed, as far as Tom could see, to present frequent opportunities for dramatic stage effects. Fireworks exploded, smoke appeared and members of the cast disappeared through trapdoors in the stage floor. A golden sun rose and set through an ingenious system of ropes and pulleys on a tower at the back of the stage, and each new spectacle drew raucous cheers from the rowdy audience.

  Sitting in the carriage, Tom realised he had not thought once about his troubles throughout the afternoon’s performance—a rare occurrence. His face clouded as the many unanswered questions returned, and he felt emptied by a depth of despair that surprised then overwhelmed him. He bowed his head.

  ‘What is it, Tom? Did you not enjoy the entertainment?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Not the wittiest, I grant you, but there’s usually fire and fun at the Red Bull!’

  Tom gave her a tired smile, but said nothing. He had been caught off-guard and could feel tears coming to his eyes.

  Elizabeth leaned across and touched his arm. ‘Tom, is there something the matter?’

  He was about to put on his brave face and change the subject but he no longer had it in him. Elizabeth’s presence had disarmed him and he felt an overwhelming need to rest his head in her lap and wish the world away.

  ‘I do not… do not know how to explain. My mind has been much troubled for weeks. My afternoon with you is the first respite I have known from the questions raging in my head. However, our day is over and I feel the shadows return. I am not sure if I have the strength to take them on again.’

  His weary mind drifted towards the even clip-clop of the carriage horse as it drew them along the country lane towards Elizabeth’s house. She squeezed his arm.

  ‘Tom, if it will help to share your troubles with me, I would like to hear them.’

  Tom did not wish to involve Elizabeth but was too exhausted to resist her gentle urging. And so he told his story, of the deaths of Joseph Vennel and Hugh Swofford, the way he and his father had been implicated in both, the accusation of ‘flying demons’, the dogged investigation by Robert Petty and persecution by magistrate Franklin, the mystery man with the beard and the newly discovered link between his friend in Parliament, Bartholomew Hopkins, and Petty.

  ‘The worst of it all is I bring much of this on myself,’ he continued. ‘My father says I’m headstrong, and I am. Act first, think later. And I never seem to learn. Since my return from India he thinks I’ve become worse— cocksure and selfish, and maybe he’s right. I’ve ignored his warnings about Petty and the investigation. And look where that’s got me.’

  Tom heard the self-pity in his voice, and felt disgusted. Being with Elizabeth made him examine himself, how he thought and behaved. It wasn’t comfortable, but he couldn’t ignore or stop it. He needed to be with her too much. They sat silently until the coach passed the turn to his parents’ house. They would soon be at Elizabeth’s home. Eventually she spoke.

  ‘Thomas Tallant, you may be headstrong but you are not selfish. Look how you reached out to help me. You care about people and it’s a good thing to have the mettle to plunge in where others fear to tread. As for these events, you have set me a puzzle. There will be a common thread linking them and we must find it. However, one thing I do know.’

  Elizabeth moved forward in her seat, took hold of Tom’s hand and held his gaze. Tom felt his heart would burst.

  ‘These things you have described are vexing but no more than the intrigues of mere mortals. The moon will wax and wane until the day arrives when all this will be forgotten, and you will be left with the eternal truths of life… and love.’ She squeezed his hand again.

  Tom looked into Elizabeth’s eyes, and whispered, ‘Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are…’

  Elizabeth broke into a beaming smile and finished the verse ‘… which are the rags of time. Thomas Tallant, you know John Donne?’

  ‘He is my constant companion at sea. Donne knows the words I cannot find, yet we think and feel as brothers.’

  The carriage drew up outside Elizabeth’s house and they sat in silence. Elizabeth reached over and kissed Tom softly on the mouth.

  She breathed in his ear: ‘Look, and to-morrow late, tell me, whether both th' Indias of spice and mine be where thou left'st them… or lie here with me?’

  Then she was gone. Out of the carriage and running to the front door, which was being opened by a servant.

  He sat in the empty carriage, his senses overwhelmed. Her voice, the touch of her yielding mouth, her warmth, her breath in his ear, her very being was there, still with him. And every fibre of his body felt elation.

  Tom returned to Bolton Hall in a daze, to be greeted by a familiar face as he entered the dining room.

  ‘Tom. Is it really you? Ralph, he has grown so! Come nearer the candlelight and let me take a better look.’

  It was Uncle John, his father’s elder brother. Tall, strong, bluff, a smile never far from his face. Tom liked him very much.

  Sir John Tallant was visiting London from his estate in Berkshire. He had married well, into a long-established county family, and settled down contentedly with his wife Mary. Six years ago he purchased a knighthood from the King and was now a pillar of the county establishment and a staunch supporter of the royal family.

  Tom had not seen his uncle since he sailed for India. Uncle John’s face and body looked a little heavier and his hair was starting to grey at the temples, but his voice and grip were as strong as ever. As they embraced, Tom caught the familiar fragrance of Castile soap, his uncle’s favourite.

  ‘Aye, he has grown sure enough,’ his father replied. ‘But he still has a little more growing to do, I fancy.’

  Tom nodded and gave his father a rueful smile. He was not sure how much John knew about his Dutch folly, so he let his father’s comment pass. They took supper in
the dining room.

  ‘Tom, your uncle and I were discussing the current unrest in London. He would value your view, both as a Member in Parliament and a witness to the disturbances outside Lambeth Palace.’

  Tom straightened his back and looked at his father and uncle, reassuring figures throughout his life now sitting gravely and attentively, waiting for his opinion on the state of the nation. He tried to focus, his thoughts still with Elizabeth and her soft kiss.

  Tom recounted what he had seen at Lambeth: the marching apprentices arriving from Southwark until well after midnight, the organisation required and the clear purpose of the demonstration, to put pressure on Archbishop Laud and blame him for the closure of Parliament.

  ‘You see, John,’ Tom’s father turned to his brother, ‘organisation and purpose, not what you’d expect from the Apprentices.’

  His uncle looked grave.

  ‘This is Pym’s work, I am sure of it. He means to have Parliament recalled and is using the mob to make his case.’

  Tom recalled his first sighting of John Pym, the small, unremarkable man pointed out by Barty on his initial visit to the Commons. Could he really be controlling the Apprentices?

  His father leaned forward. ‘Pym is clever and highly industrious. He is like the hub of a cartwheel, holding together the different spokes of dissent. He leaves no stone unturned. Tom, did you hear his speech in the chamber?’

  Tom nodded. He could hardly forget it. Pym had spoken for over two hours, hunched over his notes, delivering a detailed list of Parliamentary grievances and demands. He was not the most gifted orator and Tom struggled to concentrate but, with each issue raised, Tom’s attention strengthened. Pym was building a compelling argument against the King for redress of grievances.

  ‘Pym presented a case for every group that might support Parliament and oppose the King,’ Ralph Tallant continued, ‘even the merchants. He salted his demands for religious freedom and Parliamentary independence with requests for reduced duties on tobacco from the colonies. Very clever.’

  Uncle John pushed his chair back. ‘Ralph, surely the merchants are not turning against their monarch?’

  ‘The East India Company will tell you the merchants are happy, but they are not. Petitions of grievance have been suppressed by the board of directors, desperate not to rock the royal boat. And remember, the two merchants chosen by the City to be our Members of Parliament are both involved in the Massachusetts Bay Company, which has strong Puritan backing. Neither are friends to the crown.’

  The Massachusetts Bay Company… where had Tom heard that? Nicholas Culpeper. Peter’s involvement came flooding back. Tom had not felt able to tell his father or mother yet.

  ‘The King does not help himself,’ his father continued. ‘There is little finesse in his approach. He recently required the City of London’s aldermen to provide lists of the richest men in their wards, presumably so he could press them for money. But seven refused, and they have gone unpunished!’

  John gave a low whistle. ‘Is the King losing his grip?’

  ‘He has too many people offering different advice and the Privy Council is in disarray. Some say “parley with the Scots”; others “stiffen our northern defences”. The Earl of Strafford counsels war, of course, money or no money. And if the King cannot find funds, Strafford says he’ll raise an Irish army, God help us.’

  Tom’s father leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘I have even heard talk of an approach to the Spanish!’

  Uncle John looked aghast. ‘But that would be madness, inviting a Catholic army to invade Protestant Scotland! Surely the King would not countenance it.’

  Sir Ralph looked at his brother and shrugged. Tom was also surprised, both by the news and his father’s knowledge. He may no longer be in Parliament, but clearly his intelligence networks remained active.

  Ralph stood to stoke the fire. He sighed and looked at his brother, a log in his hand.

  ‘This could get serious, John. Mark my words, there will be more riots, and they could spread from London.’

  Sir Ralph threw the log into the burning grate, sending sparks and smoke across the room. The image was not lost on any present and there was a lengthy silence.

  Sir Ralph turned to his brother. ‘I know your sympathies lie with the King and I respect your view, but I would counsel caution. There is growing support for Parliament across the country. What is the state of affairs in Winterbourne?’

  ‘Oh, the estate and village are loyal. Do not worry about Mary and I. We live among upright, sensible folk. They will not turn on their King.’

  ‘That may be so, John, but please be—’

  Tom’s father was interrupted by his wife whose head had appeared around the door.

  ‘Ralph, you must come to the parlour. Isaac is there. He is in a terrible state.’

  The three men followed Lady Beatrix as she hurried out of the room. They entered the parlour to see Isaac sitting at a table, drinking a pitcher of beer, rocking slightly, his face grey and covered with beads of sweat.

  ‘Beatrix, does he have the ague… or worse?’ Ralph asked. ‘If so, he should not be here.’

  Isaac tried to stand. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, his voice cracking as pain lanced through his damaged shoulder.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Sir Ralph. I am not sick. I have just ridden from Thames Street. It has taken me most of the last three hours.’

  Sir Ralph reached out to support Isaac’s weight. ‘Sit down, man. You’re not fit to ride for two minutes, never mind three hours. Beatrix, get something stronger for Isaac. There’s brandy in the dining room.’

  Nobody spoke until Lady Beatrix returned and Isaac took a large draught of brandy. His shoulders relaxed but his hands continued to tremble. He turned to Sir Ralph.

  ‘The city is in uproar, sire. The Apprentices have broken into White Lion prison, to free those arrested for the march on Lambeth Palace. I came across roads blocked with burning carts, barrels, tables and chairs, and was forced to use the side alleys to avoid attention. An honest man is not safe in his own city.’

  ‘Lord God save us all,’ Lady Beatrix whispered.

  ‘Word is they plan to cross the river again,’ Isaac continued, ‘and attack another of the Archbishop’s palaces, this time in Croydon… and—’

  Sir Ralph poured Isaac another measure of brandy. ‘Here, drink this, you are safe here. But why venture out if there is trouble on the streets?’

  Isaac shifted his weight on the seat and gave an involuntary sob of pain.

  ‘It’s my sister’s boy, master. Young Arthur. Been arrested for taking part in the march to Lambeth Palace. He was one of them banging a drum. They arrested a few of them. Said the drum-beaters were the ringleaders, calling the others to arms. But to Arthur, it was a bit of a lark. He’s only seventeen.’

  Tom sat down, facing Isaac. ‘I am sure it will not come to anything, Isaac. He may be released by the Apprentices tonight.’

  ‘You do not understand, Master Tom. He is not in the White Lion. They put him in Newgate.’

  Tom saw his father and uncle exchange glances. His father looked down and frowned. Tom understood Isaac’s anguish. If Arthur was in Newgate, the authorities must have special treatment in mind. If they believed he was a ringleader, they will get the names of others from him by any means.

  ‘They will rack him, I know it.’ Isaac cried in anguish. ‘The bastards will rack him. And then what will he be good for? A cripple like his uncle with nothing to look forward to but a life of pain?’

  Isaac’s head dropped; tears flowed down his cheeks. Lady Beatrix moved towards Isaac who lifted his hand in apology for his cursing. She squeezed his hand and gently mopped Isaac’s brow. His lean frame began to convulse in silent, shuddering sobs.

  Tom spoke up. ‘Isaac, leave this with me. There is someone I can speak to on Arthur’s behalf. It may make a difference. I will see what I can do.’

  Sir Ralph pulled his son to one side.

  ‘
Tom. What are you thinking? I understand and share your feelings for Isaac but it will not help to give him false hope. If they have locked up young Arthur in Newgate, there is nothing you or I can do to reach him. And it may not go well for you if you try.’

  Tom said nothing. To Isaac, Arthur was the son he'd never had. Tom understood better than most just how much Isaac had suffered over the years. If the same thing now happened to Arthur, it would finish Isaac. He had to help, and knew he could. But it was a solution that filled him with misgivings.

  Chapter 13

  16th May 1640

  King Street, Whitehall

  Tom looked down King Street for a third time. It was still empty. He was early for his meeting. It had not been easy to place himself in the hands of Barty Hopkins after seeing him at Lambeth Palace and, as he stood shivering on this cold May morning in Whitehall, the first seeds of doubt were taking root. The soldier on guard duty nearby was paying Tom more attention with each passing minute.

  Tom sensed his vulnerability. If the guard felt inclined, he could pluck Tom off the street in seconds. Whitehall was the King’s official residence and reputedly the largest royal palace in Europe, a sprawling labyrinth of power. A soul could be swallowed in a moment and never seen again.

  Tom concentrated on what lay ahead. He’d felt uneasy about approaching Barty. His connection to Robert Petty was worrying. Why had they been together at Lambeth? Barty supported the King and mixed with Royalist Members of both Houses. Perhaps Petty was really an agent for the Crown, not the Merchant Adventurers? Were he and Barty spying on the protest, gathering intelligence? If so, was Robert Petty investigating the deaths of the merchants Venell and Swofford on behalf of the Crown as well? If so, why?

 

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