A Conspiracy of Violence (11 page)

She shot to her feet. ‘Damn! He will not believe I am taking bread to the homeless again – especially since he offered to
go with me next time.’ She pulled on cap and cloak. ‘Go and distract him, but please do not pretend to be a beggar this time
– your last performance distressed him horribly, and he was quiet all day, reflecting on the horrors of destitution.’

‘I will tell him I have the plague,’ said Chaloner. ‘That will drive him back inside his house.’

‘At your peril! He is terrified of sickness, and carries a club to repel infected people. What is wrong with talking about
the weather? I do not understand this desire for the dramatic, Tom. You did it in Holland, too.’

Chaloner supposed he had, since discussions about the climate tended not to be a good way of keeping people’s attention in
his line of business.

She indicated he was to hurry, so he grabbed his cloak and set off, leaving her to follow. Outside, the street smelled of
snow and smoke, and he was suddenly reminded of one Christmas at his family’s manor in
Buckinghamshire. All his siblings had been there, and the house had been ablaze with candles. It was before the first of
the civil wars, so his parents had been alive, smiling at each other and holding hands in the absurd, affectionate way they
had had with each other. His oldest sister had jokingly arranged everyone in a line according to height, and they had processed
out of the house into a white Christmas Eve for midnight mass. It had been a happy time, full of laughter and light, and Chaloner
had never understood why Cromwell had wanted to eliminate the festival.

The memory of candlelight and singing faded abruptly when his foot slipped on the slops Metje had dumped the previous day
– now frozen into a hard, slick plate – and he took a tumble.

‘Heyden!’ exclaimed North, hurrying towards him. ‘I was going to warn you about the ice, but you were down before I could
shout.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, trying to climb to his feet. It was not easy with a leg that was unwilling to bear his weight.

‘There is no need for blasphemy,’ admonished North severely.

North was wearing his Sunday best, which entailed a black suit that was even plainer than the ones he favoured during the
rest of the week. In the semi-darkness, the burn on his face was more noticeable than usual, a dark patch across his chin
and cheek. Temperance had told Metje that he had been set upon by a mob at the Restoration: when the King had made his triumphal
return, people were keen to demonstrate their new loyalties, and North had not been the only Nonconformist to suffer an unprovoked
attack. Sadly, the assault had occurred just months
after a similar incident had deprived North of his only son, and Temperance had confided that both parents had clung even
more fiercely to strong religion afterwards, as a way of dealing with their misfortunes.

Chaloner accepted the outstretched hand. ‘I am sorry if I offended you.’

‘You offended God,’ replied North. ‘But I shall escort you to your rooms, where you can rest and pray for forgiveness.’

Chaloner could see Metje just inside the door. ‘There is no need—’

‘Nonsense,’ said North, moving forward and hauling Chaloner with him. ‘It is no trouble.’

Metje shot back up the stairs, making so much noise that North glanced up in alarm.

‘Rats,’ explained Chaloner, leaning heavily on the man’s shoulder in an attempt to distract him. ‘They come in to escape the
frost.’

‘They must be very big ones,’ said North nervously.

‘Huge,’ agreed Chaloner, moving slowly up the steps. ‘This is very kind of you, sir.’

‘It is no more than my Christian duty.’ North shivered when they reached the bedchamber. ‘It is colder here than it is outside.
Do you have no firewood?’

‘I forgot to order it.’

‘Then I shall lend you some,’ declared North. ‘I will fetch it now.’

Before Chaloner could decline, North had gone, and Metje emerged from under the bed, quaking with laughter as she dusted herself
down. ‘Next time, give me more than half a minute before creating your so-called diversion. I could hardly believe it when
you brought him all the way in here.’

‘It was an accident. I slipped on some ice.’

The humour faded from her face. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘My dignity suffered a fatal insult. I shall never be able to look him in the face again – a man half his age wallowing on
the ground and unable to rise. But you should go before he comes back. Take care not to meet him on the stairs.’

The summons from the Lord Chancellor arrived early the following morning. Fortunately, Chaloner’s new cassock and wig were
ready, and with them he wore a wide-brimmed hat that he hoped would make him look more Cavalier than Roundhead. He disliked
dressing up, but impressions were important at Court, and it would be foolish not to try to make a good one. With an hour
to spare, he used most of the last shilling from Thurloe’s advance to lay in a supply of firewood, taking care to return more
to North than he had been lent – but regretted carrying it himself when he ended up with sawdust on his finery. Metje left
the Norths’ sitting room in exasperated disgust at his carelessness, while Faith and Temperance fussed with brushes and damp
cloths.

‘You look very elegant,’ said Temperance warmly. ‘Although I do not like this current trend for wigs. I suspect they were
invented by a
man
who is
bald
.’ Somewhat abruptly, she removed her bonnet to reveal shining chestnut tresses. Chaloner regarded them in surprise, having
had no idea that her prim headwear concealed such a splendid mane. She saw his reaction and smiled. ‘I could sell it and pay
for new windows in the chapel.’

‘Temperance!’ exclaimed Faith, shocked. ‘Replace your clothing at once!’

‘Do not sell it,’ said Chaloner at the same time. ‘It looks better on you than it would on a bald man.’

Faith looked from one to the other with sudden suspicion, and it did not take a genius to understand the line her thoughts
were taking.

‘I should go,’ said Chaloner uncomfortably. ‘Or I will be late.’

‘I told you so,’ said Metje, coming to escort him out of the house. Behind the closed sitting room door came the muted murmur
of motherly advice. ‘Temperance adores you.’

‘She has more taste,’ said Chaloner, catching her hand and raising it to his lips. ‘Not like you.’

Metje laughed. ‘My father always said my choice of men would lead me to a bad end. He was right: my first husband died fighting
a duel over a neighbour’s barking dog, and you have no money.’ She reached out to straighten his hat.

‘I will if I prove to be good at victualling.’

‘I doubt
that
will happen. Downing said you were terrible at household accounts, although I suppose Mr North is happy with your work, so
you cannot be overly dire. But I still think you should see what Dalton has to offer, and ignore the Lord Chancellor. You
are better suited to translating than book-keeping – it is easier work for a lazy man.’

These comments sometimes stung, although he told himself she probably would not have made them had she known the truth about
him. ‘I can do both,’ he said, a little coolly.

She laughed, rather derisively. ‘Can you? Well, it will keep you busy, but I would rather see you once a week in a warm room
than five times in a cold one. I acquired something for you yesterday.’

Chaloner disliked the occasions when she changed the subject before he could defend himself from her cutting remarks, and
nor did he like her use of the term ‘acquired’. It sounded as though she had stolen it. ‘What?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘A lamp – a really good one. It means you will be able to read your music at night, and I will be able to dress without groping
around in the dark.’

Chaloner regarded her sceptically. ‘Where did it come from?’

She shoved him in the chest, disappointed by his response. ‘A friend – one of the chapel council – gave it to me. She bought
another and offered me the old one. And I am giving it to you.’

He did not want to appear ungracious, but buying fuel for such an extravagance was currently out of the question. He forced
a smile. ‘That is kind.’

‘Mr North is taking Faith and Temperance to a jewellers’ meeting in Goldsmiths’ Hall today, so I should be able to smuggle
it to you with no one seeing. You will like it, I promise. It is
massive
.’

He smiled again, amused she should think size had anything to do with quality, and his irritation at her began to fade. ‘Thank
you.’

She hugged him. ‘It is a reward for accepting a post with Dalton. Be careful if you visit Mr North tonight, though. The turkey
is due to arrive this evening, and I have a feeling Faith will not have the courage to put her knife to its throat.’

The icy snap of the last two days had given way to the dank fogginess that often afflicted London in the winter months. Clouds
hung low overhead, covering houses and
trees with a film of fine droplets. Smoke from thousands of fires and the noxious industries along the Fleet became trapped
in the mist, creating a yellow-brown pall that caught at the back of throats. Beggars were out in force, displaying wounds
and sores, and appealing piteously for extra alms because of the dismal weather. One revealed fingers that looked frost-bitten,
and Chaloner wondered whether he had allowed them to freeze on purpose, so he would have an injury to show passers-by. He
gave the man one of his last pennies, sorry he should be forced to such desperate measures.

He walked briskly, concentrating on not stepping into the piles of ordure that littered the streets and on staying out of
the path of carts and horses. Traders yelled every inch of the way, selling pies, ribbons, nails, pots, candles, cure-alls
and fruit. Men in sober clothing screamed that God demanded repentance, and gaudily clad courtiers were jiggled along in sedan
chairs. A massive bull, brought for slaughter from the nearby village of Islington, had escaped and was running amok, tracked
by several baying dogs and an amorous cow. Its owner shadowed the menagerie nervously, calling for its return, but the bull
had other ideas, and continued along the Strand on a bucking, chaotic mission of its own.

As Chaloner neared White Hall, the streets became more crowded, and he learned from the conversations around him that there
was to be an exhibition that day – some of the paintings acquired by the King for his private apartments were to be publicly
displayed. The Banqueting House had been chosen as the venue, and visitors were invited to inspect the collection for the
very reasonable price of sixpence. Since he had some time to spare, Chaloner stepped inside, deciding at last to locate
the stone under which his uncle had hidden his money.

The Banqueting House was one of the most imposing buildings in the city, a mammoth, rectangular edifice designed to look like
an ancient Roman meeting hall. It had two tiers of massive oblong windows, and Chaloner recalled vividly the old king stepping
through one of them to meet the executioner’s axe thirteen years before. Inside, he gazed up at the riot of colour in Rubens’s
famous ceiling, although some of its the panels were already stained with soot from the many lamps that were needed to illuminate
the room at night.

That day, every spare patch of wall boasted a work of art, and boards had been set up along the middle of the chamber to hold
more. Sombre Dutch masters rubbed shoulders with the lighter, softer colours of the Venetian schools, and there was an atmosphere
of hushed awe from the spectators. Chaloner turned his attention to the floor, which comprised squares of red and white marble,
all in sad need of a scrub. He made for the far end of the hall and began to count: seven tiles from the door, and three from
the second window. His uncle’s slab was slightly different than its neighbours, because the mortar holding it in place had
been scraped away. Dirt had dropped into the resulting gaps, but it looked as though no one had raised it since the older
Chaloner had deposited his five hundred silver crowns there the night he had fled the country. It would make a pleasant surprise
for his sons one day – but not yet. There were still too many unfriendly eyes on the regicides’ families, regardless of the
fact that most had been powerless to prevent what their kinsmen had done.

Chaloner left when a steward demanded the entrance fee, and headed for the Court Gate, which stood just
north of the Banqueting House. He had never been inside White Hall palace, although he had travelled along King Street often
enough, and he was obliged to ask the way to the Lord Chancellor’s offices. The soldier issued directions that were difficult
to follow, sending him across the spacious yard known as the Great Court, and into a chaotic huddle of buildings that were
mostly occupied by the Queen’s servants. He turned left when the soldier should have said right, and found himself in a second
yard, this one boasting an individual buttery, pantry, wood shed, coal shed, stable, kitchen and laundry for virtually every
White Hall resident. He passed through a gate that then locked behind him, so was unable to retrace his steps when he realised
he was heading in the wrong direction. It was not long before he was hopelessly lost.

He continued to wander, confused by the palace’s jumble of buildings and alleys. Some houses were ancient and verging on ruinous,
although they had probably been splendid in their day, while others were rambling Tudor monstrosities, all irregular angles,
brick chimneys and thick timbers. Others still were modern, hurled up quickly and cheaply, without regard to function or style.
The result was a messy village populated by scurrying clerks, aloof retainers, arrogant courtiers and a smattering of clerics.
Eventually, he found someone willing to escort him, and was conducted to an elegant wing overlooking the manicured expanse
of open ground called the Privy Gardens. The Lord Chancellor was in good company, Chaloner’s guide informed him, because he
had Prince Rupert as a neighbour on one side, and the King on the other. The clocks were striking ten as Chaloner knocked
to be admitted.