by Angus Donald
An image of the delightful Jennifer Ayliffe filled Edwards’s mind. Followed by another equally charming thought.
‘I worry, too, for my own sweet daughter Elizabeth,’ said Edwards. ‘She has been very strictly brought up but, now that she is a grown woman, I sometimes catch her giving wanton looks at the young men of the Tower guard, and I greatly fear for her soul . . .’
Edwards let his words tail away, looking at Ayliffe in a speculative manner. But the parson seemed entirely unaware of the bait his companion had laid out so enticingly. He needed a nudge.
‘She is a very biddable girl, so very amiable, do you not think so, reverend? Not a looker, no pretensions to beauty, that’s for sure. But nice capacious hips and a good girl, well-schooled. A proper Christian, oh very devout, says her prayers good as gold every night and morning, church twice on Sundays. But she needs a good man, a husband – someone who can master her, teach her the world’s ways and give her the security she needs.’
Edwards wondered if he had gone too far.
But Ayliffe still seemed determined to be dense about the matter at hand. He sucked on his pipe and blew out a blue plume.
Edwards, never one to spoil a ship for a ha’p’orth of tar, blurted, ‘If only my Elizabeth could find a good young gentleman to marry.’
Finally, Ayliffe relented. ‘I wonder,’ he said slowly, ‘hmmm, I wonder if my nephew Thomas might take a fancy to her. What do you think, Edwards? Do you think the boy might take a shine to your Elizabeth? It might be the solution we have both been seeking for our youngsters. I would certainly support the match for my own part, if you and your good lady wife were willing, and I would happily sign over the boy’s money to him before he comes of age, that is, if he were safely married off to a young woman of good family such as your Lizzie. What say you, Edwards? Do you think we could arrange a meeting between the two young persons and see whether they find each other at all congenial?’
‘What a splendid idea, Ayliffe!’ said Edwards, doing his best to feign surprise. ‘Do you know, I think that might answer very well indeed. Certainly something might be arranged. Perhaps you would be kind enough to dine with us again in a week or so, and perhaps you might like to bring your nephew with you.’
Wednesday 3 May, 1671
Robert Westbury looked down the length of the long table in the servants’ hall and noted the tall figure of Holcroft Blood sitting at the far end, placidly eating a bowl of soup. Perhaps surprisingly, their paths had rarely crossed in the past six months: Holcroft no longer slept in the pages’ dormitory, he was quartered with the other clerks in a suite of rooms on the far side of the courtyard and he usually ate in the clerks’ hall or alone in the kitchens. Today, it being Albert St John’s birthday, Holcroft had condescended to join them in the servants’ hall at Albert’s request to partake of their meagre feast. Westbury may not have spoken to Holcroft more than once or twice but he had seen the boy many times around the Cockpit and about the palace and he was hardly unaware of his activities.
As he watched the tall boy in the black coat sucking up soup from his spoon like a starving peasant, he was a little shocked by how strong his hatred was for the confidential clerk: his cuts and bruises from the fight outside the gate had healed long ago and he had suffered no discernible loss in status in the household as a result of the fracas. But the very sight of Holcroft set his teeth on edge. The awkward clod had no social graces whatsoever; his family, so far as Westbury could gather, were a set of penniless rogues and ne’er-do-wells. He seemed to care nothing for any other living human being except that pretty-boy soldier Churchill and yet the duke treated him as if he were the son of God himself, making him privy to all his papers, allowing him to speak up at meetings with his superiors.
Westbury had been in the duke’s service more than three years now and he had never been shown the marks of favour that Holcroft had been given from the very first day. Westbury ran the pages’ dormitory efficiently, keeping order among the boys, making sure they did not disturb the household with their high spirits and that there was always one of them at least to attend to the duke’s needs day or night. And his reward was to be ignored, passed over, treated like a mere child. He would be sixteen this year – a grown man – and he had nothing to show for his three years of fetching and carrying. He had not received any significant gratuities or gifts of any kind; he had not been appointed to any remunerative post within the workings of White Hall. The post of assistant cellerer to the King had been vacant for some months, was within the gift of the duke and, despite the many broad hints dropped by Westbury in Buckingham’s presence about his knowledge of fine wines, garnered at his father the Earl of Westbury’s lavish board, the post had gone to the son of a tavern-keeper who had obliged the duke in his youth in some obscure way during the civil wars of the last generation. And Westbury’s father, the fourteenth earl, had not helped him in the slightest. He had secured him the post of page with Buckingham three years ago and then seemed to have forgotten all about him. Robert’s misfortune was that he was the third son, and fifth child of his parents. His eldest brother Alan was the heir and lived in Nottinghamshire at the family seat; the second son Thomas stood waiting to inherit should the heir die before his father; and Robert had been banished to London to make his own way in the world. It was time for a change. And Westbury thought he could see a way of bringing down his enemy and advancing his own position within the duke’s household at the same time. He had allowed the lack-mannered guttersnipe to roam unchecked for too long now. Everybody had something to hide – from pilfering to outright peculation. It was time to discover what Mister Holcroft Blood was hiding, and make him pay for it.
‘Give our guest some more wine, Fox Cub,’ he called down the table. ‘His glass is nearly empty.’
When the French boy had filled Holcroft’s beaker, he lifted his own. ‘Here’s to your very good health, Mister Blood,’ he said, genially, ‘we do not often have the pleasure of your company down here in the servants’ hall but you are most welcome, sir, most welcome indeed at our humble board.’
Holcroft stared up the length of the table at the blond fellow smiling at him, a raised glass in his hand. He had not forgotten their fight on his first day in White Hall but neither had he thought about it much during the past few months. Westbury was being friendly. Good. He, too, was happy to be friendly. There was no advantage to being enemies, as far as Holcroft could see, when they served the same master. Let bygones be bygones.
‘And your good health, too, sir,’ he said.
They both smiled and drank.
Thursday 4 May, 1671
Holcroft and Aphra were meeting for a third time in Pettigrew’s, but this time partaking of no more than a mid-morning dish of coffee. Once again Holcroft was taking time out from his daily run to the General Letter Office and in his leather satchel he had a sheaf of crackling papers which he had collected for the duke in the City.
‘Here it is,’ said Aphra, handing him a dirty note, a sheet of cheap blue paper folded twice, but unsealed. ‘Don’t put it in with the other letters. Give it to Buckingham yourself.’
Then she handed him another folded blue note, identical to the first. ‘Give this one to your friend Pratt and have him deliver it to you at the Cockpit when folk are watching. Make sure you don’t mix the two up.’
‘Can I read it?’ asked Holcroft, a little timidly, holding up the first note. Now that he suddenly found himself plunged into this unfamiliar world of intrigue, he felt bashful, unsettled. The physical object in his hand made the crime they were attempting suddenly real. They were truly attempting to steal money from his master, one of the most powerful men in the realm.
‘I don’t think I shall allow you to. You are such a severe critic of my writing you might bring me to tears.’
Holcroft looked into her face, confused. Her words contained a wholly different message to her expression. She was smiling broadly at him.
‘You are making a joke,’
he said accusingly.
‘I am, forgive me; yes, I was indulging myself at your expense. Please read it and tell me the worst.’
Holcroft opened the first blue note and read silently:
To His Grace, the Duke of Buckingham, greetings.
I hope you will forgive the grossness of my effrontery in penning this note to you, sir, given my lowly station in life and your supremely elevated one, but I do so out of the deepest respect and admiration for your good self and because I must in all good conscience communicate with you on this matter which touches on the security of the kingdom and the continued reign of his most glorious Majesty King Charles the Second.
‘I like the beginning,’ said Holcroft, looking up at Aphra. ‘Most respectful and obsequious – the duke will relish that.’
‘Read on, it gets better!’
Holcroft read:
In my capacity as assistant secretary to His Grace the Duke of Ormonde . . .
Holcroft stopped. ‘He’s not assistant secretary, he’s the senior page. Why would he not know his own position in the household?’
‘People sometimes like to make themselves sound grander than they really are. It makes them feel better about their drab lives. And they sometimes think it makes other people think better of them too. But don’t worry about that, just read on.’
Holcroft lowered his head again.
. . . assistant secretary to His Grace the Duke of Ormonde, I was privy to discussions of a very sensitive nature that took place in November of the year past between His Grace and Prince William of Orange. During these discussions, which took place in conditions of strictest secrecy, I happened to be resting on a window seat in the duke’s private study, half asleep and covered by a thick curtain, and I heard every word. I heard them discuss with the utmost frankness the King of England’s lack of legitimate issue, the unpopularity of his brother and heir James, Duke of York, and his unsuitability to reign after Charles’s death because of his secret adherence to the Papist faith. They then talked about the possibility of William marrying James’s Protestant daughter Mary Stuart and, with the military assistance of the Duke of Ormonde and his friends in the army, assuming the throne of England on Charles’s death! As well as hearing this black treason with my own ears, I have in my possession a signed copy of a letter, written by His Grace to Prince William, which makes open reference to this unnatural arrangement. It is proof of His Grace’s treachery towards our gracious King and his royal line and I felt that I must in all conscience share it with you as the Crown’s most loyal servant. However, before handing over the letter, I shall require a trifling sum of money, merely a thousand pounds in gold, to be delivered to me or to a place of my choosing. This money is to provide for me in the future, as this duty that I now undertake purely out of loyalty to my King will surely cost me my position in His Grace’s household, if it is discovered, if not my very life.
I entrust this note to my good and trusty friend Holcroft Blood, who will act for me in this matter as, for my own personal safety, I wish to have no further communications with Your Grace until the gold is paid and this infamous letter is delivered into your hand.
I remain, sir, your most humble and obedient servant,
James Pratt.
Holcroft looked at Aphra. ‘It is prettily written. I could almost hear Pratt speaking those very words. But is it not a little far-fetched? A grand English nobleman plotting to make a young Dutchman King of England?’
‘So long as he were a staunch Protestant, there are many people of my acquaintance who would make the Devil himself the King of England before they would accept another Catholic on the throne.’
Holcroft nodded. ‘And do you really think the Duke of Buckingham will pay over a thousand pounds for this false letter?’
‘We will have to wait and see. This is merely the first step in what may well be a long and difficult game. But, yes, if we keep our nerve, and do not falter in our resolve, I think it stands a very good chance of success.’
*
From the arched window on the top storey of the Irish Tower, three sets of Edwards’ eyes looked west out over the courtyard and watched as two gentlemen approached on foot. One of the gentlemen was long-legged, thick-chested and dressed in the traditional sober black of a man of the cloth, with gold-rimmed spectacles glinting from his long nose; the second was younger, slimmer, not quite as tall but also dressed modestly. Both men wore their own brown hair long, but well combed and clubbed neatly at the back of the neck.
‘Oh, he’s very handsome,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Quite the refined young country gentleman.’
‘So that is what three hundred pounds a year looks like,’ murmured Sarah to her husband. Then: ‘Go and shift your dress, Lizzie, that royal blue is far too strong for your first meeting. Go, put on the plain brown one with the high collar and wash all that ceruse and cochineal off your face. He looks like a sensitive, delicate boy and we don’t want to frighten him off.’
‘The family resemblance is very strong,’ said Talbot Edwards. ‘I wonder if Ayliffe and his dead brother were twins.’
As Elizabeth ran off to change, Sarah looked at her husband, who was beaming happily. She flicked some stray tobacco ash off his coat lapel and very slightly rearranged the fold of his white silk neckerchief.
‘Don’t drink too much, dear,’ she told him. ‘And don’t talk about all the Papists at court, you know it makes you quarrelsome.’
Edwards nodded absently. ‘Do you think we could manage a June wedding, my dear? I would like Wythe to be here to see his sister married off. He wrote to say he’d be here in a few days, but he only has a month’s furlough and must be back with his regiment in Flanders by mid-June.’
‘A June wedding – God save us, Talbot, you will spoil the whole thing by counting your chickens. Let us meet the young gentleman and let him get to know Lizzie a little first. Then we’ll make our plans.’
*
It was Holcroft’s practice that spring, whenever he found himself with little in the way of duties to perform for the Duke of Buckingham, to visit the small beer buttery in the northeast corner of the palace and avail himself of a mug of good Kentish ale and a honey bun from the bakehouse next door and sit at a table beside the long windows and look out at the river traffic on the wide brown stretch of the Thames. He was rarely troubled there by other members of the duke’s household, since the buttery was almost as far from the Cockpit as it was possible to get without leaving White Hall and, after he had rebuffed the initially friendly bletherings of the ale-wife and her crew, they usually took his penny payment and left him at his table in peace.
If he was not totally consumed by his own thoughts, there was always something to see as he sat there, sipping his bitter nutty ale and chewing his sticky bun. Wherries plied to and fro from the White Hall Palace Stairs, fifty yards to his right, their powerful oarsmen bringing brilliantly dressed lords and ladies in bright silks and satins, some of them known to Holcroft, up – or downstream or across from the Surrey side. The Scotland Dock, a narrow channel between high, weed-slimed wooden pilings, was only thirty yards to his left and beyond that was the wharf where goods were unloaded and stacked by gangs of bare-chested, sweating labourers, their thick white arms marked with strange blurry blue tattoos. This was the landing place where White Hall received its provisions, brought by boat and barge from other wharves in London, such as the fresh fish from Billingsgate Dock, down beyond London Bridge, or from further afield, such as the big slow coal barges, with their huge red triangular sails, that had lumbered all the way south from Newcastle.
Today, while the Duke of Buckingham was in conference with Lord Arlington, Sir Thomas Clifford and Lord Ashley, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and like to be there wrangling over the King’s finances for hours, Holcroft watched as a barge piled high with stacked cords of wood was unloaded. He had the private satisfaction of watching as the fat bundles of kindling, used in almost every fireplace in the palace, were lift
ed out of the ship by a pair of derricks, stacked into wheelbarrows and carts on the wharf and were taken out of sight and round to the Wood Yard. Merely by turning in his chair and looking out of the open door, he could watch the very same bundles arriving in the Wood Yard behind him and being unloaded from the same wheelbarrows and stacked in rows against the wall.
As he turned back to the long window, he saw a small wherry passing not twenty yards from his nose on the other side of the glass, making for the White Hall Palace Stairs. The wherryman stroked his way powerfully along against the flow of the river and Holcroft noticed a fine lady in an enormous sun hat sitting uncomfortably in the bow: it was Barbara Villiers, Duchess of Cleveland, magnificent in scarlet satins under a green boat cloak, and beside her sat the dark, pinched-faced maid. By chance, Holcroft and Barbara each looked directly into the other’s eyes as they passed. Holcroft felt a lurch of guilt as he recalled the episode more than two weeks earlier when he had burst into her chambers. But Barbara smiled brilliantly at him, a gleam of near-white teeth in a carmine slash of a mouth, raised a hand and gave him a little waggle of her gloved fingers.
