Blood's Game

by Angus Donald

  The King merely nodded at him and muttered ‘Buckingham’ before turning to one of the footmen and saying: ‘Bring me wine, and some of those almond biscuits. Oh, and see if there is any of that honeyed pork left from last night – my darlings love it. Yes you do, don’t you? Yes, you do!’

  The King knelt among the leaping throng of dogs, stroking heads and allowing the eager animals to lick his hands and face. Buckingham struggled to conceal his rising disgust – as usual, he failed.

  Finally the King rose and said: ‘A little cheese too. A pair of roast ducklings. And oranges. I must have at least a dozen of those sweet “China” oranges! Nell tells me they are particularly good for my bow—’ He stopped.

  ‘Sire, pray do not forget, you are dining with the First Lord of the Treasury in less than an hour,’ said Grenville.

  ‘I am hungry now – don’t you see? Not in an hour. Now. And my little darlings deserve a treat. They have been ever so patient today.’

  Sir John Grenville held his tongue and one of the scarlet footman padded away silently to convey the royal command to the kitchens. The King turned to Buckingham, clapped his hands briskly, then rubbed them together in anticipation of the food. He had not been idle this morning: he had barely broken his fast with a slice of bread and cheese, and then had swum across the Thames and back, twice, before taking his new mare Titania for a hard gallop in St James’s Park and returning for a delightfully energetic encounter with little Nell in the royal bedchamber. She was a demanding minx, if ever he had known one. He had earned a snack, he thought to himself, even if there were a tedious dinner to attend afterwards. It was not as if he was overweight. For a man of forty years he was as wiry as a stripling and tall with it, six foot three inches in his stockings, and the royal prick, with a little loving encouragement, could still make itself as stiff and as splendid as the golden sceptre of state.

  ‘As Sir John reminds us, I have a dinner engagement soon and so I regret, Your Grace, that our conversation must be distressingly brief.’

  ‘It is an honour to have even a moment of your time, sire.’

  ‘If you say so, well, then, yes . . . So what was it that you wanted? And, as I say, do please try to be brief.’

  ‘As your loyal Master of the Horse, sire, I have some limited purview over the expenditure of the royal household. And it has come to my attention, sire, that you recently purchased a pretty sea-going vessel for your private use . . .’ Buckingham drew a piece of yellow paper from his wide coat pocket ‘. . . a ship of eighty-six tonnes, measuring fifty feet in length, designated His Majesty’s yacht Saudades. And coming in at a cost of . . .’

  ‘What of it?’ The King cut him off. ‘Did you come here to waste my time with this? I bought a pleasure boat. So what? I prefer to travel by water, if it is at all possible. Is that such a terrible crime?’

  ‘No crime, sire, certainly no crime but . . .’

  ‘What is it? Spit it out, man.’

  The dogs were still milling around the King’s feet, occasionally a black one would bounce up and lick at his hand.

  ‘Down, duchess, down,’ said the King. ‘Your little treat is coming soon. Daddy promises. It will be here very, very soon, my love.’

  ‘Since you already own eleven royal yachts, sire,’ Buckingham continued, ‘do you really feel that this purchase was absolutely necessary given the many and varied calls upon the royal purse?’

  The King glared at the duke. ‘It is to be a gift – a special gift for the queen, if you must know. Saudades means home-sickness or sadness or some such nonsense in her native tongue. She wishes to use it when she travels to Portugal to see her family. You surely cannot object to me buying a small token for my beloved Catherine?’

  ‘Sire, I would that you could buy a hundred yachts, even a thousand. But as we have discussed before, there is a lamentable shortfall in the royal accounts. There is a limit to the amount of money that you can spend. The well is not inexhaustible. For example, I have here a receipt for £2,800 for a jewel, another present for the queen, and here I see you spent £6,000 on a pair of diamonds for one of her ladies-in-waiting. There was a banquet last month in which you spent £1,000 on French pastries . . .’

  ‘And they were perfectly delicious. I must eat, must I not? Otherwise I would starve. And I must entertain my friends.’

  The King and his minister looked at each other in silence.

  ‘He does have a point, sire,’ murmured Grenville.

  ‘Oh, be quiet, you. You’re supposed to be on my side.’

  ‘It is not about sides or factions,’ said Buckingham. ‘You must at least attempt to curb your wild spending, sire, or disaster will surely follow. If you were to return the yacht to the boatyard . . .’

  ‘No, Buckingham, by God, no. I am the King. I must be seen to be generous. Largesse, man, largesse is the mark of a great King. A certain carelessness with his finances befits a monarch. I absolutely refuse to scrimp and snivel like some damned pauper. I did enough of that abroad.’

  The footman returned at that moment with a dozen more servants and began to lay out a large table with food and drink.

  ‘I must speak plainly, sire. There is no more money to be had. This year’s parliamentary subsidy is spent. We cannot borrow any more against the next. Your expenditure far exceeds your revenue, and has done every year since . . . for every year of your glorious reign so far. Even the richest men in the country are balking at making any more advances to the Crown. But, sire, I do have a simple solution. Perhaps if you were to appoint me to the position of Lord Steward of the Household, I might be able to overhaul the royal expenditure and find some—’

  ‘Now we get to the nub,’ said Charles. ‘Now the meaning of all this nonsense becomes plain. Are you not rich enough already, my lord, that you would seek to mulct me of more? I have forgiven your many crimes, I have forgiven your spying on my every move, your prying into my private affairs, for the comradeship we shared as children. I have raised you up to be among the highest in the land, and this is how you repay me? No, Buckingham, no, I will not make you lord steward. I have one already. His Grace the Duke of Ormonde has the white staff – not that he does me much good in that post. And no, I will not count my pennies like some beggar in the street. You say there is no money – and in the same breath you seek a plum post worth tens of thousands of pounds a year. If you wish to be the lord steward of my household, then you must prove yourself worthy. Find me some money.’

  One of the spaniels, reacting to the King’s angry tone, stood at Buckingham’s feet and yapped sharply up at him. The rest of the pack was distributed around the room, sniffing in the corners and behind the chairs. One red-and-white animal by the window was managing with ease the defecatory act that had so troubled the King earlier that day. The duke ignored the bouncing dog at his feet. He scratched his smooth chin, pretending to think. ‘We could go back to Parliament, sire. I have a good many friends there. If we put the facts before them, if we pleaded, if I dropped a word in certain ears then maybe something might be arranged.’

  ‘No, Buckingham, we tried that at the last session. I went to them cap in hand, as you told me to, whining like a workhouse orphan, and they rebuffed me, a parcel of bloated shire knights, greasy small-town merchants, fox-hunting farmers – and the rogues had the gall to say nay to me. I was humiliated. No, sir, we shall not go again to the Commons. Those fellows, or men just like them, murdered my father. Never forget that. You may be sure they have not. I must have money – very good, I accept that as the bald truth – but you must find it for me. I do not care from under which rock you find it. But find it. And quickly!’

  When the Duke of Buckingham had left the chamber, the King turned to Grenville. ‘And you, sir, for your he-has-a-point-sire treachery, you can peel me a pair of God-damned oranges for my poor solid bowels.’

  Monday 28 November, 1670

  Mary Blood sat at the small, well-scrubbed table in the parlour of the cot
tage in Cock Lane, Shoreditch, and wept. She made almost no sound, the tears running silently down her pale cheeks. She could not afford to sob out loud, the baby in her arms had only recently fallen asleep. It was sick again and its outraged bawling had denied her rest these past three nights. By God’s mercy, it had finally stopped its noise and allowed her a few moments to sit rocking it gently against her bosom, closing her eyes and indulging her own sense of despair. If only there was a drop of rum left to ease her pains, or a splash of brandy; anything to dull her hopelessness.

  The room was sparsely furnished. An ash-wood table, two chairs, two benches, an upright cedar dresser containing a few mismatched bowls, plates and cups, all neatly organized in descending order of size, and half of a penny loaf sat on a wooden board beside a long, sharp knife, whittled thin by hard use. The bare plaster walls were painted with limewash but large areas were discoloured into strange shapes and patterns by damp. A tiny fireplace was swept clean of ashes, the metal grate scrubbed, blacked and laid with an unlit pyramid of dry sticks and wood shavings. From the flung-open window shutter the grey light of a late-autumn afternoon eased into the room along with the sounds and smells of the street: the cries of a pie-seller, the rattle and squeak of a heavy wooden cart, the occasional clop of a passing horseman, and the scents of fresh dung.

  Her son Holcroft sat at the table, cleaning a pair of candlesticks with a rag. The cheap pewter sticks were already as shiny as they were ever going to be, yet the boy continued to rub at one of them, holding it gently in his left hand and caressing it with long, even strokes of the cloth. He was absorbed in his task and counting the swipes against the shiny metal under his breath: ‘eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight . . .’

  ‘Holly,’ whispered Mary, opening her blood-shot eyes. ‘I think it is clean enough now. They both are quite gleaming.’

  He ignored her. ‘Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four . . .’

  ‘Holly!’ She kept her voice low for the baby’s sake but there was unmistakable frustration sewn into her words. ‘I know how you like to do your polishing, my honey child, but you will wear the sticks away to nothing – and then where will we all be?’

  ‘ . . . ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight . . .’

  ‘Holcroft!’ It was a full-bodied scream now. The baby opened its milky eyes and began, immediately, to express its discomfort.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Mary began to sob without restraint now, her wet gasps creating a weird counterpoint with the baby’s cries.

  The boy said: ‘Ninety-nine, one hundred.’ He placed the shining candlestick on the table next to its twin, aligning their square bases exactly with the edge of the wood. Then looked across at his mother and smiled: a beam of such beauty that it squeezed her heart. She began to sob all the more wretchedly. A drink, a drink – God, what would she do for a drink.

  Holcroft stood up, his thick brown hair brushing the low plastered ceiling, and he walked round the table and plucked the baby out of his mother’s arms. She did not protest but sagged back against the chair, as if a burden had been lifted from her soul as well as her arms. The boy began to pace across the flagstones of the parlour floor, even measured steps, turning at the wall and crossing again, crooning softly to the squalling child. Within three turns the baby stopped wailing and began to gurgle happily.

  The door of the house banged open and two grubby children ran in – a boy, Charles, and a girl, Elizabeth, eight and ten years of age: ‘Mama, mama, guess who is coming!’ cried the girl.

  ‘Guess! Guess!’ echoed her younger brother.

  ‘It’s Tom,’ shouted Elizabeth. ‘Tom has come home!’

  At that moment the doorway was darkened by the form of a grown man of about twenty years in a sombre grey coat and a broad-brimmed grey hat. Holcroft stopped his pacing and stared at the newcomer’s chin, not lifting his eyes to meet the other man’s.

  ‘Good day, buffle-head; still playing nursemaid?’

  Without waiting for an answer from Holcroft – and none would be forthcoming – Tom went over to his mother and kissed her on the cheek. She clutched at him, pressing her tear-stained cheek against his dirty yellow waistcoat. ‘Tom, welcome, it is so good to have you home,’ she said, sniffing. ‘Have you been with your father – have you news of him?’

  The baby stared at the strange man in grey.

  ‘None to speak of. I saw him a sennight past, up Romford Market way, though he could barely see me. He was blind drunk in the Lamb, celebrating with Hunt and Parrot the fact that one of his quacksalver cures had actually worked. He cured a parson of his shivering sickness, or so he told me, and had been paid handsomely.’

  ‘He has money, then?’ She tried to keep the desperation from her tone.

  ‘I doubt he has now. Is there anything to eat, Mother? I’m clammed.’

  ‘There is some bread on the board. Is there any of that nice mutton pie left, Holly?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘I’m sure there is still a little well water in the jug,’ his mother said.

  ‘Bread and Adam’s ale it is, then,’ said Tom. He strode to the dresser and, ignoring the knife, tore off a hunk of bread with his big, dirty hands. He sat at the table to eat. Holcroft narrowed his blue eyes but said nothing.

  Mary returned from the pantry with a mug of water and handed it to Tom. ‘Staying long, son? You know you’re welcome and we could sorely use a man around here.’

  Mary walked over to Holcroft and accepted the quiet baby from his arms. The boy stood with his arms hanging by his sides and stared silently at the floor. His lips moved silently: We could sorely use a man around here.

  He had another older brother called William and another younger called Edmund, but both had been sent to sea as soon as their father could find anyone who would take them. No sea captain had wanted to take Holcroft aboard his ship: his strange silences, sudden violence and general oddness of manner made folk nervous around him. Most of the family considered him dull, little better than a simpleton. But his elder sister Mary had not. Like his mother, she had recognized that his mind turned in a different way to the common run of humanity, that he was special, and that in some narrow respects he could be astoundingly perceptive. But she was gone now too, married off to a prosperous man named Corbett and was raising a large, noisy family of her own in Northamptonshire.

  ‘I’m not staying long,’ said Tom. ‘I have business in Surrey tonight. I’ve just come to collect a few of my things.’

  He crammed the last of the bread into his mouth and sank the rest of the water in a single swallow. The table before him was scattered with crumbs. The mug had left a wet ring on the pale, hard-scrubbed wood.

  His mother’s face fell. The baby began to grizzle once more.

  ‘Is my chest still upstairs?’

  Mary nodded; even more wretched than before. She looked down at her free hand as it rested on the table: it was quivering gently. Tom rose. He handed his mother the empty mug and clomped over to the staircase in the corner of the room. As the sound of his heavy boots echoed up towards the house’s only bedroom, Holcroft glided forward and swept the crumbs from the table carefully into his hand. He tugged the candlestick rag from his belt and wiped the wooden table clean of the water ring.

  When Tom came downstairs a few moments later, he had a large, elderly horse pistol in his hand, and a small sword a little less than a yard long in a battered sheath tucked under his left arm.

  ‘Tom . . .’ said Holcroft suddenly. ‘Tom – if you . . . if you were to sell those things we could buy food for everyone.’

  The whole family stared at him in amazement. Holcroft was no mute but he rarely spoke unless spoken to – and often not even then.

  ‘We’re certainly not selling these,’ Tom told him. ‘They’re the tools of my trade, brother. A workman never parts with his tools.’

  Every hungry eye in the parlour was fixed on Tom’s face. He looked warily at Holcrof
t. He had grown some since Tom’s last visit, thickened in the shoulder, and his long arms now ended in large fists. It had been some time since Tom had easily been able to knock him down. Not that he was afeared of his little brother, of course. He could beat the silly buffle-head any time he chose.

  ‘If all goes well tonight, Mother, I will try to bring you some money. I promise. All right? A shilling, God’s blood, ten shillings, if things go to plan. Not enough? A sack of gold then – why not! You can eat and drink like lords and ladies for a year and a day. A barrel of rum just for you, Mother!’

  The dull silence in the parlour was painful to the ear. Holcroft turned away, picking up one of the candlesticks as he pulled the rag from his belt.

  ‘Anyway, I must be away. I have an appointment to keep.’

  ‘But, Tom, you have only just arrived!’

  ‘Fortune calls, Mother, fortune calls!’ said Tom, brandishing the horse pistol heroically in the air. And then he was gone.

  *

  ‘Brandy!’ said Blood, rapping the counter with his silver wolf’s head cane and shaking the rain from his ostrich feather hat onto the grimy, sand-strewn floor of the Bull’s Head. He looked round the low, dingy room, surveying its inhabitants and noting the usual collection of drabs and drunks: a stained clergyman slumped over a pint of wine, a trio of unshaven watchmen huddled over a barrel table, a slut giggling in the lap of a long-legged servant in scarlet from one of the big houses on Pall Mall. Blood’s eye lingered on an incongruent pair of gentlemen in long snuff-coloured coats adorned with golden buttons, lace at their throats and glossy periwigs, who were sitting by the fire, nursing ale pots and looking uncomfortable.

  They were too close to home to be feeling this much discomfort, thought Blood. Something was clearly making them nervous. The Bull’s Head backed on to the Spring Gardens, a bedraggled patch of greenery just south of Charing Cross, which was a notorious haunt of prostitutes and pick-pockets. But that was not it. The Palace of White Hall was only a few hundred yards from here. And these were palace men, through and through. They should feel quite at home in this tavern, it was in no way foreign territory. Their nervousness did not bode well for Blood.