Lords of Misrule (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 4)

by Stella Riley

  ‘That,’ agreed Sir Ellis, in what Lydia thought was a rather odd tone, ‘is indisputably true.’

  ~ * * ~ * * ~

  TWO

  On the following morning, Colonel Maxwell had been at his desk for no more than ten minutes before he was peremptorily summoned to the Secretary’s office.

  Taciturn as ever, Thurloe glanced up briefly and pushed a few sheets of paper across the desk, saying, ‘Take a look through those, Colonel. It’s probably nothing that need concern us but there might be a few new names worth noting for future reference.’

  Eden thought of the dozen or so reports and letters lying on his own desk from agents in Paris, Madrid, Lisbon and Stockholm, some of them coded and some not even in English.

  The familiar feeling of angry frustration boiled up inside him and he very nearly said, 'Certainly. I’ll be happy to waste my morning on the latest trivia dug up by your creatures.’ Then, because he actually couldn’t trust himself to say anything at all, he simply nodded, swept up the papers and strode out.

  Back in his own room with the door firmly shut, he communed silently with the ceiling while he tried to master his temper. This couldn’t go on. Thurloe – this room – the endless, daily tedium of the work he was required to do … all of it was stifling him. If he couldn’t obtain leave of absence soon or better still, be re-assigned to more active work, he was either going to explode or bounce some unfortunate person off a few hard surfaces. Only that morning, he’d bitten Deborah’s head off for no reason at all and managed to start an argument with Tobias – something that was normally impossible.

  He could resign, of course. But, if he did that, he wasn’t sure what he’d do with his time and the idea of days filled with nothing either constructive or purposeful wasn’t inviting. He could apply, yet again, to Lambert for a change of direction – something which he’d tried twice already with a singular lack of success. Or he could apply to Lambert, threaten to resign and hope his bluff wasn’t called.

  And in the meantime, he could leaf through Thurloe’s bloody papers and hope there was something interesting in them.

  On first sight, the scribblings of one Roger Cotes didn’t look promising. He had managed to fill half a dozen sheets with laborious accounts of a handful of men holding what, in Eden’s view, might or might not have been meetings of a political nature in various taverns. Their favourite haunt, though by no means the only one, appeared to be the Ship on the corner of Newgate Street and Old Bailey and Mr Cotes’ jottings suggested that the fellows in question did more drinking and flirting with the tavern wenches than anything else. Then, just when Eden was about to lose interest and toss the whole lot aside, a particular name caught his eye and succeeded in capturing his wandering attention.

  John Gerard.

  Well, now … this might be interesting, after all.

  The name Gerard was one Eden was accustomed to seeing in reports from Paris. Lord Charles Gerard was an active Royalist, a friend of Prince Rupert and an open opponent of Edward Hyde. So when the Dom Pantaleon debacle had brought Colonel John Gerard to Eden’s attention, he had wondered if the two men were related – and quickly established that they were cousins. Consequently, the natural inference was that Lord Charles and Colonel John might share allegiances as well as blood.

  Eden read on. Two other names were regularly mentioned; Captain Dutton and Colonel Whitley – the latter also being related to Lord Gerard by marriage. Cotes maintained that the group planned to incite apprentice riots and seize the City – an idea that made Eden groan at the sheer, mind-blowing idiocy of it.

  God. How stupid are these people? Can’t they see it will never come to anything?

  Then another well-known name caught his eye.

  Sir Ellis Brandon.

  This time, despite himself, Eden laughed. Ellis Brandon; Gabriel Brandon’s half-brother, last heard of dabbling in counterfeiting … and, not just the least successful but also probably the least reliable conspirator in the entire history of plotting. If the plan had looked ridiculous before, Brandon’s involvement doomed it to disaster.

  The semi-literate ramblings ended on the previous evening when, on leaving the tavern, Gerard and Brandon had accompanied another gentleman – one Sir Aubrey Durand – to a large house just off John Street in Clerkenwell. Mr Cotes had not been invited to join them but had followed at a discreet distance, then been prevented by the icy weather from lingering outside until they left.

  Eden dropped the pages in a drawer. The chances of it amounting to more than a few hot words over numerous tankards of ale were miniscule but it would do no harm to keep half an eye on the situation.

  * * *

  He spent the afternoon dutifully decoding reports, sending others for translation and making notes in the appropriate files. Then, when his neck had grown stiff and his fingers cramped, he reached for his hat and cloak and set off home to mend a few of the morning’s fences.

  Tobias was in the room that had once more been transformed into a goldsmith’s shop and was surrounded by three pretty women. This was becoming such a normal occurrence that Eden wondered how his brother ever managed to get any work done. The assistant employed to deal with customers lounged in a corner, grinning, while the ladies vied for Mr Maxwell’s attention under the pretence of choosing which ear-rings one of them would buy. The apparent problem was choosing between rubies and amethysts. The real problem was that Mr Maxwell attracted women like flies and never seemed inclined to brush them off.

  Glancing up, Tobias met Eden’s eyes briefly and then returned his attention to the ladies. With a ridiculously charming smile, he said, ‘I believe that the amethysts will complement your complexion best, Mistress Crowley – but the choice must be yours. And now, I’m afraid that my brother requires a little of my time so I must leave you to be attended by Mr Turner. Forgive me.’

  Knowing Toby wouldn’t get away so easily because he never did, Eden smiled to himself and went upstairs. Ten minutes later and having poured ale for them both, he looked up when his brother came in and said, ‘What was it this time? An invitation to supper or an evening stroll around the Exchange?’

  ‘Supper,’ replied Tobias, dropping into a chair by the fire and taking the mug Eden offered him. ‘I might have accepted, there being safety in numbers … but all three of them talking at once is a bit too much.’

  ‘Yes. I would imagine it might be. Perhaps you should occasionally let Turner do what you pay him for. Unless you enjoy the attention?’

  ‘Of course I enjoy it. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Never having had the experience, I wouldn’t know,’ said Eden dryly. Then, curiously, ‘Will they buy anything?’

  ‘Probably.’ Tobias took a deep draft of ale. ‘It’s their second visit.’

  ‘You mean you’ve been through the same rigmarole with them before?’

  ‘More or less. But two is all any of them get.’

  Eden blinked. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘It’s easy enough. The Crowley girls are the sort of customers who are more likely to buy if I attend them personally – so Matt and I have a system. If they ask for me and I can leave what I’m doing, I’ll put in an appearance – but only twice. If they come back a third time, I’m never available.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Word gets around. You know how it is.’

  ‘I don’t, actually. I’m still reeling from the realisation that my little brother is positively Machiavellian.’

  ‘It’s not Machiavellian – it’s just good business. But if it was … what can you expect? I spent years with the most unscrupulous manipulator of them all.’ Tobias downed the remainder of his ale and, in a slightly different tone, said, ‘I take it that your mood has improved somewhat since we last spoke?’

  ‘Not very much,’ admitted Eden, frowning down into his mug. ‘But I apologise for this morning. I had no business speaking to you that way.’

  ‘No. You didn’t,’ came the blunt reply. ‘And no business snarling at Deborah either.’
>
  ‘I’m aware of that and will do my best to mend matters.’

  ‘Do. When she’s upset, the pastry suffers.’

  Eden gave a brief crack of laughter and then stopped, looking concerned.

  ‘Is she upset?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Somewhere about. Staying out of your way until she knows whether you’re likely to be civil or not, I should imagine.’ The normally smiling grey eyes became unexpectedly serious. ‘It’s no business of mine but I’m going to say it anyway. Your relationship with Deborah has been going on for two years … but you’re not going to marry her, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Because of her birth and background?’

  ‘No! I just don’t want to marry at all.’

  ‘Then you ought to think about what you’re doing.’ Tobias got up and stretched. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, both the vintner and the fellow who delivers the vegetables wouldn’t mind courting her. But she won’t look at anyone else while you’re in her life … and you can’t offer her a future that’s either respectable or permanent. Perhaps you should ask yourself if that is fair.’ He paused. Then, ‘And now – before this conversation descends into another argument – I’m going back downstairs to see what my apprentices are up to. I’ll swear I was never as much trouble to Luciano as those two are to me. I’m just grateful their families are nearby so I don’t actually have to have them living in the house.’

  * * *

  On his way upstairs in search of Deborah, Eden ran into his resident house-guest.

  Sir Nicholas Austin, the one-armed Catholic Royalist that he’d rescued at Worcester immediately said, ‘Eden – I’ve been trying to talk Sam into mentioning Neville’s in the piece he’s writing about the government’s lack of support for war veterans but he’s not convinced. There wouldn’t be any harm in it, would there?’

  ‘Since I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about --’

  ‘Neville’s!’ said Nicholas impatiently. ‘The lorinery in Duck Lane and the sewing widows in Strand Alley. Surely you know about them?’

  ‘Clearly I don’t – and neither, just now, do I want to. Have you seen Deborah?’

  ‘She’s upstairs. But --’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Eden, continuing on his way.

  He found Deborah in the top floor room she used for storing and mending the household linen. When he appeared in the doorway, she looked up with a sort of questioning wariness, causing him to say quickly, ‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry. I behaved atrociously and deserved to have something thrown at my head.’

  ‘Yes. You did.’

  ‘You could do it now, if you like.’

  ‘Would it make you feel better?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Ah. In that case, I shan’t bother.’ She smiled a little. ‘As for why you behaved as you did … I do understand, you know. You need time away. You’ve needed it for months now – but they won’t let you go.’

  ‘That’s an explanation – not an excuse.’ He paused, not wanting to ask but knowing that he had to. ‘Do you think I need time away from you?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ she asked gently. And then, when he said nothing, ‘This arrangement of ours was never going to be permanent, Eden. We’ve both always known that. And – in case you were wondering – I’ve neither hoped nor expected that it would change.’

  Eden shook his head slightly. He wondered how to say what was in his mind – and indeed, whether it would be a mistake to say it at all.

  ‘If someone … if some other man were to ask … you could marry.’

  There was a long silence. Finally, she said calmly, ‘Toby’s told you about the vintner.’

  ‘Also, the fellow who brings the vegetables, apparently.’

  ‘Really? Your brother seems to know more than I do.’

  ‘He thinks I’m being unfair to you. And he’s worried about the pies.’

  Unexpectedly and despite the growing pain in her chest, Deborah laughed.

  ‘Of course he is. Between his work and his women, he has a constant need to keep his strength up.’ She hesitated, and then said, ‘You know he’s getting something of a reputation, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve suspected as much. But no doubt he’ll settle down in time.’

  ‘He might … but only if he falls in love with a woman who can cook.’

  ‘That is probably all too true. But we’re digressing. I didn’t come up here to talk about Toby. I came to apologise.’

  ‘And you’ve done so. But that’s not all, is it?’

  He frowned down at his hands.

  ‘No. What Toby said has made me recognise that there are fellows who could give you what I can’t. Men who could offer you a home of your own and children; men who’d respect and value you and consider themselves lucky to have you.’ He paused, looking up at her. ‘You’re still young, Deborah and you deserve a real life – not this half-and-half existence you have with me. I don’t … it’s just that, if a chance like that came your way, I wouldn’t want to be the cause of you throwing it away.’

  ‘I see.’ With an effort of will, she kept her voice perfectly even. ‘If you feel our time together has run its course --’

  ‘It’s not that.’ An uneasy voice in his head said, At least, I don’t think it is. ‘I could quite happily go on as we are. But at some point, a change is inevitable. And when it comes – selfishly, perhaps – I want to know that you will be secure and happy.’ He paused and then added gently, ‘There’s no hurry. I’m not asking you to decide now – indeed, I’d rather that you didn’t. Also, if it’s not what you want, then there’s no more to be said. But I would ask you to at least consider it. Will you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Even though it’s slicing my heart into small pieces. ‘Yes. I’ll consider it.’

  * * *

  A week went by during which Eden received no further tavern gossip from Mr Cotes but had more than enough other work to keep him occupied.

  In the world outside his office, an envoy from Cardinal Mazarin arrived to open negotiations with the Lord Protector; while, at much the same time, thanks to the rantings of Major-General Harrison and his Fifth Monarchist preacher friends, the Council of State issued an ordinance declaring that criticism of the Protectorate was now treason. Harrison himself, having already been deprived of his commission for refusing to serve under the new regime, was ordered to take himself back to Staffordshire.

  Eden wondered if this was a sign of things to come. He didn’t like Harrison and never had but the fellow had always been one of Cromwell’s favourites. And if a mere opinion … not a threat, just an opinion, however critical … could be called treason, it didn’t bode well for a good many things; things, for example, such as Samuel Radford’s Leveller newspaper. It also didn’t say much for the Lord Protector’s confidence.

  During the first week in February, Mr Cotes surfaced again, adding a couple more names to his existing list. He also reported that none of the would-be plotters were prepared to put their hands in their pockets and contribute hard cash to their common cause. Neither, as far as he was aware, had they received any commission from Charles Stuart to attempt anything on his behalf. Eden added the names Bunce, Ross and Henshaw to his notes, then put them back in the drawer.

  In between the various other matters consuming his time, Eden thought long and hard about the conversation he’d had with Deborah, hoping that he’d done the right thing in suggesting she consider a future without him. It was possible, he supposed, that he’d let their relationship go on longer than he should. It was easy and comfortable and he was genuinely fond of her. But fondness wasn’t love; and, even if it had been, he had no intention of re-marrying. Neither could he see himself spending the rest of his days living in his brother’s business premises. He was thirty-four years old, for God’s sake and ought to take control of his life instead of letting it drift by in this smooth, well-established channe
l. So perhaps Toby was right. Perhaps he really was being unfair to Deborah … selfish, even.

  He’d neither expected nor wanted her to fall in love with him but had done nothing about it when he realised that she had because what she offered was so exactly what he’d needed at the time. In some ways, it still was. But, though he couldn’t bear to hurt her by admitting it, he was aware that, deep down, he did want time to himself; time away from London, from the Intelligence Office, from the eternal politics … and even from Deborah.

  Leave of absence and the opportunity to visit Gabriel in Yorkshire was the obvious answer to all of this but that continued to be denied him. And the only other solution that he could see – since the Cheapside house was as much Deborah’s home as it was his – was for him to move out and lodge elsewhere. It would be awkward and raise questions. But it would create a natural break and allow Deborah time to determine her future. And as long as his favourite pies and pickles continued to arrive on the table, Toby would be happy.

  Before he could reach any firm decision on this, what ought to have been no more than a trivial incident, suddenly leapt into prominence. On February 8th, the Lord Mayor and Aldermen invited the Lord Protector and his Council to a banquet in the Grocer’s Hall. Despite being received with all the ceremony usually accorded to royalty, Cromwell’s day didn’t start well. The whole route from Temple to Old Jewry was lined with members of the City Companies but though he repeatedly doffed his cap, neither they nor the watching crowds raised a single cheer. They merely looked on in silence.

  The banquet itself, so far as Eden could tell, had gone rather better. Sumptuous food, specially composed music and verses, and a gift of gold plate worth roughly £2000; all these must have gone some way towards lifting Cromwell’s spirits. At all events, he didn’t leave the Grocer’s Hall until well after dark and rode back to Whitehall lit by three hundred torches. But, as they had done that morning, the crowds thronging the streets maintained a sullen silence; and a large stone was hurled from an upper window at the Lord Protector’s carriage – missing its target by no more than a foot.