by Stuart Clark
‘When did it happen?’ asked a wide-eyed merchant between hurried puffs on a clay pipe.
‘Two days ago,’ said the fat gossipmonger, basking in the attention.
‘On what charge?’
‘Conspiracy to assassinate the King and the Duke of York – they planned to strike at the Rye House Estate as the King was returning from Newmarket races, back in April, and they only failed because there was that fire at the racecourse, and the pair left early.’
‘What did Essex hope to gain?
The fat man leaned forwards to draw the others closer. ‘Parliament would crown the Duke of Monmouth.’
There was a collective muttering.
‘But the King has never acknowledged him as a legitimate son.’
‘Maybe not, but Monmouth is assuredly Protestant – unlike York – and by placing Monmouth on the throne, Parliament would be able to control him.’
‘Monmouth agreed to this?’
The fat man placed a hand on top of his belly. ‘The King has exiled him to Holland. Draw your own conclusions.’
The merchant turned, snatching the glowing pipe from his mouth. ‘Mr Halley, your father works at the Tower, does he not?’
The astronomer nodded cautiously, reluctant to be drawn into the conversation, although he was as eager as the rest to hear what was being said. ‘He’s a Yeoman Warder in his spare time.’
‘Then we can rely on you to inquire into this.’
Others turned now, undisguised eagerness in their eyes, and Halley wondered with some trepidation whether Winslow was lurking within earshot.
He put down his unfinished coffee. ‘No gossip from me, gentlemen. Au revoir, messieurs, I have a night’s observations to plan. Darkness is a shy visitor at this time of year; it’s best to meet her prepared.’
Passing the city walls, Halley allowed a few seconds for the ripe smells to fall behind before unhooking the window-cord and letting the breeze into the carriage. The wheels slipped into the furrows of the country road, but before the rippling wheatfields gave way to the familiar cottages of Islington the vehicle came to a premature halt. Halley leaned out of the window and groaned. They were at the back of a queue of carts and carriages stretching into the village. Men were standing up in their carts trying to see what the hold-up was, while others walked in circles, impatiently waiting to be on their way.
Halley opened the door and jumped to the ground. ‘I’ll walk from here.’ He thrust some coins at the driver, who tapped his temple. Setting off along the road, Halley shrugged off his jacket, flipped it over his shoulder and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
As he drew close to the cottages, with their gardens full of swaying hollyhocks, he spied his own top-heavy house, its upper floor balanced on the bay windows of the lower. In front of it, blocking the road, was his father’s carriage. Its chipped door was hanging open. Mary dashed from the front door, holding her petticoats away from the dirt. ‘Your father’s here.’
‘So I see.’
She leaned in close. ‘He appears not to be himself.’
From the hallway emerged his father, plump and waddling, dressed in his blue Tower uniform.
‘Father, you know you’re bringing Islington to a standstill?’
‘We must go.’ Halley senior avoided his son’s gaze.
‘Go where?’
His father did not reply but turned to face the open carriage door.
‘I have preparations to make for my observations tonight.’ Halley searched his father’s face for some inkling of a reason.
‘Please,’ his father hissed through clenched teeth, looking pointedly at the carriage.
Halley exchanged a glance with his wife. ‘I’ll be back presently . . .’ He addressed his next words to his father. ‘ . . . when this mania has passed.’ He stalked to the carriage and settled on the lumpy upholstery.
His father sat opposite but said nothing until the noise of the wheels and the horses had risen. ‘The Earl of Essex was murdered today,’ he said, eyes downcast.
‘You mean he was executed.’
‘No, the trial didn’t go ahead. There was no conviction, but the Duke of York had him murdered.’
‘Have you finally fitted yourself for Bedlam? You’re not even in your dress uniform. How could the Duke have visited?’
‘We weren’t told of the visit until we arrived this morning. The King wanted no pomp.’
Halley’s voice grew sharp. ‘The King, now.’
His father looked up, his dark eyes clear. ‘Getting angry with me won’t change anything. Essex was murdered by the Duke of York.’
‘You witnessed this?’
‘I didn’t need to. Thomas Redman – you know, the young chap – was guarding the Earl. He saw everything. Everyone was panicking over the royal visit. I was sent to inspect the Duke’s chambers and had called for fresh fruit. I was waiting for it to arrive when I heard the footsteps. It was the Duke. He burst in, courtiers with him, and he was livid, shouting about his brother being weak-minded. I couldn’t move. They were talking about the King’s intention to secure a conviction and then pardon Essex to disarm his supporters.’ The old man wiped the sweat from his brow and continued. ‘There was something about the evidence being circumstantial and everyone wanting to be cautious, what with the collapse of Titus Oates’s case and his pack of lies about plots. But the Duke wasn’t having any of it, especially as Essex had been arguing for his exclusion from the throne. Then the Duke became very calm. You see, he calculated that Essex had no idea he was to be pardoned. As far as the prisoner knew, he was going to be executed and forfeit his estate, leaving his family destitute. One of his courtiers, a horrible man, whining voice . . .’
A chill passed through Halley at the description of Winslow. He almost heard the man’s drone as his father continued.
‘. . . said they could tell the Earl that there was a noble way to ensure that his family retained their home. It was that a corpse couldn’t be tried, so if Essex were to die before the trial, his crime would die with him and his estate would pass to his son. Next thing, the Duke reached into his coat and handed the man a pocket-knife. ‘Take this to Essex,’ he said. ‘He might like to pare his nails before the trial begins.’
‘That’s when the Duke and his man noticed me. I didn’t dare meet their eyes. I just waited until they’d gone. Thomas Redman told me the rest later. The Duke’s man talked to the Earl in private and left. Soon after, they heard the Earl fall and found him in a pool of blood, his throat slit.’ The old man’s bloodshot eyes welled with tears. ‘I’m a marked man with this knowledge.’
‘Be calm, Father. There will be a solution.’ What am I saying? What solution?
‘This confirms every fear I’ve ever held about a Catholic monarch. England will be ruled by tyranny again,’ said his father.
‘We must put our trust in Parliament to curb him,’ said Halley with deliberate calm.
‘Tell me of the coffeehouses. Are there people willing to stand against the Duke – when the time comes?’
‘Father! You forget how much we owe the House of Stuart. You must talk to no one about today’s events. Put this far from your mind. Let’s turn the carriage around. Come and dine with us tonight.’
The old man’s head sank into his hands.
‘Tell me you have not already opened your mouth.’
His father spoke in a whisper, speaking through the cage of his fingers. ‘It was all the Yeomanry could talk about. Mr Redman was eager to give his account, and upon his mentioning of the Duke’s man, the others turned to me. I told them I heard nothing, but they kept asking. Question after question after question.’ He looked up entreatingly at his son. ‘They are men of discretion.’
‘They are men of discretion with wives.’ Halley grasped his father by the shoulders. ‘Forget everything you have seen and heard today, Father, for all our sakes. From this moment on, we must never speak of this again.’
13
London
&
nbsp; Grace twirled. ‘How do I look?’ Her dress was silver-grey in colour, with three-quarter-length sleeves that displayed her slender forearms and wrists, and a pleated skirt with plenty of fabric at the back. She flicked open her fan and hid behind it, peeping out over the top.
‘You look beautiful. But you know I’ve always thought that. Now, come, let’s be on our way.’
‘Wait,’ she called. ‘We cannot go yet.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘You still have the muslin in your hair.’
Hooke reached up to the curling strips she had tied in after cutting his hair that afternoon. With a curse he began to pull at them.
‘Here, I’ll do it,’ she said.
Once on their way, a whirl of motion in the corner of Hooke’s eye caught his attention. Behind an open gateway, a small gang of apprentices was gathered in a wood-yard. The one in the middle was swinging a bucket of water in a complete circle, astounding the others with the way the water seemed to be glued to the inside.
Hooke approached the gateway and the boys stopped their play.
‘No, do it again. Please,’ Hooke called to them, ignoring the elder boys who were gawping at Grace.
The boy with the bucket shrugged and set it back into motion. Hooke watched the way the boy flicked his wrist and the way the string went taut to drag the pail into a circular motion.
Fascinating. Like an orbit.
‘Oi!’ From a side door, a stout man in a filthy work apron swaggered into the yard. ‘I don’t pay you to do that.’
The bucket’s string sagged and the distracted boy took a full drenching. The other apprentices scrambled, torn between the hilarity of their friend’s soaking and their own desire to avoid a punishment.
The yard’s owner noticed Hooke standing in the gateway and turned to face him.
‘Come on, Uncle.’ Grace pulled on his arm.
The milling crowd ahead meant they were nearly at their destination.
‘Walk like a statesman,’ said Grace out of the side of her mouth. ‘You built the place; act as though you owned it.’
Before them, the ornate exterior of the Dorset Gardens Theatre was shining in the evening sun. With its colonnaded entrance and life-sized statues on the second-storey balustrades, it was exactly as he had envisaged. He had drawn the plans in candlelight when all was quiet in the city and anything seemed possible. But, of course, most people assumed it was another of Wren’s achievements.
Heads turned as Hooke led Grace towards the grand entrance. He caught a number of the crowd nodding in their direction and passing comment with their neighbours, a few gentlemen attempting to catch Grace’s eye. She acknowledged none of them, Hooke noticed with pride.
Standing to attention among the crowd, a large number of soldiers watched the proceedings hawkishly.
‘Why are they here?’ Grace asked.
Hooke grinned, ready to spring his surprise. ‘The King is attending tonight. You will finally meet him.’
She straightened herself even more, and Hooke wished he could do the same. He guided her around the theatre to where the shallow Thames lapped the wooden quay of the river entrance, and squeezed into a gap between the other well-dressed city folk.
The King’s boat was already in sight. It was a long vessel of honey-coloured wood, with a canopy to the rear, under which the shadow of the King could just be glimpsed. Eight oarsmen cut the river, breaking the surface into golden glitter, and behind them an entourage of smaller vessels bobbed in the wake.
As the King’s boat neared the theatre, a uniformed boy leapt to the bank carrying a rope, and those on the quayside helped him draw the vessel to a dignified stop.
Dressed in a profusion of white, with a full wig of coal-black curls, the King stumbled once before stepping up on to the quay. As Charles Rex began to climb the small flight of stone steps, the onlookers bowed and curtsied.
The white-hosed ankles stopped just before reaching Hooke. ‘Well, well,’ said the King in his customary measured timbre, ‘who have we here?’
‘I’m Grace Hooke, Your Majesty. Niece to my loving uncle.’
‘So you’re Grace, niece to the man to whom bowing is second nature.’
Hooke looked up, forcing himself to smile. At this proximity, Hooke noted that it was obvious the King’s eyebrows were loaded with kohl to mask the grey.
‘So, this is whom you petitioned me about,’ said the King, running his eyes over Grace. ‘You sly old fox.’
‘She is my closest family. Like a daughter to me, Your Majesty.’
‘Is that right?’ said the King in a loaded tone. He paused a moment, then said, ‘Share the royal box with me tonight.’ With that he swept off to the theatre, leaving Grace’s mouth gaping and Hooke feeling uneasy.
‘This way, sir, madam,’ said an aide.
Once inside, the King insisted that Grace sit between him and Hooke. ‘I must admit that I’m surprised to see you here tonight, Mr Hooke. I had not credited you with much of a sense of humour.’
‘I hear that Mr Shadwell’s play is a keen satire against those amateurs who pretend to know science.’
The King raised his painted eyebrows. ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’ He then launched into animated conversation with Grace, smiling to reveal his remaining mustard-coloured teeth every time she stifled a giggle. Hooke could tell Grace was only acting the part – as she should with the King – but even so he grew restless. There were a number of nods and glances coming in his direction from the stalls, too. He had at first thought they were simply watching the King or Grace, but no, they were definitely aimed at him. While he was a well-known figure in the coffeehouses and across the city, this level of recognition was unusual.
A pair of stagehands carried on some pretend display cases. Hooke couldn’t help thinking that the shoddy construction would not pass muster at the Royal Society. Then a young man in a flowing gown delivered a prelude consisting of an over-enthusiastic exposition on Lucretius and his fusion of philosophy and verse. Throughout its mercifully brief tedium Hooke found himself more concerned with whether the poor fit of the actor’s gown was deliberate or not.
He forced himself to pay attention as the first act of The Virtuoso began and the audience was introduced to Sir Nicholas Gimcrack, a natural philosopher of supposedly great repute. Gimcrack was played by an actor who had clearly stuffed a pillow up his jacket to feign a paunch and daubed himself with soot to increase the lines on his too-youthful face. He had a habit of dragging a foot across the stage or hunching himself and rubbing his hands together, as if this were somehow a characteristic of age.
There was a scattering of laughter as the characters discussed a book of lunar geology that Gimcrack had compiled, capturing the smallest lunar detail, during which his wife’s numerous adulteries went on behind his back.
Hooke muttered to Grace. ‘This is no substance for ridicule. Galileo’s discovery of mountains on the Moon was a turning point in–’
A glance from the King silenced him.
Then Hooke’s world collapsed.
Gimcrack began extolling the virtues of not one but two nieces, who duly filed on to the stage. One was a blonde, the other a redhead, each as lithesome as Grace. The theatre began to warp around him as the redhead announced that her uncle had spent all of his time and money on microscopes to study the tiniest of living creatures.
They were lampooning Hooke’s own book, Micrographia.
‘Yes,’ agreed the blonde and with perfect comic timing she explained that Uncle had broken his brains over the nature of maggots yet never cared to understand mankind.
Hooke observed the audience in disbelief; they were roaring with laughter.
But we are recovering the lost wisdom of mankind.
Rosy faces were turned towards him from every direction. People were nudging each other and pointing. The sterner his expression, the more derision he seemed to invite.
Nearby laughter, deep and throaty, caught his ear. Gripping
the arms of his chair, Hooke turned in its direction. Beyond Grace’s downcast eyes, Charles was guffawing. The King glanced over and lifted those disgusting eyebrows. ‘Congratulations, Mr Hooke, you have made it into the upper echelons of London life.’
‘That’s right! You can all point and laugh.’ Hooke pushed through the boisterous crowds outside the theatre at the play’s conclusion.
‘Come along, Uncle.’ Grace propelled him gently in the right direction.
‘I have never been so embarrassed in my life.’ Hooke glared from one patron to another.
‘They’re only jealous. Let’s not give them any more cause for amusement.’
Once they were away from the crowds, Grace slipped her hand into his. It felt warm and the heat spread like a balm through him.
‘Did you really petition the King on my behalf?’ she asked.
Hooke nodded. ‘Your father was in debt to the Newport Commission. The Crown was within its rights to confiscate your home to reclaim the money. What else could I do but ask the King if I could manage John’s estate? Otherwise, you and your mother would have been homeless. But I didn’t know at that stage about your . . . condition.’ He glanced at her abdomen, hidden beneath the fine embroidery of her dress. ‘I went to court to plead for the estate, only to discover your lover had beaten me to the same proposition.’ He failed to keep the edge completely out of his voice. ‘That was how I learned you were with child. The King told me everything, as Sir Robert Holmes had told him. It seems that Sir Robert was not as discreet a gentleman as he might have been. By the time I arrived, the King had already granted him your father’s estate.’
‘Does all London society know of my humiliation?’
He swallowed the rebuke that jumped to his lips.
‘Don’t be cross with me, Uncle. Sir Robert was the only person I could turn to. He took the child as soon as she was born. I never even saw her, not properly. Just heard her cry as they carried her away. He made no secret that Mary was his – that’s what he called her, Mary, but the name was my suggestion . . .’
