by Iain Pears
And the writer of this letter to Cola was using one of these fine texts for his code? Livy, Polydore, More. Initially it made me shudder to think of such hands even touching these works, but then I reconsidered: some scruffy pamphlet I would have accepted, but these? Where did they get their hands on books which belong only in the library of a gentleman?
By the time Wood reappeared, sniffing and twitching like a little mouse, I had established that neither the More nor the Polydore Vergil was the book I required. The answer therefore lay in the Livy: find it, find who possessed it, and my investigation would advance in a great leap. Wood told me that a long-dead London bookseller had brought half a dozen copies into the country in 1643, as part of a general shipment for scholars. What had happened to them after that, alas, was unclear, as the man had been a supporter of the king, and all his stock was confiscated in fines when Parliament secured its hold on London. Wood assumed these books were dispersed then.
‘So you mean to tell me, after all that, that you cannot get me a copy?’
He looked a bit surprised by my sharpness of tone, but shook his head. ‘Oh, no, sir,’ he said. ‘I thought you might be interested, that is all. But they are rare, and I have identified only one person who definitely had one, which he brought in himself from abroad. I know of it because my friend Mr Aubrey wrote to a bookseller in Italy on some other matter . . .’
‘Mr Wood, I beg you,’ I said, my patience very near to expiring. ‘I do not wish to know every single detail. I merely need the name of the owner so I might write to him.’
‘Ah, you see, he is. dead.’
I sighed heavily.
‘But do not despair, sir, for by the greatest good fortune, his son is a student here, and would no doubt know whether the book remains in the family. His name is Prestcott. His father was Sir James Prestcott.’
Thus my story and Cola’s tales (as fictional as Boccaccio and as unlikely as the rhymes of Tasso, though less finely hewn), begin to intersect through the medium of poor deluded Prestcott, and I must lay out the details as best I can, although I fully admit that I am not entirely clear about some of the circumstances.
The lad had come to my attention several months previously, when I heard of his visit to John Mordaunt. Mordaunt had properly communicated with Mr Bennet, and news of the event was passed on to me as a matter of course; students, and sons of traitors, seeing fit to interrogate members of the court was no usual occurrence, and Mr Bennet thought that an eye should be kept on the young man.
I knew few of the details but had heard enough to be certain that Prestcott’s belief in the innocence of his father was as ludicrous as it was touching. I was uncertain what the precise nature of his betrayal was, for I had left the government’s employ by then, but the noise he created signified something of great importance. I knew something of it because, as my skills were indispensable, in early 1660 I was requested to work on a letter with the greatest urgency. I have mentioned it before, for it was my one failure and the moment I saw it, I knew that there was little chance of success. As much to preserve my reputation as my position (the fall of the Commonwealth was becoming increasingly certain, and I had no wish to prolong my association with it) I declined the task.
The suasion placed upon me was great, however. Even Thurloe himself wrote to me, using a mixture of flattery and threat to win compliance, but still I refused. All communications were brought by Morland himself, a man whose weaselly words and concern for self-advancement I detested, and his presence alone made me obdurate.
‘You cannot do it, can you, Doctor?’ he said in his sneering way, on the surface so amiable, but still barely hiding his cocky contempt for all others. ‘That is why you refuse.’
‘I refuse because I am doubtful why I am asked. I know you too well, Samuel; everything you touch is corrupt and deceitful.’
He laughed merrily at this, and nodded in agreement. ‘Perhaps so. But this time I have noble company.’
I looked at the letter once more. ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I will try. Where is the key?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Samuel, do not treat me like a fool. You know very well what I mean. Who wrote this?’
‘A Royalist soldier, called Prestcott.’
‘Ask him for the key, then. It must be a book, or a pamphlet. I must know what the code is based on.’
‘We don’t have him,’ Samuel replied. ‘He fled. The letter was found on one of our soldiers.’
‘Why so?’
‘A very good question indeed,’ Samuel said. ‘That is why we want this letter deciphered.’
‘Ask this soldier, then, if you cannot lay your hands on Sir James Prestcott.’
Samuel looked apologetic. ‘He died a few days ago.’
‘And there was nothing else on him either? No other paper, no book, no piece of writing with it?’
Morland looked discountenanced for once, a fact which gave me some pleasure, for he usually adopted such a self-satisfied air that it was satisfying indeed to see him uncertain and nervous. ‘This was all we found. We had been expecting more.’
I tossed the letter on to my desk. ‘No key, no solution,’ I said. ‘Nothing I can do, and nothing I will try to do. I do not intend to work myself to death because of your foolish incompetence. Find Sir James Prestcott, find the key, and I will assist you. Not until then.’
Rumours that had swept through government and army in the previous few weeks gave some clue of course; I had heard of fighting down in Kent, also of a frenzied investigation, conducted with the greatest secrecy and ferocity. Later I heard of the flight of Sir James Prestcott abroad, and of his being accused of betraying the 1659 rising against the Commonwealth. That, in itself, struck me as highly unlikely: I knew something of the man and considered him about as supple as a large piece of oak planking, with an absolute conviction in his own beliefs. Men had sinned, men must be punished and revenge taken: that was the alpha and omega of his politics, and this limited vision was strengthened by his own privations in the war. It made him useless as a conspirator but, in my opinion, also made him unlikely to conceive of anything so subtle as betrayal: he was too upright, too honourable, and far too stupid.
On the other hand he clearly had done something which made both Royalists and Thurloe earnestly desire his death and his silence, and I did not know what that was. I assumed the answer lay in the letter which made little Samuel sweat so, and when he had gone I naturally tried my hand to make it out. I made no progress at all, for the skill of its author was great, far beyond anything I would have expected from a military dolt like Prestcott.
I mention this because the words which Wood spoke to me so innocently brought me to a realisation I should have had some time before. Mentioning it now, when it actually occurred to me, risks making me seeming foolish; all I can say is that I will not accept judgement from those with inferior skills to mine. Recognising a form of code is like recognising a style in composition or poetry; it is impossible to say what triggers the realisation, and I doubt there is another man alive who would have seen that the letter I had found in di Pietro’s mailbag, sent to this Marco da Cola, was written in the same code, had the same form, the same feel as that letter of Sir James Prestcott’s, brought to me some three years earlier by Samuel Morland. Once I had grasped the form, I could examine the structure: two days’ hard work on both of them led me to the inevitable and clear conclusion that both were constructed with the same book. A copy of Livy, I knew, had been used to encode the letter to Cola, and so now I knew that the same Livy had been used for the Prestcott letter.
Had I been more sure of my ground, I would have summoned young Prestcott, told him the position and asked for the Livy. However, I clearly could not do this without telling him of its significance and as I knew of his obsessions, I did not want to be responsible for reopening a matter so obviously sensitive: many people had worked hard to keep those events hidden, whatever they were, and I would receive no thanks for drawing
attention to them once again. So, I had to approach him in a more subtle fashion and therefore decided to make use of Thomas Ken.
This Ken was a desperately ambitious young man who had the utmost clarity about his desires. For Ken, God’s interests and his own were indistinguishably mingled, so much so that one might have thought the whole of salvation itself depended on his getting £80 a year. He once had the presumption to ask me for my favour in securing a living in the gift of Lord Maynard and disposable by New College. Not being a member of that society, I naturally had little say in the matter and it was obvious that Dr Robert Grove – more learned and balanced, and certainly more deserving – would carry the day whatever I said. But it was an inexpensive way of securing his devotion, and I gave him the expression of my support, for what that was worth.
In return, I insisted that he help me when I required his services and, in due course, recommended that he persuade Mr Prestcott to seek my assistance. Prestcott duly came, and I questioned him closely about his father’s possessions. Alas, he knew nothing of any book by Livy, nor indeed of any documents at all, although later on he did confirm what Morland had said: it appeared his mother had been expecting a package from his father which never arrived. It was exceptionally frustrating: I needed only a little good fortune and I could not only unravel the secret correspondence of this Marco da Cola, I could also take to myself one of the closest secrets of the realm.
But that fool Samuel had allowed the only man who might tell me the answer to die.
Chapter Five
* * *
MY DUTIES IN this period enforced a strange rhythm of life upon me, for I was forced to exist like some nocturnal creature, which hunts while others sleep, and rests from its labours while most of creation is active. When all people of rank left London for their estates, or to follow the court from one place of idle amusement to the other, so I left the country to take up residence in London. When the court returned to Westminster, I removed myself back to Oxford.
I did not find this displeasing. The obligations of the courtier are time-consuming and largely fruitless unless you are chasing the prizes of fame and position. If you are merely concerned with the safety of the kingdom, and the smooth running of the government, then maintaining a presence there is pointless. In the entire country, fewer than half a dozen people have true power. The rest are governed, in one way or another, and I had more than sufficient contact with those who were truly of significance.
Among these, I found few natural allies and many who, either deliberately or because of the limits of their comprehension, worked against the interests of their own country. Such a state, I may say, was to be found everywhere in those days, even amongst the philosophers who thought they were merely teasing out the secrets of nature. Having no care for thought, they did not consider what they did, and allowed themselves to be led down the road to the most dangerous of all positions.
As the years have gone by, the parallels have become ever more clear to me, for it is easy, out of greed or generosity, to fall into traps set by others. A few weeks ago, for example, I prevailed in a controversy which, until I pointed out the dangers, seemed the most minor of matters, a question that could excite only the most abstruse minds. The Secretary of State (no longer Mr Bennet) wrote to me to ask whether this land should join with the rest of the Continent and adopt the Gregorian calendar. I believe my opinion was solicited merely to gain approval for something which had already been agreed: it was surely absurd for this country, alone in Europe, to have a different calendar and be for ever seventeen days behind everyone else.
They changed their minds swiftly when I pointed out the implications of such a seemingly harmless move. For it struck at the heart of Church and state, encouraging papists, and dismaying those who fight to keep foreign dominance at bay. Do our armies contest the arrogant might of France merely for our independence to be given away under more peaceable guise? To accept this calendar is to accept the authority of Rome; not merely (as the unsubtle say) because it was a reform that the Jesuits devised, but because to bow our heads means also to accept the right of the bishop of Rome to determine when our Church celebrates Easter; to say when all major festivals and holy days fall. Once conceded in principle, all else follows naturally; to bow to Rome in one thing will lead to obedience in others as well. It is the obligation of all Englishmen to resist the blandishments of those siren voices who say that such small matters will bring benefits with no disadvantages. It is not true, and if we must stand alone, then so be it. England’s glory has ever been to resist the pretensions of Continental powers, which seduce into slavery and wheedle into subjection. Honouring God is more important than the unity of Christendom. Thus my response, and I am glad that it prevailed; the argument has been settled once and for all.
So it was after the Restoration and the stakes were then even higher. Many men were open or concealed Catholics and had insinuated themselves into places of high influence at court. There were those (I do them credit and say it was for reasons genuinely held) who believed that the best interests of the state lay in binding it closely to France; others wished to obstruct the ambitions of the Bourbons by making common cause with the Spanish.
Week by week, and month by month, the factions contested with each other, and foreign bribes flowed in. Not a minister, nor office holder, failed to enrich himself from this battle, for that is what it was. At one moment the Spanish faction held the upper hand, as Mr Bennet and others consolidated their positions and took more power into their hands. At another the French struck back, subsiding the dowry paid for the king’s new wife. And the Dutch looked anxiously from one great enemy to another, knowing that if they allied with one, they would be attacked by the other. The interests of justice and religion were lost sight of in their entirety as the battles at court played out in miniature the greater battles that were yet to come on the seas and fields of Europe.
And there were two great enigmas; the king, who would have allied with anyone who paid enough to subsidise his pleasure, and Lord Clarendon, who opposed any foreign entanglements, believing His Majesty’s position at home to be so insecure that the least trembling from abroad would shake his throne irrecoverably. His views prevailed in 1662, but others, such as Lord Bristol, held the opposite view, thinking either that fine victories abroad would strengthen the crown, or secretly hoping for the opportunities that defeat would offer. For many wanted to bring about Clarendon’s fall, and worked tirelessly to accomplish his ruin. A defeat in arms would ruin his career more surely than anything else, and I do not doubt that many loyal servants of the king lay awake at night, hoping that one would come to pass.
For the moment, though, the greatest weapon the opponents of Clarendon had was the scandalous behaviour of his daughter, which had convulsed the court scarcely six months before and severely weakened the Chancellor’s position. For the wretched woman had married the king’s brother, the Duke of York, without troubling to gain permission first. That his daughter was well pregnant by the time of the nuptials, that Clarendon loathed the Duke of York deeply, that he was as deceived as the king, none of this was of any consequence. Royal authority had been held to ridicule, and the king had lost a valuable card in the diplomatic game: the duke’s hand in marriage would have been a fine inducement to seal an alliance. It was said Clarendon himself would not have the subject raised in his presence, and was said to pray daily that the queen would give birth to an heir, so that he could be acquitted of conniving to put his own daughter on the throne, which would surely happen should the king die without legitimate issue. It was not a matter easily forgiven, and his enemies, above all Lord Bristol, who had the finest wit of them all, made sure it could not be forgotten either.
Such manoeuvrings among the mighty and the puffed up did not attract my attention overmuch; foolishly so, perhaps, as more attention to the details of such petty squabbles would have helped me greatly. I was, as yet, far from understanding that these intrigues were fundamental to
my own enquiries, and without them I would have had no grounds for concern over anything. This, however, is a matter which will become clear in its proper place. At that time, I saw myself in all modesty as a servant – one of importance, perhaps – but none the less with no interest in courtly battles nor even with a concern for influencing the policy of the realm. My task was to tell my masters the secret history of the kingdom, so they might reach their decisions with knowledge, if they wished to do so. In this, my importance was crucial, for good intelligence is the mother of prevention, and the measures of suppression being taken were far from complete. Town walls were being razed, but not fast enough; sectaries of all sorts were being arrested and fined, but there were always more, and the more cunning kept themselves in concealment.
Anybody reading this account may wonder why I was prepared to give such attention to the question of Marco da Cola, since I have as yet described little to justify my effort. In fact, he was still only of passing interest to me, one of those lines of enquiry which are pursued for the sake of thoroughness: there was nothing solid on which I could concentrate, and little more than curiosity to keep my attention focused. I had, it was true, established a possible link between the exiles and the Spanish, and he and his family formed that link. I had an incomprehensible letter and an intriguing connection with another document written three years previously. Finally, I had the enigma of Cola himself, for it struck me as unusual that he could spend many months in the Low Countries without his profession of soldier being commonly known. Nor could I understand why his father, a man of known ability, was prepared to release his older, effective son from his family obligations. Yet, not only was the younger Cola apparently entirely unengaged in trade, he was not even married.
