‘He’s a dried-up old lizard! And vicious. God save us, John, don’t say you’ve gone fully puritan in six months.’
Thurloe smiled, and resumed. ‘He is committed. He is sincere.’ He hesitated, looked up at St John again. Is conviviality making me indiscreet? ‘But about what? That. . . worries me.’
‘Most men who signed the King’s death warrant were rather afraid of what they were doing. Surprised. Scot was. . . like a stoat with a chicken; ferociously satisfied.’
‘He’s sympathetic to the Levellers.’ St John was suddenly watching more carefully. ‘He has men around him who are sympathetic. That’s why you wanted me to investigate the death of Rainsborough.’ A faint nod from the couch. ‘I still don’t quite know what was going on at Doncaster then; there’s intelligence that Scot’s keeping to himself. And now I have. . . indications – faint indications, from elsewhere – that there might have been – might still be – some possible link between the Levellers and the Royalists.’
St John sat up. ‘But that’s insanity, surely.’
‘Quite. Some of the news-sheets suggested it, though, didn’t they? And Lilburne and Sexby said as much.’
‘We’d thought the Levellers a spent force.’
‘But if they weren’t. If their defeat in the spring had made them more ready for alternatives.’
‘Lord, if that were even half likely we’d have to go so careful we’d come to a stop. We wouldn’t know which way to turn.’
‘Will you mention it – to Cromwell?’
St John chewed the idea. ‘Lot on his mind, that man. The Army. Parliament. All of our souls.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll slip it in.’
Thurloe took a mouthful of wine, and watched the light playing in the glass. ‘Master St John; there’s something else.’ St John’s eyebrows went up. ‘The Royalist plotting; their intelligencing. I don’t think we have the first idea about it.’
A great sniff. ‘Probably true.’
‘I’ve the feeling we’re dealing with something that’s – that’s decades old.’ Nottingham Castle. London fortress. ‘Ancient. And our people, they’re. . .’
‘They’re not ten days out of the shires. No, you’re right.’
‘But there must be someone who knows how the royal systems worked – not last year, not just during the war, but ten and twenty years ago. Someone who’d talk to us. I need to find such a man.’
St John’s cheeks puffed out, and then he released the breath slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said, and the head swung round to Thurloe. ‘Yes, there’s a man who might do. If he’s still alive.’
Winter again, and again Rachel walked among the spare bones of the trees and shrubs, charcoal against the silver landscape.
And what has another year brought us?
A dead King. The little exactions of the County Committee and their reforms – she saw and felt little of this – her father’s business, and his complaints – but it was the only change she was made aware of. Her father more withdrawn, as if practising for his absence from the world. Sometimes in the evening he would take out the family Bible, and she’d see him running a solitary finger down the inscriptions on the flyleaves, muttering the details of the Astburys to himself. He could only look backwards, check his proper place in history, ready to give a full and correct pedigree when the time came for final justification. And she too was shrinking away from the world; or the world was shrinking away from her, like the plants.
Nearby now, Jacob’s shoulders rose and fell over the spade; his perennial labours.
Then there was Shay. Shay’s presence had grown in her life: mysterious, bleak despite his aggressive vitality, and somehow dangerous. All things that Astbury and the Astburys were not. Where Anthony and George Astbury had fussed and feared at the changes and the defeats, and stepped backwards and bent in the face of them, Shay was questioning, testing, challenging.
‘I’m not going anywhere, Jacob.’
Jacob straightened, frowning. Then he got it, sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
He bent to the spade again, guiding it deftly around the hibernating plants.
‘Right you are, miss.’
Her tongue clicked in exasperation, and she turned and tramped back to the house.
Curving away into the last of the winter sun, the Thames was a dull silver against the fringing grey landscape. To the west, England was gloomy and pagan and mysterious. As Thurloe stepped up onto the bank, the boatman behind him looked surly and vulnerable, unhappy despite the exorbitant fare he’d bid for waiting.
The house – a broad frontage of red brick like its surrounding wall, a garden, and somewhere a forlorn bird – felt like the last outpost of civilization.
The dying evening made the house seem dilapidated, and the garden had darkened and shrunk for winter, but as Thurloe walked through it he could see the order and industry in it. The plots were trimmed and logically arranged, and even the most unpromising runts of plants had labels.
The ghost of a servant flickered in front of him behind the door, and drifted away down a passage, and Thurloe followed.
The house was an overstuffed chaos of things and colours and smells. The walls were packed with pictures and tapestries, part-obscured by darkwood furniture that lined the passage with little apparent thought for logic or utility, except that every surface was necessary to support something: astrological instruments, a death mask, stuffed animals, plates of half-eaten meals, a skull, a lute, racks of glass jars, a dead bird, erratic piles of books and papers. There was no straight path down the passage, only a track to be plotted among the debris. Occasional candles guttered and flashed, and the gloom made everything a weird soup of oranges and browns. The smell, meanwhile, was everywhere and overpowering and indistinct: an apothecary’s shop, a perfumery, a kitchen, as if the world of senses had been distilled into one cloying spoonful of taste.
The servant had disappeared and, in following him, Thurloe found himself alone in a large study. It was as gloomy and diverse as the passage, but it was more clearly a place focused on learning. Bookshelves rose from floor to ceiling, except on one wall completely filled with a rack of hundreds of jars and pots of powders and leaves and liquids. Beside the rack a large table was covered in trays and glass beakers and apparatus. A fire glowed in the grate, and near it there was an enormous chair piled with cushions and fabrics.
Thurloe looked at the table and the rack warily, and moved towards the nearest bookshelf. Astrology, Botany, Alchemy, History, Medicine: all were represented here in heavy bindings and half a dozen languages.
In the pile of cushions and fabrics on the chair, two eyes opened, and a voice began to speak.
Startled, Thurloe couldn’t make out the words, and even when he’d overcome the surprise and peered, and distinguished a great pink potato of a head, fringed with white bristles top and bottom and crowning an immense body, he still couldn’t make out the words.
Something familiar in the rhythm and the sound and. . . Greek. The vast man in the chair was speaking Greek – with a foreign accent. Thurloe replayed the words, also somehow familiar. ‘Who are ye? Is it on some business, or do ye wander at random over the sea, even as pirates, who wander, hazarding their lives and bringing evil to men of other lands?’ Pirates? Evil to men of other lands?
Homer, of course. Polyphemus the one-eyed giant, to Odysseus.
Thurloe thought for a moment. ‘We have come by another way, by other paths – as suppliants to thy knees, in the hope that thou wilt give us entertainment.’ He stepped forward. ‘My name is John Thurloe, Sir Theodore.’ He extended a hand. The pile of fabric in the chair didn’t seem to have any hands, and he withdrew it again. Too late, a set of pudgy pink fingers emerged from among the fabric and flapped vaguely towards him. ‘I was advised to seek your guidance.’
‘Oh-ho, you wish to consult Mayerne.’ In the accent – it wasn’t quite French – the second syllable of his name was both swallowed and elaborate. ‘Kings and Queens have found relief in these hands. For Pri
nces and Princesses these hands were the first touch of the world.’ The tiny eyes opened wide, perhaps surprised to find themselves in such an unlikely face. ‘But such credentials do not serve in these days, I think.’
‘Not your skills as physician, sir. But as a. . . a man of affairs.’
‘Affairs?’ A fleshy smile. ‘A pretty word, that. Can you procure for me some gold leaf?’
‘Gold leaf?’
‘And ten ounces of the seeds of the Tulipa Aleppensis. I think it may prove beneficial to a certain palliative decoction of my devising. Your Parliament has become most insular in its habits, and restricts the trade in such things, which are the essence of my simple work here. They fear I would smuggle messages among my seeds, and commit heresies in my alembic with the gold.’
‘Tiresome for you.’
There was a rumbling from the mountain of fabric. Sir Theodore de Mayerne was chuckling. ‘They’re right, of course. I would do those things. But tiresome all the same.’
‘The more quickly enemies may converse with one another, the more quickly they will be friends.’
A great heave, and Mayerne’s face pushed forward. ‘That is rather good.’ He relapsed into the chair. ‘Quid pro quo.’
‘I’ll. . . do what I can.’
A cluck from the great face. ‘That’s what I miss about the servants of the King. They lied with such charm, such panache.’ The eyes narrowed. ‘Your so-solid honesties do not inspire joy, young man. Your pages will not flow with poetry. Your bed will not swell with luxuriant mistresses. But what is the quo that you seek?’
‘I was told you were the most knowledgeable diplomat in England.’
‘In Europe, young man. Europe. I knew no little boundaries of country. I served the free movement of knowledge.’ The lips pushed out sulkily. ‘Until your late King forbade me to travel. A logical calculation, but so pedantic, so narrow-minded.’ The jowls juddered. ‘Such a fragile man. Now Mayerne is little more than a prisoner, tolerated by your Parliament because of my serv—’
‘You travelled back and forth across Europe. Switzerland. France. Here. On diplomatic business. Sometimes on secret diplomatic business.’
A little smile in the flesh. ‘I travelled as a physician. As a scholar. I and my brother physicians, we speak in the universal language of learning, and we trade in our roots and seeds and minerals. As an adjunct, Mayerne learns things here and there; is able to pass useful counsel backward and forward; soothe the fevers of diplomacy. When once you have cured Richelieu of lues venerea, touched the offended member, what is a protocol or a fortress or a royal confidence?’
‘You were trusted by both Stuart Kings, before—’
‘I was used by both. I should say: ill-used.’
‘Who were your intermediaries in the Stuart Court? Was there some. . . office, within the Court, responsible for these things?’
‘Mayerne is not a clerk, to deal with officers. I whisper in the ears of Kings, and they whisper to me. Certain senior counsellors are my companions. . .’
‘Which counsellors?’
The old man looked sulky.
‘This was Thomas More’s house, Sir Theodore, wasn’t it?’ The little eyes opened wider, waiting. ‘A good man perhaps, but not a worldly one. You on the other hand are not a man to rot here in isolation. You thrive on contact, on influence. Things only the Parliament can give you; men like me.’ The eyes narrowed again, buried in the slabs of the face. ‘You thrive on tulip seeds.’
The little smile again.
‘At the Court of Charles Stuart, for example.’
Mayerne’s face rippled in thought. For such an old man – what had St John said? Nearly eighty – the face was amazingly unlined. ‘For the diplomatic business, I would present it as gossip among the King’s closest companions. First the man Buckingham, of course, though he was little more than a peacock. Later that pinched Archbishop. That was a trial, believe me. But I realized that for more secret business – very occasionally – I would be visited by someone of lower profile. Someone in the second rank at the Court; someone less noticed, someone less susceptible to the fashions of royal favour. The last of these that I met was a man named. . .’ The eyes closed, though it was hard to notice it. ‘Ass. . . something.’
Thurloe said slowly, ‘Astbury?’
‘Astbury.’
‘Sir George Astbury?’
‘There was another man before him. A different sort of man. Harder. Less civilized, less. . . less noble than Astbury. I allowed myself to see him less.’ Or perhaps he trusted you less. ‘I suspected him of pushing the King to restrict my travelling. But then he disappeared from the Court. Some loss of favour, some scandal perhaps; some excess. Young man, you have if I may say a too monarchical conception. You think of the individual man. Which is surprising in a product of the new liberties. In such a business, one man is vulnerable – to the assassin’s blade, or the too-impertinent dose of the pox. And what can one man do?’
‘Meaning that there was a. . . a group, an organization? A network?’
The face rippled again: Mayerne was frowning. ‘I never knew for certain. And that, to be very sincere with you, was the most significant point. I was aware of – I could feel, you understand? – the existence of some group of men. Merely a reference now and then, you understand? The men behind the man. Men with great resources. Men who looked back and forward with great perspective. Men who dealt in centuries, not in Kings.’
‘Was there a name for the group? Did you know any of the names?’
‘The names, no. This group does not seem to exist, you understand? One does not meet them, correspond with them, hear from them. There are. . . like in the dance – but you would not know the French Court, I think? Ah, that was a place – there are veils. Veils behind veils. A Court office; a chamber of the royal administration. A man like this Astbury was a kind of veil, I think. And there was. . .’ Thurloe waited. ‘A bureau – a department of the administration – just a reference once, and it seemed as merely another veil.’ A shudder of the face. ‘No. I forget it.’
Thurloe watched the pudgy face, almost a baby’s. Sir Theodore de Mayerne didn’t seem forgetful.
‘A man once visited me here because he said he was troubled by a distemper of the leg; by the end of the conversation I had helped to set an agent in the Court of Bohemia. Earlier, when first I began to travel to England from France, King Henri’s advisers thought I would be their spy. Their intermediary was a Dutch spice merchant in London named Witt. He was murdered – apparently by thieves – within a month. He was replaced by a Frenchman. Two years later I realized that this man was in regular contact with someone at the English Court. Two years after that, Henri was assassinated and this man quickly gained a good position in the administration of Louis, the new King of France.’
Again the shuddering in the body, and the head came forward.
‘You must learn to see as I have learned. Not a battle, not a country, not a King. But the great currents of European politics and history. I urge you, do not be too confident with your Cromwell and your Parliament and your victories and your laws. The man Astbury, he died. His place will have been taken by another. Perhaps that man dies, but he will be replaced. There is much more than them. If England becomes uncomfortable, there is Scotland, or the Continent, or maybe England again while your back is turned. Always, in the shadows beyond, there will be a power that watches you, and manipulates. The men who rule in London today, do not be sure that there are not some among them playing this game. And it is a greater game than you can possibly imagine. The death of the King, the new power of your Parliament: for these men it is not a defeat, merely an adjustment.’
The room was silent. The thick mixture of scents, food and books and potions, hung heavy.
Thurloe nodded, slowly. ‘Sir Theodore, thank you. You represent a – a more civilized world of learning and life. I wish you well in your studies. Perhaps – if I can lay hand on some tulips, say – I may call on you a
gain.’
Mayerne considered this. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Perhaps you may. Good evening, young man. Next time, bring me news of Scotland. I am interested in the possibilities of the coal there.’
Thurloe nodded and left, wondering as he began the cumbersome journey back down the gloomy passage what other aspects of Scotland Sir Theodore de Mayerne might be interested in.
A bell rang behind him – for a servant, presumably – but then a voice blustered out from the study, ‘Young man! Master. . . Zur–lo!’
Thurloe walked back into the study. Mayerne seemed to scrutinize him, and he waited in silence.
‘I remember now – You won’t forget my little requests, no?’ Mayerne was red from the exertion of raising his voice. ‘This bureau of intelligence. The veil: I once heard it named as the’ – he prepared his lips for the words – ‘Comptrollerate-General. Comptrollerate-General. . . for Scrutiny and Survey.’
It was a bureaucratic name, empty of meaning, and Thurloe wasn’t even sure he’d caught the words aright.
1650
The Islands of Blood
James Graham, Marquess of Montrose, came like a second adolescence among the Scottish Royalists refuged in the Netherlands. He was an ill-defined sense of hope, and a constant lurking embarrassment. Early worn by battle and flight, his age was a mask that didn’t quite fit – tired, leathery face and straggling long hair – through which his enthusiastic eyes still gleamed real. Ladies were charmed, realized themselves smiling, found themselves checking how breasts and waists appeared in old dresses, wished they had money to give him as he discreetly asked, wondered if their current desperate circumstances might justify some brief act of abandon. Men took a glass of wine too many with him, felt that they shared his bravery and virility, made empty promises of funds. All saw the door close after him and felt uncomfortable: felt their fallen looks, their shrunken pockets, their fugitive ease.
Then they remembered that Montrose had always unsettled them, and this brought a kind of comfort. Montrose, with his passions and his quests, had always been trouble.
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