The Last Protector

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘Of course not.’ The Duke’s fingers tightened on Cat’s hand, and he turned his head towards her. His grip was growing painful. ‘It’s perfectly natural at his age and in his state of health.’ Briefly, his face twisted into a lascivious mask, and again his voice dropped to a murmur that only she could hear. ‘One cannot expect the thrusting vigour of a younger man, can one? How you must yearn for that.’

  She tore her hand away. ‘Forgive me, sir, I must attend my husband.’

  She curtsied to the three men and nodded to Elizabeth, who smiled uncertainly at her.

  ‘Very proper,’ she heard Dr Owen say as she walked away. ‘A wife’s duty to her husband is second only to her duty to God.’

  She did not have an opportunity to speak privately to Elizabeth before they left Wallingford House. It was almost midnight by the time the Duke allowed them to leave.

  The streets were rowdier than before and Veal sent them back to Henrietta Street in sedan chairs, with six of the Duke’s manservants as an escort. There was no trouble. Buckingham was popular with Londoners, and men in his livery were usually allowed to pass without hindrance.

  By this time, Hakesby was both drunk and tired. He was trembling badly too. At the sign of the Rose, two of the servants helped him up the stairs, while Pheebs watched and listened in the hall. Once in their apartments, her husband retired to his closet, leaving Cat to listen to his paying a prolonged and noisy price for the evening’s excitement and the evening’s wine.

  They were alone. The maid had been given permission to spend the night at her mother’s lodging. The parlour fire was out. There was no kindling left and it wasn’t worth trying to light it. The bedchamber felt even colder than the parlour. Cat bolted the door to the landing and went to bed. Lying there in the curtained darkness, she let the events of the day pour through her mind like storm water down a drain.

  Figures rose up in her memory: the King in his dun-coloured coat and his scuffed shoes; the richly dressed and far more regal-looking Buckingham; the barely human Ferrus; the dog Dido, soft and excited; the clergyman at Wallingford House with his slug-like face and his unctuous certainties; Richard Cromwell, blandly uncaring that he was the cause of so much trouble and relying on good manners to placate everyone; and his daughter Elizabeth, more worried than sly despite the pleasure that wearing a sapphire pendant gave her.

  And Hakesby himself, a shambling, wine-sodden wreck of a fine man. But still her husband, she reminded herself, for better or worse. Who had saved her from penury. Who had taught her more than she could ever have hoped to learn about the design of buildings and about the practicalities of bringing those designs to fruition. And who was now making strange, unnatural sounds on the other side of the closet door.

  The worst of it, it seemed to her, was her loneliness. She had no one to talk to, no one she could confide in. Even Marwood had abandoned her. It was her own fault, after she had torn into him so savagely at the bookseller’s. When all was said and done, he had been trying to help her.

  Later, much later, as she was dropping into an uneasy doze, she remembered the packet that Ferrus had given her. It was still in the coal scuttle in the parlour. For all she cared it could stay there for ever. It was the cause of all their troubles.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Undone Company of Poor Whores

  Tuesday, 24 March 1668

  THE LIGHT CREEPS red and watery into the sky.

  Ferrus listens to Windy’s breathing. He touches the curved edges of his pennies.

  He waits and waits. Master does not come. Master drunk and stupid last night. Master fell asleep and three of my lord’s servants dragged him away on his back with his clothes unlaced. His belly gaped to the world and his mouth was open.

  Ferrus could have put his fingers inside and tugged Master’s tongue out of his mouth.

  Light glints on streaky puddles among the cobbles. Ferrus wriggles past Windy, who stirs, snorts but does not wake. He crawls from the kennel into the morning. Stands and stretches. Sniffs.

  Fresh-baked bread in the air. Oh, for my lady’s soft white roll. Hunger lives in his belly like Windy lives in his kennel. Master says to his friends, I keeps Ferrus thin. You don’t feed up your ferret before you put him in a rabbit warren, do you?

  Cat’s away, so micey plays.

  Ferrus slips out of the yard and down the long passage by the kitchen to the servants’ door to the Park. He’s hungry for white rolls, oh yes, but also for wonders.

  Dew lies heavy on sodden grass. Mist clings to the treetops along the Mall. Lords and ladies lie fast asleep. Ducks draw lines on the long water of the canal. Grooms and horses go clip-clop, clip-clop. Thin boys and thin maids take fat dogs for walks. Dogs cock legs against the stone man who stands for ever and ever at the end of the canal. Dogs shit wherever and whenever they want.

  No mazers for them, oh no.

  Ferrus goes round the outside of the park. He shakes his stick and makes his noises if people come close. Men chase him. But Ferrus runs faster, faster than the wind.

  Lady is nowhere. No wonders this morning. But here’s the tall thin man, the one in the shit-coloured coat, with the long sword. Man with lady, and with shaking grandpa. Man comes out of the gate in the wall at the end of the Park. He carries a sheet of paper, which he waves as he walks.

  Shit-coloured man doesn’t see Ferrus. Ferrus hides behind a tree and watches, in case the lady follows him out. No lady. Only man like a barrel. His head turns from side to side. They go into the passage that leads to Whitehall.

  No wonders. No lady. No food. No words.

  Mistress Dalton’s welcome was wearing thin. Nothing was said, but Elizabeth sensed it in the tone of her voice, in the dishes she ordered for her guests, and in her absences from the parlour. In the past she and her father had often found it hard to find privacy, for Mistress Dalton had always been with them if she could be. Now it was the other way round.

  On Tuesday, the Cromwells walked arm in arm in the garden after breakfast, as they did every morning when it wasn’t raining. It was their first opportunity to talk confidentially. Her father was in good spirits after yesterday evening’s visit to Wallingford House. He looked younger too. Happiness, or at least relief, had smoothed away some of the lines from his face.

  Her father swept aside her fears about Mistress Dalton. ‘You imagine things, my dear. I’ve known Meg Dalton since I was a child. My father was her godfather. She would let us live here for ever if we had a mind to it.’

  ‘But did you not mark how she served us nothing but a piece of bread and dry cheese for supper?’

  ‘Perhaps that was all she had in the house. She knows that old friends need not stand on ceremony in the way of food, as in other matters. In fact, I’ve a mind to stay a little longer. A month, perhaps. Or even more.’

  Elizabeth stopped and wrenched her arm from his. ‘But, sir, I thought you meant to go back to France in a few days.’

  ‘Well, yes. That was my plan. But our enterprise at the Cockpit failed, and I have a mind to try again if we can find a way.’

  ‘Why? Thanks to the Duke’s kindness, you no longer need it.’

  He shrugged, frowning. ‘Yesterday he gave me a purse with a hundred pounds in gold. That’s something, I grant you. A great deal. But—’

  ‘And he also gave you a bill for another four hundred on his man of business in Paris. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘My dear, the money would barely last me a year, even with the utmost economy. I have creditors to satisfy in Paris as well as here. Buckingham told me last night – indeed he promised me – that if I would but stay in London and help him for a few weeks, he would get me a pension of seven hundred a year from the King, and all my debts discharged. And if by chance he failed in that, he said he’d pay it all himself, including the pension, out of his own pocket.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  ‘Why not? He’s a man of honour, and I believe he’s sincere. And it’s in his interest to ke
ep his word.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Many reasons. Because my name and reputation still mean something to his supporters. Indeed, if it’s known that I stand with him in this, he may well gain more. The money aside, I think his cause is just. This country will never be united under God unless we have toleration for all. Apart from Sectarians and Catholics, naturally. It’s no more than the King himself promised at the Restoration. And … well, if I am honest with myself, it is agreeable to feel I am of some use again. Idleness does not become a man.’

  ‘That’s well and good, sir. But not if you lose your liberty because of it. You must look to your own interests.’ Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘And those of your family.’

  ‘But I do look to my own interest. If I go back to Paris now, I lose the pension – and perhaps the chance of another attempt at the Cockpit. Perhaps the Duke would cancel the bill as well.’

  It was growing chilly, and Elizabeth started walking again. ‘Catherine told me last night that they were successful yesterday, after all.’

  He stopped abruptly. ‘You mean they found it?’

  ‘I think so. Though we don’t even know what my grandmother hid there.’

  ‘It’ll be worth the having, whatever it is.’ Her father fell into step beside her. ‘She wouldn’t have written to me from her deathbed if that were not so. My mother was a prudent housekeeper. She knew the value of money as well as anyone.’

  ‘Then will you leave England once you have it? I beg you, sir, consider it.’

  He smiled at her but did not answer. Father and daughter walked in silence to the end of the garden. There were buds on the espaliered apple trees that lined the wall. Green spikes poked from the earth beneath.

  Cromwell stopped. He touched one of the buds with a fingertip. ‘I want to see this blossom. It won’t be long, if this mild weather continues.’ He turned back to her. ‘I miss this.’ He waved at the wall, at the fruit trees and the shoots in the earth. ‘I miss my garden at Hursley. I miss England. That’s the true reason I want to stay longer.’

  Elizabeth took his arm again. ‘I know,’ she said in a softer voice. ‘And one day they will surely let you come back home. But to stay here for longer now would be to risk all.’

  ‘The Duke will protect me,’ her father said. ‘He gave me his word.’

  On Tuesday, I was at Scotland Yard in good time. My shoulder was stiff and badly bruised, but the damage was less serious than I had feared. I wore an old hat and a scratchy, ill-fitting periwig, hired until I had the leisure to buy a new one.

  ‘You look as if you’ve been in the wars,’ Abbott said, putting his head on one side. ‘I haven’t seen you in that peruke before, have I?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Williamson’s been asking for you,’ he went on, pursing his little mouth as if he was going to kiss someone. ‘Trouble? He’s not in a good humour.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose he is. Is he in his room?’

  ‘He had to go out – my lord sent for him.’

  Mr Williamson had come in about twenty minutes before me, I learned, and so at least he must have seen the letter I had sent him by Chloris yesterday evening. With some difficulty, I forced myself to concentrate on drawing up draft copy for the next Gazette. Abbott tried to start a conversation about yesterday’s disturbances but I gave no encouragement to his chatter and he fell to sucking his teeth and scratching away with his pen. The distant tolling of the guardhouse clock marked the passage of time, and still Williamson did not come.

  However, three of his informers put in an appearance at the office. They came one by one, and each brought more news of the rioting. The unrest was spreading. The reports said that hundreds of active rioters were on the street today, many of them armed and arrayed. Disturbances like this always attracted bystanders, and there were estimates of crowds in the thousands on the fringes of the violence, eager to see the spectacle and perhaps not unwilling to join in. Even allowing for the probability that such numbers were exaggerated, the news was alarming.

  The apprentices and their allies were tearing down brothels in Moorfields again, and the attacks had also reached East Smithfield, Shoreditch, and the area around St Andrew’s in Holborn. I heard a rumour that whores who had not escaped in time had run shrieking through the streets pursued by the mob.

  The man who told me of the Holborn attacks was the last of the three informers. As I was paying him, I said, ‘By the by, did you pass by Long Acre on your way?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Not much going on there.’

  ‘What about Dog and Bitch Yard?’

  ‘Quiet as the grave. I poked my nose in, in case. No one there except a couple of bravos. They told me to move along.’

  So far, at least, Madam Cresswell’s establishment had not been troubled. It looked as if Chloris had been right about Buckingham’s protection.

  By midday, Williamson had still not returned. I left the office and walked across to Axe Yard, where I ate my dinner at the common table of the Axe. While I was there, I heard the steady beating of a drum.

  My neighbour at table, a clerk from the Lord Chamberlain’s Department, cocked his head. ‘They’re beating to arms at the Horse Guards. I knew they would.’

  I looked up from Raleigh’s History. ‘They are taking it seriously, then?’

  The man nodded. ‘Aye. Those cursed apprentices. I’d flog the lot of them. I blame the masters too. They give them too much liberty.’

  On my way back to the office, I heard someone shout my name as I was walking across the Great Court. I turned. Chiffinch was coming out of the passage leading to the chapel and the public stairs. He waved me over and fixed me with his watery eyes.

  ‘I heard something today that might interest you.’ His lips curled into a smile like the sparkle of sunlight on a freshly sharpened mantrap. ‘In fact, I wager it will. I seem to remember that you’re acquainted with Mistress Hakesby.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Not well, I hope?’

  I shrugged. ‘As you know, I’ve had dealings with her on the King’s behalf.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Nothing more?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No? Then you’re a wise man.’ He gave me another of those smiles. ‘Good day to you.’

  Chiffinch strolled away in the direction of the Stone Gallery. I stared after him. I wished I could ask him what he meant, but that would have been to fall into his trap and allow him to bait me further. Suddenly he turned and caught me watching him.

  ‘Is that a new peruke, Marwood?’ He had raised his voice, so his words must have been audible to at least a dozen people in the court. ‘It doesn’t become you, you know. Makes you look as if you’ve got a pair of dead squirrels on your head.’

  Someone laughed. Chiffinch walked off, and so did I.

  Williamson returned to Scotland Yard half an hour after I did. He glanced about the outer room, where the clerks were at work with suddenly renewed industry. He crooked his finger at me, and I followed him into his private room.

  ‘A bad business. You escaped unharmed yesterday?’

  ‘I lost my purse and my shoes and my wig, sir. Otherwise it could have been worse.’

  ‘The effrontery of these rogues is beyond belief. But I can’t understand it, Marwood: why should the men who attacked you in Poplar have you taken to Dog and Bitch Yard? If they were set on tearing down the bawdy houses, why send you to be kept in one? And why choose a house quite on the other side of town from Poplar?’

  ‘Because the house in Dog and Bitch Yard is the Duke of Buckingham’s.’

  ‘What?’ Williamson’s eyebrows shot up. ‘How so?’

  ‘Madam Cresswell’s name may be on the lease or even on the deeds themselves. But I believe the money behind her comes from the Duke.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I bribed one of her whores to help me escape. She tells me that all things are done in the house as the Duke desires. And that he often visi
ts himself, and not just to use the whores. He meets people there too. He writes there. He even sleeps in the house on occasion.’

  ‘Your whore told you a good deal. Do you believe her?’

  ‘She had no reason to lie, sir. She also said that her mistress was forewarned about the riots, and assured that her own house would not be attacked.’

  Williamson let out his breath in a silent whistle. ‘You tell me that she was warned by the Duke?’

  ‘Or by one of his men.’

  ‘Which is tantamount to saying that …’

  His voice trailed away. We looked at each other in silence. I didn’t want to be the first to put it into words and nor did he. It was tantamount to saying that the riots were not a spontaneous affair bred by the licence of a holiday. They had been planned beforehand. And if Buckingham had not organized them himself, he had at the very least known about them, kept his mouth shut and arranged for his own particular bawdy house to be left untouched. All of which meant that—

  ‘This rioting is different,’ Williamson said. ‘I knew it. My Lord Arlington was saying just now that it was similar to the old Shrove Tuesday attacks on the brothels, and nothing more. The apprentices used to attack the bawdy houses every year before the war. But this isn’t like that at all.’

  ‘No, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Which therefore throws quite a different light on this.’

  He unlocked a drawer of his desk and took out a single sheet of paper. It had a brown stain covering near half of it, but the printed words on it were perfectly legible. ‘Someone went about Whitehall this morning and left it outside the royal apartments and the Duke of York’s lodging. The ink was still a little damp, I understand, so it was probably run off the press this morning. This particular copy was pinned to my Lady Castlemaine’s door.’ He tapped it. ‘See that mark? She was so angry she threw her cup of chocolate at it. Then she took it straight to the King.’ He handed the paper to me. ‘A pound to a penny there will be copies all over town by tomorrow.’