Rags of Time

by Michael Ward

  He rolled on the garden lawn and back onto this feet, a searing pain in his left palm. He ran to the side of the house, blood pouring from his hand. Without breaking stride, he carefully gripped a long shard of glass impaled in his palm and pulled firmly. A flash of pain shot through his hand, and he staggered as he threw the glass on the ground. Ahead lay the low stone wall marking the front of the garden. He vaulted over it and landed on the drive. Edmund was standing near the front of the house holding a horse by its halter. Tom ran to him.

  ‘My dear fellow, what on earth has happened to you? Here, wrap my scarf around your hand.’

  Raised voices could be heard in the garden.

  ‘I was calling on your parents. Ellen has told me everything. You’d better go,’ he said, offering Tom the horse’s reins.

  ‘Shouldn’t I… well, shouldn’t I hit you?’

  ‘Why? Do you want to?’

  ‘No, no, of course not, Edmund, but you don’t want to be seen as my accomplice, do you? Better that I overpower you.’

  ‘Well, I must say I’d prefer my good looks were not ruined with a broken nose, thank you. And the whole case against you is a farce. Franklin would make a goat seem intelligent. No, I am with you on this one, Tom. Fiddlesticks to what they think, but you really must go. You will have left a blood trail even Franklin could not miss. If I am not mistaken that is him approaching along the side of the house.’

  Tom could hear the magistrate’s voice getting louder. Pausing to embrace Edmund, Tom hauled himself into the saddle and took off down the driveway into the gathering dark.

  Two hours later, Tom was walking Edmund’s horse towards Elizabeth’s house. The night was black, stars sparkling through fleeting gaps in the cloud. Since escaping from his parents’ house, he had criss-crossed the countryside north of Clerkenwell either side of the Islington Road. Now it was dark, he was safe until Franklin renewed his search at first light tomorrow.

  He thought again about his confrontation with Franklin. The magistrate had made his case and concocted his evidence. The City wanted a culprit and the courts would oblige. There was only one way out of this now. He must find Stone Face and bring him to justice.

  He softly repeated Elizabeth’s chosen verse of Donne.

  ‘May still my love descend.’

  And completed it:

  ‘Since such love's motion natural is,

  May still my love descend

  and journey down the hill,

  Not panting after growing beauties ; so

  I shall ebb out with them who homeward go.’

  Not the meaning Donne had intended in his ninth elegy but the message was clear enough to Tom, and under the cover of darkness he headed for her garden. Tom tethered Edmund’s horse to a tree and, crouching, walked softly to the garden wall. His left hand was now throbbing inside Edmund’s scarf which was caked with dried blood. He entered through the door in the wall. The garden looked much as it had been on his first visit. One day he might see it in daylight. He walked down the side path towards the viewing platform in front of the tall hedge. There was no sign of Elizabeth or her telescope.

  Tom was exhausted. Everything ached. His head, his legs and in particular his hand. Was it only that morning he had stood next to the Tower of London, searching for Shovel Lane? He had walked and ridden for miles, not eaten since midday and been accused of causing three deaths. He could not take another step. He sat down to wait for Elizabeth but was soon shaking with cold and exhaustion. He needed shelter and rest. Could he squeeze under the platform and wrap himself in his cloak? The prospect did not invite, but Tom felt close to collapse. He looked underneath. Hardly room for a mouse. In desperation he walked around the garden and discovered a gap at the far end of the hedge. He entered, to see a large wooden building hidden between the back of the hedge and the garden perimeter wall, thirty feet beyond.

  He would break in if necessary, he was so desperate. There was no need. The door swung open to his touch and light appeared. Cautiously Tom stepped into a large, windowless room. A lantern was glowing on a table in the far corner and, next to it, two covered bowls and a letter. Tom opened the letter:

  My dearest Thomas,

  Welcome to my secret thinking place. It has been my refuge from the world since I was a child. I suspect most of the family have forgotten it is here, which I prefer.

  I hope you are well. You left a lot of blood in the garden but your mother says the Tallants are made of oak and it will only be a scratch. I like your mother very much. I think she is a remarkable person.

  You know your Donne so I expect you have found this letter. I wanted to meet you in the garden but we had a visitor this evening. The odious Franklin, asking more questions about you. He might have put someone on watch, so I stayed in the house.

  You will find food on the table and covers on the bed. Try to sleep and build your strength. You will need it. I can see your father is worried about the case against you, so it must be serious.

  For my part, it does not feel at all right. I look for method and probability and can find neither. But I will continue my investigations tomorrow. Ellen has given me the piece of cloth and explained what it is. I will examine it closely.

  If you can, meet me here tomorrow night at nine of the clock.

  Yours, in truth and light,

  Elizabeth S.

  Tom read the letter several times before placing it inside his shirt. He devoured the food and, not stopping to examine the room further, staggered to the truckle bed, threw himself on it and blew out the lantern.

  His snoring filled the room before the last smoke from the extinguished candle reached the wooden ceiling.

  Chapter 24

  22nd October 1640

  Cheapside

  Tom could see his face grimacing in the mirror’s reflection. That was the problem, he could still see his face.

  ‘Have you anything a bit larger?’

  ‘Larger, sir? Let me see. Ah, this, I think, will be perfect.’

  And it was. The largest hat Tom had ever seen, with a brim at least nine inches wide that swept across his brow and over his shoulders like a sail.

  ‘A true cavalier, if I may, sir. Perhaps a silk band, continuing down the back, would set it off. No, sir? No, you are right. Understatement is always best.’

  His new headgear looked absurd but its size was indisputable. And that was all that mattered. He paid the shopkeeper and paused to navigate the doorway on his way out. Thank God it was not a windy day.

  Tom looked to his left up Cheapside. Ahead he could see the familiar shape of the Royal Exchange and, running off to its left, Threadneedle Street. He had woken that morning determined to take the fight to Stone Face. What was the alternative? He could keep running, sleeping in ditches and barns, but that was no fit way to live. Franklin had managed to misconstrue all Tom had done. Edmund was right. The man’s stupidity was boundless. The only thing that would defeat Stone Face and stop Franklin’s misguided persecution would be hard, indisputable evidence.

  How had he missed the hammer in the room in Shovel Alley? Likely it was under Matty’s body, buried in the back of his skull. Tom remembered how the boy’s head had been leaning forward and shuddered.

  His destination was Threadneedle Street. He would avoid the route directly past the Royal Exchange as Tom and Meg were familiar sights in this part of London. However, he was riding Edmund’s mare and, with his face now also hidden, he hoped to escape detection.

  Tom had gambled on a double bluff to get into the city that morning. He chose Aldersgate, the entrance nearest to Clerkenwell, hoping Franklin would believe Tom would avoid it for that reason. In addition, Aldersgate Street would be choked with stragglers returning south from the ill-fated Scottish campaign. Again, safety might come in numbers. His gamble had paid off and now he was on Cheapside facing his next challenge. He set off along Poultry towards the Exchange, his injured hand throbbing with pain. He had cleaned the wound this morning but it was still red
and angry.

  The midday exodus from the Exchange to the surrounding taverns was underway. Two merchants well known to Tom approached. He pulled his hat still lower and worked his way through the side streets to avoid the Exchange’s entrance, emerging further up Threadneedle Street. He saw his destination on the left, next to an alley entrance, where he dismounted and tied the mare to an iron ring embedded in the wall. Without looking right or left he ran up the steep stone steps into an apothecary shop. A thin, balding man with aquiline features stopped pounding a wooden mortar on the counter.

  ‘Good day, How may I be of assistance?’

  ‘I wish to see Mr Nicholas Culpeper, if he is in.’

  The man’s smile of welcome faded. He nodded towards the back of the room and returned to his work. Tom walked past the counter, pushed aside a hessian screen and entered a small room. Rough wooden benches were placed around its walls. Two were occupied. A young woman was crouched in one corner, her face twisted in pain. A grey-haired man was sitting opposite her, his left eye bright red and almost closed, with green pus oozing from both corners. Tom could hear voices behind a door at the far end of the room. He sat down with the others and waited.

  Ten minutes passed and Tom’s impatience grew. He was safely out of sight in this small room but time was passing. He needed to track down Stone Face as soon as possible. The door opened and the familiar figure of Nicholas Culpeper emerged. A small, elderly woman limped out of the room behind him. He bade her farewell and turned to the man with the swollen eye.

  ‘Would you come in please,’ Culpeper said.

  Tom stepped forward. ‘Mr Culpeper, I would speak with you on a matter of the greatest importance—’

  Culpeper ignored him, ushered his patient into the room and closed the door. Tom felt foolish. He glanced at the woman now rocking gently, her face contorted, before returning to his seat.

  It was only when Culpeper had seen all his patients some thirty minutes later that he spoke to Tom.

  ‘My goodness, that is a hat. You are Elizabeth Seymour’s beau, Thomas Tallant, if I remember correctly? What are you doing here? In need of remedy? I see your hand is injured.’

  Tom glowed inside at Culpeper’s description. Is that what Elizabeth was telling her friends?

  ‘Mr Culpeper, can we talk in private, please?’

  ‘No one will hear us here, Mr Tallant. Please wait one moment.’

  He disappeared into his room and emerged moments later with a pipe and tobacco pouch and sat on one of the benches.

  ‘Pray continue.’

  Tom knew he was taking a risk, but it was his one hope. Culpeper was the only ‘friendly’ radical he knew. He must convince him Stone Face had gone too far in murdering Matty and planting the printer’s blocks at the scene. If discovered it would discredit the radical movement. Culpeper might know someone who could exert a restraining influence on the printer but, to do this, Tom would have to explain his part in the Grub Street raid. Tom did not know how he would react, but he had to try.

  Nicholas Culpeper listened in silence, but frowned at the mention of Henry Jermyn. He leaned forward in his chair, and puffed on his pipe. Finally he straightened and took the spent pipe from his mouth.

  ‘Come to the Star Inn in Coleman Street at four of the clock today.’

  He pointed the stem of the pipe at Tom’s face.

  ‘And you must come alone. I will meet you there. Good day to you sir.’

  And before Tom could ask him to examine his wounded hand, Nicholas Culpeper was gone, back in his room with the door firmly shut.

  A soft rain was falling as Tom approached the Star Inn that afternoon. His hand was now pounding with pain and he winced as he pushed through the tavern door. Inside he was surprised to see faces he knew from the Commons. He pulled his hat down and sought out Culpeper who was sitting at the back of the tavern, next to a small wooden door. He beckoned him over.

  Culpeper frowned.

  ‘Tallant, if your aim is to escape notice, I suggest you discard that ridiculous chapeau, especially here. You will be mistaken for one of the court dandies. Not a good idea in the Star Inn, I can assure you.’

  Tom sat with his back to the room and slipped off his hat.

  ‘That’s better. Now, I have spoken to my contacts in the movement about what you have told me, Tallant. It has been agreed you should see one of their leaders.’

  ‘Not Stone Face… or should I say Richard Overton?’

  ‘I have no way of knowing if the man you describe is Richard Overton,’ Culpeper countered. ‘However, the person you are about to see will be able to answer that question, should he wish.’

  ‘Is he more senior than Overton?’

  ‘Oh yes, most certainly. Any information that can be given will come from this person. I will not add a single word afterwards. You must not even ask. Do you understand?’

  Tom nodded. Culpeper’s face was cold, different to his usual demeanour. He reached over and gripped Tom’s right arm.

  ‘And this meeting… it never happened. Are you clear?’

  Tom nodded. Culpeper held his gaze before releasing him.

  ‘Go through this door. The man inside will tell you what to do.’ He rose from the table. ‘Oh, and if that filthy rag tied around your hand is covering a wound, I would get it seen to before you come down with a fever.’

  Culpeper walked out of the tavern without a backward glance.

  Before he reached the door it was opened by a giant of a man, a foot taller than Tom with hands like shovels. He was led down a short corridor which ended in a stairway on his left. The man also spoke like a giant. Deep and rumbling.

  ‘Go up the stairs and through the door at the top.’

  Tom climbed the stairs and paused on a narrow landing before knocking on the door and entering the room. The giant followed, closed the door and stood behind Tom, guarding the exit. The room spanned the whole width of the tavern. Autumn sunlight filtered though a window on the left, bathing a leather-bound Bible placed on a long table with a pale gloss of light. Three men sat behind the table, facing Tom.

  ‘Hello, Tom. It’s been too long. How is mother?’

  ‘Peter… you?’

  ‘Come in and sit down.’

  Tom did not recognise the two men flanking his brother. There were no smiles of welcome.

  ‘Perhaps we should get straight to business as I imagine there are pressing matters requiring your attention elsewhere.’

  Tom looked at Peter in fascination. Yes, this was the same Peter Tallant who, as a boy, raced toy boats with him on their garden stream, the same Peter who stole the best apples because he could climb higher and faster than his brother, and who was now talking to Tom like a judge preparing a case.

  ‘Nicholas Culpeper has recounted all you told him. It is deeply worrying, Tom, deeply worrying.’

  The two men either side of Peter nodded in agreement. Tom relaxed. Thank goodness, they were taking Stone Face’s crimes seriously.

  ‘We are greatly concerned you are working in league with Henry Jermyn, one of the evil counsellors leading our King astray. Jermyn is an agent of Lucifer. He is known to be privado to the Catholic whore who sits on the throne with our monarch. The whore who has no shame. She has even called her newborn child “Henry”!’

  The two other men shook their heads and muttered under their breath. Tom could not believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Through your actions the righteous voice of the Scottish Covenanters was silenced for a time in London, although we thank the Lord their message is once again reaching the city’s streets.’

  Tom felt he was sinking, being pushed under by the hand of his own brother.

  ‘Peter. I helped Jermyn to save Arthur, Isaac’s nephew.’

  ‘It is not for us to obstruct God’s divine purpose. Arthur is a child of God, leading his brothers in their march against the Arch-Papist Laud. His sacrifice would have inspired many others.’

  Tom was aghast. So Peter wanted
Arthur to hang simply to fire up support for the radicals? He must break through this madness.

  ‘And what about Matthew Morris? Crushing his skull? Was that a sacrifice worth making? So Richard Overton could get his revenge on me? Is that why Overton killed him? And at what price to the cause of your Scottish brothers? Leaving their printing type all over the murdered body to implicate me? That’s not helped them, has it?’

  Tom realised he was standing and shouting. His left hand, hot and bloated, was throbbing violently. He returned to his seat while the two men held a whispered consultation with Peter. They broke away again and Peter spoke.

  ‘You assume the man you confronted was Richard Overton. You have no way of knowing that. But it is not important. Whether the man you saw was Overton or one of his assistants, their actions would be the same. They would not commit murder. The Chosen do not incur God’s wrath by breaking His Commandments.’

  Tom recalled Caleb the lay preacher and his mistreatment of Matty and felt his anger stir, fuelled by the hypocrisy, his brother’s self-righteous certitude. He wanted to throw the story of Caleb in their face but they would never believe it of their own. He understood the hopelessness Matty had felt.

  ‘Tom… brother.’ Peter’s tone softened. ‘There was concern that meeting you, an associate of Henry Jermyn, would be highly dangerous. But Nicholas Culpeper told us you offered your knowledge of Jermyn without prompting or questioning. It is also noted you have not had further association with him in recent months.’

  My God. How do they know that? Am I being spied upon every day? Is the bearded man one of theirs?

  Peter paused. ‘Is that how you intend to proceed?’

  ‘What do you mean ?’

  ‘Do you intend to keep your distance from Jermyn, or is it possible you might be of service to him again?

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  Another pause.

  ‘It could have its advantages, having an ear so close to the court. The opportunity to relay misleading information from time to time.’