Anne Thurloe gave birth to another daughter on the coldest day of January, the midwife blustering out of a snowstorm with a babbling of little wisdoms, and the house was a bustling of maids and good women of the neighbourhood and messengers from London and unregulated children. Thurloe moved quietly among them, doggedly retrieving rogue infants when no female could be found, issuing instructions and judgements to the couriers, talking Greek to his earnest uncomprehending eldest boy.
At around this time, a solitary rider came by patient winding roads to the royal town of Stirling.
There was a great hall in Stirling that had become the centre of the Court-in-exile – in the mornings it jostled and flowed with gossip and plot and the business of politics and royalty and arms. Shay treated it with a caustic loathing, but was to be seen there most days, somewhere on the edge of the business, a hand on an arm, a word in an ear.
On this day there was a flicker of disruption on the margins of the Court, for the solitary rider was not recognized and had none of the routines for greeting or entry; his clothes were unfamiliar and rural, the weather-worn face under the greying curls likewise uncourtly, and the accent almost impenetrable to the sentry. Raised voices began to cut through the mundane chatter of the hall, and among the first to glance over was Shay, sensitive to the change of rhythm. The sentry, scornful and too casual with the primitive who was now trying to get past him, reached out an arm and grabbed at the stranger’s shoulder. In a second: the arm flung up, a vicious head-butt, and the sentry was sprawling back over an outstretched leg, and in fairness how could he have known the history of blood and war, decades old, in this peasant?
It was Gareth, and it took Shay a moment to accept the fact – Gareth, his steward; Gareth who in the last twenty years had not been known to leave his home valley, let alone leave Wales; Gareth who had come alone through three restive kingdoms, across the lines of war. How was Gareth become part of this world? Gareth saw him, but strangely the only familiar face in the great bustling hall caused the leathered features to look even more lost than before. Through the cliques of curious men, oblivious, the little Welshman walked up to Shay, and then collapsed to his knees in front of him, and around Sir Mortimer Shay the whole world rotted and shrank and dimmed and he felt his blood curdling and writhing inside his emptying body in a sickening pain of cold, a great roar of impossibility for which he had no breath.
Lady Margaret Shay had walked out into a morning, and sat as was her habit on the seat overlooking the valley that had been her kingdom, with the beeches as dark winter sentinels either side of her, and had slept and never woken. In the heaving Scottish hall, surrounded by men confused and alarmed, the face of a lone old man whitened and perished.
Thurloe would, in the future, politely ascribe his revelation to an inspiration from God: a more proper authority to whom to give the credit, than an unhealthy interest in classical grammar and in long waving hair that seemed to burn in the sun.
A too-generous supper, and an unsettled night. A dream of Greek, of verbs in their tables, of poems on the page, verses in their lines; a dream of vegetable frames, or was it hedges, row after row, and a long dress and a rich cascade of hair flashing among them; but when to turn, which path to follow? How to mark the way through the maze? Theseus was given his clew, his thread, to guide him through the maze of the poem. And the poem could easily be recalled, because he could remember the layout on the page, recall the numbers indicating every tenth line of verse. Which path through the garden? The numbers mark the lines. The hedges, the lines of vegetables, fertile greens and flashes of colour; which path through the garden? Then glimpses of her again, or of some woman’s body, shocking naked flesh glowing at him from around corners in the hedges, some paths but not others: an ankle, a bare ankle outrageous and exciting among exposed nature, and nothing, and nothing, just the endless avenues of green, and the flash of a thigh, and nothing, and a breast, looming out at him with a promising smile and opening lips and Thurloe awoke in a tangle of sheets and foolishness.
He got up, and went and splashed water on his face. As he stood bent over the bowl, he began a faintly embarrassed attempt to explain away the dream. A mystery, an attempt to find a path, the promise of reward: his child’s games with Mercurius Fidelis, of course. Dull-headed, he began to rehearse the ideas of alternate letters, or words, tried to remember how many hedge paths there had been in the dream, caught himself trying to recapture the image of the breast.
He’d tried all that. Every second letter. Every second word. All the variations.
Some paths, but not others. How to tell which path?
He’d found one edition of the news-sheet with a word concealed in the initial letters. He’d found at least one other that did not have any word so concealed. He lit a candle, sat in front of the pile of news-sheets again. That of October 26. 1648 had a word. September 28. did not. He smoothed out September 28. again, still creased after its near-destruction in the fire, and checked. Definitely no word. Some but not others.
He pulled out another Mercurius, from May 1649, took a breath, held it, and started down the page.
Y. E.
Ye? A flicker of possibility, but inconclusive. T. Yet? D. T.
A snarl pushed through his teeth and dwindled to a sigh.
He pulled out another, and stared into it, the fat clumsy letters blurring under him and then clarifying. July 1650. A distracting vision of Rachel Astbury’s naked thigh in his cloudy head. C. A. V. Not promising. Should be asleep. E. Cave? A word, but he couldn’t think of a context. ‘Cave’ the Latin word, perhaps. N. D.
Thurloe sat back, gazing blearily at the page and feeling raddled and stupid.
Complete the exercise, Master Thurloe.
He leaned forward. I. S. Is? But the precursor was meaningless. H. There was no—
Cavendish.
A great thump in his chest, and cold blood flushing his head. There was no more, and he couldn’t see what it meant, but surely that was more than chance.
Another sheet, snatched up at random by fumbling fingers: March 1649.
T. H. E. The? Again the excitement. O. Theo? L. Doubt again. D. Theold.
The old?
C. A. U. S. E. L. I. V. E. S.
Thurloe sat back in his chair, chilled and gasping with the vulnerable secret. He thrilled to it, and then felt immediately alone and isolated, the sole possessor of the revelation in the vast night.
There was surely no possibility that this was chance. ‘Report’ on the news-sheet of October 26. might be a freakish coincidence. ‘The old cause lives’ – not long after the execution of the old King – inconceivable.
Some have messages, and some do not. But how were they distinguished?
Thurloe wrapped a cloak round himself and poured a mug of wine, and sat down at the desk again, and started into the pages.
I have looked at these for hours, and I have not seen it. But I am now certain that there is an ‘ it’.
Where is the error in your parsing, Master Thurloe?
The error.
He compared October 26. and providential September 28. again, and then others, some with messages and some without. Inside five minutes he had it.
Before he slept again, Thurloe offered a prayer: of thanks; of faint shame; of a glimpsed hope.
As the seasons turned again, bringing tentative spring sunlight to alleys and angles of Edinburgh that had not felt it in six months, the latest Duke of Hamilton found himself back in Scotland to lead the royal interest.
William Hamilton, pug-faced and darkly steady, strode the streets and halls that his brother had commanded two years before. Around him clustered the same men, or the sons or brothers of the same men, respectful or awestruck or obsequious, who had followed the ducal coronet when his brother had worn it.
He knew the men around him, of course, the wary calculating Edinburgh politicians who’d spent the last ten years tacking back and forth between the Crown and the English Parliament, and the threa
dbare old-style grandees who’d been in exile on the Continent. The men who’d banished him from Court last autumn, and welcomed him now in the spring. He knew them personally, or knew the type, or knew the names: names who had always been part of the world of the Hamiltons – particular names with particular roles.
One name was missing, of course. The face of the Marquess of Montrose still hung over Edinburgh’s gate, more black and shrunken with another year; now the severed head on the tolbooth was like a devil’s fist, clenched at those who dared to usurp his dream of glory. Montrose’s limbs had been sent to the four corners of Scotland; his heart had been rescued from the grave by his family. Montrose’s son was still a boy: this year there was no Montrose at the table.
You’ll miss this battle, Jamie.
From the luxury of uninterruption that his status gave him, in the King’s absence seated alone at the head of the Council table, Hamilton watched the stares and glances bickering between the Scots and the English, the soldiers and the civilians, the Royalists and the religious.
And I don’t know which of us will feel the loss more.
The debate slunk on like a surly dog, occasionally snapping vicious. Should a new army be raised to fight for King Charles against the English? Who should command such an army? Should Royalists and their former sympathizers be allowed to participate in official debates in Scotland? Was Oliver Cromwell’s recent reported sickness the result of Scottish prayer or his own sin?
Hamilton’s slow eye kept straying back to one man, seated away from the table and against the wall, in a shadowed corner of the great stone chamber. A large, older man, dark and watchful. The man they had told him, back in the Netherlands, to look to and to listen to. The man called Shay.
The journey north was long, tedious and uncomfortable, a destructive combination of boredom, physical discomfort and the constant frustrations of dealing with local officials to get a change of horse or a bed. After a cosy winter, Thurloe was not looking forward to months of campaigning in Scotland – most of it no doubt in the rain – and he felt newly alienated from the strange world of soldiers.
Eventually he reached Glasgow – where it had indeed come on to drizzle – and growled his way through the necessary invocations to get a bed and a meal. The broth – whatever it was – and a fire restored him a little, and he reported to the commandery feeling readier if not enthusiastic.
General Lambert received him – cumbersome greetings – Cromwell still down with fever – polite enquiry about the journey. Then he began to search ponderously for a paper. He didn’t find it, and clearly hadn’t needed the prop anyway: ‘It’s the, er, it’s the march-about for you, Master Thurloe.’ Thurloe waited. ‘Master Oliver St John is sent on an embassy to. . . to the Netherlands, I think. He and General Cromwell have agreed that you will accompany him. Take a month or so, I think.’
All Thurloe could imagine was the grim idea of getting on a horse again. Gradually the positive aspects began to trickle in: a promising recognition of his ability; diplomatic work clearly more interesting – and frankly more civilized – than trudging around behind the army. Perhaps a chance to run an errand or two for Sir Theodore de Mayerne, and get a little credit there. ‘Any excitement here, General?’
Lambert shook his head. A fighting soldier, Thurloe knew, and he’d be hating the idleness and the administration and the extra work in Cromwell’s absence. ‘Not much. Do you know of Birkenhead? Sir John
Birkenhead?’
‘Noisy Royalist. Gets arrested occasionally.’
‘We’ve just arrested him again. Him and a few others. Seditious assembly. Why the Army gets stuck with these affairs I don’t know.’ A sympathetic tut from Thurloe. ‘Only real complaint they have is that he was carrying a Royalist news-sheet. The Fidelis.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’d love to stamp them all out, Thurloe, but is that realistic? Stamp them all out. But the Army can’t trouble every time someone reads one of these rags.’
‘Did he get the Fidelis at the meeting? Or was he taking it there?’
A frown across the thick flesh of Lambert’s forehead. ‘Taking it, I think.’
‘A courier?’
‘Doesn’t seem his style. Too grand, too high a profile for that.’
Thurloe nodded. ‘You have a copy? The news-sheet?’
Lambert pawed at the papers on the desk a moment, and then bawled for his Adjutant. The Adjutant hurried in and retrieved the paper.
Thurloe snatched at it. First the day, the date: and yes! The error was there. Then quickly through the initials: M.A.C.K.A.Y. – and after that nonsense.
A distinct name, certainly. But it had no meaning.
A memory: Cavendish. Another name in Mercurius Fidelis. July 1650, when the Royalist army was preparing to go onto the offensive. A message to Royalists – to all of them – or perhaps only some who would recognize a meaning. A local relevance? A reassurance? A warning?
Or a trigger?
Thurloe looked up at the two soldiers. ‘You’ll forgive a busybody civilian, I hope.’ Lambert looked wary. ‘But I think this might be rather more important. One for the Army to take seriously. I’d recommend a closer look at Birkenhead and his friends.’ He hesitated. ‘A more persuasive look.’
Mortimer Shay came to Astbury with the spring again. To Rachel it seemed paler, colder around him.
She found him first in the study, in front of the painting of his half-sister, turning around almost guilty as Rachel came into the room. Had he been touching the portrait?
She walked up to him, and reached her arms around him as best she could and laid her head on his chest a moment. Then she stepped back a pace.
‘I wish I’d known Lady Margaret.’
‘I wish you had. She’d have liked you very much.’ Rachel flushed slightly. ‘You’re the two most. . . truly honest people I know.’
The voice was hoarse, the throat exhausted, the eyes likewise.
‘And still you ride. And still you fight.’
‘There is nothing else, girl. I fight. Eventually I’ll die. That’s all there is.’ The words came dull, as if through fog.
‘Won’t you – can’t you make your home here with us? Just a while? Even a few days.’
‘Men are fighting and dying for you. You only want your faerie land.’ There was no bite to the words. He wasn’t really looking at her. ‘Another rising has failed. A network of men captured around Glasgow. Maybe another leftover of George Astbury’s schoolboy habits.’
‘Or maybe you made the mistake!’ The last of her comforts, her certainties, was fissuring. Surely I cannot be wiser than he. ‘Or maybe there are people out there more persuasive than you. Better than you. Maybe this country wants a future, not an endless war.’
‘These people have not understood me yet. They have not found the end of my vengeance.’
‘That’s all you offer? Vengeance? For ever? You don’t even know what people you’re talking about.’
‘I know my enemies when I find them. And they shall know me well enough.’
She stared at him, scared and sad.
Anthony Astbury insisted on receiving his half-brother-in-law, and Shay and Rachel watched uncomfortably as the skeletal figure stepped gingerly down the staircase towards them, over-formal clothes hanging loose around him. Trying to shake hands, he stumbled into Shay, a reed against a rock, and for a moment the two clutched at each other. Astbury straightened, and his eyes closed for a moment of intense effort. Then he said, ponderously, ‘She was the jewel of our age, Mor— Mortimer.’ Shay nodded. ‘She was – she was your redemption.’ And at that Shay swallowed a breath with difficulty.
Then Astbury had to mark this newest change in his world in the family Bible, and Shay and Rachel sat stiff in chairs opposite him as he heaved open the cover as if it were the front door and brushed shakily at the flyleaves and scratched out the words with brittle formality. Margaret Shay, d. January 1651.
Rachel’s eyes flickered empty between the two men: her ri
diculous father, begging him to stop, to die, to end everyone’s pain; and Shay, an empty hulk, a castle where no lights showed.
Oliver St John stepped onto Dutch soil on 17th March 1651, oblivious to a sorry-looking crowd of hecklers being jostled away behind cross-wise pikes, bellowing for a bath and a good meal. John Thurloe followed him onto the quay – more watchful of the hecklers, asking himself who had paid them – wondering at the smells and the quiet flat faces and the neatness of the place.
While St John restored himself after the trials of the sea passage, Thurloe chatted with the English Parliament’s representative in The Hague.
‘Will they receive us?’
‘Oh they’ll receive you well enough. They can see how the wind’s blowing. They’re merchants here, first, last and always, and they want to know about English maritime policy, not our domestic squabbles.’
‘But the Royalists have been here as well.’
‘They still are. Always on the hunt for support, or money, or a promising Princess.’
‘They’ll know about this embassy?’
‘Oh yes. Before you got off the boat. We usually know what each other’s about.’ A bowl of fruit pushed towards Thurloe. ‘They’ve an agent in the town – young chap – busybusy, you know? Escaped here after the siege of Pontefract, and been carrying on the fight ever since.’
‘Pontefract?’
‘A man called Thurloe has asked to meet me.’
‘We know that name, surely.’
‘We do. One of Cromwell’s terrier-hounds. His wife is niece to Thomas Overbury, by the by.’
‘Overbury – who was poisoned in the Tower? Lord, he’d better not start asking questions about that.’
‘He has other cares now. He’s here with St John’s embassy to the Dutch.’
‘He’s not just any Roundhead clerk. He’s Cromwell’s most trusted agent. The rising man. You’re going to arrange a little accident for him?’
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