by Iain Pears
Chapter Twelve
* * *
THE JOURNEY BACK to Oxford gave me time to consider everything I had heard and learned, although the malevolence which had dogged me for so long continued to swirl all around. The horses slipped their harness and had to be recovered by the coachman; a sudden and unlikely storm blew up out of nowhere and turned the road into a sea of mud; most frightening of all, a huge crow flew into the carriage when one of the passengers lifted the blind, and fluttered around in panic, pecking and beating its wings against us – myself most of all – before being strangled and its corpse hurled out again. It was not only myself who saw these mishaps as more than mere accident; a minister also travelling to Oxford was similarly concerned, and even remarked how the ancients viewed such birds as evil portents, and the emissaries of malevolent spirits. I did not tell him he was nearer the truth than he knew.
This reminder of the darkness to which I was returning weighed on my mind, but I put it from me enough to turn over again and again the catalogue of misdeeds that my enquiries had brought to light. By the time I arrived in Oxford it was all laid out and the case was as clear and lucid as any presented in a court of law. A fine speech, it would have been, although I never had cause to deliver it. I fear that I was a source of some consternation in the coach as we lumbered towards Oxford, for I became so involved in my thoughts that I must have talked aloud on several occasions, and made dramatic gestures with my arms to emphasise the points I was making to myself.
But for all the bravado of my mind, I knew that I was not yet finished. A perfect argument, flawless in its conception and its development, leading towards a conclusion that is unavoidable in its logical progression, is all very well in disputation, where power of structure will carry all before it. It is of less use in the courtroom, whatever the rhetoricians say of their art. No; I needed testimony as well and, what was more, I needed it from someone who would match the standing of those gentlemen I would be accusing. I could hardly, after all, rely on Morland or Lord Mordaunt to speak truth, and Sir John Russell had made his partialities perfectly clear. Thurloe would not speak for me, and Dr Grove could do me little good.
Which meant I had to see Sir William Compton. He, I was still sure, was as upright and honest a man as could be, and the thought that my suspicions about him were certainly wrong came as the greatest relief. It would have been impossible to persuade him to act dishonourably, and I was certain he consented to the sale of my lands only when he was convinced my father’s sin was so great that no further consideration need be given my family. To consider yourself betrayed by a man you called friend, this would have been a bitter blow indeed. And if he believed my father, his closest comrade, a traitor, then others would as well: that surely, was why he was chosen to disseminate the information.
I could not go to see him directly as the weather was so bad the roads were all but impassable and, in any case, my obligations at the university were pressing. I had missed much of the term, and was forced to make amends like a snivelling schoolboy before I could go off once more. Not much was required other than my presence, but there was little I could do about it. And a week or two of quiet reflection was no bad thing, I think, even though at the time my fiery temperament naturally wanted to bring the matter to an end as soon as possible.
My few friends, by this stage, were abandoning me, so preoccupied were they by their own petty affairs. It grieved me greatly, and saddest of all was the distraction of Thomas, who, when I called on him, neither asked me how I was nor how my quest was progressing. I was barely in the room before he launched into bitter complaints, revealing such a violence of soul that the ultimate outcome should not have surprised me as much as it did.
In short, it was becoming clear to him that his claims on the living were to be shunted aside in favour of Dr Grove. The times were changing faster than he had reckoned. The new laws on conformity which the government had introduced made almost any deviation from the steady orthodoxy of the Anglican Church punishable. Independents, Presbyterians, everyone but virtual Catholics (in my friend’s opinion) were to be crushed and starved, denied any possibility of preferment.
Personally, I welcomed such legislation as long overdue. The sectaries had done well under Cromwell and I could see no reason why they should be allowed to continue in prosperity now. For twenty years or more we had endured these arrogant presumptives, who had expelled and tormented those who disagreed with them while they had the power to do so; why should they now complain when such power was turned with just vengeance on themselves?
Thomas did not see the matter in such a way, of course. In his opinion, the health of the land depended on his gaining eighty pounds a year and the state of marital bliss this would bring in its train. He could not see the danger he posed, and the more it seemed his ambition would be denied him, the more it fed his antagonism towards Dr Grove, subtly metamorphosing it from disagreement, to dislike and, ultimately to a burning and violent hatred.
‘It is the college,’ he said, ‘and in particular the warden. They are so cautious; so determined not to give offence or attract the least degree of criticism from anyone that they are prepared to subsume the interests of the parish and install a man such as Grove.’
‘Are you sure of this?’ I asked. ‘Has the warden actually said so to you?’
‘He does not need to,’ Thomas said in disgust. ‘Indeed, he is too crafty a man ever to say anything direcdy at all.’
‘Perhaps the matter is beyond his control,’ I suggested. ‘The living is not in the warden’s gift.’
‘His influence will be decisive. Lord Maynard has asked the college’s opinion before he bestows the parish on someone, and that opinion will be communicated through the warden,’ Thomas said. ‘Lord Maynard is coming to the college soon and we must all dine together, then the Senior Fellows will give their verdict. Jack,’ he said desperately, ‘I do not know what to do. I have no other possible patron. I am not like Grove, who could count on the favour of many a great family, if he would but ask.’
‘Now, now,’ I said cheerfully, although I was becoming irritated with him for his selfishness. ‘It is not as bad as that. You are still a Fellow of this college, and a man of learning and probity must always find a place for himself in the world. You must cultivate the mighty with the same enthusiasm that you apply to your studies, for the one is useless without the other. You know as well as I that association with those who can advance you is the sole means that men of worth have of gaining a place in the world. And you, if I may say so, have too much neglected this world in favour of the other.’
I meant no criticism, although perhaps it was there. Certainly Thomas bridled at my words, so delicate was his spirit and so tender to just reproach.
‘Are you saying it is my own fault that I am to be defrauded in this manner? It is my responsibility that my warden advances another at my expense?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Not at all. Though more elegance of address might have persuaded more Fellows to support your cause. What I am saying is that you have made no effort whatever to cultivate others. You must frequently hear of those with livings in their gift. Have you written to them? Taken up opportunities to give their sons tuition when they come to this town? Have you published any of your sermons and offered the dedication of them to any men of influence? Have you made the gifts and performed the attentions that create an obligation? No. You have not. In your pride you have studied and thought that enough.’
‘It should be. I should not have to bow and scrape. I am a minister of the Lord, not a courtier.’
‘And that is your arrogance and conceit. Why should you be so different from everyone else? Do you think your qualities so great, your virtue so large, and your learning so extensive that you can scorn to beg like ordinary men? And if your purity and loftiness do not come from unreasoning pride, be assured that that is how they must appear to others.’
It was a harsh reply, but it was necessary and, if I was awar
e of injuring him, I did it with the best of intentions. Thomas was a good man but not a worldly one, and therefore quite unsuited for the Church of England. I do not say this in jest; for the Church is the best reflection of God’s intentions on earth, and it was He who ordered man according to His will. Thomas was obliged to apply to others for support, as those beneath him must apply to him in turn. How else can any civil society continue to work, without a constant flow of gratuity from one to the other, high to low? Did he think that the mighty would apply for the honour of giving him patronage? His refusal not only indicated his lack of humility; it was, at bottom, Godless.
Perhaps I was in error in saying what I did; certainly I was wrong to continue to drive the point home, for I am sure that it helped Thomas on to the catastrophe which played such a part in Mr Cola’s narrative. But it is often the way with conversation, that people, having caused a hurt, try to reassure themselves by making it worse.
‘Thomas,’ I said kindly, because I thought that the sooner he was aware of the truth the better, ‘Grove is older than you and has a superior claim. The thirteen men who run this college have known him for years, while you are a relative newcomer. He has taken care to be pleasant to Lord Maynard, while you have not. And he has offered the college a proportion of the living, which you cannot do. I wish it was otherwise, but you must face the fact: you will not get this place as long Grove is alive and wants it for himself.’
Had I known the outcome, of course I would not have spoken, but his mildness of manner was such that I never for a moment considered that the realisation might drive him into such evil action. Moreover, had I remained in close association with him, I do not believe Dr Grove would have died. It is known that a resentment unexpressed grows in the soul; I certainly had experienced such a malady myself. With my counsel and restraint, Thomas’s breast would not have filled with so immoderate a hatred that he took the steps he did. Or at least, I might have discerned his mind and stopped him.
But I was in prison at the time, and could do nothing to stay his hand.
I see that I have scarcely mentioned Dr Wallis since I recounted my visit to his house in Merton Street, and I must do so briefly now to indicate the man’s bad faith. For according to Morland he had known at least something about the plot against my father, and therefore he had lied outright to me on the subject. He asked me to find him documents in my father’s possession, when he had all he needed already in his desk. I determined to confront him with this duplicity, and so wrote him a polite letter, presenting my compliments and enquiring delicately for an interview. I received a dismissive reply. So, a few days later, I decided to pay him a visit.
He was, at that stage, lodged in New College, for building works had encumbered his house and his own college had no accommodation which would match his rank. His wife had been dispatched to London, to which city Wallis intended to fly as soon as the end of term permitted. I noted with some amusement that he was now a close neighbour of Dr Grove, as I could not imagine two gentlemen less likely to be on civil terms.
Wallis was in an ill humour, as he was a man who clearly did not relish any form of inconvenience. Being turfed out of his own lodging, virtually deprived of his servants, and forced into unwanted society through having to eat in college when he could not prevail on the kitchen to send his meals up, had no good effect on his mood. This I could see the moment I entered the door, and I was accordingly prepared to be maltreated at his hands. He was brutally unkind, offensive and threatening by turns, so much so that I regretted approaching him in the first place.
In brief, he upbraided me for writing to him and told me I had no claim on him at all. That he had undertaken reluctantly to oblige if I would provide him with the necessary materials, but resented mightily being harried in such a way.
‘I have already told you I have nothing,’ I said. Whatever my father may have had was lost. It seems, in fact that you possess more papers than I do, as I am told that you deciphered the documents which incriminated my father.’
‘I?’ he said in mock surprise. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Sir Samuel Morland took some letters you worked on, and passed them on to the king. They supposedly demonstrated my father was a traitor. I believe that those coded letters were forged on Thurloe’s instructions. I would like to see them so I can demonstrate this.’
‘Samuel told you all this?’
‘He told me a pack of lies. It is a truth I discovered on my own.’
‘In that case I congratulate you,’ he said, suddenly friendly. ‘It seems you have been cleverer than myself, for I never suspected that I was in any way duped by either Thurloe or Samuel.’
‘Will you give them to me?’
‘Alas, I cannot, young man. I don’t have them.’
‘You must. Morland said . . .’
‘Samuel is a great romancer. It is possible that what you say is true and that Samuel imposed himself on me in this fashion. But I have none of the originals.’
‘So where would they be?’
He shrugged, and I knew from the way he moved and the way his eyes would not meet mine that he was lying. ‘If they still exist, I imagine Mr Thurloe would have them. If you can find sufficient patience, I will make discreet enquiries for you . . .’
With great expressions of thanks on my part, and an equally hypocritical expression of admiration on his side, I left his room soon after, as convinced as I could be that Dr Wallis had those letters close by him somewhere.
I was laid low in my bed for several days after this meeting, which distressed me. However, I knew the cause of the infirmity, and also knew well that summoning a physician would be throwing good money after bad, so I lay and suffered until the worst of the affliction was passed and my head had cleared enough for me to move. Much of the time I spent in prayer, and I found that blessed exercise a great comfort to me, calming my soul and filling me with a strange and powerful strength, enough to complete the task my father had set me.
It was the second day of March before I set out for Compton Wynyates, slipping from my tutor’s bed before dawn, dressing on the landing so as not to disturb the other students slumbering within, and wrapping myself up with the thickest and warmest clothes I had. I took one of my fellow students’ pair of boots, having tried them on in secret a few days before. My need was very great. The cold was dreadful, worse than anything for many years, and without stout high leather my suffering would have been intolerable. Then I prevailed on a tradesman heading north with a consignment of gloves and other goods for Yorkshire to let me sit in the back of his wagon until Banbury, in exchange for which I pushed when the cart bogged down in the road, and took a turn driving the horses when he wearied.
From Banbury I walked and arrived at Compton Wynyates late in the evening, well after darkness had fallen. I clapped my hands as I walked through the great front door to summon the servant that my arrival could be announced. I did so with bravado, but I was highly nervous, for I had no idea whether I would be well received. In the back of my mind all the time was the reception I had received from Sir John Russell; I could not bear to be so rejected by Sir William also.
But I was swiftly reassured, for he descended swiftly to greet me himself, and made a great show of welcoming me to the house. Whatever resentment he may have harboured for my name did not rise to the surface.
‘I am astonished to see you, Jack,’ he said cordially. ‘What brings you here? Surely term is on at the university and you are still a student? I am surprised you were given permission to leave the town. Such laxity never existed in my day.’
‘This was a special dispensation, and I have an indulgent tutor,’ I said.
‘Well, I am pleased you are here,’ he said. ‘It has been too long. We have a fine fire in the parlour, so come and warm yourself immediately. This hall is as cold as charity itself.’
I was dumbfounded with relief by this reception, and upbraided myself for doubting his kindness. Amiability was Sir William
’s natural demeanour and he was very much the country gentleman in that regard. Thickset, and with a florid complexion, he had a simple directness that made him devotedly loyal to such causes and people as he clasped to his heart.
I was too cold and tired to pursue that question at that moment; rather, I allowed him to lead me through to the great fire and sit me down within the aura of its warmth, which made such a delightful contrast with the chill of the room beyond the flames’ influence. There I was served hot wine and food by a servant, and left alone in peace until I had finished my meal. Sir William excused himself, saying he had small business that would not wait, but that he would be back in a half-hour.
I was almost asleep when he returned; not that he took such a long time, but the heat and the drink drugged my mind and made me realise how dreadfully weary I was. I was also saddened as I sat there, so warm and comfortable. Not long ago, this had been my home and I found that, despite everything that had happened, I still felt it to be such. I had spent more time in the company of his family than I had in that of my own; this house I knew better than that abode which was no longer mine even in name. In a conflict of slumbering emotions I sat quietly by the fire drinking my wine, pondering such strangeness until the return of Sir William forced me back into some semblance of alertness.
It is at this point that I must return to one essential purpose of my narrative, or at least to that matter which caused me to reach for pen and paper to start with. I must discuss my dealings with Signor Marco da Cola and the worth of his narrative. As I said much earlier in this account, I find his memory a strange one indeed, for he discourses at length on the trivial and ignores studiously matters of much greater import. I do not know and, at this great distance, I care less, why this is; my only concern here is to correct his account in those passages where I am directly concerned.
