‘Have you offered the gentleman anything, Oliver?’
It was no use my refusing, or Scogman ordering her to go back to bed. She lit a candle and went towards the kitchen. On the way she saw a bleary-eyed head peering through the banisters. The boy must have been about five. His straw-coloured hair, sticking out at all angles, and air of urban knowingness were reminiscent of Scogman when I first met him.
‘Bed,’ she cried, adding, when he only reluctantly withdrew his head, ‘now.’
She poured small beer and rapidly sliced bread. When Scogman advised her to kick the maid out of bed to do it and she refused – ‘I bin a maid. Poor bitch needs her sleep’ – I warmed to her. When she added, ‘And she wouldn’t cut the bread right,’ I warmed to her even more. Upstairs a baby broke into an explosion of cries, followed by another. I stared at Scogman, who was now looking anywhere in the room but at me.
‘Dick does that deliberate,’ she said grimly. ‘Takes it out on the little ones. Like you,’ she added to Scogman.
She gave us the bread, lightly toasted so it had already absorbed the butter she spread on it, curtseyed again, excused herself and, after locking up, was gone. Scogman winced as if he was about to be struck when her voice rang out telling Dick to look direct at her hand and not look away or he’d get worse. There was a resounding slap and a snivelling cry. Only when I began to eat did I realise how hungry I was. The bread was coarse but freshly baked, the butter good and soaked into every pore of it. Gradually it became silent upstairs. I looked at the trunk.
‘You’re leaving?’
‘Like a bloody shot,’ he said. ‘Before she can breed any more brats.’
The beer had a nutty flavour, and was well-hopped. I pointed upstairs. ‘What about them?’
‘They’ll cope. I told them I’d be away for a bit.’ He saw my expression and looked away. ‘What about you, sir? What did you mean when you said “Your passage is booked”? You really ain’t coming?’
It was my turn to look away. The whispers of the dying fire, the cry of a child and the murmur of the woman quietening him, the taste of the bread and the beer on my tongue, all were weakening my resolve. So I told him. Then it would become reality. Then I would have to do it.
He shifted his stool away from me, as a man does when he fears his companion has a disease. ‘You can’t do that, sir! Worse than a break-in is that. At least with a blag you have a chance.’
‘Get on with your packing. They’ll come for your trunk tomorrow.’
I refused the offer of his bed. With some cushions, and the warmth from the fire, the chair was comfortable and capacious enough. I heard him go over to the trunk then return.
‘You’re not yourself, sir.’
‘Let me get some sleep, will you.’
I was surprisingly calm. It was like that moment before battle when the positions had been decided and decisions, right or wrong, taken. There was nothing more to do except wait. And sleep if you could. Vaguely I heard him move about, then the scrape of the stool.
‘I picked her up one night, sir …’
This, too, was common before a battle: the urge to talk about something one has comfortably put off, which now becomes overwhelmingly important.
He meant to boot her out the next morning, but she could brew and bake and he had just bought the place and needed someone to look after it … Then …
I was not quite asleep and not quite awake. A layer of ash had formed in the grate. With the poker he drew in it the crude outline of a child’s face with a turned-up nose and strands of hair sticking out of his head. I nodded. I understood that all right.
‘But she drives me mad sometimes. She pretends to know her place but she don’t. Sometimes I don’t feel like my own man any more. When you told me you were leaving and said “You haven’t no ties, Scogman, have you?” we’d had a row. I’d belted her one. Made no difference. So I thought: right, my girl. You just walked in here. Never talked about it. Just happened. I’ll just walk out. But …’
The word hung in the air. He drew a few more hairs sticking out from the child’s head. When I nodded, he said, ‘Beer’s not bad either.’
‘Exceptionally good,’ I said.
He brightened. ‘D’you think so?’
‘So is the bread.’
‘Does a bit for the baker. Uses his oven. Now we’re not going I’ll maybe let it drift on a bit.’
‘I wouldn’t do that. You might lose her.’
‘Lose her? Fat chance.’
‘Make her Mrs Scogman.’
‘Mrs – You’re joking, sir.’
Suddenly I couldn’t trust my voice. I couldn’t bear to look at him. Or the crude drawing of a child grinning at me. Or the herbs and flowers neatly arranged in the pewter tankard. I got up. The chair went over. I went one way, then another, before plunging into the tiny hall. I undid a chain but the door was locked and bolted.
Scogman came up behind me. ‘What is it, sir?’
‘Open the door, Scogman.’
There were no keys in the hall. He said it was one of her faults, mislaying keys. Keeping them in a safe place was how she described it. While he searched, or pretended to, he said, ‘You aren’t really planning to go through with this crazy idea, are you, sir?’
‘It’s the only way I can save him and get her back.’
He sighed. ‘What exactly do you want me to do, sir?’
30
We meant to leave at first light but life got in the way. Life in the form of crying children, the baby of which Mrs Scogman – as Scogman now called her, with heavy irony – suckled on the move, as she told the straw-haired boy Dick to get bread and another to draw water and beer. Life leaping into her eyes when Scogman said he wasn’t going on a long trip after all. Just a short one.
‘Got you under my feet for a bit longer, ’ave I,’ she said.
Life in the hawkers’ cries as they poured into London as we left, in the barking dogs protecting their farms, in the stiff, protesting creak of winter-closed windows at Stavely Manor as its occupants responded to what promised to be a warm day.
Life everywhere except in the letter I had managed to scratch out with a blunt quill at Scogman’s, and which I drew out of my pocket as we stopped our horses on a slight rise overlooking the manor house. Not one of my better efforts, I thought, as I read through its cold, flat phrases, but it would serve its purpose. It might even be deemed appropriate.
Scogman stared down at the house. Since he had become a man of property he had built up a critical vocabulary of the houses he used to rob. He sniffed. ‘Late Tudor. Built on the cheap. All porch and columns. Open court. Kitchens there. Look.’
Trudging from the court at the back was a milkmaid, empty pails swinging. ‘They’re probably keeping Luke there. In one of the storerooms.’ From his saddle holster Scogman pulled out the spyglass he used as a steward. ‘Nice skin. The maid. I could use my charm on her.’
‘I thought you were done with that.’
‘I mean to gather intelligence, sir,’ he said, with injured innocence.
‘Put your glass on that.’ I pointed to a patch of cropped grass in a fallow field before a copse.
Scogman reluctantly swung it from the maid, then grew still. ‘Six horses. Mercenaries. German, going by the Dresden wheel-lock one of them has. Richard must be spending money he don’t have.’
I could guess where it came from. The goldsmiths, with whom I had deposited funds, were lending them to Royalists in the expectation of them regaining their lands on the return of the King. Whoever won, it was the goldsmiths who counted the profits.
‘They’re expecting us,’ I said.
Up to that moment I had the lingering hope that I could free Luke with deception or force. I was no longer young and stupid enough to take such a chance. It had to be done the way I first planned it. I took his glass. There was a field towards one side of the house, in which cows grazed peacefully. It was well away from the mercenaries, with cover from a barn. I
discussed the terrain with Scogman and he agreed it would do.
‘This is the sort of thing gentlemen do, innit, sir,’ Scogman said.
I agreed it was.
‘He may be a gentleman, sir, your father, but he’s a liar and a cheat –’
‘He won’t cheat on this. It’s a matter of honour.’
‘Honour!’ He spat.
I drew out the letter I had written. He put out his hand, then pulled it back again. ‘Permission to speak, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘When we met you saved me from that hanging magistrate, Sir Lewis. You said it was a military matter and flogged me. I still got the scars. You saved my life but … you went on flogging me until someone took the whip away. You got that look on your face now. You … you’re not yourself, sir …’
‘Do you want to do this or not?’
He swallowed and without another word took the letter. He had no handkerchief – he had the disgusting habit of drawing his nose over his inside cuff – so I gave him mine. I kept his spyglass. We rode together, fording a small stream before reaching the road that led to the manor. A pair of swallows dipped and whirred before disappearing under the eaves. I put the glass to my eye.
‘They’ve seen us. Give me your sword.’
He went to wipe his nose on his sleeve, remembered himself and blew it on my handkerchief. ‘He don’t see me as a gentleman, sir. The rules don’t apply to scum like me and –’
‘Don’t argue. Give it to me slowly. Make a bit of a ceremony of it. Try and be a gentleman for once.’
‘Ceremony. Hocus pocus rubbish that’s all it –’
He saw my expression, silently handed over his sword, turned his horse and checked it. Beyond the porch, Richard was standing, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun. He must have recovered from his injury, for he moved his arm quite freely. He looked as if he had just got up, for his shaven head was bare and he wore only knee britches and a shirt. Scogman glanced back at me. I gave him an impatient gesture forward. He rode towards the house but stopped almost immediately. Beside Richard stood a mercenary with the wheel-lock pistol in his belt. Clumsily, Scogman pulled out my white handkerchief and held it above his head as he rode on, the soft, hypnotic thud of the hooves turning to a sharp clatter as he passed under the porch and into the courtyard.
The mercenary pointed the pistol at Scogman and made him dismount before he would take the letter. I watched Richard read it. I had written it as I thought it, with no hesitations, no changes.
You have my son. I am willing to exchange myself for him but you must do exactly what I say. Your men, apart from your second, must remain within the grounds of the house. I will hand my sword over to your second as Scogman is given safe custody of Luke. Luke will leave with Scogman without hindrance from you or your men. I will return to the house with you. You must say nothing to Luke whatsoever except that we have reached an agreement together. I will accept your word to Scogman that you agree to the terms of this letter.
Was it a coincidence that, as with Anne’s letter to me, there was no salutation and no signature? It was as if I had become a non-person. Richard had never acknowledged me as a son, certainly not as a Stonehouse. Richard read the letter, looked up and read it again. The swallows flew out of the eaves in search of more insects.
Sweat trickled down my back. I unbuttoned my jerkin and took off my cravat. Scogman pointed to the mercenary’s pistol. The man looked at him suspiciously, then showed him the operation of the dog lock. My grip tightened on Scogman’s sword. I was sure he was going to ruin everything by grabbing the pistol, but then Richard called the mercenary to one side. Normally he was good with men, assessing situations quickly, reacting incisively. Now, however, he looked uncertain, glancing continually towards me as the mercenary talked. Finally, in one angry outburst, he brought the discussion to a close and Scogman rode back. I was convinced then my father would not do it. I could not help a feeling of relief stealing over me. The swallows darting, the rattle of the hooves on stone and their measured thud on grass as Scogman approached suddenly seemed wonderful, precious things.
‘He’ll do it.’
He told me the mercenary was convinced it was a trick. ‘Very English’ were the words he used, sir, and he didn’t mean it as no compliment. Knows what he’s doing, even though his pistol ain’t up to much. Probably misfire,’ he added hopefully. ‘They argued. Couldn’t hear anything except one thing your father said.’
‘What was that?’
‘He’s a Stonehouse.’
I stared across at the house. My father was going inside. The mercenary leaned against a wall. He chewed a nail as he watched us.
First I had been nothing, something thrown to die in a plague cart. Then a nuisance, taken in to be made a Stonehouse, a folly of his father’s. Then a threat that must be got rid of. Then a child of the Devil, who must be hanged and chopped into small pieces so they could not be put back together again. Only now, in a kind of ritual beloved by medieval knights, although it was legend rather than reality even then and had certainly finally died with the Civil War, did he consider me worthy of the Stonehouse name.
‘My father said that?’
I must have smiled for he grinned back at me. ‘Bollocks, sir, innit. I mean, he’s as tricky as they come and you have your moments but one thing you ain’t is a –’
He stopped abruptly and swallowed when I gave him a freezing look. It was acceptable for me to deride it, not him. Perhaps, in spite of all my efforts to be something else, to save the world, or however else you might like to describe it, in the deep centre of my heart that is what I was. A Stonehouse.
The field I had chosen was perfect for the purpose. Scogman tethered our two horses near the barn. It was, I judged, about three-quarters of a mile from the house. The ground was flat and open, with no cover for Richard’s mercenaries. Yet behind the barn it dipped and skirted the beginnings of Epping Forest. Scogman knew it from when our regiment had been based in Essex. He and Luke would have a head start and a good chance of evading any pursuit.
‘Where do I take him?’
‘To the Countess. She will know where Lady Stonehouse is. They are to take the ship. Luke will use my assumed name. They will never be safe here.’
He looked about to speak but thought better of it.
‘Oh. One more thing. Marry Mrs Scogman.’
He grinned. ‘Is that an order, sir?’
There was a movement in the trees where the mercenaries were sheltering. One of them was taking something from his saddle holster. The air was so still and clear that even at such a distance I heard a rattle that sounded like the loading of a musket ball. Scogman went to his horse and drew out his flintlock pistol. I put the glass on them, catching a hand in the air shaking something, then the rattle. They were doing what all mercenaries do when they are not killing. Playing pass dice.
Scogman wafted away a fly. ‘She ain’t the sort of person you marry, sir.’
‘Isn’t she?’
‘She’s bread and beer. I was thinking of, well, more of a lady. Someone with … what would you call it …? Finer feelings.’
‘To go with the firedogs and the walnut chair?’
‘That’s it, sir. Exactly.’ He became suddenly still.
The bearded mercenary was crossing the court. Keys swung from his belt, catching the sun. He was carrying a linen shirt and disappeared down a corridor leading to the back of the house. As it grew warmer the cows, which had lumbered away on our approach, came back, seeking whatever shade they could find. They brought the flies with them, which became more and more irritating.
‘Finer feelings.’ I almost spat the words out. ‘D’you think she didn’t know you were leaving when she saw you loading that bloody great trunk? Did you not see the joy on her face when you said you weren’t going?’ He gave me a bewildered look, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I … I don’t care what you do but tell her the things that ma
tter. Secrets are poison. Open secrets, where the other suspects but does not know are the worst.’
I turned away, flailing at a fly, which veered and buzzed round me the more I struck out at it. He gripped my arm tightly, pointing. Luke was coming out of the passage into the open court, shading his eyes from the sun. I watched him through the glass. He was wearing the white linen the mercenary had been carrying, but it was too large and only emphasised how bedraggled he was. His britches were soiled. A button was hanging from his short doublet and another was missing. There could not have been a greater contrast between the rebellious youth I had removed from Oxford prison the previous summer and this one. Then his position, or mine, protected him. It had been all show and bravado. Now his face bore the look I had seen too many times during the war ever to forget, the look of suppressed terror borne by a prisoner dragged from his cell, fearing he was going to be shot or tortured. I could not bear to look but was afraid to take my eyes away.
Another door to the court opened. He jumped at the sound. Fear made him rigid. Then he underwent an extraordinary change. His fists clenched. Mixed with the fear was revulsion. Walking towards him across the court was Richard. Luke would have flung himself at him if the mercenary had not grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. I could see but not hear the cry of pain. Blindly, scarcely realising it, I was halfway to the gates of the house before Scogman seized my arm.
‘Easy, sir, easy.’
Such was the force of Luke’s reaction that Richard momentarily backed away. Nothing could illustrate more the innocence, the truth, of Luke’s letter. I could picture him discovering Richard in bed with his divine Sarah – love and belief destroyed in one frozen moment.
Richard recovered in an instant. Even at that distance I could feel his charm – see it working like a soothing ointment over Luke’s fear. Richard pointed towards me. I laughed with joy at the changes in Luke’s expression. He was staring in the sun. He peered, blinked, looked again as if he was uncertain whether I was some kind of mirage, then jumped up and down, waving frantically. I waved back. Richard beamed in an avuncular fashion before speaking long and seriously. At first Luke responded with distrust, with several glances towards me, but gradually he appeared to be drawn in by the atmosphere of ritual, by his grandfather’s grave manner and by my similar stance. At that moment the letter I had sent Richard seemed the most ridiculous thing I had written in my life. Scogman was right. Why should I trust him? I had told him to say nothing but that we had reached an agreement. He might say anything. Do anything. Take us both. I had no sword. Nothing but the absurdity of the concept of honour, which I had always despised but put on because Richard professed it.
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