by Graham Brack
‘But does Coleman?’
Arlington looked at me in a curious, appraising sort of way. ‘You are not such an innocent as might appear, are you?’ he chuckled. ‘I rather think that the Duke wishes to use Coleman to get a message to whoever is behind this, and there would be no point in that if Coleman had no idea where to go looking, would there?’
I think it will be clear to any reader that I am not made for plotting. My head was spinning as we entered the King’s chamber, and I was much tempted to announce that urgent business called me back to Leiden and leave it to someone else to sort this out, except that I could not think who that might be; and I was fairly sure that if I deserted my post, William would not leave me peacefully in my library but would send me back again with a less friendly scene on the quayside.
Charles was an imposing sight at any time, tall and in his prime, but he emphasised this when he wanted to by standing on a little platform that supported his chair. From this point he towered over us all, and I do not mind saying that the effect was very impressive. ‘You are a dark horse, Mercurius!’ he began.
I wanted to tell him I was not any kind of horse. I admit my nose is longer than some, but that is where the equine resemblance ends; but it seems he did not mean this literally.
‘Van Langenburg has given me a letter from my nephew in which he tells me that you are an inquisitor of some ability.’
I proved the point by instantly asking myself why Van Langenburg had such a letter, unless someone in the Dutch party anticipated the events that had happened. On the other hand, and notwithstanding that pride is a terrible sin, it was good to know that the Stadhouder found my work satisfactory.
‘Mercurius, I hope that you will do me the same service you have performed for William, and work with Arlington to find those responsible. If you succeed, you will not find me ungenerous.’
I could have sworn that Arlington snorted, but when I glanced at him he had a face like a statue.
‘And, what is more to the point,’ Charles continued, ‘you will have earned my goodwill. We’re always on the lookout for suitable bishops, aren’t we, Arlington?’
I have already remarked that I was ordained as both a Reformed minister and as a Catholic priest. The idea that I could have a future as an Anglican bishop was just adding complexity to an already difficult life. Mind you, if I had foreseen at that moment what would happen when Charles died and James succeeded, given the knots James got into with his bishops, I might have signed up for a bishopric because there would be something delicious about being accused by a King of being insufficiently Catholic when you could prove you had been a Catholic priest for over twenty years. A lot of James’ problems would have vanished if a friendly Pope had excommunicated him. They never do, of course; great men can do all kinds of things and the Pope just writes them a note excusing their behaviour. Consider the Duke of Orleans; most men who dressed in women’s clothes and showed an unnatural interest in guardsmen would be on a gibbet in no time, but the Pope simply shrugged it off as high-spirited horseplay.
However, I digress (again).
Arlington was busily explaining the findings of the examination of Wevers’ body to the King. My attention had wandered a little — I find listening to English requires a lot of concentration — but Arlington had produced a roll of cloth which he unwound to reveal the two daggers, in which the King showed the greatest interest.
‘I think we might return his weapon to Mr Vlisser,’ suggested Arlington.
‘When he leaves,’ the King countered. ‘But tell me, was the other in Wevers’ sleeve when he was received here on your arrival?’
‘I believe it must have been,’ Arlington answered.
Charles knitted his black brows in a considerable frown. ‘Show it to the Captain of the Guard and ask him how his men missed it. It may step up their vigilance for a week or two.’
‘It will be done, Your Majesty,’ Arlington replied.
‘Good. Now, Mercurius, what do you propose to do next?’
The question took me completely by surprise. I had been envisaging an inquiry in which Arlington took the lead and I threw in the odd helpful comment as things came to my notice. It was an unpleasant shock to discover that I was apparently in charge of the hunt for Wevers’ killer.
‘I think, Your Majesty,’ I began, then ran out of anything to say.
‘I’m glad you do,’ Charles answered, ‘but what do you think?’
‘I think … that whoever is responsible for the accusation against Preuveneers may also be behind the death of Wevers, and therefore we should question the silversmith more carefully.’
‘That will be difficult,’ Arlington told me. ‘He did not survive the last lot of questioning.’
This came as a surprise to me, but not to the King, or so it seemed.
‘Well,’ Charles sighed, ‘if he would not tell us who had commissioned him to do the smaller thing, he wouldn’t have given up the greater name either.’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty,’ said Arlington.
They spoke as if dying under questioning was evidence of a lack of moral fibre.
‘Still, can’t be helped now!’ said Charles cheerfully.
‘Then it seems to me that the best course of action is to demonstrate that the conspirators have once more failed in their objective and that the negotiations are proceeding well,’ I suggested.
Charles looked doubtful. ‘Are they?’ he asked.
‘They haven’t really started,’ Arlington answered. ‘We’ve only held an introductory session to introduce each other.’
This was true. Unless matters were proceeding without my knowledge, we had spent most of our time in London eating and drinking.
‘But the conspirators may not know that,’ I said. ‘Or, perhaps I should say, if we claim that they have gone well, we may discover whether the plotters are so well connected that they know otherwise.’
‘Oh, very cunning!’ said Charles, rubbing his hands together briskly. ‘If they know no progress has been made, we’ll know they’re insiders, whereas if they’re provoked into more action, we’ll know they’re not part of the talks. I like that.’
‘Perhaps, sir, we might announce a provisional date for a celebration?’ Arlington proposed.
‘A party! Yes, that would do well. Not too soon, I think. Am I doing anything on Sunday week, Arlington?’
‘Divine Service in the morning, Your Majesty, but we might amend that to a Service of Thanksgiving for a successful conclusion to our talks and then throw a banquet for our Dutch friends in the evening before they leave.’
‘Excellent! Well, there you are, Mercurius. You’ll have ten days to find the murderer before the party. If you succeed, we can end the whole thing with a hanging, and if you don’t, you’re leaving anyway so that will wrap the whole show up nicely.’
I was not sure that the idea of setting a limit on the inquiry was how these matters were supposed to be managed, but how could I argue with the King? William would have been immune to dispute too; he was very much his uncle’s nephew. I just had to get on it.
‘I will need to interview the Princess Mary again, Your Majesty,’ I said.
‘Why? Surely she isn’t behind this?’
‘No, sir, I meant as part of my duties with the mission.’
‘Oh, yes. She’s at Richmond, isn’t she, Arlington?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Should we fetch her to town?’
‘I think not, Your Majesty. The one sure way of preventing a Dutch wedding would be to abduct the bride. We must increase the guard at Richmond and restrict her movements.’
‘Quite right,’ said Charles, who now looked less happy. ‘I hadn’t thought of that possibility. My God, there are some evil people about. Arlington, ensure that Mercurius has a horse or carriage to take him to Richmond. And give him some money in case he needs to bribe a few people.’
This was definitely not the way that William would have proceeded; not that he wa
s averse to bribing people to get what he wanted, but he did not often give anyone else any money to do it. In fact, I had heard his officers complain that they had to meet the cost of these payments themselves.
We bowed, and for once I managed to reverse out of the room without encountering any door furniture, largely because the guards on the doors ensured that they were drawn right back.
‘So, Master Mercurius, what now?’ Arlington enquired.
‘To Richmond, I suppose,’ I said.
CHAPTER TEN
The Princess was a very different young woman in her own surroundings at Richmond. Her younger sister, the Princess Anne, was there for company, though they squabbled as sisters often do, it being Anne’s firm opinion that the household was run entirely for the benefit of Mary and that she, as the younger sibling, was held of no account.
Their governess was Frances Villiers, the wife of Sir Edward Villiers, whose own children were also to be found in the house, to the number of seven or eight. Most of them were older than Mary and could be accounted young adults, but Mary had some companions of her own age.
Mary greeted me very civilly. Her eyes were reddened, the result, as I learned, of copious tears due to the thought of being married at so young an age, though she was at pains to assure me that this was no reflection on the merits of my master. He was, after all, her cousin, and she knew him to be a serious and accomplished man, she told me. Certainly nobody could accuse him of being a fop or dandy.
‘No doubt you will think me a silly girl,’ Mary continued, ‘for I know that it is not given to princesses to marry for love. But yet I am conscious of my tender age to have so great a decision made for me.’
‘On the contrary,’ I assured her, ‘the fact that the importance of marriage presses upon you is proof that you are not a silly girl.’
Lady Villiers glided silently forward to offer a handkerchief to Mary to dry her eyes, and then returned to her chair in the corner. In the absence of the Bishop of London, I felt that a softer approach to the interview might be possible.
‘My lady,’ I said, ‘my task is to enquire into your religion. The Prince of Orange cannot marry anyone who is not committed to the Protestant faith.’
In retrospect, this was a risky suggestion, because all she had to do was announce herself to be a Roman Catholic and the wedding plans would have died on the spot, but instead she rushed to reassure me.
‘Master, you will not find any lack of zeal for the faith in my sister or myself. And Uncle Charles has been insistent that we must be loyal and obedient members of the Church of England.’
‘You will forgive my remarking that your father is a Catholic, and there must be pressure to follow his example,’ I answered.
‘By no means, Master! Uncle has explained to us that the people distrust Catholicism and would remove our family from the throne if they felt that we were all Catholics. They may bear one Catholic so long as the succession is secured to Protestants thereafter, and therefore it is important that we girls remain firm in the faith.’ Mary opened a small book on the table beside her. It was her own notebook in which she had recorded some prayers and devotional thoughts, which she offered to me to read. ‘You may see, Master, if my beliefs are not entirely Reformed.’
I turned a few pages and read a little, leading me to two conclusions. First, that there was no cause for concern about her religion, and second, that she may have been the most abominable speller of her age.
On the voyage to England, Bouwman had been good enough to remind me of an episode in English history which bore upon our mission, and this seemed to be the right moment to broach it. The previous Queen Mary had married Philip of Spain and had insisted that he must be regarded as King, at least during her lifetime. This had been extremely unpopular with the English people, who, to this day, disregard him in any list of monarchs. It was necessary to discuss the position of my master if the marriage took place and Mary should subsequently ascend the throne. This would, no doubt, be discussed by Van Langenburg and King Charles, but I wanted to know Mary’s view on the matter.
‘Why, Master,’ she exclaimed, ‘I will be his dutiful wife. It is unthinkable that I should occupy a higher rank than my husband. ’Twould be against both God and nature.’
Bouwman’s view was that this would satisfy William very well. He would never be King of the United Provinces because our country is a republic, but he could be a king in the United Provinces, with all the honours pertaining thereto. My concern was what happened if Mary predeceased him, as women so often do due to the travails of childbirth, and he was then expected to relinquish his title and crown. He would then return to the Netherlands and would be exposed to the bitter tongues of his enemies as an ex-king; and we must never forget that her father had a new wife who was of child-bearing age. It was not impossible that Mary of Modena would provide him with a male heir, thus demoting Mary in the order of succession.
I was turning all this over in my head when it was stamped upon by a simple consideration. Mercurius, I told myself, this is not your world. You are a university lecturer. You do not understand all this. What are you doing even thinking about it?
A few seconds served to dredge up the names of people of humble origins who had involved themselves in politics, and just a couple of moments more to recognise the key unifying factor between them. They were all dead, and some of them were not nicely dead, if I may put it that way.
I know we all have to die, but I hoped to do so at an advanced age, preferably in my own bed and ideally during my sleep. Too many of those other fellows had met their ends violently and in messy and painful ways. I thought of the De Witts, for example, and realised that I like having my innards on the inside, not draped across the cobbles of a square in The Hague. If I needed a closer example, I had only to think of poor Wevers, breathing his last in a squalid back lane in a city far from home.
It was at this point that I resolved to get home to Leiden as quickly as possible. My job was to decide whether Mary was a fit woman for William to marry, and the answer was an unequivocal yes, so all I had to do was write my report and get on the first ship across the North Sea. I didn’t even mind if it was heading for Hamburg. I enjoy a good walk.
‘Was there anything else, Master?’ Mary asked.
I reddened to realise that I must have been sitting in silence while all these thoughts crowded through my head. More to the point, my face frequently betrays my cogitations, so it was quite possible that the young princess had been observing my expressions and worrying about whatever lurid and disturbing ideas I might be having. ‘No, Your Royal Highness, I am entirely satisfied.’
She smiled for the first time. I am susceptible to a woman’s smile. It warms me strangely. Of course, I have taken a vow of chastity, so the idea of a close attachment to a woman, however attractive, is quite out of the question.
Well, when I say “out of the question” I mean “not possible”. Not if the bishop finds out about it. I will not deny that there have been women — a small number of women — who have excited feelings in me that were, perhaps, more tender than I should have liked. And it was true that my grandmother, unaware of my ordination in the Catholic church, fretted on the subject of my lack of a wife. On the rare occasions that I was able to visit her, she would slyly insinuate it into the conversation, usually before I had managed to get my travelling cloak off. Subtle hints such as “Have you found a wife yet, Mercurius?” or “I suppose I am doomed never to be a great-grandma” followed by a deep sigh peppered our conversation.
[My clerk, Van der Meer, sniggered when I dictated that bit about “a small number of women”. I shall remember that when I share out my worldly goods at my end. He’ll be lucky to get my second best Bible.]
‘May I ask something, Master?’ asked Mary.
‘Of course,’ I replied.
‘Tell me something of your country,’ she said. ‘If I am to live there, it would be as well to know something of it.’
It
goes without saying that we Dutch know that our land is the pinnacle of God’s creation. After all, God made a start on it, since which time we Dutch have made new bits by building dykes, digging canals and draining polders. Give us enough time and you will be able to walk from The Hague to England, though why anyone would want to defeats me.
‘It is a very fair country, ma’am,’ I said. ‘It lacks mountains, but it has pleasant meadows and beautiful gardens, and its cities are delightful. There are many fine houses, and the Prince has no great love of city air and prefers to be in the countryside as much as possible.’
This was true, by the way; the Prince suffered from asthma and found the smoke of cities irritating to his lungs. He resided at The Hague as little as he could get away with. At one time he felt it was necessary to be there to watch out for plots, but he came to realise that it did not matter if he lived somewhere else so long as he let it be thought that he was in The Hague. Thus he would sometimes ride to one of his country houses after dark, having ensured that he had been widely seen in the city during the day, then he would quietly return the following day as if he had never been away.
‘Will I be permitted a household such as this?’ Mary asked.
‘It is not for me to say,’ I answered, ‘but my master is a kindly man, and he would wish to see you well provided for. I believe your aunt had no ground for complaint when she married his father.’
The family tree of royal families is never straightforward, but it was true that when Mary married William her aunt would also become her mother-in-law. Except that she was dead; but you know what I mean.
‘When I come to the Low Countries,’ Mary continued, ‘I shall need a Chaplain. Perhaps you would consent to serve me, Master.’
It sounded more like a command than a question, and one that I had not anticipated. I could see a number of reasons why that would be a very bad idea. First, a good Protestant princess should have a good Protestant chaplain, not one who was actually a closet Catholic. My bishop was very tolerant of the deceits necessary to maintain secrecy about my conversion, but I think becoming a royal chaplain would test that amiability to the full; though, in truth, his predecessor would have thought it a capital joke.
