The Last Protector

by Andrew Taylor

  Hakesby went out on to the landing. ‘Oh,’ Cat heard him say in a flat voice. ‘Oh …’

  Cat heard the heavy breathing of the man outside and she knew who it was before he opened his mouth.

  ‘Are you ready, Mr Hakesby?’ said Roger Durrell in the thick voice that he seemed to dredge up from a muddy pond deep within. ‘It wouldn’t do to keep them waiting.’

  The coach was plain and shabby, hired from a livery stable. It was drawn by a single horse with a dull coat and long scab where it had been whipped too hard, too long. Roger Durrell’s bulk filled much of the space within. Hakesby and Cat squeezed together, with the sheath of Durrell’s sword resting on the floor between them.

  Hakesby clutched his portfolio to his chest. ‘Where are you taking us?’

  Durrell said, ‘You’ll find out, sir. No hurry.’

  After that, there was no conversation. Cat listened to the breathing of Durrell and her husband, the one low and viscous, the other high and quavering. They mingled with the discordant sounds of London beyond the coach: hooves, wheels grinding on the roadway, cries and shouts of passers-by.

  The leather curtains at the side of the coach swayed to and fro. Sometimes, especially at corners, they moved more, giving Cat glimpses of the world outside. They were travelling east, she thought, and perhaps north. As they slowed, the sloping roadway and a glimpse of blackened ruins confirmed it: the driver had brought them to Snow Hill, between Holborn and the City at Newgate.

  The coach lurched through a gateway and jolted over cobbles into a yard. Durrell sat unmoving, staring at the Hakesbys with small, half-closed eyes. His jaw moved as if he were chewing.

  ‘Well?’ Hakesby leaned forward and pulled aside the curtain. The coach had been brought to a halt within a foot of a chimney stack built of soot-stained bricks. ‘I can’t get out this side. Where are we? Where’s Mr Cromwell?’

  ‘On his way, sir. We’re to wait in the coach.’

  Hakesby subsided into the seat, hugging his portfolio more tightly. They sat in silence for a few moments. No one came.

  By accident or design, Durrell had extended a leg across the side of the coach opposite the chimney. It blocked the Hakesbys’ exit from the coach as effectively as a tree trunk.

  Cat shifted on the seat, feeling for the knife in her pocket. Durrell’s eyes flicked towards her. She wondered if this was a trap. Could Durrell and Veal have turned their coats and betrayed Cromwell and the Hakesbys to the authorities?

  A sense of futility swept over her. Even if she distracted Durrell for a moment by stabbing him in the leg, the easiest target he offered, his very bulk would still block their escape. Her husband would be a hindrance, not a help. Then there would be the coachman to deal with. Perhaps others as well.

  Somewhere outside, a door closed with a bang. Hakesby sat up. Durrell continued to chew. There were unhurried footsteps. The leather curtain was drawn aside.

  Light flooded into the coach. A tall man in a plain black cloak looked down on them. His face was red, bisected by a nose like a blade and framed by golden curls. He wore a sword.

  He looked faintly amused by what he saw. He flicked a gloved finger at Durrell, who scrambled inelegantly out of the coach.

  ‘Your servant, Mistress Hakesby,’ the man said with a bow. He glanced at Hakesby. ‘And yours, sir.’

  His voice was mocking, for he clearly did not intend them to think he was anyone’s servant, and his condescension was more to entertain himself for some obscure reason than to show respect to the Hakesbys.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Hakesby said, stumbling over the words and bobbing his head in an attempt to bow while seated. ‘Forgive me, I had no idea.’

  Buckingham’s eyes were on Cat. ‘You must pardon these surroundings, and my subterfuge in bringing you here.’

  ‘Not at all, Your Grace,’ said Hakesby. ‘It’s an—’

  ‘At present my movements are more circumscribed than I should like.’

  ‘Because of my Lord Shrewsbury’s death,’ Cat said.

  ‘Indeed, madam.’ The Duke smiled at her. ‘I see there’s no concealing anything from you. I like a woman who doesn’t beat about the bush; it makes life so much more agreeable for all parties. I stand accused of my lord’s death. I regret to say that there’s a warrant out for my arrest. The accusation is quite unjust, of course, but my enemies have conspired against me to mislead the King.’

  Hakesby cleared his throat. ‘Mr Cromwell tells me that you’ve taken an interest in his affairs.’

  Buckingham ignored him. ‘I met your father once,’ he said to Cat. ‘When I came back to England during the Commonwealth. The Lord Protector sent him down to Yorkshire to examine me on my motives. A godly man, Mr Lovett, a true Christian and a friend to this country.’

  Cat stared at him. In some quarters, heaping such praise on a regicide could be construed as the next best thing to treason.

  The Duke must have sensed he was making little headway with her, for he abruptly switched tack. ‘This business with the Cockpit and our late Protector – the son I mean, rather than great Oliver himself. It’s a private matter, I know, but I mean to help my friend Mr Cromwell in his undertaking. And he has kindly agreed to lend me his assistance in one of mine.’ He smiled at Cat, creating the illusion that he was confiding in her, and only her. ‘As you know, our poor kingdom is sorely divided. Sin stalks abroad, and God will not let us go unpunished if we don’t change our ways. Mark my words, if our reckless courses go unchecked, we shall have another civil war before the year is out. We must draw together if we are to prevent more bloodshed – all of us: Anglican and Presbyterian, high and low, and even’ – here he smiled again – ‘those who wish for the return of the good old days. And there are far more of those than the government is aware of.’

  More hints of treason. She said, with studied ambiguity, ‘I’m sure Mr Hakesby and I wish you all the success you deserve.’

  ‘Yes, to be sure,’ Hakesby put in, failing to register the ambiguity, and smiling and frowning at the same time. ‘You’re in the right of it, Your Grace, and all good men must agree with you. As to this matter of the Cockpit—’

  The Duke waved him aside. ‘Not now, sir, if you please. Durrell will take you to Mr Cromwell in a moment, and you can arrange all that with him.’

  ‘The good old days are gone,’ Cat said. ‘And best forgotten.’

  ‘Gone, madam, but not forgotten. Which is the reason I want you to attend a private meeting I have arranged.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mr Cromwell will be there as well. Your very presence will add immeasurable glory to the occasion.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, sir,’ she said.

  If he was shocked at her rudeness, he didn’t show it. ‘You needn’t say anything. It would not be fitting for a lady in such company. It’s merely that seeing you there, your father’s daughter, would please me – and please many of the other gentlemen there. Your father was Oliver’s friend.’

  ‘No,’ Cat said.

  ‘Your father would have wished—’

  ‘My father and I were estranged. And now he is dead. His possible wishes have nothing to do with me.’

  Hakesby said in a tremulous voice that was meant to be a whisper, ‘My dear, I really can’t see the harm in it. Indeed, it’s a great honour that the Duke should wish you to join him and Mr Cromwell at this meeting. And who knows where it might lead in the way of business for us?’

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘You will.’ Hakesby’s voice grew shrill. ‘You’re my wife. I order you.’

  The Duke stepped back. There were more footsteps in the yard. The tall figure of Mr Veal appeared. He put his hand to his mouth and whispered in his master’s ear.

  Buckingham sighed. He stooped and put his head inside the coach. He was so close that Cat felt his breath on her cheek.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, but I fear I must leave you. The King’s sergeant-at-arms and his men are at Holborn Bridge, and they are coming
this way.’ He withdrew his head, swept off his hat and bowed. ‘We shall meet again soon.’ He kissed his fingertips to Cat. ‘Until then.’

  ‘Dearest Catty!’ Elizabeth said, scarcely half an hour later. ‘You don’t know what it is to see a friendly face.’

  When the Duke had gone, Durrell had brought the Hakesbys to a tavern on the Oxford Road. Here, in a private room, they had found the Cromwells and Mr Veal waiting for them.

  Elizabeth folded Cat into an embrace. ‘See, I have brought you a present.’

  She held out a package that proved to contain a pair of grey gloves – plain, but of fine leather, and a good fit too. Cat was ready to be suspicious of anything Elizabeth did or said. On this occasion, though, there was a hint of sincerity, even relief, in her behaviour. Whatever else Elizabeth might be, she wasn’t a fool. Perhaps her father’s involvement with Buckingham and his servants was not to his daughter’s taste.

  Richard Cromwell greeted the Hakesbys courteously. He was wearing his thick green glasses again, and his beard had grown noticeably longer and bushier since Cat had last seen him.

  On the surface, at least, the meeting could not have run more smoothly. Veal produced a purse containing ten pounds in gold, which he presented to Hakesby for his expenses at the Cockpit, and in particular with Reeves, the mazer scourer. That resolved the immediate financial difficulty.

  Cromwell, it seemed, had agreed to attend the Duke’s Easter Monday meeting. ‘But,’ he said to Veal, ‘what if His Grace is – ah – well, I understand his liberty may be curtailed at present. Perhaps the meeting will be cancelled.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, sir,’ Veal said. ‘The Duke has it all in hand.’

  ‘But surely if—?’

  ‘Take my word for it. Now – Mr Hakesby? This affair at the Cockpit.’

  Hakesby had already arranged to meet Reeves on Saturday. It was settled that Mr Veal would be present, and that he would also accompany them on Easter Monday. If all went well, at one o’clock on Monday afternoon, they would assemble at the western end of the canal in St James’s Park. The Park would be particularly busy on the holiday. They would enter the Cockpit lodging by the private door into the garden. Reeves had made arrangements with a servant to let them in.

  ‘And then what?’ Veal asked.

  ‘Reeves has a worker under him who will retrieve the property. It’s hidden in a sewer that runs from the lodging under the garden.’ Hakesby glanced at Cromwell. ‘Can you tell us where to find it exactly?’

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but I prefer to keep that close for the moment.’

  ‘Then how will Reeves know—?’

  ‘I shall send my daughter to you on Monday,’ Cromwell said. ‘She will meet you in the Park at the appointed hour, and she will bring you the information.’

  ‘Do you trust this Reeves?’ Veal said to Hakesby.

  ‘He prospered under the Protector, sir. Now he is unhappy.’

  Cat said, simultaneously, ‘No.’

  Veal frowned. ‘Why not, mistress?’

  ‘He helps us for money, sir, not for old loyalties. He knows the – the property was hidden under the Commonwealth, but not by whom, or precisely where it is. If he learns that Mr Cromwell is a principal, I wouldn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut. He might calculate that there was more money to be made, and more safely, by selling the information than by helping us.’

  Cromwell rubbed the table with his finger. Without looking up, he said, ‘Mistress Hakesby talks sense.’

  There was a gurgling sound as Durrell cleared his throat. ‘You want me to talk to this Reeves, master? Make him understand who his friends really are?’

  Veal shook his head. ‘Better not. If necessary I will speak to him on the day.’

  Before the party broke up, Elizabeth drew Cat to the window at the far end of the room and pretended to show her the silk lining of the gloves. ‘I don’t trust these men,’ she whispered.

  ‘I don’t think they wish you or Mr Cromwell harm.’

  ‘But they plan to use my father for their own ends. And they leave him no choice in the matter.’ There was nothing sly about her now. She looked scared. ‘Catherine, Buckingham will only protect him while it suits him. What can we do? Will you help us?’

  The Hakesbys were already helping the Cromwells, Cat thought, and much against her own will. She said, as soothingly as she could, ‘We must hope that all goes well on Monday. Then they will let your father go back to France, and leave the rest of us alone.’

  Elizabeth made an almost inaudible mewing sound. There were tears in the small blue eyes. She began to say something. Cat laid her hand on her arm to stop her.

  Durrell was approaching with their cloaks. He lingered in their company, helping Elizabeth put on her cloak, and looming over her like a bear with his prey. When it came to Cat’s turn, she snatched the cloak from him.

  ‘I’ll manage this myself,’ she said.

  His eyes flickered. ‘As you wish, mistress.’

  He turned away, and the sheath of his sword brushed her skirts, forcing her to step back against the wall.

  On the afternoon of Easter Saturday, Mr Hakesby met Reeves at Fulton’s, a barber’s shop in Long Acre. The choice of meeting place showed a low cunning on his part because it excluded Cat. Fulton’s was an all-male establishment; there was not even a maid, only a boy to sweep the floor and heat the water, and a manservant to stand at the door.

  Before Hakesby left, he quarrelled with her. ‘You treat me as a child,’ he said to Cat. ‘You forget you’re my wife. You forget I raised you up from the gutter.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish you’d left me there,’ she said.

  ‘Have a care I don’t throw you back.’

  He stormed off, an old and fragile man. She sent the porter’s boy after him so he would have someone to lean on, someone to bring him safely home.

  Despite this, as time passed, Cat grew anxious. She considered sending someone to enquire at Fulton’s but in the end she called for her cloak and went herself. The barber’s shop was busy because of the forthcoming holiday. The porter’s boy was outside, hugging himself against the cold of the afternoon.

  ‘Your master’s still there?’

  ‘Yes, mistress. He’s talking to a man at the back.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Didn’t see his face.’ The boy’s eyes slid past her. ‘He came along with him.’

  Cat turned. Hunched against the wall at the end of the shop was the thin figure who had accompanied Reeves before. Then she had seen him only briefly, and through the distortion of glass. He had been squatting in the rain by the privy in the yard of the alehouse near the Tower.

  ‘He’s bleeding,’ she said. There was a cut on his forehead, and what looked like a fresh bruise on his cheek.

  ‘Some apprentices threw stones at him. He looks cursed, don’t he?’

  Cat approached him warily. There were streaks of grey in the dark, matted hair and among the stubble on the chin. The man covered his face with his hands as she approached.

  ‘You work for Reeves,’ she said.

  She had never seen someone so thin and wraithlike. He seemed barely to have shoulders worth the name. Like a spider, he gave the impression that he consisted mainly of limbs rather than body.

  ‘Ferrus,’ she said, his name coming back to her.

  His hands, which were narrow and with very long fingers, fell slowly away from his face, with its unsettling resemblance to the head of a fish. The eyes were not only far apart from each other but they seemed to operate independently, which gave Cat the unsettling sensation that two people were looking at her, not one. Trembling, he stared dumbly up at her. A drop of mucus shone like a diamond on the end of his nose.

  ‘There’s nothing to fear,’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’

  Ferrus wriggled away. Suddenly, so quickly it took her breath away, he was on his feet and running down the street.

  ‘He don’t like it when people talk to him,
’ the porter’s boy said. ‘Scared of his own shadow.’

  Cat returned to Henrietta Street. She tried to find solace in work. She settled at her slope and continued to ink in the design for the southern elevation of the Royal Society’s proposed Solomon House in my Lord Arundel’s garden.

  The work needed concentration, but her thoughts strayed to tomorrow and the Cockpit. Fear had become a physical pain in her stomach. Perhaps she had been wrong and Marwood had been right: taken all in all, it might have been better to tell Mr Williamson that Richard Cromwell was in London, and reveal what they knew of Buckingham’s intrigue. Despite the fact that she was a regicide’s daughter, it might be better to throw themselves on the King’s mercy than face what might lie ahead tomorrow.

  Hakesby was gone for nearly three hours. When at last she heard him slowly climbing the stairs, her anxiety turned to irritation. Swearing at the porter’s boy, he stumbled into the parlour and sank into his chair without even removing his cloak. He brought with him only a smell of wine and tobacco smoke. At least he had managed to have himself shaved, and his peruke was newly combed.

  ‘It’s all arranged,’ he said without looking at her. ‘You weren’t needed.’

  ‘What’s arranged?’

  ‘Reeves has done it all. A footman will let us in. We are to go to the Cockpit at one o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘We? Sir, is this wise? Perhaps—’

  ‘Peace, woman. There’s news. Though whether it’s good news for us I don’t know. At Fulton’s, everyone’s saying that the doctors have opened up my Lord Shrewsbury to see how he died.’

  ‘Because of his wound from the duel?’

  ‘No. They say he died of natural causes. And so the King has given the Duke of Buckingham a royal pardon.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Three Ships of Gold

  Easter Monday, 23 March 1668

  CROW, CROW, COCKLE-DE-CROW, cock crow, crow crow.

  Ferrus shuts eyes tight. Sees stars. Windy stirs. Whimpers. Farts. Ferrus wriggles close as close as can be to Windy. Draws blanket over his shoulders.