by Michael Ward
Tom could draw only one conclusion from this tangle. However he looked at it, it made Robert Petty even more dangerous as an adversary. Tom recalled Isaac’s dark assessment of Petty—a hard bastard not to be trusted—and shuddered in the keen wind.
A figure appeared in King Street. Bartholomew Hopkins’s bustling stride was unmistakable, his cloak billowing around his short body. Tom raised his hand in salute and Barty waved back before clutching at his hat as the wind gusted along the street.
‘Young Thomas. How good to see you on this, erm, fresh and bracing morning.’
‘Thank you for arranging my audience at such short notice,’ Tom replied. ‘I was not sure you would still be in London following the dissolution, so I was glad to find you at your lodgings.’
‘Oh yes, I will be here for a little while longer. Plenty to do, yes, plenty to do.’
Yes, plenty of Government business to do, no doubt. He was suspicious of Barty but try as he might, he could not dislike him. He was, as ever, kind and solicitous and had acted quickly to arrange the interview Tom sought. Barty clearly was well-connected in royal circles, and that was another cause for concern.
‘Let us proceed. We must not be late.’
Barty ushered Tom across King Street towards the guard. He withdrew a small document from his cloak. Tom saw a red seal attached and seconds later the unsmiling sentry let them through to a small side street.
‘Have you been in Whitehall before, Tom? No? It will seem more like a village than a single palace. There are buildings everywhere. The royal chambers are sumptuous, of course, but many of the other constructions are modest’— he smiled and made a small bow—‘built for the humble servants of the Crown.’
They reached the end of the lane and turned onto a larger road which was also deserted. Tom lengthened his stride to keep pace with Barty’s small bustling steps.
‘You can find every kind of building here, all to serve the pleasure and needs of their Royal Highnesses. We have palaces, banqueting halls, chapels, bakers, butchers’—he turned towards a low building on their right with a small oak door—‘even tennis courts, and if I am not mistaken, Henry Jermyn is about to finish his game.’
He pushed the door open, leant back and whispered, ‘And no doubt triumphant again. Jermyn is very good, I am told. On no account ever play him for money.’
They entered a small, dark room. Barty nodded to a man sitting at a table and crossed to a door opposite. Tom could hear raised voices on the other side. Barty opened the door carefully and they stepped into a long, high-ceilinged chamber. Light spilled through a series of windows high up along one wall. Below, two men were running backwards and forwards, calling out to each other, their voices echoing across the room.
Tom had never seen a tennis court before. Henry Jermyn had his back to them, facing a man Tom did not recognise. A net was slung low across the width of the court separating the two players. To the left a low viewing gallery ran the length of the court, continuing part way along the rear wall. Each man held a small racquet in his hand. Jermyn’s opponent appeared to be doing most of the running. Beyond that, Tom could not fathom what was going on.
‘This is your final chance to get out of hazard, Rollo,’ Jermyn shouted at the man who had stopped and was crouching, gulping lungfuls of air. ‘You are no match this morning. Too much wine last night, I wager.’
Jermyn laughed, releasing a ball in his hand which he effortlessly struck hard and high past the other man. It bounced off the wall behind Rollo, who twisted backwards in time to lob the moving ball high over the net to the left of Jermyn where it bounced weakly off the sloping gallery roof. Jermyn had anticipated its trajectory and waited for it to land at his feet. The ball gave a low bounce and Jermyn imperiously swept it over the net with a stroke across his body. Rollo flung himself to his left in time to see the ball whistle past his racquet into the corner of his court, where it skidded across the floor and came to a halt against the back wall.
Jermyn walked around the net and offered his hand.
‘My match, I think, Rollo. Dinner is on you tonight.’
Rollo groaned, seized Jermyn’s hand and levered himself to his feet, leaning on his racquet. ‘Henry, you are too good for me.’
‘I know,’ Jermyn replied flashing Rollo a grin that died on his face when he turned and saw Tom and Barty at the end of the court. ‘Pray excuse me, Rollo. Business.’
Jermyn walked off the court and passed Barty and Tom without saying a word. They followed him into the small entrance room where, placing his racquet on the table, he took a tankard of beer from his servant and threw himself into a chair. He drank the beer greedily, then held the tankard out for a refill as he dabbed the sweat off his face with a fine cloth. Tom noticed damp patches forming where Jermyn’s light wool chemise touched his broad shoulders. He breathed evenly and appraised Tom with a bored expression. He finally spoke.
‘Barty here tells me you want to see me. You require a favour. I must say, Tallant, you have a nerve after your previous impertinence. I gave you the opportunity to serve your King and, as I recall, you refused. Below you, was it ?’
Barty gave Tom a searching look. This would be as uncomfortable as Tom had feared.
‘When Barty explained you had connections with the rabble that threatened His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury’s property in Lambeth, I cannot say I was surprised. Not perhaps as high and mighty as you make out, are you? But come, I am a civil fellow. Unlike you, I will listen to a request without sneering. It’s called manners, Tallant. All a matter of breeding. Barty, will you leave us, please, so Mr Tallant and I can discuss his business.’
Barty bobbed a bow and, nodding at Tom, opened the studded door and went to the street outside, followed by Jermyn’s servant. The door closed leaving Jermyn and Tom alone. The courtier made no move to offer Tom a seat or refreshment. This was not a meeting of equals.
‘If you have any sense, you will be wondering why I have even troubled myself to see you,’ Jermyn said.
Tom bridled. ‘As Barty will have told you, I have changed my mind about your request to use my ships. In return I need you to arrange the release of Arthur Wetherall from prison.’
Jermyn gave a hollow laugh. ‘Do you think I am dependent on your little craft to relay important intelligence for the King? The evening we met, I made alternative arrangements within the hour. You overestimate your value to me, Tallant. I have a network of ships and loyal captains across the south coast to call on when I need.’
Tom’s heart sank. He suspected Jermyn was telling the truth. Offering to transport Jermyn’s spies and coded messages was his one card to get Arthur free. Jermyn had trumped it easily.
Jermyn ran his finger around the lip of his empty tankard.
‘No, you are of no particular value to me as a courier, Tallant. But I am not a man to bear grudges, and there is another service you can perform for your King. However, I must warn you, Tallant, not to try my patience.’ He leaned forward and held Tom in his unblinking gaze. He spoke slowly. ‘I will think particularly ill of another rejection.’
Tom swallowed hard. Jermyn’s trap was set. If he accepted, Lord knows what skullduggery he would be embroiled in. If he declined, not only would Arthur be helpless, but Tom would have made a mortal enemy in Henry Jermyn, not a pleasant prospect. He took a deep breath. Once again, he was regretting his impulsive decision. Had he truly meant anything he had said to Elizabeth about realising his faults? Tom did care about Isaac but there was more. He felt something stronger, a growing anger that people like Jermyn could terrorise the Uffords, who served the Tallants loyally and deserved his protection. Protection? Hah, Tom Tallant against Henry Jermyn. How would that end? What a presumption to think he could ever bargain with this man. He was completely out of his depth, with no options.
‘What is it you would have me do?’
Jermyn smiled. ‘I know you are a merchant, Tallant, but I understand from Barty you have particular connections wit
h the United Provinces.’
Tom bristled. Was he about to experience the anti-Dutch sentiment his father had warned him about? Jermyn sensed Tom’s discomfort and held up a placatory hand.
‘I have no truck with those, particularly among your fellow merchants, who denigrate the Dutch. In my business, Tallant, you learn to value every nation. Who knows when they will be your allies? Mind you, at the moment I might make an exception of the Scots, who are being particularly tiresome. And it is about the Scots I wish to speak to you.’
Tom had no idea where this conversation was leading.
‘As you know, his Majesty has been sorely troubled by his misguided subjects in Scotland and their objections to his enlightened attempts to unify the church in our land. They have denigrated the Archbishop’s sensible reforms, in particular the introduction of a common prayer book, in a most offensive manner. More in sorrow than anger, the King has concluded these dissenters must be rooted out and, as you know, is raising funds to equip an army to march to Scotland and reimpose his authority.’
This was common knowledge. What had it to do with him and his Dutch connection?
Jermyn paced the room. ‘Both you and I, Tallant, have witnessed in the Commons the scandalous stratagems of Pym and others to thwart his Majesty’s legal right to raise funds from Parliament. But did you know Pym and his gang are not working alone? We have growing evidence they are acting in consort with the Scottish dissenters, to subvert his Majesty’s position!’
Tom could not believe what he was hearing. Could this be true or was Jermyn bluffing?
‘You have established a direct link between John Pym and the Scottish dissenters?’
‘Not yet, but it will come. We already know that Puritan radicals here in London are assisting the Scots. And you would be a fool not to see the link between those Puritan radicals and the more outspoken Members in Parliament who are against our King, such as Pym.’
‘But what evidence do you have of this radical support for the Scots, and what has any of this to do with me?’
Jermyn walked over to his cloak lying on top of an oak chest and took out a bundle of paper. He handed it to Tom. It was a pamphlet, similar to dozens being sold on the streets of London every day. Tom walked to the room’s small window for better light and read out loud the pamphlet’s title, depicted in large type: ‘“An INFORMATION from the States of the Kingdome of Scotland, to the Kingdome of England.”’
Tom scanned the content. Its message was simple and powerful. The Scots were not the enemies. The enemies were the bishops and popish advisors who had poisoned the King’s mind and made him turn against his own people north of the border. Tom put the pamphlet down. He could see why the King wanted this stopped.
‘This was bought on the streets by St Paul’s this very week,' said Jermyn. ‘The Stationers’ Company suspect a radical called Richard Overton is responsible. They have not yet caught him in the act, but they have discovered one thing.’
Jermyn picked up the pamphlet and pointed to the title page.
‘My learned friends at the Company study every pamphlet, coranto and news sheet sold in this country and are experts in type and other printing symbols. They say each printer has his own style and layout, as distinctive as his handwriting and signature. See here,’— he jabbed at an ornate letter T at the head of the text—‘and this’— pointing to a lion and unicorn crest at the top of the page.
‘These symbols looked familiar but they could not trace them, despite studying every radical pamphlet produced in this country. Then one of their number, a Josiah Wilmot, had the bright notion of checking the overseas corantos as well. And there it was. The same type and symbols—on a legal news sheet produced in Amsterdam.’
Jermyn paused to let his words sink in.
‘So you think these pamphlets are being printed in Amsterdam and shipped here clandestinely?’
‘Absolutely. We have watched the ports closely but you know how much trade is passing through London from the United Provinces. Someone with determination and the right contacts could smuggle them in. No, this menace will not be stopped through chance discovery. It will be stopped through acquiring the right intelligence… and that is your job, Tallant. Why do you think I have taken you into my confidence on a matter of such importance to the King? Do you think I would normally share such information with the mere son of a spice merchant? I do it because I need your connections in London and Amsterdam to get to the bottom of this. People will talk to you. We need to know who is shipping the news sheets and then, through them, we can get Overton… unless of course, Tallant, you are the one responsible?’
Tom did not react. He was learning that having a conversation with Henry Jermyn was like playing cards for money. A stony expression was essential. Jermyn let his suggestion hang in the air before giving Tom a bored smile.
‘No, I suspect even you have more sense than to get mixed up in this business. These news sheets are dangerous, Tallant. The Scots dissenters are using them to present their case directly to the people of London. Their argument is clever and effective. They claim to be the innocent party, simply wishing to be left alone to worship as they see fit. People are reading this and starting to be swayed. It is causing the King discomfort, and whenever that happens, it is my job to sort it out. On this occasion, I think there is a real problem. Frankly, this subversive pamphlet campaign is undermining the King’s position just as he prepares to take on the Scots. And it must be stopped. Now!’
Jermyn slapped the table on his final word, making his empty tankard jump. Tom frowned. To help Arthur he would have to spy on fellow merchants including friends he had known for most of his life. And if he found anything, he would have to inform on them. Perhaps if he played along he could make Jermyn believe he was cooperating and this would at least buy Arthur time.
‘And if I do as you wish, you will release the boy?’
‘My dear Tallant. Your man is accused of leading a seditious riot against Lambeth Palace, not stealing apples from a market stall. These are very serious charges. However, I am not without influence. If you agree to investigate this matter, the boy will continue to be held in Newgate but he will not be interrogated, you have my word on that. What happens to him after that? Well, that will depend on what you come up with, Tallant, will it not?’ Jermyn stood to leave. The audience was over.
He picked up his cloak and walked to the door. As he held the latch, he turned to Tom with eyes of stone: ‘Oh, and Tallant, one word of this business to another soul and I will make it my personal business to ruin you, your family and that drunken doxy who appears to have captured your heart.’
Chapter 14
18th August 1640
The Tallant warehouse
A coin tumbled through the air, capturing the rays of afternoon sun. Tom caught it cleanly and opened his palm. A new gold crown. He fingered its image of King Charles.
‘Take a good look at it, Tom. It might be one of the last you ever see, if the King gets his way.’
His father picked another crown out of his purse and studied it carefully. ‘What a bloody mess we are in… a terrible, bloody mess.’
Tom had rarely seen his father so despondent. They faced each other, sitting in the warehouse pepper store in front of the open hatch. Three months had passed since Tom’s meeting with Henry Jermyn—a hot, stinking summer with the threat of plague heavy in the air. This week the weather had broken and now a cooling breeze was blowing off the river, ruffling his father’s hair.
‘To the current religious and political troubles, you can now add financial turmoil. A pox on this war with the Scots. They are massing on the border, the King is spoiling for a fight but he still has no money! Parliament would not fund him, so he closed it down and now His Majesty is closeted with the Earl of Strafford and his cronies, dreaming up madcap schemes to pay for his army.’
Sir Ralph jumped to his feet and paced the warehouse floor, too agitated to sit, the floorboards creaking under his heavy
step.
‘First, the King seizes the bullion in the Royal Mint even though it belongs to his creditors, merchants like me who provided him with funds in the first place. Eventually he graciously agrees to only keep a third of it! When will we see that again? Then he discovers the Mint is also holding gold and silver for the King of Spain. So His Royal Highness decides he will also have that. Has he gone mad? Can you imagine the repercussions? Any English ship in Spanish waters would be fair game. I am told officers of the Mint begged Charles to reconsider, closely followed by a deputation of Merchant Adventurers. So the odious Strafford said the Government would drop the idea if the merchants “lend” the King £40,000. And they have!’
Sir Ralph was in full flood, striding up and down, a cloud of dust stirred by his feet, his words tumbling out in a torrent, getting louder with each step. Tom knew not to interrupt. Muffled voices elsewhere in the warehouse had stopped. The whole building awaited the explosion. Sir Ralph did not lose his temper very often, but when he did, it was spectacular.
‘Have you been to the Exchange today, Tom? The pepper market has collapsed. Why? Because the Chancellor of the Exchequer obtained a large amount of surplus stock from the East India Company on credit. He dumped it all on the market at a rock bottom price. It’s raised £70,000 for the army fund but destroyed the pepper trade. No merchants can get true value for their stock because London is now knee-deep in dirt-cheap pepper! What is the Chancellor doing trading pepper, pray tell me? Maybe I should run the country’s finances. Thank God our family does not rely on pepper as we once did, but there are many who do. It will be hard on them. Not that this concerns Strafford.’
Sir Ralph paused and took a deep breath. Here it comes, thought Tom.
‘And then, when I believe no greater damage can be done—’ another breath, Sir Ralph was struggling to keep his composure ‘— comes the final insult. The King desires to debase our currency, Tom, our commercial lifeblood. He is to instruct the Mint to produce shillings which will contain both silver and brass, worth three pence in total.’