A Crowning Mercy (11 page)

'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 matter before me. And now I have come to you.'

'And I thank you for that.' Sir George was sincere. 'It's put you in an awkward position, John.'

The boat was turning south round the great bend. To their left was the empty untidiness of Lambeth Marsh, to their right the rich houses of the Strand. The Earl lowered his voice. 'I must act soon, Sir George, I must.'

'Of course you must.' Sir George knew that his son-in-law, an honest man, would be forced to go to the proper authorities within a few days. 'How long, John?'

The Earl did not reply at once. The boat had gone to the Surrey bank where the current was weaker, but now the watermen were beginning the wide turn that would bring them smoothly downstream to the Privy Stairs at Whitehall. The Earl frowned at his damp coat. 'I must report this by next Lord's Day.'

Six days till Sunday. 'Thank you, John.' Six days to remove Toby from London, to send him to safety at Lazen Castle. The thought made Sir George smile. His wife, the formidable Lady Margaret Lazender, would welcome her husband's change of allegiance. She would doubtless wholeheartedly approve of her son's secret actions for the King.

Sir George paid the stroke oar, then climbed on to the stairs. He walked beside his taller son-in-law along the right of way that led through the royal Palace, under the archway, and into King Street. 'I'm for home, John.'

'And I for Westminster.'

'You'll come and dine before you leave London?'

'Of course.'

'Good, good.' Sir George looked at the blue sky above the new Banqueting Hall. 'I hope the weather lasts.'

'A good harvest, yes.'

They parted, and Sir George walked slowly home. Whitehall had never looked better. He would miss it, though he acknowledged pleasure at the thought of rejoining Lady Margaret in Lazen. His wife, whom Sir George loved, refused to travel to London, saying it was a viperous den of lawyers, thieves and politicians. Sir George hated being away from the city. Perhaps, he admitted to himself with a smile, that was why their marriage had been so good. Lady Margaret loved him from Dorset, while he loved her from London.

He crossed the road to avoid a virulent Puritan member of the Commons who was bound to detain him twenty minutes to tell him the latest gossip about the King's flirtation with the Roman Catholics. Sir George touched his hat once, in reply to a similar greeting from Sir Grenville Cony who passed in his coach. A powerful man, Sir Grenville, deep in the inner councils of Parliament and paymaster to half the rebel army. Sir George had the uncanny impression that Sir Grenville, in a single smiling glance from his coach, had divined Sir George's wavering loyalty.

Sir George stopped at Charing Cross, looking over at the Royal Mews, because a stage wagon, come from the west, blocked his path. The wagon had huge, broad wheels to negotiate the muddy, rutted roads, though this summer the going had been dry and easy. The coach roof was piled with luggage and passengers, but Sir George's eye was caught by a girl who stared with awe and wonder through the leather-curtained window. His breath almost caught in his throat. She was more beautiful than any girl he had seen in years. He caught her eye unintentionally and raised his hand in a polite salute so she would not take offence.

If I were thirty years younger, he thought, and the desire amused him as he crossed towards his house. He envied the girl. Her expression seemed to convey that this was her first sight of London, and he was jealous of all the experiences that lay before her. He must leave the great city.

Mrs Pierce opened the door to him. 'Master.' She took his hat and cane. 'Master Toby's upstairs.'

'He is? Good!' Sir George glanced at the staircase. He must pack his son off to safety in the next six days, send him far away from the vengeance of the Saints. Toby must return to Lazen, and his father would follow. Sir George slowly climbed the stairs.

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Campion saw the elderly man salute her with his cane, she almost smiled in return, but then her fear of the unknown, her dread of the great city, overtook her and the moment passed.

She had reached London, and the enormity of her achievement had astonished her even as it scared her.

If a child is punished often and punished cruelly, and if a parent has such an all-embracing concept of sin that even the most innocent acts can lead to punishment, then the child will learn early to be cunning. Campion had learned early and learned well, and it had been cunning that had brought her this far.

Cunning and more than a little luck. She had waited one more day, then left the house well before dawn. She was dressed in her sober best and carrying a bundle of food, coins and one spare dress. The seal was about her neck, hidden beneath her bodice, while the pearled gloves and the letter were in her bundle.

She had walked east, towards the dawn, and for a time she had been exhilarated. Two hours later, as the sun flooded the fields and woods, the exhilaration had ended. She was walking into a sheltered valley where the road crossed a stream when a filthy beggar erupted from a ditch. He had possibly meant her no harm, but the bearded face, the grunting sounds, and the single, reaching, clawing hand had terrified her and she had run, easily outstripping him, and thereafter she had walked cautiously and warily, fearing the dangers that this strange world contained.

An hour later, when she was already tired and dispirited, a farmer's wife who drove a wagon offered her a ride. The wagon was heavy with flax, the stalks rustling as the horses dragged it, and even though the flax was going south-east Campion accepted the ride because the woman's company was a protection against danger. Campion told the woman that she was being sent to London to work for her uncle, and when the woman asked scornfully why she was travelling alone, Campion invented a story: her mother had suddenly been evicted from her cottage. Campion was the only hope of raising money and her mother had begged her to accept her uncle's offer of employment. Her mother, Campion said, was sick. She told the story well and the farmer's wife sympathised, and did not abandon Campion when the wagon reached its destination at Winterborne Zelston.

A carrier was in the village, going to Southampton with a string of mules, and the farmer's wife arranged for Campion to go with the man and his wife. The carrier, like so many travelling people, was a Puritan and Campion was glad of it. She might find their religion oppressive and cruel, but she knew they would also be honest and trustworthy. The carrier's wife clucked as she heard Campion's story. 'You poor thing, dear. You'd best come to Southampton, then on to London. It's safer that way nowadays.'

She slept that first night in the public room of an inn, sharing the room with a dozen women, and there were times in the reaches of the night when she wished she was back home in Werlatton. She had launched herself on the stream, and its current was already taking her to strange, frightening places where she did not know how to behave. Yet the thought of Scammell, of his flabby, heavy desire for her, of being forced to mother his children, made her determined to endure.

In the cold dawn she paid for her lodgings with a gold coin, causing raised eyebrows, and she had to trust that she was given the correct coins in change. The women's privy was an empty pigsty, open to the sky. It was all so strange. The broadsheets pasted on to the wall of the tavern told of Puritan victories against the King, for this was an area loyal to Parliament.

The carrier's wife, having settled her own bill, took her out into the street where her husband had already strung the mules into their chain. They walked into the dawn again and Campion's spirits soared to the sky for she had survived one whole day.

The carrier, Walter, was a taciturn man, as stubborn as the mules that made him a living. He walked slowly at the head of his string, his eyes on his Bible that his wife proudly told Campion he had recently learned to read. 'Not all the words, mind you, but most of them. He reads me nice stories from the scriptures.'