Traitor's Field (29 page)
Authors: Robert Wilton
There was a large chest against the near wall and, for want of an alternative, he sat on it. ‘Lyle,’ he began; Lyle’s eyes flicked up again. ‘What was he burning? Messages? Codes?’
Lyle sat back. ‘You tell me. You saw it.’
‘Exactly!’ Tarrant was up again. ‘If you’d—’
But Lyle had carried on. ‘That late on, I’d be surprised if there was any correspondence that hadn’t already been burned.’
Thurloe absorbed it. ‘Must have been hellish important. To wait that long. Then to risk your life for it.’ Lyle nodded. ‘Lyle, who are these people? I was at Nottingham, and—’
‘The Royalists have their intelligencing men too,’ Lyle said. ‘They’re desperate – have to be now – and they’ll get worse.’
‘They’re a rash,’ Tarrant said, pushing forward into the conversation. ‘You’re the expert, Thurloe.’ To Lyle, with a sneer, ‘Thurloe fixed up the report on Rainsborough’s death, for Oliver St John. They’re like a poison, Thurloe. They will infect this whole world.’
‘But you must have some idea of them.’ Thurloe was leaning forwards; now he settled back, trying to seem measured. ‘You get. . . information about them. Reports. We have our spies, surely.’
‘Look—’ Tarrant, hot and then wondering where to take the initiative he’d just seized. He glanced down at Lyle, back at Thurloe, and then down again.
What battle is this, and what side am I on? What am I not allowed to know?
Lyle was still watching Thurloe.
Why did I write the report on Colonel Rainsborough’s death, and not Tarrant, or Lyle himself?
‘We’re winning,’ Lyle said.
‘Logically there are two hypotheses.’ Thurloe had slowed his voice deliberately. ‘Either you’re incompetent, an intelligencing man without any intelligence to pass. Or you’re not telling all you know.’
Tarrant scowled. Then he returned to his window.
‘You’re clever, Hotspur,’ Lyle said, and again the unconvincing smile. ‘But where’s it got you?’
‘Ready?’ The shadow of a nod from Teach, single and firm. ‘Don’t fall asleep.’
Shay took a breath, and released it slowly. It disappeared into the rustle of leaves. Then he stepped forward from the tree line into thigh-length undergrowth.
On the opposite side of the clearing, another figure had done the same.
Shay peered through the gloom. A black cloak against the dark trunks, a black hat – and a mask of some kind.
He took another pace forward, the bracken pulling at his boots.
‘Shay.’ It was Teach behind him, low and urgent. ‘He has a second – in the trees behind him. Two – three yards to the right.’
Shay nodded slightly, let his eyes wander slowly to the right. He couldn’t see anything, of course.
Buried to the knees in the grey foliage, he and his reflection watched each other. Another step forward, and they were both on clear ground.
Three – four steps brought them to proximity in the centre, Shay forcing himself not to look at the trees, trusting Teach, watching instead the movement of the man in front of him. Controlled careful movement: a man of calculation, but not a man of action.
Three yards apart, and still Shay could make nothing of the features under the hat.
He stared into the mask nonetheless. ‘Have you travelled far, pilgrim?’
‘I have, and I’ve farther still to go.’ The voice was low, firm.
‘God and the King’s justice go with you.’
‘God save the King.’
Among the mess of rocks, the masked figure selected one and sat warily, watching Shay. He waited for Shay to do the same.
Shay gauged as best he could where the masked man’s confederate was – there was every chance the confederate had moved, but he had to seek advantage where he could – and sat down so that the masked man was between them.
‘You’ve come from. . .’ – he knew he’d get no precise answer – ‘overseas?’
‘I have.’
‘Into England. Now. An exceptional circumstance for the Committee, I imagine.’
‘The English have assassinated their King, Shay; we may fairly describe the times as exceptional.’
Good boots – expensive; not hard worn. Cloak and hat meant nothing. Shay looked at the hands for a glimmer of rings in the last of the light, but saw nothing. Means of identification and distinction would be minimal.
‘How lies the land?’
Shay tried to gauge the voice, through the mask. Not a young voice. But the man was not as old as he. Forty, perhaps. ‘The people are stunned, for now. Cowed. Preston and the risings at the same time – Colchester, Pontefract, Wales – they exhausted enthusiasm and material.’ The man was still and silent, waiting for him to finish. An intelligent man. ‘But the killing of the King shocked many. There’s discontent at the arrogance and impositions of the new regime. And the regime has its divisions: between some of the MPs and the soldiers; even in the Army, between moderates and the Levelling men.’
‘Risings? A new royal army?’
‘Not without something to rally to.’
‘So it will have to be another invasion.’
‘Yes. And not yet. Not this year.’
The mask considered this, then nodded acceptance. ‘From Ireland?’
Shay growled distaste. ‘Nothing good ever came out of Ireland.’
‘Scotland again, then?’
‘Yes.’
The cloak, the mask and the hat were all but lost in the evening now. ‘The Scottish demands on religion are still too much for us – for His Majesty, that is.’
‘The politics of Scotland are in constant shift. A month or a year may bring a new party to the fore, offering a different bargain. And you and His Majesty may have to bend a little, if you want the kingdom back.’
The shadow was silent. It was close to impertinence, and they both knew it.
‘His Majesty looks for a new champion in Scotland. Montrose is in Norway, but would return if called.’
‘Montrose.’ Shay’s voice was low, but there was question enough in the tone.
‘You do not esteem him?’
‘As a man, very highly. As a soldier, he is brave but reckless. And he is no kind of politician at all, and I think your man will need to be soldier and politician.’
‘We have Hamilton, too. He grieves for his beheaded brother.’
‘He may serve.’ Shay shifted on the uneven surface of the boulder. ‘There are no loyal men in Scotland: every man has served every master in his time, and the Hamiltons have been more slippery than most. When we can make a congruence between our interest and enough of the Scots, we’ll find the man easily enough. For now, we must make a little time. Keep Parliament and the Army distracted. Weaken them if we may. And for that, Ireland will serve well enough.’
‘You said nothing good ever came out of Ireland.’
‘Nor did it. Indeed, a great many good men went into Ireland and did not come out again. In the chaos of that stinking primitive swamp of an island, we may find enough to draw in Master Cromwell.’
‘Ormonde is still there. He made his peace with the Catholic Confederacy, and he fancies he can make that a military alliance in the royal interest.’
Shay nodded. ‘Good. Then have him do it.’
‘An alliance with the Catholics?’ The masked man held up an instinctive hand, trying to block the onslaught. ‘The late King suffered for a decade to avoid so open a stand.’
‘The late King’s policy was not a success. We must find our friendships where we can.’
‘The Catholic Confederacy is volatile; divided. Could we depend on them?’
‘The Catholic Confederacy is a squabbling snakepit of cut-throat barbarian peasants. I would depend on them for nothing but a knife in the back and an empty purse. But they must fear Cromwell and the puritans more than anything else. And that may bring them together and hold them together long enough to serve our turn.’
Only a moment’s thought. ‘We will send as much to Ormonde. And you?’
‘I will do what I can to support the cause in Ireland and Scotland. I will ready our friends here for the King’s eventual return. And in the meantime I may work a little mischief to keep the Parliament and the Army off their balance.’
It was fully night now. The mask was lost in the darkness, vision only hints of grey among black. There was a pause, and Shay thought he saw the man nod.
‘You’re the man for it. You have our trust and our blessing.’
‘My respects and my duty to the Committee and to the King.’
‘We are sure of it.’
They stood.
Shay said, ‘And you now. . .?’
‘Will be out of this island before dawn. Have you fully the threads of Astbury’s operation now?’
A hollow grunt from Shay in the night. ‘I have the communications. I don’t yet know what game he was playing at the end. And. . . I do not yet have the book.’
‘You do not. . .?’ An aborted gasp through the mask. Words were unnecessary. The man took a breath, and said: ‘You will find it.’ It was not explicitly a command, and certainly not a reassurance. It was truth, because the alternative was inconceivable.
Shay’s voice was low, solid, grim. ‘I will find it.’
They each took a step backwards, cautious and uneasy in the gloom and the rough ground. Two half-bows, half-glimpsed, and the two men turned and disappeared from each other.
Sir,
Cromwell and the rest of the new-fangled Council of State are in a fury at the public sympathy for the so-called Levellers. They had thought, by their swift action in imprisoning Lilburne and the others who spoke before Parliament in that cause, to have crushed the protest and hushed contrarian voices. But the complaints of Lilburne and his Levellers, at the tyrannic arrogations of the Council of State itself, and at the offences against the processes and habits of English justice which they claim the Council has committed with its early dealings, and at the offences against the soldiers who put them in their current high position, touch Cromwell and the Council where they are proudest and where they are sorest.
The people of the kingdom know but that they suffer, and now a man has come who tells them why they suffer, and they are like to believe him, even though he blame the government itself. And this surely is most ironical, that it is the men who killed the King and who now dominate the Council who first taught England that its government may be doubted and challenged. By criticising the current regime in terms that magnified the virtues and responsibilities of Parliament against such impositions, Lilburne and his Levellers have most shrewdly stirred up a new spirit of righteousness among impressionable Members of the Parliament.
I think Cromwell and the Council do more fear the continued and growing feeling for these notions in the belly of the Army itself, which has always been their rock and their salvation. The shadow of the Agitators still stands over the regiments, and memories of democratic practices within the operation of the Army linger, but the threat of the power of the sword over the politicians, lately heard again from within the ranks, is no longer part of the policy of the leaders. While Cromwell and Fairfax and their kind have the Army, they have the Kingdom and none may challenge them. Should the Army weaken or fracture, set at odds by the radical and equalising dreams of the Levellers, they would be left as men naked in the public street.
S. V.
[SS C/S/49/21]
Shay read the report, and wondered at the attitudes, and reread it.
‘Teach.’
Teach, sitting against the wall dozing, opened his eyes immediately, though his head and body stayed still.
‘What do you know of the Levellers? What do men say of them?’
Teach took in a great sniff, and wriggled his shoulders.
‘They are no kind of organization; an affinity of interest merely. A hodgepodge of ideas. A kind of disease in Parliament’s Army.’
‘I had them as fanatics and moon-gazers; ideas dangerous but fantastical.’ Shay gestured with the paper. ‘All these petitions and protests. What do these men truly want?’
Teach shrugged. ‘They want more. They want better. They’ve had a decade of war and they want it worth something.’ Another great sniff. ‘Usually they want their back pay.’
‘Freedom of belief, and the liberties of the people, and no trifling by Kings and Bishops with their folkloric nostrums. These are notions that Cromwell himself unleashed. Should he fear the Levellers?’