by Iain Pears
I had never threatened him so before and had not intended to do so then. But he was fast slipping from my grasp. The temptation of dissoluteness was growing on him, encouraged by this man, and it had to be stopped immediately. He had to know I commanded and was his master. Otherwise he would have been quite lost.
But it was too late; I had delayed too long, and the corruption had already gone too deep. Still, I think he would have asked my pardon and realised his error, as he had been prepared to do so recently in the past. But he stared at me, not knowing whether I was serious or not, and seeing that gaze I weakened and spoiled all.
‘Matthew,’ I said, ‘my boy, come to me.’ For the first time in my life, but God help me, not for the first time in my dreams, I took him in my arms and held him tightly to me, hoping to feel the softness of his response. Instead, Matthew stiffened, then pushed his arms hard against my chest and broke away, stumbling backwards in his haste to part from me.
‘Leave me be,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘You cannot command me, nor forbid me anything. It is not me who has done wrong here and not this Italian who keeps me for impure reasons, I think.’
And he walked out, leaving me to bitter anger, and the sadness of regret.
I never saw Matthew alive again. That same evening Marco da Cola cold-bloodedly cut his throat in a dark alley, and left him to bleed to death.
Even now, I can hardly bear to recall the details of the day I learned that no amends would ever be made. My housekeeper’s husband (I had allowed the woman to marry the previous year, and had such a regard for her honesty I did not see fit to throw her out) came himself to Gresham College, where I was dining with Mr Wren, to tell me of the calamity. He was a big, slow, stupid man, fearful of my wrath but courageous enough to bring the bad news himself.
He trembled as he stood there before me and told me what had happened. With some resource, he had gone to the scene itself when the news came, and asked those who lived nearby what had transpired. It appeared there had been a murderous assault a few hours previously. Matthew had been attacked from behind, his mouth covered and his throat slit with a single cut. There had been no noise, no sound of any shouting, none of the normal commotion that signifies a struggle or a robbery in progress. The culprit was not seen by anyone and Matthew was left to die. It was not a duel, not a fight of honour, he was not given the chance to die in the knowledge at least of having acted as a man should. It was pure and simple murder, carried out in the most despicable manner. My dream had warned me, and I had let it happen none the less.
I see from Cola’s memoirs he even has the audacity still to indicate his crime, although he pretends it was self-defence. He says he was set on by a bunch of bravos, who (he claims) he thought were sent by the former associate of his father. With what nobility and courage did he defend himself against such a pack of bloodthirsty rogues! With what modesty does he recount how, all alone, he sent them packing. He does not say, of course, that his assailant was but a boy of nineteen, who never fought a man in his life and who certainly intended him no harm. He does not say that he followed the boy and deliberately set upon him, leaving him no chance of defending himself. He omits to say that he committed this one crime that he might be free to commit still greater ones later.
And he does not say that he extinguished the light of my life by that deed, cast all into darkness and ended all joy for ever. Matthew’s death rested on my shoulders, for my mistrust excited him to bravado, and it mattered not that I suffered most from the mistake. Such a glory to God, my Absalom, my clay, which I had fashioned myself into the finest of creation. Would God I had died for thee, my son, my son (2 Samuel 18:33).
His obedience matched his piety, his piety his loyalty and his loyalty his beauty. I had imagined growing old with him by my side, to comfort me as no woman ever could. He alone made the day bright, and the morning glow with hope. Such love had Saul for David and I wept at the bitterness of my punishment.
He that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me (Matthew 10:37). How often had I read those words without understanding the burden they lay on all mankind, for I had never loved any man or woman before.
And the lesson was swift and harsh, and I rebelled against it. I begged the Almighty it should not be, that my servant was wrong, that another had died in his place.
And I knew the cruelty of desiring that another suffer instead of me, that another father should grieve for me. Our Lord had accepted His cross, but even He had prayed the burden might be taken from Him, and so I prayed as well.
And the Lord told me I had loved the boy too much, and made me remember those nights when he had slept in my bed, while I lay awake listening to his breathing, wishing only to reach out and touch him.
And I remember how I begged deliverance from my desires, and also wished them fulfilled.
This was my punishment, so fully deserved. I thought I would die under the pain of it and never recover from the loss.
And in my heart my anger grew fierce and cold, for I knew also that it was Marco da Cola who had tempted my dearest boy away from me, and seduced him so he would not notice as the knife slipped from its scabbard.
I asked that God should say to me as He had to David, I will deliver thine enemy into thine hand, that thou mayest do to him as it shall seem good unto thee (I Samuel 24:4). I vowed that this Cola’s brutality would undo him.
It is written: whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed (Genesis 9:6).
I give thanks that I allow no man to see my emotions and that I have ever had a deep sense of duty, for it was only that which forced me to rise and re-dedicate myself to my purpose. And so I prayed, then forced myself once more to my task; a harder deed I have never done, for I maintained always my habitual demeanour, which men call coldness, while all the time my very heart was bleeding with grief. I will add no more of this matter, it is properly for no man’s ears. But I will say that from then on, I had one purpose in mind, one aim and one desire, and that stayed with me in my dreams and every second of my waking day.
Matthew had said he did not believe that he was suspected by Cola in the Low Countries; had the Italian done so, the boy would surely have died before ever he set foot on English soil. It was accordingly clear that Cola had discovered this in London, and thus also certain that the information had reached him because I had told Mr Bennet of my suspicions, and named Matthew as one privy to them. I should have known that there is no such thing as a discreet courtier, nor can any man keep a secret in Whitehall. So I resolved that I would no more inform Mr Bennet of my progress: not only did I not want loose talk to warn Cola further, I also wished to stay alive myself, and knew that if the Italian had slaughtered Matthew because of the little he knew, then how could he avoid making a similar attempt on my life?
None the less, it was no surprise to me at all when I heard that a young gentleman of curiosity had arrived in Oxford and had expressed the intention of staying some time.
But it was a considerable surprise when virtually his first move was to establish contact with the Blundy family.
Chapter Eight
* * *
HERE I MUST pause and give an account of that family, since Cola’s own narrative is not to be believed in any particular and it is obvious that, if Prestcott touches on the subject in his scribblings, then he will give nothing but a wildly misguided account. He formed some strange fascination for the girl and was convinced she intended him harm, although how she could have accomplished this feat I do not pretend to understand. Nor was it necessary: since Prestcott seemed intent on doing himself so much harm there was little point in anyone else adding to it.
I knew of the husband’s reputation as an agitator in the army and heard he had died; equally I was naturally aware that his wife had settled in Oxford along with her daughter. Through my informers I kept watch on them for a while but on the whole let them be: if they kept within the law, then I saw no reason to persecute them, even though their
dissent in matters of religion was blatant. As I hope I have made clear, my concern was the good ordering of society and I had little interest in quibbling as long as an outward show of conformity was maintained. I know that many (some people for whom I have a high regard in other matters, such as Mr Locke) hold to the doctrine of toleration; I disagree most strongly if that is taken to mean worship outside the body of the Established Church. A state can no more survive without general unity in religion than it can without common purpose in government, for to deny the Church is, ultimately, to deny all civil authority. It is for this reason I support the virtuous mediocrity which the Anglican settlement observes between the meretricious gaudiness of Rome and squalid sluttery of the fanatical conventicles.
With the Blundys, mother and daughter, I was pleased to see that the lesson inflicted on them by the failure of their aspirations was learned. Although I knew that they kept up contact with all manner of radical acquaintance in Oxford and in Abingdon, their personal behaviour gave little cause for concern. Once every three months they attended church and if they sat resolutely and stony-faced at the back, refusing to sing and standing only reluctantly, that did not concern me. They signified their obedience, and their acquiescence was a lesson to all who might have contemplated defiance. For if even the woman who had once directed the fire of soldiers on Royalist troops at the great siege of Gloucester no longer had the will to resist, then why should less fiery folk do otherwise?
Few people know of this tale nowadays; I mention it here partly because it illustrates the character of these people and partly because it deserves to be recorded, the sort of anecdote, indeed, in which a man like Mr Wood takes such delight. Ned Blundy was already in the service of Parliament at that stage, and his wife followed him with all the other soldiers’ women, that her man might be fed and clothed in decency on the march. He was part of Edward Massey’s troop and was in Gloucester when King Charles laid siege. Many know of that fierce encounter, in which the resolution of one side was met by the determination of the other, and neither lacked anything in courage. The advantage was with the king, for the town’s defences were slight and ill prepared, but His Majesty, as was usual with a prince ever more noble than wise, failed to move with the necessary speed. The Parliamentarians began to hope that a little more endurance on their part would enable the relieving army to come to their assistance.
Persuading the citizenry and the ordinary soldiers of this was not an easy task, the more so as the officers’ bravery depleted their ranks, leaving many platoons and companies headless. On the occasion I refer to, a company of Royalist soldiers attempted to break through one of the weaker sections of the town’s defences, knowing that the soldiers defending it were disheartened and irresolute. Indeed, it seemed initially that the bold assault would be successful, for many gained the walls, and the discouraged defenders began to pull back. Within minutes, the wall would be theirs and the entire besieging army would pour over.
Then the woman of the tale stepped forward, girded her petticoat into her belt and picked up the pistol and sword of a fallen soldier. ‘Follow or I die alone,’ she is said to have shouted, and charged into the mob of attackers, hacking and cutting all around. So ashamed were the Parliamentarians at having their cowardice exposed by a mere woman, and so commanding was the tone of their new leader, that they reformed themselves and charged also. They refused to give any further ground, and the ferocity of their assault forced the Royalists back. As the attackers made their way to their lines once more, the woman formed the defenders up into line, and directed fire into their backs until the very last musket ball had been used up.
As I have said, this was Edmund Blundy’s woman, Anne, who already had a reputation for blood-curdling ferocity. I do not necessarily believe that she bared her breasts before charging into the Royalist ranks, so that they would be less able to strike at her through gallantry, but it is certainly possible and would be quite appropriate to the reputation she established for immodesty and violence.
Such was this woman who, I believe, was more violent in temper and deed than was her husband. She laid claim to being a wise-woman, saying her mother had such power, and her mother’s mother before her. She even intervened to make speeches at soldiers’ gatherings, exciting awe and derision in equal part. She it was, I believe, who incited her husband on to ever more dangerous criminal belief, for she utterly scorned all authority unless she chose, willingly, to accept it. A husband, she maintained, should have no more authority over a wife than a wife over a husband. I have no doubt that she would eventually have claimed that man and donkey should live in equal partnership as well.
And it was certainly true that neither she nor her daughter had renounced such beliefs. While most, grudgingly or with enthusiasm, set aside old opinions when times changed and the king returned, some persisted in error despite the manifest withdrawal of divine favour. These were the people who saw the return of the king as God’s test of their belief, a brief hiatus before the coming of King Jesus and the establishment of His thousand-year rule. Or they saw the Restoration as a sign of God’s displeasure, and an incentive to become ever more fanatical to win back His approval. Or they spurned God and all His works, bemoaning the turn of events, and sank into the lassitude of greed disappointed.
Anne Blundy’s exact beliefs I never fathomed, and indeed had no interest in doing so; all that counted for me was that she remained quiescent and in this she seemed more than willing to oblige. I did, however, once question Mr Wood on the matter, for I was aware that his mother employed the girl in their house as a general work-all.
‘You know of her background, I imagine,’ I asked him. ‘Her parentage and her beliefs?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I know what they were, and I know what they are now. Why do you ask?’
‘I have an affection for you, young man, and I would not wish your family, or your mother, to be besmirched.’
‘I am grateful for the attention, but you need have no fear. The girl is in perfect conformity with all the laws, and is so dutiful that I do not believe I have ever heard her express a single opinion. Except when His Majesty returned, when her eyes filled with tears of perfect joy. You may rest assured that this must be so, for my mother will scarcely have even a Presbyterian in the house.’
‘And the mother?’
‘I have met the woman only a few times, and found her quite unremarkable. She has scraped together enough money for a washing house, and works hard for her living. I think her only concern is to put by enough money for her daughter to have a dowry, and this is Sarah’s main concern as well. Again, I know something of her reputation through my researches, but I believe the madness of faction has left her as entirely as it has left the country as a whole.’
I did not completely take Mr Wood’s word, since I had my doubts about his ability to see deeply into such matters, but his report settled my mind and I gladly turned to more interesting quarry. Occasionally, I took note that the daughter would travel to Abingdon or Banbury or Burford; that men of doubtful loyalty – such as the Irish magus I mentioned earlier – would visit their little cottage. None the less, I had few worries. They seemed determined to abandon their previous desire to remake England in their own image and appeared content simply to make as much money as their positions and abilities would allow. To that laudable aim I could not object, and I paid them little attention until Marco da Cola went straight to their cottage on the pretext of treating the old woman for her injury.
I have, naturally, read his words on this subject with the greatest of care, and am almost admiring at the consummate skill with which he makes all out to be innocent and charitable. His technique, I note, is to tell something of the truth in everything, but wrap each little fragment of veracity in layer upon layer of falsity. It is hard to imagine a man would take such trouble, and if I did not know the truth of the matter, I would undoubtedly be convinced of the genuineness of his candour and the extent of his generosity.
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p; But look at the matter from a wider perspective, with the benefit of more information than Mr Cola is willing to provide. Conversant with radical circles in the Low Countries, he comes to Oxford and within hours makes the acquaintance of the family who know more such people than anyone else in the county. Even though they are far outside his social sphere, he visits them three or four times a day, and is more attendant than a real physician would be with even the wealthiest of clients. No man of sense or reason acts in such a way, and it is a tribute to Mr Cola’s tale that, on reading it, such absurd and unlikely behaviour seems perfectly comprehensible.
Once Mr Boyle told me he had also gravitated into the society of the High Street philosophers, I knew that at last I had some possibility of learning more about the man’s movements and thoughts.
‘I hope you do not mind that I took him under my wing in this way,’ Boyle said when he mentioned it to me, ‘but your account was so fascinating that when the man himself appeared in the coffee house, I could not resist examining him myself. And I must say I think you are entirely wrong about him.’
‘You did not dissent from my argument.’
‘But it was an easy speculation, based on abstraction. Now that I have met him, I do not concur. We must always take character into account, surely, for that is the surest guide to a man’s soul and therefore to his intentions and deeds. I see nothing in his character which would coincide with your speculations about his motives. Quite the reverse.’
‘But he is cunning, and you are trusting. You might as soon say a fox is harmless to a hen because it approaches gently and softly. It is only dangerous when it strikes.’
‘Men are not foxes, Dr Wallis, and nor am I a hen.’
‘You admit the possibility of error, though?’
‘Of course.’ And Boyle smiled in that thin and arrogant way of his which indicated his difficulty in even conceiving of the notion.
