A Crowning Mercy. Bernard Cornwell

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       And keep the gentry downe.

      Well, Sir George was a gentleman, and his eldest child, Anne, had married the Earl of Fleet who was a noble. The Earl of Fleet, a good Puritan, believed that the fanatics could be contained, but Sir George no longer did. He could not support a cause that would, in the end, destroy him and his children, and so he had decided, reluctantly, to fight against that cause. He would leave London. He would pack his precious books, his silver, his pewter and his furniture, and he would abandon London and Parliament, to return to Lazen Castle.

      He would miss London. He looked up from the Harington and stared fondly at the cathedral precinct. This was the place where unemployed house servants came to look for new employers, it was where the booksellers could set up their stalls, and it was where virulent sermons were preached beneath St Paul’s Cross. It was a place of life, colour, movement, and crowds, and Sir George would miss it. He liked the sense of life in London, its crowded streets, the never-ending noise, the long conversations, the feeling that things happened here because they were forced to happen. He would miss the politics, the laughter, and the house near Charing Cross from which, on the one side, he could look into green fields, and on the other into the smoky heart of the great city. Yet London was the heart of Parliament’s rebellion and he could not stay if he changed sides.

      ‘Sir George! Sir George!’ The voice called to him from the direction of Ludgate Hill. ‘Sir George!’

      Reluctantly he put the book back on the table. This was a man he could not brush off by pretending to read. ‘My dear John!’

      Only minutes before Sir George had been thinking of his son-in-law, the Earl of Fleet, and now the Earl, red-faced and sweating, pushed his way through the midday crowds. ‘Sir George!’ he called out again, fearful that his father-in-law might yet escape.

      Sir George was fifty-five, counted an old man by his colleagues, yet he remained alert and spry. His hair was white, yet there was a liveliness to his face that made him seem younger than his years. The Earl of Fleet, on the other hand, though twenty years Sir George’s junior, had the burdened face of a man old before his time. He was a serious man; even, Sir George suspected, a tedious man. Like many other aristocrats he was a confirmed Puritan who fought for Parliament. ‘I thought I might find you here, father-in-law, I’ve come from Whitehall.’

      He made it sound like a complaint. Sir George smiled. ‘It’s always good to see you, John.’

      ‘We have to speak, Sir George, a matter of utmost importance.’

      ‘Ah.’ Sir George looked about the precinct, knowing that the Earl would not wish to be overheard in such a public place. Reluctantly Sir George suggested that they share a boat back to Whitehall. It was odd, Sir George thought, how no one minded being overheard by watermen.

      They walked down to St Paul’s wharf, down the steep street that was noisy with trade and shaded by washing strung between the overhanging upper storeys. They joined the queue waiting for the watermen, keeping to the right for they needed a two-oared boat and not the single sculls that sufficed a lone passenger. The Earl of Fleet frowned at the delay. He was a busy man, preparing to leave in a week’s time for the war in the west country. Sir George could not imagine his portly, self-important son-in-law as a leader of troops, but he kept his amusement to himself.

      They shuffled down the stone quay as the queue shortened, and Sir George looked to his left at the sunlight on the houses of London Bridge. It was a pity, he thought, that the houses burned at the city end of the bridge had never been rebuilt, it gave the great structure a lopsided look, but the bridge, with its houses, shops, palace, and chapel built above the wide river, was still one of the glories of Europe. Sir George felt the sadness of loss. He would miss the sun glinting on the Thames, the water thronged with boats, the skyline below the bridge thicketed with masts.

      ‘Where to, genn’l’men?’ a cheerful voice shouted at them and the Earl handed Sir George into the boat.

      ‘Privy Stairs!’ The Earl of Fleet managed to sound as if their business was of vast importance.

      The watermen spun their boat, leaned into the oars, and the small craft surged into the stream. Sir George looked at his son-in-law. ‘You wanted to talk, John?’

      ‘It’s Toby, Sir George.’

      ‘Ah!’ Sir George had been worried that the Earl might have guessed his wavering loyalty, but instead he wished to speak about Sir George’s other concern: his son. ‘What’s he done now?’

      ‘You don’t know?’

      Sir George tipped his plain hat back so that the sun could warm his forehead. To his right the wall of London ended at Baynard’s Castle, beyond which was the old Blackfriar’s Theatre. Sir George decided innocence was his best defence against the Earl. ‘Toby? He’s at Gray’s Inn, you know that. I think he should know something of the law, John, enough to steer well clear of it later. Mind you, I think he’s bored. Yes, very bored. It makes him boisterous, but I was boisterous once.’ He looked at his son-in-law. ‘Young men should be boisterous, John.’

      The Earl of Fleet frowned. He had never been boisterous. ‘You will forgive me, Sir George, but it is not that he is boisterous.’ Water splashed on his coat and he ineffectually flapped at the black cloth. ‘I fear you will not be happy, father-in-law.’ The Earl was obviously distressed at being the bearer of bad news.

      Sir George spoke gently. ‘I’m rather in suspense at this moment.’

      ‘Quite so, quite so.’ Fleet nodded vigorously, then took the plunge. ‘Your son, Sir George, is actively striving for our enemies. He pretends otherwise, but it is so.’ The Earl spoke ponderously, poking his finger into his knee as if to emphasise his words. ‘If his activities reach the ear of the competent authorities then he will be arrested, tried, and doubtless imprisoned.’

      ‘Yes.’ Sir George still spoke softly. He looked away from his companion at the crowd waiting for boats at the Temple Stairs. Sir George knew of Toby’s activities, because his son had told him of them, but how on earth had the Earl of Fleet discovered them? ‘I hope you’re sure of this, John.’

      ‘Quite sure.’ The Earl of Fleet was genuinely upset at being the bearer of bad news. ‘It is, I fear, quite certain.’

      ‘You’d better tell me, then.’

      The Earl began at the beginning, as Sir George feared he would, and he pedantically described Toby’s activities. It was all, Sir George knew, correct. Toby had become embroiled in a Royalist conspiracy, a conspiracy that Sir George knew was doomed to failure. There were rich merchants in London who were not supporters of Parliament, but whose businesses prevented them from leaving the city. Some had sent word to the King in Oxford that, if he were to ask it, men might flock to his standard raised in the centre of London. They planned a rebellion against the rebels, an uprising in the heart of London, and Sir George knew that Toby had been charged with discovering their exact strength and ascertaining how many men would follow the Royalist merchants.

      Sir George knew because Toby had told him. There was a great deal of respect and love between father and son, and though Sir George did not wholeheartedly approve of Toby’s clandestine activity, he could not find it within his uncertain loyalties to forbid it.

      The Earl of Fleet turned his round, serious face to Sir George. ‘One of the men Toby spoke to has a secretary, a man strong in the Lord, and the secretary reported it to the minister of his congregation. The minister, knowing of my relationship with you, laid the СКАЧАТЬ